From Its Peaceful Bosom Spring None But

He Who Wins A Thousand Common Hearts Is Entitled To Some Renown; But He Who Keeps Undisputed Sway Over The Heart Of A Coquette Is Indeed A Hero.

He Who Thinks Much Says But Little In Proportion To His Thoughts. He Selects That Language Which Will Convey His Ideas In The Most Explicit And Direct Manner. He Tries To Compress As Much Thought As Possible Into A Few Words. On The Contrary, The Man Who Talks Everlastingly And Promiscuously, Who Seems To Have An Exhaustless Magazine Of Sound, Crowds So Many Words Into His Thoughts That He Always Obscures, And Very Frequently Conceals Them.

To Look Upon Its Grass Grown Yard, Where The Sunbeams Seem To Sleep So Quietly, One Would Think That There At Least The Dead Might Rest In Peace.

I Could Not But Smile To Think In What Out-of-the-way Corners Genius Produces Her Bantlings! And The Muses, Those Capricious Dames, Who, Forsooth, So Often Refuse To Visit Palaces, And Deny A Single Smile To Votaries In Splendid Studies, And Gilded Drawing-rooms--what Holes And Burrows Will They Frequent To Lavish Their Favors On Some Ragged Disciple!

A Mother Is The Truest Friend We Have.