Love Is The Wine Of Existence.

It Is The End Of Art To Inoculate Men With The Love Of Nature. But Those Who Have A Psssion For Nature In The Natural Way, Need No Pictures Nor Gallereies. Spring Is Their Designer, And The Whole Year Their Artist.

The Reason That Men Are So Slow To Confess Their Vices Is Because They Have Not Yet Abandoned Them.

Not Thine The Sorrow, But Ours, Sainted Soul! Thou Hast Indeed Entered Into The Promised Land, While We Are Yet On The March. To Us Remain The Rocking Of The Deep, The Storm Upon The Land, Days Of Duty And Nights Of Watching; But Thou Are Sphered High Above All Darkness And Fear, Beyond All Sorrow And Weariness. Rest, Oh, Weary Heart!

There Is No Friendship, No Love, Like That Of The Parent For The Child.

Many Men Are Mere Warehouses Full Of Merchandise--the Head, The Heart, Are Stuffed With Goods. . . . There Are Apartments In Their Souls Which Were Once Tenanted By Taste, And Love, And Joy, And Worship, But They Are All Deserted Now, And The Rooms Are Filled With Earthy And Material Things.