There Is A Sacredness In

The Great British Library --an Immense Collection Of Volumes Of All Ages And Languages, Many Of Which Are Now Forgotten, And Most Of Which Are Seldom Read: One Of These Sequestered Pools Of Obsolete Literature To Which Modern Authors Repair, And Draw Buckets Full Of Classic Lore, Or Pure English, Undefiled Wherewith To Swell Their Own Scanty Rills Of Thought.

The Literary World Is Made Up Of Little Confederacies, Each Looking Upon Its Own Members As The Lights Of The Universe; And Considering All Others As Mere Transient Meteors, Doomed To Soon Fall And Be Forgotten, While Its Own Luminaries Are To Shine Steadily Into Immortality.

By A Kind Of Fashionable Discipline, The Eye Is Taught To Brighten, The Lip To Smile, And The Whole Countenance To Emanate With The Semblance Of Friendly Welcome, While The Bosom Is Unwarmed By A Single Spark Of Genuine Kindness And Good-will.

There Are Moments Of Mingled Sorrow And Tenderness, Which Hallow The Caresses Of Affection.

A Mother Is The Truest Friend We Have.