Scepticism, Like Wisdom, Springs Out In Full

Beautiful Is Old Age—beautiful As The Slow-dropping Mellow Autumn Of A Rich Glorious Summer. In The Old Man, Nature Has Fulfilled Her Work; She Loads Him With Blessings; She Fills Him With The Fruits Of A Well-spent Life; And, Surrounded By His Children And His Children's Children, She Rocks Him Softly Away To A Grave, To Which He Is Followed With Blessings. God Forbid We Should Not Call It Beautiful.

History Is A Voice Forever Sounding Across The Centuries The Laws Of Right And Wrong. Opinions Alter, Manners Change, Creeds Rise And Fall, But The Moral Law Is Written On The Tablets Of Eternity.

For Me This World Was Neither So High Nor So Low As The Church Would Have It; Chequered Over With Its Wild Light Shadows, I Could Love It And All The Children Of It, More Dearly, Perhaps, Because It Was Not All Light.

We Enter The World Alone, We Leave It Alone.

I Cannot Think The Disputes And Jealousies Of Heaven Are Tried And Settled By The Swords Of Earth.