In General Those Who Nothing Have To

We Cannot But Think There Is Something Like A Fallacy In Mr. Buckle's Theory That The Advance Of Mankind Is Necessarily In The Direction Of Science, And Not In That Of Morals.

How Little Inventiveness There Is In Man, Grave Copier Of Copies.

Who Speaks The Truth Stabs Falsehood To The Heart.

A Friendship Counting Nearly Forty Years Is The Finest Kind Of Shade-tree I Know.

Sorrow Is The Great Idealizer.