Whatever May Be Our Condition In Life,

We Must Die Alone. To The Very Verge Of The Stream Our Friends May Accompany Us; They May Bend Over Us, They May Cling To Us There; But That One Long Wave From The Sea Of Eternity Washes Up To The Lips, Sweeps Us From The Shore, And We Go Forth Alone! In That Untried And Utter Solitude, Then, What Can There Be For Us But The Pulsation Of That Assurance, "i Am Not Alone, Because The Father Is With Me!

There Is Less Misery In Being Cheated Than In That Kind Of Wisdom Which Perceives, Or Thinks It Perceives, That All Mankind Are Cheats.

The Unmerciful Man Is Most Certainly An Unblessed Man. His Sympathies Are All Dried Up; He Is Afflicted With A Chronic Jaundice, And Lives Timidly And Darkly In A Little, Narrow Rat-hole Of Distrust.

Conscience Is Its Own Readiest Accuser.

The Golden Age Is Not In The Past, But In The Future; Not In The Origin Of Human Experience, But In Its Consummate Flower; Not Opening In Eden, But Out From Gethsemane.