The Almighty Dollar, That Great Object Of

Honest Good Humor Is The Oil And Wine Of A Merry Meeting, And There Is No Jovial Companionship Equal To That Where The Jokes Are Rather Small And Laughter Abundant.

Oh The Grave!--the Grave!--it Buries Every Error--covers Every Defect--extinguishes Every Resentment! From Its Peaceful Bosom Spring None But Fond Regrets And Tender Recollections. Who Can Look Down Upon The Grave Even Of An Enemy, And Not Feel A Compunctious Throb, That He Should Ever Have Warred With The Poor Handful Of Earth That Lies Mouldering Before Him!

The Only Happy Author In This World Is He Who Is Below The Care Of Reputation.

There Rise Authors Now And Then, Who Seem Proof Against The Mutability Of Language, Because They Have Rooted Themselves In The Unchanging Principles Of Human Nature. They Are Like Gigantic Trees That We Sometimes See On The Banks Of A Stream; Which, By Their Vast And Deep Roots, Penetrating Through The Mere Surface, And Laying Hold On The Very Foundations Of The Earth, Preserve The Soil Around Them From Being Swept Away By The Ever-flowing Current, And Hold Up Many A Neighboring Plant, And Perhaps Worthless Weed, To Perpetuity.

He Who Thinks Much Says But Little In Proportion To His Thoughts. He Selects That Language Which Will Convey His Ideas In The Most Explicit And Direct Manner.