ule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free.
EPHRAIM PEABODY.

"It is not enough to have great qualities," says La Rochefoucauld; "we
should also have the management of them." No man can call himself
educated until every voluntary muscle obeys his will.

Every human being is conscious of two natures. One is ever reaching up
after the good, the true, and the noble,--is aspiring after all that
uplifts, elevates, and purifies. It is the God-side of man, the image
of the Creator, the immortal side, the spiritual side. It is the
gravitation of the soul faculties toward their Maker. The other is the
bestial side which gravitates downward. It does not aspire, it
grovels; it wallows in the mire of sensualism. Like the beast, it
knows but one law, and is led by only one motive, self-indulgence,
self-gratification. When neither hungry nor thirsty, or when gorged
and sated by over-indulgence, it lies quiet and peaceful as a lamb, and
we sometimes think it subdued. But when its imperious passion
accumulates, it clamors for satisfaction. You cannot reason with it,
for it has no reason, only an imperious instinct for gratification.
You cannot appeal to its self-respect, for it has none. It cares
nothing for character, for manliness, for the spiritual.

These two natures are ever at war, one pulling heavenward, the other,
earthward. Nor do they ever become reconciled. Either may conquer,
but the vanquished never submits. The higher nature may be compelled
to grovel, to wallow in the mire of sensual indulgence, but it always
rebels and enters its protest. It can never forget that it bears the
image of its Maker, even when dragged through the slough of sensualism.
The still small voice which bids man look up is never quite hushed. If
the victim of the lower nature could only forget that he was born to
look upward, if he could only erase the image of his Maker, if he could
only hush the voice which haunts him and condemns him when he is bound
in slavery, if he could only enjoy his indulgences without the mockery
of remorse, he thinks he would be content to remain a brute. But the
ghost of his better self rises as he is about to partake of his
delight, and robs him of the expected pleasure. He has sold his better
self for pleasure which is poison, and he cannot lose the consciousness
of the fearful sacrifice he has made. The banquet may be ready, but
the hand on the wall is writing his doom.

Give me