Jealous People Poison Their Own Banquet And

The Indians With Surprise Found The Mouldering Trees Of Their Forests Suddenly Teeming With Ambrosial Sweet; And Nothing, I Am Told, Can Exceed The Greedy Relish With Which They Banquet For The First Time Upon This Unbought Luxury Of The Wilderness.

Nothing Impresses The Mind With A Deeper Feeling Of Loneliness Than To Tread The Silent And Deserted Scene Of Former Throng And Pageant.

The Great British Library --an Immense Collection Of Volumes Of All Ages And Languages, Many Of Which Are Now Forgotten, And Most Of Which Are Seldom Read: One Of These Sequestered Pools Of Obsolete Literature To Which Modern Authors Repair, And Draw Buckets Full Of Classic Lore, Or Pure English, Undefiled Wherewith To Swell Their Own Scanty Rills Of Thought.

To Occupy An Inch Of Dusty Shelf-to Have The Title Of Their Works Read Now And Then In A Future Age By Some Drowsy Churchman Or Casual Straggler, And In Another Age To Be Lost, Even To Remembrance. Such Is The Amount Of Boasted Immortality.

There Is A Sacredness In Tears. They Are Not The Mark Of Weakness, But Of Power. They Speak More Eloquently Than Ten Thousand Tongues. They Are The Messengers Of Overwhelming Grief, Of Deep Contrition, And Of Unspeakable Love.