Every Antique Farm-house And Moss-grown Cottage Is

Believe Me, The Man Who Earns His Bread By The Sweat Of His Brow, Eats Oftener A Sweeter Morsel, However Coarse, Than He Who Procures It By The Labor Of His Brains.

When Friends Grow Cold, And The Converse Of Intimates Languishes Into Vapid Civility And Commonplace, These Only Continue The Unaltered Countenance Of Happier Days, And Cheer Us With That True Friendship Which Never Deceived Hope, Nor Deserted Sorrow.

Love Is Never Lost. If Not Reciprocated, It Will Flow Back And Soften And Purify The Heart.

A Woman's Whole Life Is A History Of The Affections.

The Paternal Hearth, The Rallying-place Of The Affections.