Our Aspirations Are Our Possibilities.

Sorrow Is The Mere Rust Of The Soul. Activity Will Cleanse And Brighten It.

An Italian Philosopher Said That "time Was His Estate"; An Estate Indeed Which Will Produce Nothing Without Cultivation, But Will Always Abundantly Repay The Labors Of Industry, And Generally Satisfy The Most Extensive Desires, If No Part Of It Be Suffered To Lie In Waste By Negligence, To Be Overrun With Noxious Plants, Or Laid Out For Show Rather Than For Use.

In The Description Of Night In Macbeth, The Beetle And The Bat Detract From The General Idea Of Darkness - Inspissated Gloom.

The Stream Of Time, Which Is Continually Washing The Dissoluble Fabrics Of Other Poets, Passes Without Injury By The Adamant Of Shakespeare.

Every Man Naturally Persuades Himself That He Can Keep His Resolutions, Nor Is He Convinced Of His Imbecility But By Length Of Time And Frequency Of Experiment.