Books Are Embalmed Minds.

Few Minds Wear Out; More Rust Out.

Rejecting The Miracles Of Christ, We Still Have The Miracle Of Christ Himself.

The Very Cunning Conceal Their Cunning; The Indifferently Shrewd Boast Of It.

What A Position Of Transcendent Horror Must That Be, Where The Perpetrator Of A Great Crime, Till Then A Stranger To Positive Guilt, Finds Himself Suddenly Cut Off, And Forever, From All Human Sympathy, Isolated From Hope, The Tenant Of A Solitary Cell, And With A Wide, Impassable Gulf Yawning Between Him And That Great Brotherhood Of Which He Has Ceased To Be A Part--no Longer Regarded As A Man, But As A Monster In The Shape Of One, From Whom Mercy Herself Turns Away, And For Whom Pity Even Has No Tears!

New Situations Inspire New Thoughts. Here Is The Benefit Of Travelling, Much More Than In Mere Sight-seeing. We Lose Ourselves In The Streets Of Our Own City, And Go Abroad To Find Ourselves.