Everybody Is Now So Busy Teaching That

A Dead Grief Is Easier To Bear Than A Live Trouble.

Anyone, However, Who Has Had Dealings With Dates Knows That They Are Worse Than Elusive, They Are Perverse. Events Do Not Happen At The Right Time, Nor In Their Proper Sequence. That Sense Of Harmony With Place And Season Which Is So Strong In The Historian--if He Be A Readable Historian--is Lamentably Lacking In History, Which Takes No Pains To Verify His Most Convincing Statements.

But Self-satisfaction, If As Buoyant As Gas, Has An Ugly Trick Of Collapsing When Full Blown, And Facts Are Stony Things That Refuse To Melt Away In The Sunshine Of A Smile.

There Was No Escape From The Letter-writer Who, A Hundred Or A Hundred And Twenty-five Years Ago, Captured A Coveted Correspondent. It Would Have Been As Easy To Shake Off An Octopus Or A Boa-constrictor.

The Delusions Of The Past Seem Fond And Foolish. The Delusions Of The Present Seem Subtle And Sane.