As For Environments, The Kingliest Being Ever

Earth Has Scarcely An Acre That Does Not Remind Us Of Actions That Have Long Preceded Our Own, And Its Clustering Tombstones Loom Up Like Reefs Of The Eternal Shore, To Show Us Where So Many Human Barks Have Struck And Gone Down.

Truth Is Poetry; It Is The Grandest Poetry.

Think For A Moment Of The Great Agents And Engines Of Our Civilization, And Then Think What Shadowy Ideas They All Once Were. The Wheels Of The Steamship Turned As Swiftly As They Do Now, But As Silent And Unsubstantial As The Motions Of The Inventor's Thought; And In The Noiseless Loom Of His Meditation Were Woven The Sinews Of The Printing-press, Whose Thunder Shakes The World.

The Unmerciful Man Is Most Certainly An Unblessed Man. His Sympathies Are All Dried Up; He Is Afflicted With A Chronic Jaundice, And Lives Timidly And Darkly In A Little, Narrow Rat-hole Of Distrust.

Through Every Rift Of Discovery Some Seeming Anomaly Drops Out Of The Darkness, And Falls, As A Golden Link Into The Great Chain Of Order.