Cling To Thy Native Land, For It

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

Culture, Far From Giving Us Freedom, Only Develops, As It Advances, New Necessities; The Fetters Of The Physical Close More Tightly Around Us, So That The Fear Of Loss Quenches Even The Ardent Impulse Toward Improvement, And The Maxims Of Passive Obedience Are Held To Be The Highest Wisdom Of Life.

Strange Customs Do Not Thrive In Foreign Soil.

Will It, And Set To Work Briskly.

Man Is An Imitative Creature.