Men, In General, Are A Sort Of

What Necessity Is There To Dwell On The Past, When The Present Is So Much Surer-the Future So Much Brighter?

Life Appears To Me Too Short To Be Spent In Nursing Animosity, Or Registering Wrongs.

Nervous Alarms Should Always Be Communicated, That They May Be Dissipated.

Such Is The Imperfect Nature Of Man! Such Spots Are There On The Disc Of The Clearest Planet; And Eyes Like Miss Scatcherd's Can Only See Those Minute Defects, And Are Blind To The Full Brightness Of The Orb.

Writers Cannot Choose Their Own Mood: With Them It Is Not Always Hide-tide, Nor --thank Heaven!--always Storm.