Old Age Is Like An Opium Dream.

The Joy Of Life Is To Put Out One's Power In Some Natural And Useful Or Harmless Way. There Is No Other. And The Real Misery Is Not To Do This.

There Is One Gratification An Old Author Can Afford A Certain Class Of Critics; That Namely, Of Comparing Him As He Is With What He Was. It Is A Pleasure To Mediocrity To Have Its Superiors Brought Within Range.

The Foliage Has Been Losing Its Freshness Through The Month Of August, And Here And There A Yellow Leaf Shows Itself Like The First Gray Hair Amidst The Locks Of A Beauty Who Has Seen One Season Too Many.

Lawyers Spend Their Professional Careers Shoveling Smoke.

Our Test Of Truth Is A Reference To Either A Present Or Imagined Future Majority In Favour Of Our View.