We Have Used The Bible As If

Now, To Tell My Story--if Not As It Ought To Be Told, At Least As I Can Tell It,--i Must Go Back Sixteen Years, To The Days When Whitbury Boasted Of Forty Coaches Per Diem, Instead Of One Railway, And Set Forth How In Its Southern Suburb, There Stood Two Pleasant House Side By Side, With Their Gardens Sloping Down To The Whit, And Parted From Each Other Only By The High Brick Fruit-wall, Through Which There Used To Be A Door Of Communication; For The Two Occupiers Were Fast Friends.

And What Is The Joy Of Christ? The Joy And Delight Which Springs Forever In His Great Heart, From Feeling That He Is Forever Doing Good; From Loving All, And Living For All; From Knowing That If Not All, Yet Millions On Millions Are Grateful To Him, And Will Be Forever.

Tis The Hard Grey Weather Breeds Hard English Men.

How Many Serious Family Quarrels, Marriages Out Of Spite, And Alterations Of Wills, Might Have Been Prevented By A Gentle Dose Of Blue Pill!-what Awful Instances Of Chronic Dyspepsia In The Characters Of Hamlet And Othello! Banish Dyspepsia And Spirituous Liquors From Society, And You Have No Crime, Or At Least So Little That You Would Not Consider It Worth Mentioning.

In The Four Hundred And Thirteenth Year Of The Christian Era, Some Three Hundred Miles Above Alexandria, The Young Monk Philammon Was Sitting On The Edge Of A Low Range Of Inland Cliffs, Crested With Drifting Sand.