Each departed friend is a magnet that attracts us to the next world.

The words that a father speaks to his children in the privacy of home are not heard by the world, but, as in whispering galleries, they are clearly heard at the end, and by posterity.

Joys are our wings, sorrows our spurs.

There are souls which fall from heaven like flowers, but ere they bloom are crushed under the foul tread of some brutal hoof.

Ah! The seasons of love roll not backward but onward, downward forever.

Men, like bullets, go farthest when they are smoothest.

Has it never occurred to us, when surrounded by sorrows, that they may be sent to us only for our instruction, as we darken the eyes of birds when we wish them to sing?