Philadelphians Are Every Whit As Mediocre As

Life Is So Full Of Miseries, Minor And Major; They Press So Close Upon Us At Every Step Of The Way, That It Is Hardly Worthwhile To Call One Another's Attention To Their Presence.

An Appreciation Of Words Is So Rare That Everybody Naturally Thinks He Possesses It, And This Universal Sentiment Results In The Misuse Of A Material Whose Beauty Enriches The Loving Student Beyond The Dreams Of Avarice.

A Villain Must Be A Thing Of Power, Handled With Delicacy And Grace. He Must Be Wicked Enough To Excite Our Aversion, Strong Enough To Arouse Our Fear, Human Enough To Awaken Some Transient Gleam Of Sympathy. We Must Triumph In His Downfall, Yet Not Barbarously Nor With Contempt, And The Close Of His Career Must Be In Harmony With All Its Previous Development.

The Human Race May Be Divided Into People Who Love Cats And People Who Hate Them; The Neutrals Being Few In Numbers, And, For Intellectual And Moral Reasons, Not Worth Considering.

There Is A Vast Deal Of Make-believe In The Carefully Nurtured Sentiment For Country Life, And The Barefoot Boy, And The Mountain Girl.