Hope Is The Best Part

The Very Cunning Conceal Their Cunning; The Indifferently Shrewd Boast Of It.

Affliction, Like The Iron-smith, Shapes As It Smites.

Talk Less About The Years To Come, Live, Love Labor More Today.

We Should Round Every Day Of Stirring Action With An Evening Of Thought. We Learn Nothing Of Our Experience Except We Muse Upon It.

What A Position Of Transcendent Horror Must That Be, Where The Perpetrator Of A Great Crime, Till Then A Stranger To Positive Guilt, Finds Himself Suddenly Cut Off, And Forever, From All Human Sympathy, Isolated From Hope, The Tenant Of A Solitary Cell, And With A Wide, Impassable Gulf Yawning Between Him And That Great Brotherhood Of Which He Has Ceased To Be A Part--no Longer Regarded As A Man, But As A Monster In The Shape Of One, From Whom Mercy Herself Turns Away, And For Whom Pity Even Has No Tears!