Sweet is the memory of distant friends! Like the mellow rays of the departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart.
Sometimes he spent hours together in the great libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rummaging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete works in quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a manner, a literary ghoul, feeding in the charnel-house of decayed literature.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love.
Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything.
They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.
It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by the worst kind of English travellers.
How easy is it for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him, and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles.
Great minds have purposes; others have wishes.
Christmas is a season for kindling the fire for hospitality in the hall, the genial flame of charity in the heart.
The love of a mother is never exhausted. It never changes – it never tires – it endures through all; in good repute, in bad repute. In the face of the world’s condemnation, a mother’s love still lives on.
Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
A father may turn his back on his child, brothers and sisters may become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, wives their husbands. But a mother’s love endures through all.
Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above them.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Enthusiasts soon understand each other.
The Englishman is too apt to neglect the present good in preparing against the possible evil.