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 ish when brought before the bar of Common Sense?

Could we only force ourselves to remember that a day full of these contrarieties is a day wasted, and will leave a page, dark as our own gloom, upon that life-chronicle, to every leaf of which angel fingers will point, every line of which we must read in the hereafter, before we take the places prepared for us, or rather, which we are daily preparing for ourselves—could we only remember this, the weakest of us would find strength to shake off the incubus, and no black day, however gloomily it began, would end in darkness.