Whatever May Be Our Condition In Life,

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.

This Is The Essential Evil Of Vice: It Debases A Man.

The Wild Bird That Flies So Lone And Far Has Somewhere Its Nest And Brood. A Little Fluttering Heart Of Love Impels Its Wings, And Points Its Course. There Is Nothing So Solitary As A Solitary Man.

The Unmerciful Man Is Most Certainly An Unblessed Man. His Sympathies Are All Dried Up; He Is Afflicted With A Chronic Jaundice, And Lives Timidly And Darkly In A Little, Narrow Rat-hole Of Distrust.

It Is Those Who Make The Least Display Of Their Sorrow Who Mourn The Deepest.