Lord, keep my memory green.

I recollected one story there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own graves till morning.

An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror.

In seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it.

Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.

The universe, he observed, makes rather an indifferent parent, I am afraid.

I will die here where I have walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. I will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled.