Books Are Not Men And Yet They

I Know It Is More Agreeable To Walk Upon Carpets Than To Lie Upon Dungeon Floors, I Know It Is Pleasant To Have All The Comforts And Luxuries Of Civilization; But He Who Cares Only For These Things Is Worth No More Than A Butterfly, Contented And Thoughtless, Upon A Morning Flower; And Who Ever Thought Of Rearing A Tombstone To A Last Summer's Butterfly?

There Are Many Persons Of Combative Tendencies, Who Read For Ammunition, And Dig Out Of The Bible Iron For Balls. They Read, And They Find Nitre And Charcoal And Sulphur For Powder. They Read, And They Find Cannon. They Read, And They Make Portholes And Embrasures. And If A Man Does Not Believe As They Do, They Look Upon Him As An Enemy, And Let Fly The Bible At Him To Demolish Him. So Men Turn The Word Of God Into A Vast Arsenal, Filled With All Manner Of Weapons, Offensive And Defensive.

When Leisure Is A Selfish Luxury, Its Very Activity, When It Stirs, Is Apt To Be Only A Kind Of Indolence Taking Exercise, That It May The Better Digest Its Selfishness.

The Disciples Found Angels At The Grave Of Him They Loved; And We Should Always Find Them Too, But That Our Eyes Are Too Full Of Tears For Seeing.

If Christ Is Not Divine, Every Impulse Of The Christian World Falls To A Lower Octave, And Light And Love And Hope Decline.