There Is Certain Relief In Change, Even

Who Ever Hears Of Fat Men Heading A Riot, Or Herding Together In Turbulent Mobs? No - No, Your Lean, Hungry Men Who Are Continually Worrying Society, And Setting The Whole Community By The Ears.

After All, It Is The Divinity Within That Makes The Divinity Without; And I Have Been More Fascinated By A Woman Of Talent And Intelligence, Though Deficient In Personal Charms, Than I Have Been By The Most Regular Beauty.

There Is A Certain Artificial Polish, A Commonplace Vivacity Acquired By Perpetually Mingling In The Beau Monde; Which, In The Commerce Of World, Supplies The Place Of Natural Suavity And Good-humour, But Is Purchased At The Expense Of All Original And Sterling Traits Of Character.

Oh The Grave!--the Grave!--it Buries Every Error--covers Every Defect--extinguishes Every Resentment! From Its Peaceful Bosom Spring None But Fond Regrets And Tender Recollections. Who Can Look Down Upon The Grave Even Of An Enemy, And Not Feel A Compunctious Throb, That He Should Ever Have Warred With The Poor Handful Of Earth That Lies Mouldering Before Him!

History Is But A Kind Of Newgate Calendar, A Register Of The Crimes And Miseries That Man Has Inflicted On His Fellow-man.