Morality is but the vestibule of religion.

There is a sweet anguish springing up in our bosoms when a child's face brightens under the shadow of the waiting angel. There is an autumnal fitness when age gives up the ghost; and when the saint dies there is a tearful victory.

Think for a moment of the great agents and engines of our civilization, and then think what shadowy ideas they all once were. The wheels of the steamship turned as swiftly as they do now, but as silent and unsubstantial as the motions of the inventor's thought; and in the noiseless loom of his meditation were woven the sinews of the printing-press, whose thunder shakes the world.

A great many men - some comparatively small men now - if put in the right position, would be Luthers and Columbuses.

In some way the secret vice exhales its poison; and the evil passion, however cunningly masked, stains through to the surface.

The loss of fortune to a true man is but the trumpet challenge to renewed exertion, not the thunder stroke of destruction.

Life itself suggests a higher good than life itself can yield.