After A Man Passes 60 , His

Sometimes He Spent Hours Together In The Great Libraries Of Paris, Those Catacombs Of Departed Authors, Rummaging Among Their Hoards Of Dusty And Obsolete Works In Quest Of Food For His Unhealthy Appetite. He Was, In A Manner, A Literary Ghoul, Feeding In The Charnel-house Of Decayed Literature.

Man Passes Away; His Name Perishes From Record And Recollection; His History Is As A Tale That Is Told, And His Very Monument Becomes A Ruin.

How Idle A Boast, After All, Is The Immortality Of A Name! Time Is Ever Silently Turning Over His Pages; We Are Too Much Engrossed By The Story Of The Present To Think Of The Character And Anecdotes That Gave Interest To The Past; And Each Age Is A Volume Thrown Aside And Forgotten.

Marriage Is The Torment Of One, The Felicity Of Two, The Strife And Enmity Of Three.

It Lightens The Stroke To Draw Near To Him Who Handles The Rod.