Cut Off My Head, And Singular I

The Conformation Of His Mind Was Such That Whatever Was Little Seemed To Him Great, And Whatever Was Great Seemed To Him Little.

There Was, It Is Said, A Criminal In Italy Who Was Suffered To Make His Choice Between Guicciardini And The Galleys. He Chose The History. But The War Of Pisa Was Too Much For Him; He Changed His Mind, And Went To The Oars.

Nothing Is So Galling To A People Not Broken In From Birth As A Paternal, Or, In Other Words, A Meddling Government, A Government Which Tells Them What To Read, And Say, And Eat, And Drink And Wear.

It Was Before Deity Embodied In A Human Form Walking Among Men, Partaking Of Their Infirmities, Leaning On Their Bosoms, Weeping Over Their Graves, Slumbering In The Manger, Bleeding On The Cross, That The Prejudices Of The Synagogue, And The Doubts Of The Academy, And The Pride Of The Portico, And The Fasces Of The Lictor, And The Swords Of Thirty Legions Were Humbled In The Dust.

With The Dead There Is No Rivalry, With The Dead There Is No Change.