There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.