Night's Deepest Gloom Is But A Calm;

Nature, At All Events, Humanly Speaking, Is Manifestly Very Fond Of Color; For She Has Made Nothing Without It. Her Skies Are Blue; Her Fields, Green; Her Waters Vary With Her Skies; Her Animals, Vegetables, Minerals, Are All Colored. She Paints A Great Any Of Them In Apparently Superfluous Hues, As If To Show The Dullest Eye How She Loves Color.

Your Second-hand Bookseller Is Second To None In The Worth Of The Treasures He Dispenses.

Mirth Itself Is Too Often But Melancholy In Disguise.

It Is A Delicious Moment, Certainly, That Of Being Well Nestled In Bed, And Feeling That You Shall Drop Gently To Sleep. The Good Is To Come, Not Past; The Limbs Have Just Been Tired Enough To Render The Remaining In One Posture Delightful; The Labour Of The Day Is Gone

May Exalting And Humanizing Thoughts Forever Accompany Me, Making Me Confident Without Pride, And Modest Without Servility.