I Consider A Story Merely As A

There Is Something Nobly Simple And Pure In A Taste For The Cultivation Of Forest Trees. It Argues, I Think, A Sweet And Generous Nature To Have His Strong Relish For The Beauties Of Vegetation, And This Friendship For The Hardy And Glorious Sons Of The Forest. He Who Plants A Tree Looks Forward To Future Ages, And Plants For Posterity. Nothing Could Be Less Selfish Than This.

It Was The Policy Of The Good Old Gentleman To Make His Children Feel That Home Was The Happiest Place In The World; And I Value This Delicious Home-feeling As One Of The Choicest Gifts A Parent Can Bestow.

By A Kind Of Fashionable Discipline, The Eye Is Taught To Brighten, The Lip To Smile, And The Whole Countenance To Emanate With The Semblance Of Friendly Welcome, While The Bosom Is Unwarmed By A Single Spark Of Genuine Kindness And Good-will.

He Is The True Enchanter, Whose Spell Operates, Not Upon The Senses, But Upon The Imagination And The Heart.

He Who Thinks Much Says But Little In Proportion To His Thoughts. He Selects That Language Which Will Convey His Ideas In The Most Explicit And Direct Manner. He Tries To Compress As Much Thought As Possible Into A Few Words. On The Contrary, The Man Who Talks Everlastingly And Promiscuously, Who Seems To Have An Exhaustless Magazine Of Sound, Crowds So Many Words Into His Thoughts That He Always Obscures, And Very Frequently Conceals Them.