Man Passes Away; His Name Perishes From

There Is A Sacredness In Tears

There Is In Every True Woman's Heart, A Spark Of Heavenly Fire, Which Lies Dormant In The Broad Daylight Of Prosperity, But Which Kindles Up And Beams And Blazes In The Dark Hour Of Adversity.

Luxury Spreads Its Ample Board Before Their Eyes; But They Are Excluded From The Banquet. Plenty Revels Over The Fields; But Theyare Starving In The Midst Of Its Abundance: The Whole Wilderness Has Blossomed Into A Garden; But They Feel As Reptiles That Infest It.

Sometimes He Spent Hours Together In The Great Libraries Of Paris, Those Catacombs Of Departed Authors, Rummaging Among Their Hoards Of Dusty And Obsolete Works In Quest Of Food For His Unhealthy Appetite. He Was, In A Manner, A Literary Ghoul, Feeding In The Charnel-house Of Decayed Literature.

Those Men Are Most Apt To Be Obsequious And Conciliating Abroad, Who Are Under The Discipline Of Shrews At Home.