Reason is a faculty which is sufficient for its own purposes. Its operations originate from itself, and proceed directly to the end proposed; whence those actions, which are directed by this faculty of reason, are called right actions, as expressive of that rectitude and simplicity with which they are performed.

Here and to the southward the neighbourhood became better, flowering at last into a marvellous group of early mansions; but still the little ancient lanes led off down the precipice to the west, spectral in their many-gabled archaism and dipping to a riot of iridescent decay where the wicked old water-front recalls its proud East India days amidst polyglot vice and squalor, rotting wharves, and blear-eyed ship-chandleries, with such surviving alley names as Packet, Bullion, Gold, Silver, Coin, Doubloon, Sovereign, Guilder, Dollar, Dime, and Cent.

A square peg forced into a round hole, he had felt like a daily outrage that long-established smooth roundness into which a man of less sharply angular shape would have fitted himself, with voluptuous acquiescence, after a shrug or two.

“I come, I come,”
And a maiden sat in her summer bower,
In the changeful gleam of the twilight hour,
And joy was in her home.

Afar, afar,
From her happy cot, ‘mid the clustering vines,
where the pale moonbeam in silver shines,
She gazed on each bright star.

A gentle prayer
On the low night wind as it murmur’d by,
Like the sound of some passing spirit’s sigh,
She whisper’d softly there.

An icy breath,
A hurrying wing, as of speedy flight,
A darkness shrouding a sunny light,
And the maiden sleeps in death.

“I come, I come,”
And a child with eyes like the sky’s own blue,
Sat playing amid the flowers, and dew,
And peace was in his home.

Loudly, and wild,
A burst of joy thro’ the calm air thrills,
And echo’d by mountains, vales, and hills;
‘Twas the laughter of a child.

Silent, and hush’d,
The air blows chill, and the flowers depart,
And the stream grows still at the child’s glad heart,
And death the blossoms crush’d.

“I come, I come,”
And a worn old man with his locks of gray,
On a bed-rid couch at morning lay,
And quiet fill’d his home.

He dream’d of joy;
And the sunny light of his childhood’s track
To his fading vision came brightly back,
And he dream’d he was a boy.

His eye grew dim,
And a sudden shuddering o’er him crept,
A gentle sigh—and the old man slept,
For death had shrouded him.

“I come, I come,”
It came like the blast of the dread simoom,
A trumpet tone from the hiding tomb,
And a sadness fill’d each home.

The Cry of Death, Catherine H. Waterman

Do not therefore consider this life as an object of any moment. Look back on the immense gulf of time already past; and forwards, to that infinite duration yet to come, and you will find how trifling the difference is between a life of three days and of three ages.

Let us then employ properly this moment of time allotted us by fate, and leave the world contentedly; like a ripe olive dropping from its stalk, speaking well of the soil that produced it, and of the tree that bore it.

It was a very trying day, choked in raw fog to begin with, and now drowned in cold rain. The flickering, blurred flames of gas-lamps seemed to be dissolving in a watery atmosphere. And the lofty pretensions of a mankind oppressed by the miserable indignities of the weather appeared as a colossal and hopeless vanity deserving of scorn, wonder, and compassion.

When the mind or ruling principle is properly regulated, it can with ease and at any time adapt itself to the various events of life, which are presented to it for the subject of its operations. For it is not particularly attached to any one subject or mode of action. It exerts itself with a preference indeed on things more agreeable, but with a reserve of acquiescence; and if chance throw anything of a contrary quality in its way, it takes that for the subject of its philosophy to work upon; which, like a strong fire, converts and assimilates that to its own substance, which would extinguish a slight flame, triumphs over all resistance, and becomes more brilliant by this addition of combustible matter.

With such deceits he gain’d their easy hearts,
Too prone to credit his perfidious arts.
What Diomede, nor Thetis’ greater son,
A thousand ships, nor ten years’ siege, had done—
False tears and fawning words the city won.

Truth, Sir, is a profound Sea, and few there be that dare wade deep enough to find out the bottom on’t. Besides, Sir, I’m afraid the Line of your Understanding mayn’t be long enough.

They have also ascribed divinity, and built temples to mere accidents and qualities, such as are time, night, day, peace, concord, love, contention, virtue, honour, health, rust, fever, and the like; which when they prayed for or against they prayed to, as if there were ghosts of those names hanging over their heads, and letting fall or withholding that good or evil for or against which they prayed. They invoked also their own wit by the name of Muses, their own ignorance by the name of Fortune, their own lust by the name of Cupid, their own rage by the name of Furies, their own privy members by the name of Priapus; and attributed their pollutions to Incubi and Succubæ: insomuch as there was nothing which a poet could introduce as a person in his poem which they did not make either a god or a devil.