The Truth Is, We Like

A Preface Is A Species Of Literary Luxury, Where An Author, Like A Lover, Is Privileged To Be Egotistical.

I Can Pass Days Stretch'd In The Shade Of Those Old Cedar Trees, Watching The Sunshine Like A Blessing Fall,-- The Breeze Like Music Wandering O'er The Boughs, Each Tree A Natural Harp,--each Different Leaf A Different Note, Blent In One Vast Thanksgiving.

Enthusiasm Is The Divine Particle In Our Composition: With It We Are Great, Generous, And True; Without It, We Are Little, False, And Mean.

Youth, Balancing Itself Upon Hope, Is Forever In Extremes: Its Expectations Are Continually Aroused Only To Be Baffled, And Disappointment, Like A Summer Shower, Is Violent In Proportion To Its Brevity.

It Is Amazing How Much A Thought Expands And Refines By Being Put Into Speech: I Should Think It Could Hardly Know Itself.