We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

Eternity Forbids Thee To Forget.

I Suppose We Shall Soon Travel By Air-vessels; Make Air Instead Of Sea Voyages; And At Length Find Our Way To The Moon, In Spite Of The Want Of Atmosphere.

Socrates Said, Our Only Knowledge Was "to Know That Nothing Could Be Known;" A Pleasant Science Enough, Which Levels To An Ass Each Man Of Wisdom, Future, Past, Or Present. Newton, (that Proverb Of The Mind,) Alas! Declared, With All His Grand Discoveries Recent, That He Himself Felt Only "like A Youth Picking Up Shells By The Great Ocean-truth."

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me, But Let Us Part Fair Foes; I Do Believe, Though I Have Found Them Not, That There May Be Words Which Are Things, Hopes Which Will Not Deceive, And Virtues Which Are Merciful, Or Weave Snares For The Failing: I Would Also Deem O'er Others' Griefs That Some Sincerely Grieve; That Two, Or One, Are Almost What They Seem, That Goodness Is No Name, And Happiness No Dream.

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South