There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

I have had playmates, I have had companions; In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

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

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.

Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.

Cards are war, in disguise of a sport.

The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.