When the incense of a man's good actions spreads through the palace of
the soul, "the powers that wait on noble deeds" light up the edifice
with radiance brought from other worlds. In the eye of a good man--in
the window of the palace of his soul--we behold an occupant who fears no
duty. We are fascinated, and gather about, anxious to peer in upon the
fortunate possessor. Therein lies the happiness and the force of good
example.
But let the Censer burn low, and flicker in final sickliness; the great
bell called Conscience, hanging in the dome, strikes an alarm that rocks
the building. How oft the solemn tocsin sounds! It drives us to our
duty! Let us be thankful its clangor is so harsh!