Surely Happiness Is Reflective, Like

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; In Good Repute, In Bad Repute, In The Face Of The World's Condemnation, A Mother Still Loves On, And Still Hopes That Her Child May Turn From His Evil Ways, And Repent; Still She Remembers The Infant Smiles That Once Filled Her Bosom With Rapture, The Merry Laugh, The Joyful Shout Of His Childhood, The Opening Promise Of His Youth; And She Can Never Be Brought To Think Him All Unworthy.

In Civilized Life, Where The Happiness, And Indeed Almost The Existence, Of Man Depends So Much Upon The Opinion Of His Fellow Men, He Is Constantly Acting A Studied Part.

There Rise Authors Now And Then, Who Seem Proof Against The Mutability Of Language, Because They Have Rooted Themselves In The Unchanging Principles Of Human Nature.

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.

Every Desire Bears Its Death In Its Very Gratification. Curiosity Languishes Under Repeated Stimulants, And Novelties Cease To Excite And Surprise, Until At Length We Cannot Wonder Even At A Miracle.