The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tablets yet unbroken: The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind.

Classics which at home are drowsily read have a strange charm in a country inn, or in the transom of a merchant brig.

Yet time and space are but inverse measures of the force of the soul. The spirit sports with time.

The world always had the same bankrupt look, to foregoing ages as to us.

In every society some men are born to rule, and some to advise.

Nature has made up her mind that what cannot defend itself shall not be defended.

Do you see that kitten chasing so prettily her own tail? If you could look with her eyes, you might see her surrounded with hundreds of figures performing complex dramas, with tragic and comic issues, long conversations, many characters, many ups and downs of fate.