|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Collected Articles by Frederick Douglass:
which at once enlisted his interest in me. He took me to his home to spend
the night, and in the morning went with me to Mr. David Ruggles,
the secretary of the New York Vigilance Committee, a co-worker with
Isaac T. Hopper, Lewis and Arthur Tappan, Theodore S. Wright, Samuel Cornish,
Thomas Downing, Philip A. Bell, and other true men of their time.
All these (save Mr. Bell, who still lives, and is editor and publisher of a paper
called the "Elevator," in San Francisco) have finished their work on earth.
Once in the hands of these brave and wise men, I felt comparatively safe.
With Mr. Ruggles, on the corner of Lispenard and Church streets,
I was hidden several days, during which time my intended wife came on
from Baltimore at my call, to share the burdens of life with me.
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Little Rivers by Henry van Dyke:
knowing that their time is short. Then there is no escape. Suits
of chain armour, Nubian ointments of far-smelling potency, would
not save you. You must do as our guides did on the portage, submit
to fate and walk along in heroic silence, like Marco Bozzaris
"bleeding at every pore,"--or do as Damon and I did, break into
ejaculations and a run, until you reach a place where you can light
a smudge and hold your head over it.
"And yet," said my comrade, as we sat coughing and rubbing our eyes
in the painful shelter of the smoke, "there are worse trials than
this in the civilised districts: social enmities, and newspaper
scandals, and religious persecutions. The blackest fly I ever saw
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Tales and Fantasies by Robert Louis Stevenson:
backway and planted her in the shrubbery, whence she might
see the Squire ride by to dinner. There they both sat
silent, but holding hands, for nearly half an hour. At last
the trotting of a horse sounded in the distance, the park
gates opened with a clang, and then Mr. Naseby appeared, with
stooping shoulders and a heavy, bilious countenance,
languidly rising to the trot. Esther recognised him at once;
she had often seen him before, though with her huge
indifference for all that lay outside the circle of her love,
she had never so much as wondered who he was; but now she
recognised him, and found him ten years older, leaden and