The Crowning Fortune Of A Man Is

We Thirst For Approbation, Yet Cannot Forgive The Approver.

He Who Would Be A Great Soul In The Future, Must Be A Great Soul Now.

The Italians Are Fond Of Red Clothes, Peacock Plumes, And Embroidery; And I Remember One Rainy Morning In The City Of Palermo, The Street Was Ablaze With Scarlet Umbrellas.

The Etymologist Finds The Deadest Word To Have Been Once A Brilliant Picture. Language Is Fossil Poetry. As The Limestone Of The Continent Consists Of Infinite Masses Of The Shells Of Animalcules, So Language Is Made Up Of Images Or Tropes, Which Now, In Their Secondary Use, Have Long Ceased To Remind Us Of Their Poetic Origin.

I Once Heard A Preacher Who Sorely Tempted Me To Go To Church No More.