Oh, The Pleasure Of Eating My Dinner

What A Place To Be In Is An Old Library! It Seems As Though All The Souls Of All The Writers That Have Bequeathed Their Labours To These Bodleians Were Reposing Here As In Some Dormitory, Or Middle State. I Do Not Want To Handle, To Profane The Leaves, Their Winding-sheets. I Could As Soon Dislodge A Shade. I Seem To Inhale Learning, Walking Amid Their Foliage; And The Odor Of Their Old Moth-scented Coverings Is Fragrant As The First Bloom Of The Sciential Apples Which Grew Amid The Happy Orchard.

An Album Is A Garden, Not For Show Planted, But Use; Where Wholesome Herbs Should Grow.

When I Am Not Walking, I Am Reading. I Cannot Sit And Think.

The Truant Fancy Was A Wanderer Ever.

A Poor Relation—is The Most Irrelevant Thing In Nature.