No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man. Life and death to him are haunted grounds, filled with goblin forms of vague and shadowy dread.

I b'lieve in religion, and one of these days, when I've got matters tight and snug, I calculates to tend to my soul.

We hear often of the distress of the negro servants, on the loss of a kind master; and with good reason, for no creature on God's earth is left more utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in these circumstances.

Once, in an age, God sends to some of us a friend who loves in us, not a false imagining, an unreal character, but, looking through all the rubbish of our imperfections, loves in us the divine ideal of our nature, — loves, not the man that we are, but the angel that we may be.

No ornament of a house can compare with books; they are constant company in a room, even when you are not reading them.

the delicacy that respects a friend's silence is one of the charms of life.

he who has nothing to lose can afford all risks.