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.

God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.

The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.

The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.

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

Happy the man who sees a God employed in all the good and ills that checker life.

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.