Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face. His Purposes Will Ripen Fast, Unfolding Every Hour;the Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flow’r. Blind Unbelief Is Sure To Err And Scan His Work In Vain; God Is His Own Interpreter, And He Will Make It Plain.

A Lawyer's Dealings Should Be Just And Fair; Honesty Shines With Great Advantage There.

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

No, Freedom Has A Thousand Charms To Show That Slaves, Howe'er Contented, Never Know.

The Things That Mount The Rostrum With A Skip, And Then Skip Down Again, Pronounce A Text, Cry Hem; And Reading What They Never Wrote Just Fifteen Minutes, Huddle Up Their Work, And With A Well-bred Whisper Close The Scene!