My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

I loved my country, and I hated him.

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give, No hollow aid; alone - man with God must strive.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?

History - the devil's scripture

Are we aware of our obligations to a mob? It is the mob that labor in your fields and serve in your houses - that man your navy, and recruit your army - that have enabled you to defy the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob; but do not forget that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people.