A Woman's Whole Life Is A History

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.

The Sorrow For The Dead Is The Only Sorrow From Which We Refuse To Be Divorced. Every Other Wound We Seek To Heal - Every Other Affliction To Forget: But This Wound We Consider It A Duty To Keep Open - This Affliction We Cherish And Brood Over In Solitude.

The Dullest Observer Must Be Sensible Of The Order And Serenity Prevalent In Those Households Where The Occasional Exercise Of A Beautiful Form Of Worship In The Morning Gives, As It Were, The Keynote To Every Temper For The Day, And Attunes Every Spirit To Harmony.

Acting Provides The Fulfillment Of Never Being Fulfilled. You're Never As Good As You'd Like To Be. So There's Always Something To Hope For.

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.