There Is Never Jealousy Where There Is

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.

I Sometimes Think One Of The Great Blessings We Shall Enjoy In Heaven, Will Be To Receive Letters By Every Post And Never Be Obliged To Reply To Them.

A Woman's Whole Life Is A History Of The Affections. The Heart Is Her World: It Is There Her Ambition Strives For Empire; It Is There Her Avarice Seeks For Hidden Treasures. She Sends Forth Her Sympathies On Adventure; She Embarks Her Whole Soul On The Traffic Of Affection; And If Shipwrecked, Her Case Is Hopeless — For It Is A Bankruptcy Of The Heart.

History Fades Into Fable; Fact Becomes Clouded With Doubt And Controversy; The Inscription Molders From The Tablet: The Statue Falls From The Pedestal. Columns, Arches, Pyramids, What Are They But Heaps Of Sand; And Their Epitaphs, But Characters Written In The Dust?

What Earnest Worker, With Hand And Brain For The Benefit Of His Fellowmen, Could Desire A More Pleasing Recognition Of His Usefulness Than The Monument Of A Tree, Ever Growing, Ever Blooming, And Ever Bearing Wholesome Fruit?