Each thing lives according to its kind; the heart by love, the intellect by truth, the higher nature of man by intimate communion with God.

It is not death to have the body called back to the earth, and dissolved into its kindred elements, and mouldered to dust, and, it may be, turn to daisies, in the grave. But it is death to have the soul paralyzed, its inner life quenched, its faculties dissipated; that is death.

Whatever you truly conceive of in the mind, is possible.

Revolution does not insure progress. You may overturn thrones, but what proof that anything better will grow upon the soil?

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

The sluices of the grog-shop are fed from the wine-glasses in the parlor, and there is a lineal descent from the gentleman who hiccoughs at his elegant dinner-table to the sot who makes a bed of the gutter.

Pure felicity is reserved for the heavenly life; it grows not in an earthly soil.