In Youth Men Are Apt To Write

And What Is More Melancholy Than The Old Apple-trees That Linger About The Spot Where Once Stood A Homestead, But Where There Is Now Only A Ruined Chimney Rising Our Of A Grassy And Weed-grown Cellar? They Offer Their Fruit To Every Wayfarer--apples That Are Bitter-sweet With The Moral Of Times Vicissitude.

She Could No Longer Borrow From The Future To Ease Her Present Grief.

Let The Attempt Be Made, At Whatever Risk.

The Only Sensible Ends Of Literature Are, First, The Pleasurable Toil Of Writing; Second, The Gratification Of One's Family And Friends; And Lastly, The Solid Cash.

There Is Something Truer And More Real, Than What We Can See With The Eyes, And Touch With The Finger.