Mirth Is God's Medicine. Everybody Ought To

There Are Some Men's Souls That Are So Thin, So Almost Destitute Of What Is The True Idea Of Soul, That Were Not The Guardian Angels So Keen-sighted, They Would Altogether Overlook Them.

Men Will Imitate And Admire His Unmoved Firmness, His Inflexible Conscience For The Right; And Yet His Gentleness, As Tender As A Woman's, His Moderation Of Spirit, Which Not All The Heat Of Party Could Inflame, Nor All The Jars And Disturbances Of This Country Shake Out Of Its Place: I Swear You To An Emulation Of His Justice, His Moderation, And His Mercy.

There Is An Ugly Kind Of Forgiveness In This World,--a Kind Of Hedgehog Forgiveness, Shot Out Like Quills. Men Take One Who Has Offended, And Set Him Down Before The Blowpipe Of Their Indignation, And Scorch Him, And Burn His Fault Into Him; And When They Have Kneaded Him Sufficiently With Their Fiery Fists, Then--they Forgive Him.

The Meanest, Most Contemptible Kind Of Praise Is That Which First Speaks Well Of A Man, And Then Qualifies It With A But.

What If The Leaves Were To Fall A-weeping, And Say, "it Will Be So Painful For Us To Be Pulled From Our Stalks, When Autumn Comes?" Foolish Fear! Summer Goes, And Autumn Succeeds. The Glory Of Death Is Upon The Leaves; And The Gentlest Breeze That Blows Takes Them Softly And Silently From The Bough, And They Float Slowly Down, Like Fiery Sparks, Upon The Moss.