Common Sense, Alas In Spite Of Our

What A Position Of Transcendent Horror Must That Be, Where The Perpetrator Of A Great Crime, Till Then A Stranger To Positive Guilt, Finds Himself Suddenly Cut Off, And Forever, From All Human Sympathy, Isolated From Hope, The Tenant Of A Solitary Cell, And With A Wide, Impassable Gulf Yawning Between Him And That Great Brotherhood Of Which He Has Ceased To Be A Part--no Longer Regarded As A Man, But As A Monster In The Shape Of One, From Whom Mercy Herself Turns Away, And For Whom Pity Even Has No Tears!

A Genuine Passion Is Like A Mountain Stream; It Admits Of No Impediment; It Cannot Go Backward; It Must Go Forward.

Love Makes A Few Weeks So Rich That All The Rest Of Our Lives Seems Poor In Comparison.

The Activity Of The Young Is Like That Of Railcars In Motion--they Tear Along With Noise And Turmoil, And Leave Peace Behind Them. The Quietest Nooks, Invaded By Them, Lose Their Quietude As They Pass, And Recover It Only On Their Departure.

The Worth Of A Book Is A Matter Of Expressed Juices.