We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it?

Friendship, in the old heroic sense of that term, no longer exists. It is in reality no longer expected or recognized as a virtue among men.

Poetry, therefore, we will call Musical Thought.

It is the heart always that sees, before the head can see.

History is a mighty dramos, enacted upon the theatre of times, with suns for lamps and eternity for a background.

Not one false man but doth uncountable evil.

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?