Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

Nature Seems To Delight In Disappointing The Assuduities Of Art, With Which It Would Rear Dulness To Maturity, And To Glory In The Vigor And Luxuriance Of Her Chance Productions. She Scatters The Seeds Of Genius To The Winds, And Though Some May Perish Among The Stony Places Of The World, And Some May Be Choked By The Thorns And Brambles Of Early Adversity, Yet Others Will Now And Then Strike Root Even In The Clefts Of The Rock, Struggle Bravely Up Into Sunshine, And Spread Over Their Sterile Birthplace All The Beauties Of Vegetation.

How Convenient It Would Be To Many Of Our Great Men And Great Families Of Doubtful Origin, Could They Have The Privilege Of The Heroes Of Yore, Who, Whenever Their Origin Was Involved In Obscurity, Modestly Announced Themselves Descended From A God.

There Are Moments Of Mingled Sorrow And Tenderness, Which Hallow The Caresses Of Affection.

Other Men Are Known To Posterity Only Through The Medium Of History, Which Is Continually Growing Faint And Obscure; But The Intercourse Between The Author And His Fellow-men Is Ever New, Active, And Immediate.

There Is A Sacredness In Tears. They Are Not The Mark Of Weakness, But Of Power.