Home Is The Seminary Of

To Me There Is Something Thrilling And Exalting In The Thought That We Are Drifting Forward Into A Splendid Mystery-into Something That No Mortal Eye Hath Yet Seen, And No Intelligence Has Yet Declared.

Not In Achievement, But In Endurance, Of The Human Soul, Does It Show Its Divine Grandeur And Its Alliance With The Infinite.

Heaven Never Defaults. The Wicked Are Sure Of Their Wages, Sooner Or Later.

Books! The Chosen Depositories Of The Thoughts, The Opinions, And The Aspirations Of Mighty Intellects; Like Wondrous Mirrors That Have Caught And Fixed Bright Images Of Souls That Have Passed Away; Like Magic Lyres, Whose Masters Have Bequeathed Them To The World, And Which Yet, Of Themselves, Ring With Unforgotten Music, While The Hands That Touched Their Chords Have Crumbled Into Dust. Books! They Are The Embodiments And Manifestations Of Departed Minds--the Living Organs Through Which Those Who Are Dead Yet Speak To Us.

Some People Habitually Wear Sadness, Like A Garment, And Think It A Becoming Grace. God Loves A Cheerful Worshipper.