Beautiful is old age—beautiful as the slow-dropping mellow autumn of a rich glorious summer. In the old man, Nature has fulfilled her work; she loads him with blessings; she fills him with the fruits of a well-spent life; and, surrounded by his children and his children's children, she rocks him softly away to a grave, to which he is followed with blessings. God forbid we should not call it beautiful.

Nature is less partial than she appears, and all situations in life have their compensations along with them.

Men think to mend their condition by a change of circumstances. They might as well hope to escape from their shadows.

Of all the evil spirits abroad at this hour in the world, insincerity is the most dangerous.

I cannot think the disputes and jealousies of Heaven are tried and settled by the swords of earth.

As we advance in life, we learn the limits of our abilities.

The solitary side of our nature demands leisure for reflection upon subjects on which the dash and whirl of daily business, so long as its clouds rise thick about us, forbid the intellect to fasten itself.