God Enters By A Private Door Into

We Have More Than We Use.

The Rich Mind Lies In The Sun And Sleeps, And Is Nature.

The Clergyman Who Lives In The City May Have Piety, But He Must Have Taste.

A Poet Is No Rattlebrain, Saying What Comes Uppermost, And, Because He Says Every Thing, Saying, At Last, Something Good; But A Heart In Unison With His Time And Country. There Is Nothing Whimsical Or Fantastic In His Production, But Sweet And Sad Earnest, Freighted With The Weightiest Convictions, And Pointed With The Most Determined Aim Which Any Man Or Class Knows Of In His Times.

Books Take Their Place According To Their Specific Gravity As Surely As Potatoes In A Tub.