The Sun Does Not Shine

Mirth Is God's Medicine. Everybody Ought To Bathe In It. Grim Care, Moroseness, Anxiety,--all This Rust Of Life, Ought To Be Scoured Off By The Oil Of Mirth. It Is Better Than Emery. Every Man Ought To Rub Himself With It. A Man Without Mirth Is Like A Wagon Without Springs, In Which One Is Caused Disagreeably To Jolt By Every Pebble Over Which It Runs.

Many Yet Are The Secret Truths Of God Which Will Be Unfolded As They Are Needed.

A Week Filled Up With Selfishness, And The Sabbath Stuffed Full Of Religious Exercises, Will Make A Good Pharisee, But A Poor Christian. There Are Many Persons Who Think Sunday Is A Sponge With Which To Wipe Out The Sins Of The Week. Now, God's Altar Stands From Sunday To Sunday, And The Seventh Day Is No More For Religion Than Any Other. It Is For Rest. The Whole Seven Are For Religion, And One Of Them For Rest.

Love Is The Wine Of Existence.

In This World, Full Often, Our Joys Are Only The Tender Shadows Which Our Sorrows Cast.