Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.

Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.

Invention is not so much the result of labor as of judgment.

Words are like leaves; some wither every year, and every year a younger race succeed.

Let us not write at a loose rambling rate, in hope the world will wink at all our faults.

Our heroes of the former days deserved and gained their never-fading bays.