Many make the household but only one the home.

Though old the thought and oft exprest, Tis his at last who says it best.

He gives only the worthless gold who gives from a sense of duty.

I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet does ever flow aright.

It is the privilege of genius that life never grows common place, as it does for the rest of us.

Better one bite at forty, of truths bitter rind, than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty.

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.