Dream-land will never be exhausted, until we enter the land of dreams,
and until, in "shuffling off this mortal coil," thought will become
fact, and all facts will be only thought.

As it is, I can conceive no mood of mind more in keeping with what is to
follow upon the grave, than those fancies which warp our frail hulks
toward the ocean of the Infinite, and that so sublimate the realities of
this being, that they seem to belong to that shadowy realm whither every
day's journey is leading.

--It was warm weather, and my aunt was dozing. "What is this all to be
about?" said she, recovering her knitting-needle.

"About love, and toil, and duty, and sorrow," said I.

My aunt laid down her knitting, looked at me over the rim of her
spectacles, and--took snuff.

I said nothing.

"How many times have you been in love, Isaac?" said she.

It was now my turn to say, "Pshaw!"

Judging from her look of assurance, I could not possibly have made a
more satisfactory reply.

My aunt finished the needle she was upon, smoothed the stocking-leg over
her knee, and looking at me with a very comical expression, said, "Isaac,