We Die Of Too Much Life.

If You Begin The Day With A Laugh, You May, Nevertheless, End It With A Sob And A Sigh.

There Is One Knows Not What Sweet Mystery About This Sea, Whose Gently Awful Stirrings Seem To Speak Of Some Hidden Soul Beneath.

Nature Is Nobody's Ally.

We Cannibals Must Help These Christians.

That Author Who Draws A Character, Even Though To Common View Incongruous In Its Parts, As The Flying-squirrel, And, At Differentperiods, As Much At Variance With Itself As The Caterpillar Is With The Butterfly Into Which It Changes, May Yet, In So Doing, Be Not False But Faithful To Facts.