There Seems A Life In Hair, Though

Mirth Itself Is Too Often But Melancholy In Disguise.

Fishes Do Not Roar; They Cannot Express Any Sound Of Suffering; And Therefore The Angler Chooses To Think They Do Not Suffer, More Than It Is Convenient For Him To Fancy. Now It Is A Poor Sport That Depends For Its Existence On The Want Of A Voice In The Sufferer, And Of Imagination In The Sportsman.

The Perfection Of Conversational Intercourse Is When The Breeding Of High Life Is Animated By The Fervor Of Genius.

The Same People Who Can Deny Others Everything Are Famous For Refusing Themselves Nothing.

A Friend Of Ours, Who Is An Admirer Of Isaac Walton, Was Struck, Just As We Were, With The Likeness Of The Old Angler's Face To A Fish.