Genius Has No Taste For Weaving Sand.

There Is Properly No History, Only Biography.

Where There Is No Vision A People Perish.

Rude Poets Of The Tavern Hearth, Squandering Your Unquoted Mirth, Which Keeps The Ground, And Never Soars, While Jake Retorts, And Reuben Roars; Tough And Screaming, As Birch-bark, Goes Like Bullet To Its Mark; While The Solid Curse And Jeer Never Balk The Waiting Ear.

The Whole Of What We Know Is A System Of Compensation. Every Defect In One Manner Is Made Up In Another. Every Suffering Is Rewarded; Every Sacrifice Is Made Up; Every Debt Is Paid.

Defect In Manners Is Usually The Defect Of Fine Perceptions. Elegance Comes Of No Breeding, But Of Birth.