your own
heels before you go into the fight.

Greek is perhaps the most perfect instrument of thought ever invented by
man, and its literature has never been equaled in purity of style and
boldness of expression.

Great ideas travel slowly, and for a time noiselessly, as the gods whose
feet were shod with wool.

What the arts are to the world of matter, literature is to the world of
mind.

History is but the unrolled scroll of prophecy.

The world's history is a divine poem, of which the history of every
nation is a canto and every man a word. Its strains have been pealing
along down the centuries, and though there have been mingled the
discords of warring cannon and dying men, yet to the Christian,
philosopher, and historian--the humble listener--there has been a divine
melody running through the song which speaks of hope and halcyon days to
come.

Light itself is a great corrective. A thousand wrongs and abuses that
are grown in darkness disappear like owls and bats before the light of
day.

Liberty can be safe only when suffrage is illuminated by education.

Parties have an organic life and spirit of their own, an individuality
and character which outlive the men who compose them; and the spirit and
traditions of a party should be considered in determining their fitness
for managing the affairs of the nation.

Of Garfield's finished days,
So fair, and all too few,
Destruction which at noonday strays
Could not the work undo.

O martyr, prostrate, calm!
I learn anew that pain
Achieves, as God's subduing psalm,
What else were all in vain.

Like Samson in his death
With mightiest labor rife,
The moments of thy halting breath
Were grandest of thy life.

And now amid the gloom
Which pierces mortal years,
There shines a star above thy tomb
To smile away our tears.

* * * * *

XI.

WHAT I CARRIED TO COLLEGE.

A REMINISCENCE AT FORTY--PICTURES OF RURAL LIFE.

Nobody has brought me a kiss to-day,
As forty comes marching along life's way;

At least, only such as came in a letter,--
And two hundred leagues from home, the debtor!

So out of my life I will dig a treasure,
And feast on a reminiscent pleasure.

Our old New England folks, you know,
Little favor to kissing were wont to show.

It smacked, they thought, too much of Satan,