Affection Exaggerates Its Own Offenses.

The Wind Has A Language, I Would I Could Learn! Sometimes 'tis Soothing, And Sometimes 'tis Stern, Sometimes It Comes Like A Low Sweet Song, And All Things Grow Calm, As The Sound Floats Along, And The Forest Is Lull'd By The Dreamy Strain, And Slumber Sinks Down On The Wandering Main, And Its Crystal Arms Are Folded In Rest, And The Tall Ship Sleeps On Its Heaving Breast.

Social Life Is Filled With Doubts And Vain Aspirings; Solitude, When The Imagination Is Dethroned, Is Turned To Weariness And Ennui.

The Blessings Of Matrimony, Like Those Of Poverty, Belong Rather To Philosophy Than Reality.

It Is Strange What Society Will Endure From Its Idols.

Conscience, Like A Child, Is Soon Lulled To Sleep.