Sassafras Wood Boiled Down To A Kind

The Red-letter Days, Now Become, To All Intents And Purposes, Dead-letter Days.

Not Many Sounds In Life, And I Include All Urban And All Rural Sounds, Exceed In Interest A Knock At The Door.

The Man Must Have A Rare Recipe For Melancholy, Who Can Be Dull In Fleet Street.

Cultivate Simplicity, Coleridge.

We Are Nothing; Less Than Nothing, And Dreams. We Are Only What Might Have Been, And Must Wait Upon The Tedious Shores Of Lethe Millions Of Ages Before We Have Existence, And A Name.