A Man That Simply Loads Himself Down

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.

The Excellence And Inspiration Of Truth Is In The Pursuit, Not In The Mere Having Of It. The Pursuit Of All Truth Is A Kind Of Gymnastics; A Man Swings From One Truth With Higher Strength To Gain Another. The Continual Glory Is The Possibility Opening Before Us.

Mercy Among The Virtues Is Like The Moon Among The Stars ... It Is The Light That Hovers Above The Judgment Seat.

The Universe Is A Vast System Of Exchange. Every Artery Of It Is In Motion, Throbbing With Reciprocity, From The Planet To The Rotting Leaf.

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.