There Is Always A Part Of Our

Beautiful Is Old Age—beautiful As The Slow-dropping Mellow Autumn Of A Rich Glorious Summer. In The Old Man, Nature Has Fulfilled Her Work; She Loads Him With Blessings; She Fills Him With The Fruits Of A Well-spent Life; And, Surrounded By His Children And His Children's Children, She Rocks Him Softly Away To A Grave, To Which He Is Followed With Blessings. God Forbid We Should Not Call It Beautiful.

History Is A Voice Forever Sounding Across The Centuries The Laws Of Right And Wrong. Opinions Alter, Manners Change, Creeds Rise And Fall, But The Moral Law Is Written On The Tablets Of Eternity.

The Essence Of True Nobility Is Neglect Of Self. Let The Thought Of Self Pass In, And The Beauty Of A Great Action Is Gone, Like The Bloom From A Soiled Flower.

Those Who Seek For Something More Than Happiness In This World Must Not Complain If Happiness Is Not Their Portion.

Thirst Of Power And Of Riches Now Bear Sway, The Passion And Infirmity Of Age.