Poetry is evidently a contagious complaint.

Small minds are subdued by misfortunes, greater minds overcome them.

Christmas is here, Merry old Christmas, Gift-bearing Christmas, Day of grand memories, King of the year!

Believe me, the man who earns his bread by the sweat of his brow, eats oftener a sweeter morsel, however coarse, than he who procures it by the labor of his brains.

With every exertion, the best of men can do but a moderate amount of good; but it seems in the power of the most contemptible individual to do incalculable mischief.

History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from the tablet: the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?

One point is certain, that truth is one and immutable; until the jurors all agree, they cannot all be right.