They Who Drink Beer Will Think Beer.

Sometimes He Spent Hours Together In The Great Libraries Of Paris, Those Catacombs Of Departed Authors, Rummaging Among Their Hoards Of Dusty And Obsolete Works In Quest Of Food For His Unhealthy Appetite. He Was, In A Manner, A Literary Ghoul, Feeding In The Charnel-house Of Decayed Literature.

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.

Every Desire Bears Its Death In Its Very Gratification. Curiosity Languishes Under Repeated Stimulants, And Novelties Cease To Excite And Surprise, Until At Length We Cannot Wonder Even At A Miracle.

There Is A Certain Relief In Change, Even Though It Be From Bad To Worse.

My Father Died And Left Me His Blessing And His Business. His Blessing Brought No Money Into My Pocket, And As To His Business, It Soon Deserted Me, For I Was Busy Writing Poetry, And Could Not Attend To Law, And My Clients, Though They Had Great Respect For My Talents, Had No Faith In A Poetical Attorney.