Henry Ward Beecher: “Now, how different is the value of ore, dead in its silent waiting-places, from the wrought blade, the all but living…”

They did not know enough of his origin, his nature, or his destiny, to bring these into account, in estimating man.

She will be rolled up in a corner, like a cocoon waiting for its transmigration.

For fifty years the imperious spirit of the South has sought and gained power.

She has not yet told this Continent all that is in her heart.