I Have Often Thought, Says

The Soul, Secured In Her Existence, Smiles At The Drawn Dagger, And Defies Its Point.

Whether Dark Presages Of The Night Proceed From Any Latent Power Of The Soul During Her Abstraction, Or From Any Operation Of Subordinate Spirits, Has Been A Dispute.

Most Of The Trades, Professions, And Ways Of Living Among Mankind, Take Their Original Either From The Love Of The Pleasure, Or The Fear Of Want. The Former, When It Becomes Too Violent, Degenerates Into Luxury, And The Latter Into Avarice.

Temperance Gives Nature Her Full Play, And Enables Her To Exert Herself In All Her Force And Vigor.

That Fine Part Of Our Construction, The Eye, Seems As Much The Receptacle And Seat Of Our Passions As The Mind Itself; And At Least It Is The Outward Portal To Introduce Them To The House Within, Or Rather The Common Thoroughfare To Let Our Affections Pass In And Out.