Plato is philosophy, and philosophy, Plato,—at once the glory and the shame of mankind, since neither Saxon nor Roman have availed to add any idea to his categories.

If thought makes free, so does the moral sentiment. The mixtures of spiritual chemistry refuse to be analyzed.

If a man can write a better book, preach a better sermon, or make a better mouse-trap, than his neighbor, though he build his house in the woods, the world will make a beaten path to his door.

The rule for hospitality and Irish "help," is, to have the same dinner every day throughout the year. At last, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy learns to cook it to a nicety, the host learns to carve it, and the guests are well served.

Our housekeeping is mendicant, our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our religion we have not chosen, but society has chosen for us. We are parlor soldiers. We shun the ragged battle of fate, where strength is born.

The world is full of judgment-days, and into every assembly that a man enters, in every action he attempts, he is gauged and stamped.

For, the experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet.