It Is Not Poverty So Much As

Society Is Like A Lawn, Where Every Roughness Is Smoothed, Every Bramble Eradicated, And Where The Eye Is Delighted By The Smiling Verdure Of A Velvet Surface

With Every Exertion, The Best Of Men Can Do But A Moderate Amount Of Good; But It Seems In The Power Of The Most Contemptible Individual To Do Incalculable Mischief.

Man Passes Away; His Name Perishes From Record And Recollection; His History Is As A Tale That Is Told, And His Very Monument Becomes A Ruin.

Good Temper, Like A Sunny Day, Sheds A Ray Of Brightness Over Everything; It Is The Sweetener Of Toil And The Soother Of Disquietude!

A Mother Is The Truest Friend We Have.