Tortured For The Republic.

They Grow Stiff In The Joints. They Get In A Rut. They Go To Seed.

The World's History Is A Divine Poem, Of Which The History Of Every Nation Is A Canto, And Every Man A Word. Its Strains Have Been Pealing Along Down The Centuries, And Though There Have Been Mingled The Discords Of Warring Cannon And Dying Men, Yet To The Christian Philosopher And Historian - The Humble Listener - There Has Been A Divine Melody Running Through The Song Which Speaks Of Hope And Halcyon Days To Come.

We Are Apt To Be Deluded Into False Security By Political Catch-words, Devised To Flatter Rather Than Instruct.

There Are Some Things I Am Afraid Of: I Am Afraid To Do A Mean Thing.

We Hold Reunions, Not For The Dead, For There Is Nothing In All The Earth That You And I Can Do For The Dead. They Are Past Our Help And Past Our Praise. We Can Add To Them No Glory, We Can Give To Them No Immortality. They Do Not Need Us, But Forever And Forever More We Need Them.