In indolent vacuity of thought.

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.

Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?

Books are not seldom talismans and spells.

Absence of proof is not proof of absence.

Grief is itself a medicine.

Far happier are the dead methinks than they who look for death and fear it every day.