When it was proposed to me to go abroad, rub oft some rust, and better my condition in a worldly sense, I fear lest my life will lose some of its homeliness. If these fields and streams and woods, the phenomena of nature here, and the simple occupations of the inhabitants should cease to interest and inspire me, no culture or wealth would atone for the loss.

I know a good woman who thinks that her son lost his life because he took to drinking water only.

Faith keeps many doubts in her pay. If I could not doubt, I should not believe.

As naturally as the oak bears an acorn and the vine a gourd, man bears a poem, either spoken or done.

Bribed with a little sunlight and a few prismatic tints, we bless our Maker, and stave off his wrath with hymns.

Even the death of Friends will inspire us as much as their lives. They will leave consolation to the mourners, as the rich leave money to defray the expenses of their funerals, and their memories will be incrusted over with sublime and pleasing thoughts, as monuments of other men are overgrown with moss; for our Friends have no place in the graveyard.

There have been some nations who could do nothing but construct tombs, and these are the only traces which they have left. They are the heathen.