Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever puts one down without the feeling of disappointment.

There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.

For God's sake (I never was more serious) don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

No work is worse than overwork; the mind preys on itself,--the most unwholesome of food.