A Mother Is The Truest Friend We

Every Desire Bears Its Death In Its Very Gratification. Curiosity Languishes Under Repeated Stimulants, And Novelties Cease To Excite And Surprise, Until At Length We Cannot Wonder Even At A Miracle.

How We Delight To Build Our Recollections Upon Some Basis Of Reality,--a Place, A Country, A Local Habitation! How The Events Of Life, As We Look Back Upon Them, Have Grown Into The Well-remembered Background Of The Places Where They Fell Upon Us! Here Is Some Sunny Garden Or Summer Lane, Beautified And Canonized Forever, With The Flood Of A Great Joy; And Here Are Dim And Silent Places,--rooms Always Shadowed And Dark To Us, Whatever They May Be To Others,--where Distress Or Death Came Once, And Since Then Dwells Forevermore.

There Is An Enduring Tenderness In The Love Of A Mother To A Son That Trancends All Other Affections Of The Heart

In Civilized Life, Where The Happiness, And Indeed Almost The Existence, Of Man Depends So Much Upon The Opinion Of His Fellow-men, He Is Constantly Acting A Studied Part. The Bold And Peculiar Traits Of Native Character Are Refined Away Or Softened Down By The Levelling Influence Of What Is Termed Good-breeding, And He Practises So Many Petty Deceptions And Affects So Many Generous Sentiments For The Purposes Of Popularity That It Is Difficult To Distinguish His Real From His Artificial Character.

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