The oil and wine of merry meeting.

No man knows what the wife of his bosom is until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world.

The paternal hearth, the rallying-place of the affections.

History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from the tablet: the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?

I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow.

Villainy wears many masks; none so dangerous as the mask of virtue.

There is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that trancends all other affections of the heart