Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

Wit, After All, Is A Mighty Tart, Pungent Ingredient, And Much Too Acid For Some Stomachs; But Honest Good Humor Is The Oil And Wine Of A Merry Meeting.

The Love Of A Mother Is Never Exhausted. It Never Changes - It Never Tires - It Endures Through All; In Good Repute, In Bad Repute. In The Face Of The World's Condemnation, A Mother's Love Still Lives On.

Over No Nation Does The Press Hold A More Absolute Control Than Over The People Of America, For The Universal Education Of The Poorest Classes Makes Every Individual A Reader.

When The Gauls Laid Waste Rome, They Found The Senators Clothed In Their Robes, And Seated In Stern Tranquillity In Their Curule Chairs; In This Manner They Suffered Death Without Resistance Or Supplication. Such Conduct Was In Them Applauded As Noble And Magnanimous; In The Hapless Indians It Was Reviled As Both Obstinate And Sullen. How Truly Are We The Dupes Of Show And Circumstances! How Different Is Virtue, Clothed In Purple And Enthroned In State, From Virtue, Naked And Destitute, And Perishing Obscurely In A Wilderness.

If I Can, By A Lucky Chance, In These Uneasy Days, Rub Out One Wrinkle From The Brow Of Care, Or Beguile The Heavy Heart Of One Moment Of Sadness; If I Can, How And Then, Prompt A Happier View Of Human Nature, And Make My Reader More In Good Humor With His Fellow-beings And Himself, Surely, I Shall Not Have Written In Vain.