They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.

Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.

A man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person.