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

The love of a mother is never exhausted. It never changes - it never tires - it endures through all; in good repute, in bad repute. In the face of the world's condemnation, a mother's love still lives on.

Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.

There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immediately felt and puts the stranger at once at his ease.

The tongue is the only instrument that gets sharper with use.

He that drinks beer, thinks beer.

It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave.