Not One Man, In The Million, Shall

Tremble Not Before The Free Man, But Before The Slave Who Has Chains To Break.

There Is Some Danger Lest There Be No Real Religion In The Heart Which Craves Too Much Daily Sympathy.

Who Can Ever Be Alone For A Moment In Italy? Every Stone Has A Voice, Every Grain Of Dust Seems Instinct With Spirit From The Past, Every Step Recalls Some Line, Some Legend Of Long-neglected Lore.

The Use Of Criticism, In Periodical Writing, Is To Sift, Not To Stamp A Work.

Every Fact Is Impure, But Every Fact Contains In It The Juices Of Life. Every Fact Is A Clod, From Which May Grow An Amaranth Or A Palm.