The bibliophile is the master of his books, the bibliomaniac their slave.

Many of our troubles are God dragging us, and they would end if we would stand upon our feet and go whither He would have us go.

Mirth is God's medicine. Everybody ought to bathe in it.

There are many trials in life which do not seem to come from unwisdom or folly; they are silver arrows shot from the bow of God, and fixed inextricably in the quivering heart - they are meant to be borne - they were not meant, like snow or water, to melt as soon as they strike; but the moment an ill can be patiently borne it is disarmed of its poison, though not of its pain.

Boys have their soft and gentle moods too. You would suppose by the morning racket that nothing could be more foreign to their nature than romance and vague sadness. . . . But boys have hours of great sinking and sadness, when kindness and fondness are peculiarly needful to them.

The Divine mind does not think for us, or inspite of us, but works in us to think, and to will, and to do.

It is not work that kills men; it is worry. Work is healthy; you can hard put more upon a man than he can bear. Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not the revolution that destroys the machinery, but the friction.