Woe To Him, . . . Who

We Have Not The Love Of Greatness, But The Love Of The Love Of Greatness.

Writing Is A Dreadful Labor, Yet Not So Dreadful As Idleness.

A Greater Number Of God's Creatures Believe In Mahomet's Word At This Hour Than In Any Other Word Whatever. Are We To Suppose That It Was A Miserable Piece Of Spiritual Legerdemain, This Which So Many Creatures Of The Almighty Have Lived By And Died By?

Men Are To Be Guided Only By Their Self-interests. Good Government Is A Good Balancing Of These; And, Except A Keen Eye And Appetite For Self-interest, Requires No Virtue In Any Quarter. To Both Parties It Is Emphatically A Machine: To The Discontented, A Taxing-machine; To The Contented, A Machine For Securing Property. Its Duties And Its Faults Are Not Those Of A Father, But Of An Active Parish-constable.

One Seems To Believe Almost All That They Believe; And When They Stop Short And Call It A Religion, And You Pass On, And Call It Only A Reminiscence Of One, Should You Not Part With The Kiss Of Peace?