Don't Look Where You Fall, But Where

The Natural Term Of An Apple-pie Is But Twelve Hours. It Reaches Its Highest State About One Hour After It Comes From The Oven, And Just Before Its Natural Heat Has Quite Departed. But Every Hour Afterward Is A Declension. And After It Is One Day Old, It Is Thence-forward But The Ghastly Corpse Of Apple-pie.

The Soul Is A Temple; And God Is Silently Building It By Night And By Day. Precious Thoughts Are Building It; Disinterested Love Is Building It; All-penetrating Faith Is Building It.

God Appoints Our Graces To Be Nurses To Other Men's Weaknesses.

The Conditions Of City Life May Be Made Healthy, So Far As The Physical Constitution Is Concerned; But There Is Connected With The Business Of The City So Much Competition, So Much Rivalry, So Much Necessity For Industry, That I Think It Is A Perpetual, Chronic, Wholesale Violation Of Natural Law. There Are Ten Men That Can Succeed In The Country, Where There Is One That Can Succeed In The City.

Speak Of The Appetite For Drink; Or Of A Bon-vivant's Relish For Dinner! What Are These Mere Animal Throes And Ragings Compared With Those Fantasies Of Taste, Of Those Yearning Of The Imagination, Of Those Insatiable Appetites Of Intellect, Which Bewilder A Student In A Great Bookseller's Temptation-hall.