When Christ ascended Triumphantly from star to star He left the gates of Heaven ajar.

Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

I love an author the more for having been himself a lover of books.

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

From labor there shall come forth rest.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.