Conscience Is Its Own Readiest Accuser.

The Night Comes For The Purpose Of Checking Our Busy Employment, And Introducing An Interval Of Repose Between The Links Of Our Action And Our Aspiration. It Draws Its Dim Curtain Around The Field Of Toil. It Buries The Objects Of Our Handiwork In Darkness, And Involves Them With Uncertainty. It Comes To The Relief Of The Exhausted Body And The Tired Brain. Our Powers, Harmonizing With The Diurnal Revolutions Of The Earth, Fail With The Failing Light, And A Merciful Providence Casts Around Us This Mantle Of Shadow, And Snatches Us From Our Occupation.

The Sluices Of The Grog-shop Are Fed From The Wine-glasses In The Parlor, And There Is A Lineal Descent From The Gentleman Who Hiccoughs At His Elegant Dinner-table To The Sot Who Makes A Bed Of The Gutter.

Profaneness Is A Brutal Vice. He Who Indulges In It Is No Gentleman, I Care Not What His Stamp May Be In Society; I Care Not What Clothes He Wears, Or What Culture He Boasts.

The Universe Is A Vast System Of Exchange. Every Artery Of It Is In Motion, Throbbing With Reciprocity, From The Planet To The Rotting Leaf. The Vapor Climbs The Sunbeam, And Comes Back In Blessings Upon The Exhausted Herb. The Exhalation Of The Plant Is Wafted To The Ocean. And So Goes On The Beautiful Commerce Of Nature. And All Because Of Dissimilarity--because No One Thing Is Sufficient In Itself, But Calls For The Assistance Of Something Else, And Repays By A Contribution In Turn.

Impatience Dries The Blood Sooner Than Age Or Sorrow.