Thou Hast The Keys Of Paradise, Oh,

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.

No Progressive Knowledge Will Ever Medicine That Dread Misgiving Of A Mysterious And Pathless Power Given To Words Of A Certain Import.

It Is An Impressive Truth That Sometimes In The Very Lowest Forms Of Duty, Less Than Which Would Rank A Man As A Villain, There Is, Nevertheless The Sublimest Ascent Of Self-sacrifice. To Do Less Would Class You As An Object Of Eternal Scorn, To Do So Much Presumes The Grandeur Of Heroism.

The Public Is A Bad Guesser.

Grief! Thou Art Classed Amongst The Depressing Passions. And True It Is That Thou Humblest To The Dust, But Also Thou Exaltest To The Clouds. Thou Shakest Us With Ague, But Also Thou Steadiest Like Frost. Thou Sickenest The Heart, But Also Thou Healest Its Infirmities.