Write Me As One Who Loves His

I Loved My Friend For His Gentleness, His Candor, His Good Repute, His Freedom Even From My Own Livelier Manner, His Calm And Reasonable Kindness. It Was Not Any Particular Talent That Attracted Me To Him, Or I Anything Striking Whatsoever. I Should Say In One Word, It Was His Goodness.

Christmas Is The Glorious Time Of Great Too-much.

Mirth Itself Is Too Often But Melancholy In Disguise.

With Spots Of Sunny Openings, And With Nooks To Lie And Read In, Sloping Into Brooks.

Beauty Too Often Sacrifices To Fashion. The Spirit Of Fashion Is Not The Beautiful, But The Wilful; Not The Graceful, But The Fantastic; Not The Superior In The Abstract, But The Superior In The Worst Of All Concretes,-the Vulgar.