Parent Of Sweetest Sounds, Yet Mute Forever.

As Civilization Advances, Poetry Almost Necessarily Declines.

It Was Before Deity Embodied In A Human Form Walking Among Men, Partaking Of Their Infirmities, Leaning On Their Bosoms, Weeping Over Their Graves, Slumbering In The Manger, Bleeding On The Cross, That The Prejudices Of The Synagogue, And The Doubts Of The Academy, And The Pride Of The Portico, And The Fasces Of The Lictor, And The Swords Of Thirty Legions Were Humbled In The Dust.

The Business Of The Dramatist Is To Keep Himself Out Of Sight, And To Let Nothing Appear But His Characters. As Soon As He Attracts Notice To His Personal Feelings, The Illusion Is Broken.

A Perfect Historian Must Possess An Imagination Sufficiently Powerful To Make His Narrative Affecting And Picturesque; Yet He Must Control It So Absolutely As To Content Himself With The Materials Which He Finds, And To Refrain From Supplying Deficiencies By Additions Of His Own. He Must Be A Profound And Ingenious Reasoner; Yet He Must Possess Sufficient Self-command To Abstain From Casting His Facts In The Mould Of His Hypothesis.

People Who Take No Pride In The Noble Achievements Of Remote Ancestors Will Never Achieve Anything Worthy To Be Remembered With Pride By Remote Descendants.