And what makes this countenance? The inward and mental habits; the constant pressure of the mind; the perpetual repetition of its acts. You detect at once a conceited, or foolish person. It is stamped on his countenance. You can see on the faces of the cunning or dissembling, certain corresponding lines, traced on the face as legibly as if they were written there. As it is with the countenance, so it is with the character. Character is the sum total of all our actions. It is the result of the habitual use we have been making of our intellect, heart and will. We are always at work, like the weaver at the loom. So we are always forming a character for ourselves. It is a plain truth, that everybody grows up in a certain character; some good, some bad, some excellent, and some unendurable. Every character is formed by habits. If a man is habitually proud, or vain, or false, he forms for himself a character like in kind. The character shows itself outwardly, but it is wrought within. Every habit is a chain of acts, and every one of those acts was a free link of the will. For instance, some people are habitually false. We sometimes meet with men whose word we can never take, and for this reason they have lost the perception of truth and falsehood. They do not know when they are speaking the truth and when they are speaking falsely. They bring this state upon themselves. But there was a time when these same men had never told a lie. A good character is to be more highly prized than riches. SELECTION XVI THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET 1. How dear to the heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well: The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. 2. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well: The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.