There Is A Joy In Sorrow Which

As Winter Strips The Leaves From Around Us, So That We May See The Distant Regions They Formerly Concealed, So Old Age Takes Away Our Enjoyments Only To Enlarge The Prospect Of The Coming Eternity.

In Women Everything Is Heart, Even The Head.

The Purer The Golden Vessel, The More Readily Is It Bent; The Higher Worth Of Woman Is Sooner Lost Than That Of Man.

Our Birthdays Are Feathers In The Broad Wing Of Time.

A Woman Who Could Always Love Would Never Grow Old; And The Love Of Mother And Wife Would Often Give Or Preserve Many Charms If It Were Not Too Often Combined With Parental And Conjugal Anger. There Remains In The Face Of Women Who Are Naturally Serene And Peaceful, And Of Those Rendered So By Religion, An After-spring, And Later An After-summer, The Reflex Of Their Most Beautiful Bloom.