While I was suffering from it, I wrote some sadly desponding poems, and a theological essay which took a very melancholy view of creation.
When I got better I labelled them all "Pie-crust," and laid them by as scarecrows and solemn warnings.

I have a number of books on my shelves that I should like to label with some such title; but, as they have great names on their title-pages,--Doctors of Divinity, some of them,--it wouldn't do.] -- My friend, the Professor, whom I have mentioned to you once or twice, told me yesterday that somebody had been abusing him in some of the journals of his calling.

I told him that I didn't doubt he deserved it; that I hoped he did deserve a little abuse occasionally, and would for a number of years to come; that nobody could do anything to make his neighbors wiser or better without being liable to abuse for it; especially that people hated to have their little mistakes made fun of, and perhaps he had been doing something of the kind .-- The Professor smiled .-- Now, said I, hear what I am going to say.

It will not take many years to bring you to the period of life when men, at least the majority of writing and talking men, do nothing but praise.

Men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a little while before they begin to decay.