After A Man Passes 60 , His

It Is Not Poverty So Much As Pretense That Harasses A Ruined Man.

The Dance, Like Most Dances After Supper, Was A Merry One; Some Of The Older Folks Joined In It, And The Squire Himself Figured Down Several Couple With A Partner, With Whom He Affirmed He Had Danced At Every Christmas For Nearly Half A Century.

As The Vine Which Has Long Twined Its Graceful Foliage About The Oak And Been Lifted By It Into Sunshine, Will, When The Hardy Plant Is Rifted By The Thunderbolt, Cling Round It With Its Caressing Tendrils And Bind Up Its Shattered Boughs, So Is It Beautifully Ordered By Providence That Woman, Who Is The Mere Dependent And Ornament Of Man In His Happier Hours, Should Be His Stay And Solace When Smitten With Sudden Calamity, Winding Herself Into The Rugged Recesses Of His Nature, Tenderly Supporting The Drooping Head, And Binding Up The Broken Heart.

Over No Nation Does The Press Hold A More Absolute Control Than Over The People Of America, For The Universal Education Of The Poorest Classes Makes Every Individual A Reader.

Sometimes He Spent Hours Together In The Great Libraries Of Paris, Those Catacombs Of Departed Authors, Rummaging Among Their Hoards Of Dusty And Obsolete Works In Quest Of Food For His Unhealthy Appetite. He Was, In A Manner, A Literary Ghoul, Feeding In The Charnel-house Of Decayed Literature.