The Finest Compliment That Can Be Paid

Without Death In The World, Existence In It Would Soon Become, Through Over-population, The Most Frightful Of Curses.

As Threshing Separates The Wheat From The Chaff, So Does Affliction Purify Virtue.

Hunting Is A Relic Of The Barbarism That Once Thirsted For Human Blood, But Is Now Content With The Blood Of Animals.

Out Of Politics Comes More Uproar Than Progress. It Is Indeed Surprising How Little, Comparatively, This Noisy Department Of Human Affairs Contributes To The World's Prosperity. Political Commotions Upon The Grandest Scale, Political Events Of Astounding Suddenness, Political Characters Of The Greatest Ability, Abound, But Still, Permanent Results Are Rare, And We Look In Vain For A Measure Of Public Good Corresponding In Extent To The Hideous Rout Which Ushers It In. Progress But Turns Upon Its Pillow, And Goes To Sleep Again.

The Past Is The Sepulchre Of Our Dead Emotions.