Fame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, as true.

As naturally as the oak bears an acorn and the vine a gourd, man bears a poem, either spoken or done.

We could not help contrasting the equanimity of Nature with the bustle and impatience of man. His words and actions presume alwaysa crisis near at hand, but she is forever silent and unpretending.

Man's moral nature is a riddle which only eternity can solve.

At present our only true names are nicknames.

The American has dwindled into an Odd Fellow,-one who may be known by the development of his organ of gregariousness.

In eternity there is indeed something true and sublime. But all these times and places and occasions are now and here. God himself culminates in the present moment and will never be more divine in the lapse of the ages. Time is but a stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it, but when I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away but eternity remains.