Those Men Are Most Apt

It Was, As I Have Said, A Fine Autumnal Day; The Sky Was Clear And Serene, And Nature Wore That Rich And Golden Livery Which We Always Associate With The Idea Of Abundance. The Forests Had Put On Their Sober Brown And Yellow, While Some Trees Of The Tendered Kind Had Been Nipped By The Frosts Into Brilliant Dyes Of Orange, Purple, And Scarlet.

How Convenient It Would Be To Many Of Our Great Men And Great Families Of Doubtful Origin, Could They Have The Privilege Of The Heroes Of Yore, Who, Whenever Their Origin Was Involved In Obscurity, Modestly Announced Themselves Descended From A God.

Nothing Can Be More Touching Than To Behold A Soft And Tender Female, Who Had Been All Weakness And Dependence, And Alive To Every Trivial Roughness While Treading The Prosperous Paths Of Life, Suddenly Rising In Mental Force To Be The Comforter And Supporter Of Her Husband Under Misfortune, And Abiding With Unshrinking Firmness The Bitterest Blast Of Adversity.

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

A Tart Temper Never Mellows With Age, And A Sharp Tongue Is The Only Edged Tool That Grows Keener With Constant Use.