To Be Sick Is To Enjoy Monarchical

Summer, As My Friend Coleridge Waggishly Writes, Has Set In With Its Usual Severity.

The Cheerful Sabbath Bells, Wherever Heard, Strike Pleasant On The Sense, Most Like The Voice Of One, Who From The Far-off Hills Proclaims Tidings Of Good To Zion.

How Sickness Enlarges The Dimension Of A Man’s Self To Himself!

Nothing To Me Is More Distasteful Than That Entire Complacency And Satisfaction Which Beam In The Countenances Of A New Married Couple; In That Of The Lady Particularly; It Tells You That Her Lot Is Disposed Of In This World; That You Can Have No Hopes For Her.

Riches Are Chiefly Good Because They Give Us Time.