It Was A Sunday Afternoon, Wet And

A Promise Is Binding In The Inverse Ratio Of The Numbers To Whom It Is Made.

I Stood Checked For A Moment - Awe, Not Fear, Fell Upon Me - And Whist I Stood, A Solemn Wind Began To Blow, The Most Mournful That Ever Ear Heard. Mournful! That Is Saying Nothing. It Was A Wind That Had Swept The Fields Of Mortality For A Hundred Centuries.

Reserve Is The Truest Expression Of Respect Towards Those Who Are Its Objects.

A Great Scholar, In The Highest Sense Of The Term, Is Not One Who Depends Simply On An Infinite Memory, But Also On An Infinite And Electrical Power Of Combination; Bringing Together From The Four Winds, Like The Angel Of The Resurrection, What Else Were Dust From Dead Men's Bones, Into The Unity Of Breathing Life.

All Parts Of Knowledge Have Their Origin In Metaphysics, And Finally, Perhaps, Revolve Into It.