There is a land, where the roses are without thorns, where the flowers are not mixed with brambles. In that land, there is eternal spring, and light without any cloud. The tree of life groweth in the midst thereof; rivers of pleasures are there, and flowers that never fade. Myriads of happy spirits are there, and surround the throne of God with a perpetual hymn. The angels with their golden harps sing praises continually, and the cherubim fly on wings of fire! This country is Heaven.

Time deals gently with me; and though I feel that I descend, the slope is easy.

if an author would have us feel a strong degree of compassion, his characters must not be too perfect.

The dead of midnight is the noon of thought.

The awakenings of remorse, virtuous shame and indignation, the glow of moral approbation if they do not lead to action, grow less and less vivid every time they occur, till at length the mind grows absolutely callous.

Society than solitude is worse, And man to man is still the greatest curse.

Say not 'Good-night' but in some brighter clime, bid me 'Good-morning.'