I Feel That There Is

The Burden Of The Incommunicable.

Surely Everyone Is Aware Of The Divine Pleasures Which Attend A Wintry Fireside; Candles At Four O'clock, Warm Hearthrugs, Tea, A Fair Tea-maker, Shutters Closed, Curtains Flowing In Ample Draperies To The Floor, Whilst The Wind And Rain Are Raging Audibly Without.

Rightly It Is Said Of Utter, Utter Misery, That It 'cannot Be Remembered'; Itself, Being A Rememberable Thing, Is Swallowed Up In Its Own Chaos.

Under Our Present Enormous Accumulation Of Books, I Do Affirm That A Most Miserable Distraction Of Choice Must Be Very Generally Incident To The Times; That The Symptoms Of It Are In Fact Very Prevalent, And That One Of The Chief Symptoms Is An Enormous 'gluttonism' For Books.

Cows Are Amongst The Gentlest Of Breathing Creatures; None Show More Passionate Tenderness To Their Young When Deprived Of Them; And, In Short, I Am Not Ashamed To Profess A Deep Love For These Quiet Creatures.