The Romance Of Life Begins And Ends

With So Many Thousand Joys, Is It Not Black Ingratitude To Call The World A Place Of Sorrow And Torment?

Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The Evening Dew, And Does Not Patter Down Like A Hailstorm.

The Conscience Of Children Is Formed By The Influences That Surround Them; Their Notions Of Good And Evil Are The Result Of The Moral Atmosphere They Breathe.

I Would Rather Dwell In The Dim Fog Of Superstition Than In Air Rarefied To Nothing By The Air-pump Of Unbelief-in Which The Panting Breast Expires, Vainly And Convulsively Gasping For Breath.

I Have Made As Much Out Of Myself As Could Be Made Of The Stuff, And No Man Should Require More.