And What I Should Do, By The

There Were Speeches Made In Congress In The Very Last Session Before The Outbreak Of The Rebellion, So Ferocious As To Show That Their Authors Were Under The Influence Of A Real Frenzy.

There Is No Sanctuary Of Virtue Like A Home.

I Am Only One But Still I Am One. I Cannot Do Everything, But Still I Can Do Something.

Literature Is The Voice Of The Age And The State; The Character, Energy, And Resources Of The Country Are Reflected And Imaged Forth In The Conceptions Of Its Great Minds; They Are Organs Of The Time; They Speak Not Their Own Language, They Scarce Think Their Own Thoughts; But Under An Impulse Like The Prophetic Enthusiasm Of Old, They Must Feel And Utter The Sentiments Which Society Inspires.

Does It Seem All But Incredible To You That Intelligence Should Travel For Two Thousand Miles, Along Those Slender Copper Lines, Far Down In The All But Fathomless Atlantic; Never Before Penetrated … Save When Some Foundering Vessel Has Plunged With Her Hapless Company To The Eternal Silence And Darkness Of The Abyss? Does It Seem … But A Miracle … That The Thoughts Of Living Men … Should Burn Over The Cold, Green Bones Of Men And Women, Whose Hearts, Once As Warm As Ours, Burst As The Eternal Gulfs Closed And Roared Over Them Centuries Ago?