No piled-up wealth, no social station, no throne, reaches as high as that spiritual plane upon which every human being stands by virtue of his humanity.

As for environments, the kingliest being ever born in the flesh lay in a manger.

Those old ages are like the landscape that shows best in purple distance, all verdant and smooth, and bathed in mellow light.

In the isolation of his clear, cold intellect, the sceptic abides in a glacial and spectral universe. No glow from the affections lights up the frost and shadow of the grave. He feels no prophecy in the thrill of the human heart-in the incompleteness of nature. He believes merely in things tangible, and sees only in the daytime. He will not confess the authenticity of that paler light of faith which was meant to shine when the sunshine of reason falls short, and the firmament of mystery is over our heads.

We do not compromise our own faith by admitting the honesty of another's doubt.

A patient, humble temper gathers blessings that are marred by the peevish and overlooked by the aspiring.

A man's love for his native land lies deeper than any logical expression, among those pulses of the heart which vibrate to the sanctities of home, and to the thoughts which leap up from his father's graves.