Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

Maidens Hearts Are Always Soft: Would That Men's Were Truer!

He [william Henry Harrison] Did Not Live Long Enough To Prove His Incapacity For The Office Of President.

The Press, Important As Is Its Office, Is But The Servant Of The Human Intellect, And Its Ministry Is For Good Or For Evil, According To The Character Of Those Who Direct It. The Press Is A Mill Which Grinds All That Is Put Into Its Hopper. Fill The Hopper With Poisoned Grain, And It Will Grind It To Meal, But There Is Death In The Bread.

And Suns Grow Meek, And The Meek Suns Grow Brief, And The Year Smiles As It Draws Near Its Death.

Hark To That Shrill, Sudden Shout, The Cry Of An Applauding Multitude, Swayed By Some Loud-voiced Orator Who Wields The Living Mass As If He Were Its Soul!