'there May Be Some, Perhaps - I

I Feel An Earnest And Humble Desire, And Shall Do Till I Die, To Increase The Stock Of Harmless Cheerfulness.

And When It Has Got In; As One Not Finding What It Seeks, Whatever That May Be, It Wails And Howls To Issue Forth Again: And Not Content With Stalking Through The Aisles, And Gliding Round And Round The Pillars, And Tempting The Deep Organ, Soars Up To The Roof, And Strives To Rend The Rafters: Then Flings Itself Despairingly Upon The Stones Below, And Passes, Muttering, Into The Vaults.

... Natural Affections And Instincts, My Dear Sir, Are The Most Beautiful Of The Almighty's Works, But Like Other Beautiful Works Of His, They Must Be Reared And Fostered, Or It Is As Natural That They Should Be Wholly Obscured, And That New Feelings Should Usurp Their Place, As It Is That The Sweetest Productions Of The Earth, Left Untended, Should Be Choked With Weeds And Briers.

Day Was Breaking At Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. Stars Were Yet Visible, But There Was Dull Light In The East That Was Not The Light Of Night. The Moon Had Gone Down, And A Mist Crept Along The Banks Of The River, Seen Through Which The Trees Were The Ghosts Of Trees, And The Water Was The Ghost Of Water. This Earth Looked Spectral, And So Did The Pale Stars: While The Cold Eastern Glare, Expressionless As To Heat Or Colour, With The Eye Of The Firmament Quenched, Might Have Been Likened To The Stare Of The Dead.

Many Merry Christmases, Many Happy New Years. Unbroken Friendships, Great Accumulations Of Cheerful Recollections And Affections On Earth, And Heaven For Us All.