Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

To One Given To Day-dreaming, And Fond Of Losing Himself In Reveries, A Sea-voyage Is Full Of Subjects For Meditation; But Then They Are The Wonders Of The Deep And Of The Air, And Rather Tend To Abstract The Mind From Worldly Themes.

There Is A Sacredness In Tears. They Are Not The Mark Of Weakness, But Of Power. They Speak More Eloquently Than Ten Thousand Tongues. They Are The Messengers Of Overwhelming Grief, Of Deep Contrition, And Of Unspeakable Love.

Men Are Always Doomed To Be Duped, Not So Much By The Arts Of The Other As By Their Own Imagination. They Are Always Wooing Goddesses, And Marrying Mere Mortals.

The Idol Of Today Pushes The Hero Of Yesterday Out Of Our Recollection; And Will, In Turn, Be Supplanted By His Successor Of Tomorrow.

As The Vine Which Has Long Twined Its Graceful Foliage About The Oak And Been Lifted By It Into Sunshine, Will, When The Hardy Plant Is Rifted By The Thunderbolt, Cling Round It With Its Caressing Tendrils And Bind Up Its Shattered Boughs, So Is It Beautifully Ordered By Providence That Woman, Who Is The Mere Dependent And Ornament Of Man In His Happier Hours, Should Be His Stay And Solace When Smitten With Sudden Calamity, Winding Herself Into The Rugged Recesses Of His Nature, Tenderly Supporting The Drooping Head, And Binding Up The Broken Heart.