Truth Only Smells Sweet Forever, And Illusions,

Our Thoughts And Our Conduct Are Our Own.

Life Is More Than A Theory, And Love Of Truth Butters No Bread: Old Men Who Have Had To Struggle Along Their Way, Who Know The Endless Bitterness, The Grave Moral Deterioration Which Follow An Empty Exchequer, May Well Be Pardoned For An Over-wish To See Their Sons Secured From It; Hunger, At Least, Is A Reality.

The Secret Of A Person's Nature Lies In Their Religion And What They Really Believes About The World And Their Place In It.

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.

There Are At Bottom But Two Possible Religions--that Which Rises In The Moral Nature Of Man, And Which Takes Shape In Moral Commandments, And That Which Grows Out Of The Observation Of The Material Energies Which Operate In The External Universe.