It's A Fair Wind That Blew Men

As The Vine Which Has Long Twined Its Graceful Foliage About The Oak And Been Lifted By It Into Sunshine, Will, When The Hardy Plant Is Rifted By The Thunderbolt, Cling Round It With Its Caressing Tendrils And Bind Up Its Shattered Boughs, So Is It Beautifully Ordered By Providence That Woman, Who Is The Mere Dependent And Ornament Of Man In His Happier Hours, Should Be His Stay And Solace When Smitten With Sudden Calamity, Winding Herself Into The Rugged Recesses Of His Nature, Tenderly Supporting The Drooping Head, And Binding Up The Broken Heart.

Into The Space Of One Little Hour Sins Enough May Be Conjured Up By Evil Tongues To Blast The Fame Of A Whole Life Of Virtue.

The Indians With Surprise Found The Mouldering Trees Of Their Forests Suddenly Teeming With Ambrosial Sweet; And Nothing, I Am Told, Can Exceed The Greedy Relish With Which They Banquet For The First Time Upon This Unbought Luxury Of The Wilderness.

Love Is Never Lost. If Not Reciprocated, It Will Flow Back And Soften And Purify The Heart.

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.