A Man Who Does Not Love Praise

Earthly Love Is A Brief And Penurious Stream, Which Only Flows In Spring, With A Long Summer Drought. The Change From A Burning Desert, Treeless, Springless, Drear, To Green Fields And Blooming Orchards In June, Is Slight In Comparison With That From The Desert Of This World's Affection To The Garden Of God, Where There Is Perpetual, Tropical Luxuriance Of Blessed Love.

Rain! Whose Soft Architectural Hands Have Power To Cut Stones, And Chisel To Shapes Of Grandeur The Very Mountains.

All Things In The Natural World Symbolize God, Yet None Of Them Speak Of Him But In Broken And Imperfect Words.

No Cradle For An Emperor's Child Was Ever Prepared With So Much Magnificence As This World Has Been Made For Man. But It Is Only His Cradle.

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.