They Who Drink Beer Will

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. He Tries To Compress As Much Thought As Possible Into A Few Words. On The Contrary, The Man Who Talks Everlastingly And Promiscuously, Who Seems To Have An Exhaustless Magazine Of Sound, Crowds So Many Words Into His Thoughts That He Always Obscures, And Very Frequently Conceals Them.

Man Passes Away; His Name Perishes From Record And Recollection; His History Is As A Tale That Is Told, And His Very Monument Becomes A Ruin.

The Tie Which Links Mother And Child Is Of Such Pure And Immaculate Strength As To Be Never Violated.

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.

Sometimes He Spent Hours Together In The Great Libraries Of Paris, Those Catacombs Of Departed Authors, Rummaging Among Their Hoards Of Dusty And Obsolete Works In Quest Of Food For His Unhealthy Appetite. He Was, In A Manner, A Literary Ghoul, Feeding In The Charnel-house Of Decayed Literature.