Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

Oh The Grave!--the Grave!--it Buries Every Error--covers Every Defect--extinguishes Every Resentment! From Its Peaceful Bosom Spring None But Fond Regrets And Tender Recollections. Who Can Look Down Upon The Grave Even Of An Enemy, And Not Feel A Compunctious Throb, That He Should Ever Have Warred With The Poor Handful Of Earth That Lies Mouldering Before Him!

Every Antique Farm-house And Moss-grown Cottage Is A Picture.

All These, However, Were Mere Terrors Of The Night, Phantoms Of The Mind That Walk In Darkness; And Though He Had Seen Many Spectres In His Time, And Been More Than Once Beset By Satan In Divers Shapes, In His Lonely Pre-ambulations, Yet Daylight Put An End To All These Evils; And He Would Have Passed A Pleasent Life Of It, In Despite Of The Devil And All His Works, If His Path Had Not Been Crossed By A Being That Causes More Perplexity To Mortal Man Than Ghosts, Goblins, And The Whole Race Of Witches Put Together, And That Was - A Woman.

The Sorrow For The Dead Is The Only Sorrow From Which We Refuse To Be Divorced. Every Other Wound We Seek To Heal - Every Other Affliction To Forget: But This Wound We Consider It A Duty To Keep Open - This Affliction We Cherish And Brood Over In Solitude.