It Is Impossible To Enjoy

Among All Nations There Should Be Vast Temples Raised Where People Might Worship In Silence And Listen To It, For It Is The Voice Of God

Some People Are Under The Impression That All That Is Required To Make A Good Fisherman Is The Ability To Tell Lies Easily And Without Blushing; But This Is A Mistake. Mere Bald Fabrication Is Useless; The Veriest Tyro Can Manage That. It Is In The Circumstantial Detail, The Embellishing Touches Of Probability, The General Air Of Scrupulous - Almost Of Pedantic - Veracity, That The Experienced Angler Is Seen.

In The Church Is A Memorial To Mrs. Sarah Hill, Who Bequeathed 1 Pound Annually, To Be Divided At Easter, Between Two Boys And Two Girls Who "have Never Been Undutiful To Their Parents; Who Have Never Been Known To Swear Or To Tell Untruths, To Steal, Or To Break Windows." Fancy Giving Up All That For Five Shillings A Year! It Is Not Worth It!

Five Thousand People In One Society Might Do Something, But Five Thousand Societies Of One Member Each Would Be A Holy Trouble.

(speaking Of The Cistercian Monks) A Grim Fraternity, Passing Grim Lives In That Sweet Spot, That God Had Made So Bright! Strange That Nature's Voices All Around Them--the Soft Singing Of The Waters, The Wisperings Of The River Grass, The Music Of The Rushing Wind--should Not Have Taught Them A Truer Meaning Of Life Than This. They Listened There, Through The Long Days, In Silence, Waiting For A Voice From Heaven; And All Day Long And Through The Solemn Night It Spoke To Them In Myriad Tones, And They Heard It Not.