The Idol Of Today Pushes

After All, It Is The Divinity Within That Makes The Divinity Without.

Surely Happiness Is Reflective, Like The Light Of Heaven; And Every Countenance, Bright With Smiles, And Glowing With Innocent Enjoyment, Is A Mirror Transmitting To Others The Rays Of A Supreme And Ever-shining Benevolence.

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

The Moan Of The Whip-poor-will From The Hillside; The Boding Cry Of The Tree-toad, That Harbinger Of Storm; The Dreary Hooting Of The Screechowl.

All These, However, Were Mere Terrors Of The Night, Phantoms Of The Mind That Walk In Darkness; And Though He Had Seen Many Spectres In His Time, And Been More Than Once Beset By Satan In Divers Shapes, In His Lonely Pre-ambulations, Yet Daylight Put An End To All These Evils; And He Would Have Passed A Pleasent Life Of It, In Despite Of The Devil And All His Works, If His Path Had Not Been Crossed By A Being That Causes More Perplexity To Mortal Man Than Ghosts, Goblins, And The Whole Race Of Witches Put Together, And That Was - A Woman.