There Is Something Nobly Simple And Pure

The Indians With Surprise Found The Mouldering Trees Of Their Forests Suddenly Teeming With Ambrosial Sweet; And Nothing, I Am Told, Can Exceed The Greedy Relish With Which They Banquet For The First Time Upon This Unbought Luxury Of The Wilderness.

Wit, After All, Is A Mighty Tart, Pungent Ingredient, And Much Too Acid For Some Stomachs; But Honest Good Humor Is The Oil And Wine Of A Merry Meeting.

Nature Seems To Delight In Disappointing The Assiduities Of Art, With Which It Would Rear Legitimate Dulness To Maturity; And To Glory In The Vigour And Luxuriance Of Her Chance Productions.

There Is A Certain Artificial Polish, A Commonplace Vivacity Acquired By Perpetually Mingling In The Beau Monde; Which, In The Commerce Of World, Supplies The Place Of Natural Suavity And Good-humour, But Is Purchased At The Expense Of All Original And Sterling Traits Of Character.

[i]n The Gloomy Month Of February.... The Deserts Of Arabia Are Not More Dreary And Inhospitable Than The Streets Of London At Such A Time.