Reality, If Rightly Interpreted, Is

History Is A Great Dust Heap.

A Vein Of Poetry Exists In The Hearts Of All Men.

All Human Things Do Require To Have An Ideal In Them; To Have Some Soul In Them.

History: A Distillation Of Rumor.

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?