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.

Remorse begets reform.

A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion; a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.

Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay.

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

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

He that runs may read.