There Rise Authors Now And Then, Who

After All, It Is The Divinity Within That Makes The Divinity Without; And I Have Been More Fascinated By A Woman Of Talent And Intelligence, Though Deficient In Personal Charms, Than I Have Been By The Most Regular Beauty.

In Civilized Life, Where The Happiness, And Indeed Almost The Existence, Of Man Depends So Much Upon The Opinion Of His Fellow-men, He Is Constantly Acting A Studied Part. The Bold And Peculiar Traits Of Native Character Are Refined Away Or Softened Down By The Levelling Influence Of What Is Termed Good-breeding, And He Practises So Many Petty Deceptions And Affects So Many Generous Sentiments For The Purposes Of Popularity That It Is Difficult To Distinguish His Real From His Artificial Character.

The Love Of A Mother Is Never Exhausted. It Never Changes - It Never Tires - It Endures Through All; In Good Repute, In Bad Repute. In The Face Of The World's Condemnation, A Mother's Love Still Lives On.

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.

When The Gauls Laid Waste Rome, They Found The Senators Clothed In Their Robes, And Seated In Stern Tranquillity In Their Curule Chairs; In This Manner They Suffered Death Without Resistance Or Supplication. Such Conduct Was In Them Applauded As Noble And Magnanimous; In The Hapless Indians It Was Reviled As Both Obstinate And Sullen. How Truly Are We The Dupes Of Show And Circumstances! How Different Is Virtue, Clothed In Purple And Enthroned In State, From Virtue, Naked And Destitute, And Perishing Obscurely In A Wilderness.