Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

He Who Thinks Much Says But Little In Proportion To His Thoughts. He Selects That Language Which Will Convey His Ideas In The Most Explicit And Direct Manner.

The Paternal Hearth, The Rallying-place Of The Affections.

An Inexhaustible Good Nature Is One Of The Most Precious Gifts Of Heaven, Spreading Itself Like Oil Over The Troubled Sea Of Thought, And Keeping The Mind Smooth And Equable In The Roughest Weather.

Language Gradually Varies, And With It Fade Away The Writings Of Authors Who Have Flourished Their Allotted Time; Otherwise, The Creative Powers Of Genius Would Overstock The World, And The Mind Would Be Completely Bewildered In The Endless Mazes Of Literature.

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.