Our conscience is the leaven of character;
And just enough of it may sweeten life,
But too much keeps in ferment moods that work,
Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment:
The froth flies up and off to vex our friends;
The rest sinks down in self, embittering
Our own experience.”
“And yet,” I said,
“Our conscience, in religion”—
“There,” he cried,