Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

Death, Which We Are Accustomed To Consider An Evil, Really Acts For Us The Friendliest Part, And Takes Away The Commonplace Of Existence.

An Old Novel Has A History Of Its Own.

Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The Misery Of Mortal Life.

Some Books Are Drenchèd Sandson Which A Great Soul's Wealth Lies All In Heaps,like A Wrecked Argosy.