after a man passes 60 , his mischief is mainly in his head

Poetry is evidently a contagious complaint.

Every desire bears its death in its very gratification. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants, and novelties cease to excite and surprise, until at length we cannot wonder even at a miracle.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.

The moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screechowl.

The dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the keynote to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony.

Marriage is the torment of one, the felicity of two, the strife and enmity of three.