Variety Is The Condition Of Harmony.

He Who Would Write Heroic Poems Should Make His Whole Life A Heroic Poem.

Thought Once Awakened Does Not Again Slumber; Unfolds Itself Into A System Of Thought; Grows, In Man After Man, Generation After Generation, - Till Its Full Stature Is Reached, And Such System Of Thought Can Grow No Farther, But Must Give Place To Another.

Neither Had Watt Of The Steam Engine A Heroic Origin, Any Kindred With The Princes Of This World. The Princes Of This World Were Shooting Their Partridges... While This Man With Blackened Fingers, With Grim Brow, Was Searching Out, In His Workshop, The Fire-secret.

Eternity Looks Grander And Kinder If Time Grow Meaner And More Hostile.

It Is A Strange Trade That Of Advocacy. Your Intellect, Your Highest Heavenly Gift Is Hung Up In The Shop Window Like A Loaded Pistol For Sale.