Woe To Him, . .

The Suffering Man Ought Really To Consume His Own Smoke; There Is No Good In Emitting Smoke Till You Have Made It Into Fire.

Writing Is A Dreadful Labor, Yet Not So Dreadful As Idleness.

Humor Has Justly Been Regarded As The Finest Perfection Of Poetic Genius.

There Is But One Thing Without Honor, Smitten With Eternal Barrenness, Inability To Do Or To Be,-insincerity, Unbelief.

The Great Law Of Culture Is, Let Each Become All That He Was Created Capable Of Being; Expand, If Possible, To His Full Growth; Resisting All Impediments, Casting Off All Foreign, Especially All Noxious Adhesions, And Show Himself At Length In His Own Shape And Stature Be These What They May.