The popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not even the elements of a good actor, was a hallucination in the public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history.

the soul of conversation is sympathy

But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

Where the Scriptures speak, we speak; where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.

Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,Whose truths electrify the sage.

Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, and robes the mountain in its azure hue.