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A man's love for his native land lies deeper than any logical expression, among those pulses of the heart which vibrate to the sanctities of home, and to the thoughts which leap up from his father's graves.

Edwin Hubbel Chapin

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Edwin Hubbel Chapin
Age: 65 †
Born: 1814
Born: December 29
Died: 1880
Died: January 1
Clergyman
Priest
E. H. Chapin
Edwin Hubbell Rev. Chapin
Heart
Lies
Vibrate
Men
Among
Sanctity
Love
Thoughts
Pulse
Expression
Leap
Land
Logical
Lying
Graves
Father
Native
Home
Deeper
Pulses

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God is the explanation of all things.
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Home is the seminary of all other institutions.
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The sluices of the grog-shop are fed from the wine-glasses in the parlor, and there is a lineal descent from the gentleman who hiccoughs at his elegant dinner-table to the sot who makes a bed of the gutter.
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O, how much those men are to be valued who, in the spirit with which the widow gave up her two mites, have given up themselves! How their names sparkle! How rich their very ashes are! How they will count up in heaven!
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The universe is a vast system of exchange. Every artery of it is in motion, throbbing with reciprocity, from the planet to the rotting leaf.
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All evil, in fact the very existence of evil, is inexplicable until we refer to the paternity of God. It hangs a huge blot in the universe until the orb of divine love rises behind it. In that apposition we detect its meaning. It appears to us but a finite shadow as it passes across the disk of infinite light.
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Goodness consists not in the outward things we do, but in the inward thing we are.
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Mercy. That is the gospel. The whole of it in one word.
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It is those who make the least display of their sorrow who mourn the deepest.
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Truth is the root, but human sympathy is the flower of practical life.
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Certainly, truth should be strenuous and bold but the strongest things are not always the noisiest, as any one may see who compares scolding with logic.
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No language can express the power, and beauty, and heroism, and majesty of a mother's love. It shrinks not where man cowers, and grows stronger where man faints, and over wastes of worldly fortunes sends the radiance of its quenchless fidelity like a star.
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Why, man of idleness, labor has rocked you in the cradle, and nourished your pampered life without it, the woven silk and the wool upon your bank would be in the shepherd's fold. For the meanest thing that ministers to human want, save the air of heaven, man is indebted to toil and even the air, in God's wise ordination, is breathed with labor.
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How often a new affection makes a new man! The sordid, cowering soul turns heroic. The frivolous girl becomes the steadfast martyr of patience and ministration, transfigured by deathless love. The career of bounding impulses turns into an anthem of sacred deeds.
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The worst effect of sin is within and is manifest not in poverty, and pain, and bodily defacement, but in the discrowned faculties, the unworthy love, the low ideal, the brutalized and enslaved spirit.
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Tribulation will not hurt you, unless as it too often does it hardens you and makes you sour, narrow and skeptical
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All natural results are spontaneous. The diamond sparkles without effort, and the flowers open impulsively beneath the summer rain. And true religion is a spontaneous thing,--as natural as it is to weep, to love, or to rejoice.
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Profaneness is a brutal vice. He who indulges in it is no gentleman.
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As for environments, the kingliest being ever born in the flesh lay in a manger.
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The individual and the race are always moving, and as we drift into new latitudes new lights open in the heaven more immediately over us.
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