Language Is The Machine Of The Poet.

Temple Was A Man Of The World Amongst Men Of Letters, A Man Of Letters Amongst Men Of The World.

He Had Done That Which Could Never Be Forgiven; He Was In The Grasp Of One Who Never Forgave.

In That Temple Of Silence And Reconciliation Where The Enmities Of Twenty Generations Lie Buried, In The Great Abbey Which Has During Many Ages Afforded A Quiet Resting-place To Those Whose Minds And Bodies Have Been Shattered By The Contentions Of The Great Hall.

Facts Are The Mere Dross Of History. It Is From The Abstract Truth Which Interpenetrates Them, And Lies Latent Among Them, Like Gold In The Ore, That The Mass Derives Its Whole Value; And The Precious Particles Are Generally Combined With The Baser In Such A Manner That The Separation Is A Task Of The Utmost Difficulty.

What Proposition Is There Respecting Human Nature Which Is Absolutely And Universally True? We Know Of Only One,--and That Is Not Only True, But Identical,--that Men Always Act From Self-interest.