[i]n The Gloomy Month Of February.... The

The Literary World Is Made Up Of Little Confederacies, Each Looking Upon Its Own Members As The Lights Of The Universe; And Considering All Others As Mere Transient Meteors, Doomed To Soon Fall And Be Forgotten, While Its Own Luminaries Are To Shine Steadily Into Immortality.

Washington, In Fact, Had Very Little Private Life, But Was Eminently A Public Character.

All These, However, Were Mere Terrors Of The Night, Phantoms Of The Mind That Walk In Darkness; And Though He Had Seen Many Spectres In His Time, And Been More Than Once Beset By Satan In Divers Shapes, In His Lonely Pre-ambulations, Yet Daylight Put An End To All These Evils; And He Would Have Passed A Pleasent Life Of It, In Despite Of The Devil And All His Works, If His Path Had Not Been Crossed By A Being That Causes More Perplexity To Mortal Man Than Ghosts, Goblins, And The Whole Race Of Witches Put Together, And That Was - A Woman.

The Indians With Surprise Found The Mouldering Trees Of Their Forests Suddenly Teeming With Ambrosial Sweet; And Nothing, I Am Told, Can Exceed The Greedy Relish With Which They Banquet For The First Time Upon This Unbought Luxury Of The Wilderness.

The Dullest Observer Must Be Sensible Of The Order And Serenity Prevalent In Those Households Where The Occasional Exercise Of A Beautiful Form Of Worship In The Morning Gives, As It Were, The Keynote To Every Temper For The Day, And Attunes Every Spirit To Harmony.