'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities, Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. True it is that Death's face seems stern and cold When he is sent to summon those we love; But all God's angels come to us disguised; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, One after another, lift their frowning masks, And we behold the Seraph's face beneath, All radiant with the Glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of God.

There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.

A friendship counting nearly forty years is the finest kind of shade-tree I know.

Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, Begotten by the slaves they trample on.

A ginooine statesman should be on his guard, if he must hev beliefs, not to b'lieve 'em too hard.

We cannot but think there is something like a fallacy in Mr. Buckle's theory that the advance of mankind is necessarily in the direction of science, and not in that of morals.

Democracy gives every man the right to be his own oppressor.