A Clear Fire, A Clean Hearth, And

If There Be A Regal Solitude, It Is A Sick-bed. How The Patient Lords It There!

English Physicians Kill You, The French Let You Die.

Summer, As My Friend Coleridge Waggishly Writes, Has Set In With Its Usual Severity.

Cultivate Simplicity, Coleridge.

The Truant Fancy Was A Wanderer Ever.