Every Antique Farm-house And Moss-grown Cottage Is

A Tart Temper Never Mellows With Age, And A Sharp Tongue Is The Only Edged Tool That Grows Keener With Constant Use.

The Scholar Only Knows How Dear These Silent, Yet Eloquent, Companions Of Pure Thoughts And Innocent Hours Become In The Season Of Adversity. When All That Is Worldly Turns To Dross Around Us, These Only Retain Their Steady Value.

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.

It Lightens The Stroke To Draw Near To Him Who Handles The Rod.

There Is Nothing In England That Exercises A More Delightful Spell Over My Imagination Than The Lingerings Of The Holiday Customs And Rural Games Of Former Times. They Recall The Pictures My Fancy Used To Draw In The May Morning Of Life, When As Yet I Only Knew The World Through Books, And Believed It To Be All That Poets Had Painted It; And They Bring With Them The Flavour Of Those Honest Days Of Yore, In Which, Perhaps With Equal Fallacy, I Am Apt To Think The World Was More Home-bred, Social, And Joyous Than At Present.