Conscience is an apartment of the soul—an apartment wonderfully constructed. It seems to be central. It is connected with every other apartment in the dwelling. On examination, however, it will be found that, for the most part, the doors are all locked. The floor is thick with dust.
The dust is its carpet. The room is very dark. The windows are glazed over with webbed dirt. The light is shut out and the whole apartment is dismal. The man who owns the house does not frequent this room.— BEECHER.