"No life, I think, is so sad, so utterly a blank, so dreary a tragedy, as the life of a "fast" young man. He is a stranger to all innocent pleasures, to all wholesome enjoyments. For him the poets have never sung, for him great men have never lived. Not for him have heroes done those deeds, or great writers put on record those thoughts, which have nerved the hearts of nations. Not for him is the glory in the grass or the splendor in the flower, the beauty of God's heavens, the music of murmuring streams, the mystery and majesty of the ocean. Not for him is the joy of honest endeavors or the rapture of the strife. Not for him the happiness of a pure love or the confidence of a tender heart. A conscience seared by incessant self-indulgence, a mind degraded and debased by the lowest associations and coarsest motives -- who will not pity this poor fool who stumbles on in the blackness of darkness to certain ruin?"   W. H. Davenport Adams.