We Dream In Our Waking Moments, And

Life Figures Itself To Me As A Festal Or Funereal Procession.

We Must Not Think Too Unkindly Even Of The East Wind. It Is Not, Perhaps, A Wind To Be Loved, Even In Its Benignest Moods; But There Are Seasons When I Delight To Feel Its Breath Upon My Cheek, Though It Be Never Advisable To Throw Open My Bosom And Take It Into My Heart, As I Would Its Gentle Sisters Of The South And West.

Such Has Often Been My Apathy, When Objects Long Sought, And Earnestly Desired, Were Placed Within My Reach.

New England Is Quite As Large A Lump Of Earth As My Heart Can Really Take In.

Accuracy Is Twin Brother To Honesty, And Inaccuracy To Dishonesty.