It Is Not Poverty So Much As

A Few Amber Clouds Floated In The Sky Without A Breath Of Air To Move Them. The Horizon Was Of A Fine Golden Tint, Changing Gradually Into A Pure Apple-green, And From That Into The Deep Blue Of The Mid-heaven.

Redundancy Of Language Is Never Found With Deep Reflection. Verbiage May Indicate Observation, But Not Thinking. He Who Thinks Much Says But Little In Proportion To His Thoughts.

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.

The Slanders Of The Pen Pierce To The Heart; They Rankle Longest In The Noblest Spirits; They Dwell Ever Present In The Mind And Render It Morbidly Sensitive To The Most Trifling Collision.

Rising Genius Always Shoots Forth Its Rays From Among Clouds And Vapours, But These Will Gradually Roll Away And Disappear, As It Ascends To Its Steady And Meridian Lustre.