No Man Is Such A Conqueror, As

That Endless Book, The Newspaper, Is Our National Glory.

A Man Ought To Carry Himself In The World As An Orange Tree Would If It Could Walk Up And Down In The Garden, Swinging Perfume From Every Little Censer It Holds Up In The Air.

Heaven Answers With Us The Same Purpose That The Tuning-fork Does With Musicians. Our Affections, The Whole Orchestra Of Them, Are Apt To Get Below The Concert-pitch; And We Take Heaven To Tune Our Hearts By.

It Is A Bitter Thought To An Avaricious Spirit That By And By All These Accumulations Must Be Left Behind. We Can Only Carry Away From This World The Flavor Of Our Good Or Evil Deeds.

There Are Persons So Radiant, So Genial, So Kind, So Pleasure-bearin G, That You Instinctively Feel In Their Presence That They Do You Good; Whose Coming Into A Room Is Like Bringing A Lamp There.