There is surely room for yet another schoolmaster when a score of seers advertise themselves in Boston newspapers.

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.

'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities, Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. True it is that Death's face seems stern and cold When he is sent to summon those we love; But all God's angels come to us disguised; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, One after another, lift their frowning masks, And we behold the Seraph's face beneath, All radiant with the Glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of God.

A wise skepticism is the first attribute of a good critic.

Metaphor is no argument, though it be sometimes the gunpowder to drive one home, and imbed it in the memory.

We cannot but think there is something like a fallacy in Mr. Buckle's theory that the advance of mankind is necessarily in the direction of science, and not in that of morals.

What a sense of security in an old book which Time has criticized for us!