Folly ends where genuine hope begins.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa around, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in

The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read; and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.

The darkest day, if you live till tomorrow, will have passed away.

We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.

If a great man struggling with misfortunes is a noble object, a little man that despises them is no contemptible one.

It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.