The Spring Is Already Here With Her

An Actor's Life Is The Shadow Of A Cloud, The Echo Of A Sound, The Memory Of A Dream, Nothing Come Of Nothing. The Finest Actor Does Not Create, He Is But A Translator Of Another Man's Work.

Christmas Is A Season Of Such Infinite Labour, As Well As Expense In The Shopping And Present-making Line, That Almost Every Woman I Know Is Good For Nothing In Purse And Person For A Month Afterwards, Done Up Physically, And Broken Down Financially.

The Southern Newspapers, With Their Advertisements Of Negro Sales And Personal Descriptions Of Fugitive Slaves, Supply Details Of Misery That It Would Be Difficult For Imagination To Exceed. Scorn, Derision, Insult, Menace - The Handcuff, The Last - The Tearing Away Of Children From Parents, Of Husbands From Wives - The Weary Trudging In Droves Along The Common Highways, The Labor Of Body, The Despair Of Mind, The Sickness Of Heart - These Are The Realities Which Belong To The System, And Form The Rule, Rather That The Exception, In The Slave's Experience.

I Have Sometimes Been Haunted With The Idea That It Was An Imperative Duty, Knowing What I Know, And Having Seen What I Have Seen, To Do All That Lies In My Power To Show The Dangers And The Evils Of This Frightful Institution.

A Sacred Burden Is This Life Ye Bear, Look On It, Lift It, Bear It Solemnly, Stand Up And Walk Beneath It Steadfastly; Fail Not For Sorrow, Falter Not For Sin, But Onward, Upward, Till The Goal Ye Win.