It Is No Use To Blame The

There Exists A Kind Of Laughter Which Is Worthy To Be Ranked With The Higher Lyric Emotions And Is Infinitely Different From The Twitching Of A Mean Merrymaker.

There Are Certain Words Which Are Nearer And Dearer To A Man Than Any Others.

I Am Very Fond Of The Modest Manner Of Life Of Those Solitary Owners Of Remote Villages, Who In Little Russia Are Commonly Called "old-fashioned," Who Are Like Tumbledown Picturesque Little Houses, Delightful In Their Simplicity And Complete Unlikeness To The New Smooth Buildings Whose Walls Have Not Yet Been Discolored By The Rain, Whose Roofs Are Not Yet Covered With Green Lichen, And Whose Porch Does Not Display Its Bricks Through The Peeling Stucco.

Man Is Such A Wondrous Being That It Is Never Possible To Count Up All His Merits At Once. The More You Study Him, The More New Particulars Appear, And Their Description Would Be Endless.

Like All Of Us Sinners, General Betrishchev Was Endowed With Many Virtues And Many Defects. Both The One And The Other Were Scattered Through Him In A Sort Of Picturesque Disorder. Self-sacrifice, Magnanimity In Decisive Moments, Courage, Intelligence--and With All That, A Generous Mixture Of Self-love, Ambition, Vanity, Petty Personal Ticklishness, And A Good Many Of Those Things Which A Man Simply Cannot Do Without.