Who Speaks The Truth Stabs Falsehood To

With Every Step Of The Recent Traveler Our Inheritance Of The Wonderful Is Diminished. Those Beautiful Pictured Notes Of The Possible Are Redeemed At A Ruinous Discount In The Hard Coin Of The Actual.

Stories Now, To Suit A Public Taste, Must Be Half Epigram, Half Pleasant Vice.

It Is Not A Great Xerxes Army Of Words, But A Compact Greek Ten Thousand That March Safely Down To Posterity.

O Visionary World, Condition Strange, Where Naught Abiding Is But Only Change.

A Marciful Providunce Fashioned Us Holler O' Purpose Thet We Might Our Principles Swaller.