The essence of justice is mercy.

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.

Books! The chosen depositories of the thoughts, the opinions, and the aspirations of mighty intellects; like wondrous mirrors that have caught and fixed bright images of souls that have passed away; like magic lyres, whose masters have bequeathed them to the world, and which yet, of themselves, ring with unforgotten music, while the hands that touched their chords have crumbled into dust. Books! they are the embodiments and manifestations of departed minds--the living organs through which those who are dead yet speak to us.

Death is a great revealer of what is in a man, and in its solemn shadow appear the naked lineaments of the soul.

Gaiety is often the reckless ripple over depths of despair.

It is not enjoined upon us to forget, but we are told to forgive, our enemies.

An aged Christian, with the snow of time upon his head, may remind us that those points of earth are whitest which are nearest to heaven.