When Will Society, Like A Mother, Take

To Pity Distress Is But Human; To Relieve It Is Godlike.

Habit Is A Cable; We Weave A Thread Of It Each Day, And At Last We Cannot Break It.

Both Poetry And Philosophy Are Prodigal Of Eulogy Over The Mind Which Ransoms Itself By Its Own Energy From A Captivity To Custom, Which Breaks The Common Bounds Of Empire, And Cuts A Simplon Over Mountains Of Difficulty For Its Own Purposes, Whether Of Good Or Of Evil.

Spurn Not At Seeming Error, But Dig Below Its Surface For The Truth; And Beware Of Seeming Truths That Grow On The Roots Of Error.

He Who Shuts Out Truth, By The Same Act Opens The Door To All The Error That Supplies Its Place.