A Fact Is The End Or Last

Talent Alone Cannot Make A Writer. There Must Be A Man Behind The Book; A Personality Which, By Birth And Quality, Is Pledged To The Doctrines There Set Forth, And Which Exists To See And State Things So, And Not Otherwise.

When We See A Special Reformer We Feel Like Asking Him, What Right Have You, Sir, To Your Own Virtue? Is Virtue Piecemeal?

The Passive Master Lent His Hand, To The Vast Soul Which O'er Him Planned.

The Ragged Cliff Has Thousand Faces In A Thousand Hours.

Men Grind And Grind In The Mill Of A Truism, And Nothing Comes Out But What Was Put In. But The Moment They Desert The Tradition For A Spontaneous Thought, Then Poetry, Wit, Hope, Virtue, Learning, Anecdote, And All Flock To Their Aid.