Macaulay is well for awhile, but one wouldn't live under Niagara.

A sad spectacle. If they be inhabited, what a scope for misery and folly. If they be not inhabited, what a waste of space.

Nature, after all, is still the grand agent in making poets.

No mortal has a right to wag his tongue, much less to wag his pen, without saying something.

Is there no God, then, but at best an absentee God, sitting idle, ever since the first Sabbath, at the outside of his Universe?

The whole past is the procession of the present.

A true delineation of the smallest man is capable of interesting the greatest man.