Those That We Love Never Alter, Unless

[on John Brown:] The Poor Wretch Is Hanged, But From His Grave A Root Of Bitterness Will Spring, The Fruit Of Which At No Distant Day May Be Disunion And Civil War.

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.

Rome ... Seems To Me The Place In The World Where One Can Best Dispense With Happiness.

The Master's Irresponsible Power Has No Such Bound.

I Never Desire To Know Anything Of The Detail Of Political Measures, Lest Even Those Which I Think Best Should Lose Anything Of Their Intrinsic Value To Me, By Seeing What Low, Paltry, Personal Motives And Base Machinery And Dirty Hands Have Helped To Bring Them About.