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

The rarest feeling that ever lights a human face is the contentment of a loving soul.

Thorough selfishness destroys or paralyzes enjoyment. A heart made selfish by the contest for wealth is like a citadel stormed in war, utterly shattered.

Good men are not those who now and then do a good act, but men who join one good act to another.

Conscience is the frame of character, and love is the covering for it.

The sun does not shine for a few trees, and flowers, but for the wide world's joy. The lonely pine on the mountain-top waves its sombre boughs and cries, 'Thou art my sun.' And the little meadow violet lifts its cup of blue, and whispers with its perfumed breath, 'Thou art my sun.' And the grain in a thousand fields rustles in the wind, and makes answer, 'Thou art my sun.' So God sits effulgent in heaven, not for a favored few, but for the universe of life; and there is no creature so poor or so low that he may not look up with childish confidence and say, 'My Father, Thou art mine.

Of all the music that reached farthest into heaven, it is the beating of a loving heart.