The Scholar Only Knows How Dear These

There Is Nothing In England That Exercises A More Delightful Spell Over My Imagination Than The Lingerings Of The Holiday Customs And Rural Games Of Former Times. They Recall The Pictures My Fancy Used To Draw In The May Morning Of Life, When As Yet I Only Knew The World Through Books, And Believed It To Be All That Poets Had Painted It; And They Bring With Them The Flavour Of Those Honest Days Of Yore, In Which, Perhaps With Equal Fallacy, I Am Apt To Think The World Was More Home-bred, Social, And Joyous Than At Present.

The Easiest Thing To Do, Whenever You Fail, Is To Put Yourself Down By Blaming Your Lack Of Ability For Your Misfortunes.

There Are Moments Of Mingled Sorrow And Tenderness, Which Hallow The Caresses Of Affection.

History Fades Into Fable; Fact Becomes Clouded With Doubt And Controversy; The Inscription Molders From The Tablet: The Statue Falls From The Pedestal. Columns, Arches, Pyramids, What Are They But Heaps Of Sand; And Their Epitaphs, But Characters Written In The Dust?

Believe Me, The Man Who Earns His Bread By The Sweat Of His Brow, Eats Oftener A Sweeter Morsel, However Coarse, Than He Who Procures It By The Labor Of His Brains.