Every Word Was Once A Poem.

Tis The Good Reader That Makes The Good Book; In Every Book He Finds Passages Which Seem Confidences Or Asides Hidden From All Else And Unmistakenly Meant For His Ear; The Profit Of Books Is According To The Sensibility Of The Reader; The Profoundest Thought Or Passion Sleeps As In A Mine, Until It Is Discovered By An Equal Mind And Heart.

The Common Experience Is, That The Man Fits Himself As Well As He Can To The Customary Details Of That Work Or Trade He Falls Into, And Tends It As A Dog Turns A Spit. Then He Is Part Of The Machine He Moves; The Man Is Lost.

The Wheels And Springs Of Man Are All Set To The Hypothesis Of The Permanence Of Nature. We Are Not Built Like A Ship To Be Tossed, But Like A House To Stand.

The Kitchen Clock Is More Convenient Than Sidereal Time. We Must Use The Popular Category, As We Do By The Linnæan Classification, For Convenience, And Not As Exact And Final. Otherwise, We Are Presently Confounded, When The Best-settled Traits Of One Race Are Claimed By Some New Ethnologist As Precisely Characteristic Of The Rival Tribe.

Our Age Is Very Cheap And Intelligible. Unroof Any House, And You Shall Find It. The Well-being Consists In Having A Sufficiency Of Coffee And Toast, With A Daily Newspaper; A Well Glazed Parlor, With Marbles, Mirrors And Centre-table; And The Excitement Of A Few Parties And A Few Rides In A Year.