The Gallery In Which The Reporters Sit

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.

A Man Possessed Of Splendid Talents, Which He Often Abused, And Of A Sound Judgment, The Admonitions Of Which He Often Neglected; A Man Who Succeeded Only In An Inferior Department Of His Art, But Who In That Department Succeeded Pre-eminently.

Ambrose Phillips . . . Who Had The Honor Of Bringing Into Fashion A Species Of Composition Which Has Been Called, After His Name, Namby Pamby.

The Spartan, Smiting And Spurning The Wretched Helot, Moves Our Disgust. But The Same Spartan, Calmly Dressing His Hair, And Uttering His Concise Jests, On What The Well Knows To Be His Last Day, In The Pass Of Thermopylae, Is Not To Be Contemplated Without Admiration.

Half-knowledge Is Worse Than Ignorance.