Sunday Is The Golden Clasp That Binds

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls The Burial-ground God's-acre! It Is Just; It Consecrates Each Grave Within Its Walls, And Breathes A Benison O'er The Sleeping Dust.

Doubtless Criticism Was Originally Benignant, Pointing Out The Beauties Of A Work Rather That Its Defects. The Passions Of Men Have Made It Malignant, As A Bad Heart Of Procreates Turned The Bed, The Symbol Of Repose, Into An Instrument Of Torture.

The Mind Of The Scholar, If He Would Leave It Large And Liberal, Should Come In Contact With Other Minds.

There Is Nothing Holier In This Life Of Ours Than The First Consciousness Of Love, The First Fluttering Of Its Silken Wings.

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.