Every Antique Farm-house And Moss-grown Cottage Is

My Father Died And Left Me His Blessing And His Business. His Blessing Brought No Money Into My Pocket, And As To His Business, It Soon Deserted Me, For I Was Busy Writing Poetry, And Could Not Attend To Law, And My Clients, Though They Had Great Respect For My Talents, Had No Faith In A Poetical Attorney.

A Father May Turn His Back On His Child, … . But A Mother's Love Endures Through All.

Into The Space Of One Little Hour Sins Enough May Be Conjured Up By Evil Tongues To Blast The Fame Of A Whole Life Of Virtue.

How Idle A Boast, After All, Is The Immortality Of A Name! Time Is Ever Silently Turning Over His Pages; We Are Too Much Engrossed By The Story Of The Present To Think Of The Character And Anecdotes That Gave Interest To The Past; And Each Age Is A Volume Thrown Aside And Forgotten.

It Is The Divine Attribute Of The Imagination, That It Is Irrepressible, Unconfinable; That When The Real World Is Shut Out, It Can Create A World For Itself, And With A Necromantic Power Can Conjure Up Glorious Shapes And Forms, And Brilliant Visions To Make Solitude Populous, And Irradiate The Gloom Of A Dungeon.