Habit With It's Iron Sinews, Clasps Us

Eternity Is So Certain And So Terrible That A Thousand Lives Would Not Suffice To Prepare For It.

Man Hath No Heaven And Time's Coast Is Chartless. He Speeds; We Pass Away!

Virginity Is The Poetry, Not The Reality, Of Life.

He, Who Can Create, Abhors Destruction.

The Loss Of A Mother Is Always Keenly Felt, Even If Her Health Be Such As To Incapacitate Her From Taking An Active Part In The Care Of The Family. She Is The Sweet Rallying-point For Affection, Obedience, And A Thousand Tendernesses. Dreary The Blank When She Is Withdrawn!