One Of The Greatest And Simplest Tools

Every Antique Farm-house And Moss-grown Cottage Is A Picture.

A Mother Is The Truest Friend We Have.

History Fades Into Fable; Fact Becomes Clouded With Doubt And Controversy; The Inscription Molders From The Tablet: The Statue Falls From The Pedestal. Columns, Arches, Pyramids, What Are They But Heaps Of Sand; And Their Epitaphs, But Characters Written In The Dust?

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.

The Natural Principle Of War Is To Do The Most Harm To Our Enemy With The Least Harm To Ourselves; And This Of Course Is To Be Effected By Stratagem.