“It is a fanciful idea, that whatever we say or think, is immortal; that every word we utter goes ringing through the universe forever; that every thought of the heart becomes a creation, a thing of vitality in some shape, starting forward among the things of some sort of life, never to die!  I have sometimes, in my dreamy hours, speculated upon the truth of such a theory, and reasoned with myself in favor of its reality.  All I can say in its favor, however, is that I cannot disprove it.  It may be true, or it may not.  There are other mysteries quite as incomprehensible, the results of which we can see, without being able to penetrate the darkness in which they dwell.  But assuming its truth, and appreciating the consequences which would follow, we should rule the tongue with a sterner sway, and guard the heart with a more watchful care than is our wont.  Think of the obscene word becoming a living entity, the profane oath a thing of life; the filthy or impure thought, assuming form and vitality, all starting forward to exist forever among the creations of infinite purity.  Who would own one of these ogres in comparison with the beautiful things of God?  Who would say of the obscene word, the profane oath, or the filthy or impious thought, ’this is mine.  I made it.  I am the author of its being—­its creator!’ And yet it may be so.  If it is, there are few of us who have not thrown into life much, very much to mar the harmonies of nature, to throw discord among the spheres.”

“Your statement,” remarked Smith, “that accident has much to do with making or marring the fortunes of men, is doubtless true.  Men are destroyed by accident, and their lives are sometimes saved by it.  And if you’ll put away metaphysics, come out of the cloud in which you have hid yourself in your dreamy speculations, I will furnish you with a case in point, showing that a man may get into a very unpleasant predicament, where he runs a great risk and gets some hard knocks, and yet be able to thank God for it, in perfect earnestness of spirit.  A case of the kind came under my own observation, and while there was not much philosophy, or abstract speculation about it, there was a great deal of hard practical fact.  It happened when I was a boy, at the old homestead, in the valley that stretches to the southwest from the head of Crooked Lake.  That valley is hemmed in by high and steep hills, and at the tune of which I speak, was much more beautiful in my view than it is now.  There was no village there then, and the farms which stretched from hill to hill were greatly less valuable than they are now; but the woods and pastures, and meadows, lay exactly in the right places, and had among them partridges, and squirrels, and pigeons, and cattle, and sheep enough to make things pleasant; besides, there were plenty of trout in those days, in the stream that flows along through the valley midway between the hills.  On the north side, coming down through a gorge, or