A Father May Turn His

Marriage Is The Torment Of One, The Felicity Of Two, The Strife And Enmity Of Three.

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.

An Inexhaustible Good Nature Is One Of The Most Precious Gifts Of Heaven, Spreading Itself Like Oil Over The Troubled Sea Of Thought, And Keeping The Mind Smooth And Equable In The Roughest Weather.

History Fades Into Fable; Fact Becomes Clouded With Doubt And Controversy; The Inscription Molders From The Tablet: The Statue Falls From The Pedestal. Columns, Arches, Pyramids, What Are They But Heaps Of Sand; And Their Epitaphs, But Characters Written In The Dust?

History Is But A Kind Of Newgate Calendar, A Register Of The Crimes And Miseries That Man Has Inflicted On His Fellow-man.