A Fit Of Anger Is As Fatal

The Soul, Like The Body, Lives By What It Feeds On.

The Pleasant Converse Of The Fireside, The Simple Songs Of Home, The Words Of Encouragement As I Bend Over My School-tasks, The Kiss As I Lie Down To Rest, The Patient Bearing With The Freaks Of My Restless Nature, The Gentle Counsels Mingled With Reproofs And Approvals, The Sympathy That Meets And Assuages Every Sorrow, And Sweetens Every Little Success--all These Return To Me Amid The Responsibilities Which Press Upon Me Now, And I Feel As If I Had Once Lived In Heaven, And, Straying, Had Lost My Way.

I Know Of But One Garment Which The Fashionable Social Life Of This Country Borrows Of Christianity; It Is That Ample Garment Of Charity Which Covers A Multitude Of Sins--particularly Fashionable Sins.

The Cry Of The Soul Is For Freedom. It Longs For Liberty, From The Date Of Its First Conscious Moments.

The Faculty Of Self-help Is That Which Distinguished Man From Animals; That It Is The Godlike Element, Or Holds Within Itself The Godlike Element, Of His Constitution.