There Is A Sacredness In Tears

The Oil And Wine Of Merry Meeting.

Villainy Wears Many Masks; None So Dangerous As The Mask Of Virtue.

There Is A Majestic Grandeur In Tranquillity.

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

There Rise Authors Now And Then, Who Seem Proof Against The Mutability Of Language, Because They Have Rooted Themselves In The Unchanging Principles Of Human Nature. They Are Like Gigantic Trees That We Sometimes See On The Banks Of A Stream; Which, By Their Vast And Deep Roots, Penetrating Through The Mere Surface, And Laying Hold On The Very Foundations Of The Earth, Preserve The Soil Around Them From Being Swept Away By The Ever-flowing Current, And Hold Up Many A Neighboring Plant, And Perhaps Worthless Weed, To Perpetuity.