Nature satisfies my thirst; it feeds my hunger; it finds me clothing; it affords me shelter; it wraps me around when I sleep with beneficent and watchful care; and it takes me at last to its great bosom, where my ashes mingle with their kindred dust.

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

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

This is the essential evil of vice: it debases a man.

How often a new affection makes a new man! The sordid, cowering soul turns heroic. The frivolous girl becomes the steadfast martyr of patience and ministration, transfigured by deathless love. The career of bounding impulses turns into an anthem of sacred deeds.

Christianity has made martyrdom sublime, and sorrow triumphant.

Impatience never commanded success.