Those Who Seek For Something More Than

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.

Life Is Change, To Cease To Change Is To Cease To Live; Yet If You May Shed A Tear Beside The Death-bed Of An Old Friend, Let Not Your Heart Be Silent On The Dissolving Of A Faith.

What Is Called Virtue In The Common Sense Of The Word Has Nothing To Do With This Or That Man's Prosperity, Or Even Happiness.

Do You Not Think That Sometimes When Matters Are At The Worst With Us, When We Appear To Have Done All Which We Ourselves Can Do, Yet All Has Been Unavailing, And We Have Only Shown We Cannot, Not We Will Not, Help Ourselves; That Often Just Then Something Comes, Almost As If Supernaturally, To Settle For Us, As If Our Guardian Angel Took Pity On Our Perplexities, And Then At Last Obtained Leave To Help Us? And If It Be So, Then What Might Only Be A Coincidence Becomes A Call Of Providence, A Voice From Heaven, A Command.

Our Human Laws Are But The Copies, More Or Less Imperfect, Of The Eternal Laws, So Far As We Can Read Them.