The Spring Is Already Here With Her

The Spring Is Already Here With Her Hands Full Of Flowers.

[on John Brown:] The Poor Wretch Is Hanged, But From His Grave A Root Of Bitterness Will Spring, The Fruit Of Which At No Distant Day May Be Disunion And Civil War.

The Drama Is The Looking-glass In Which We See The Hideousness Of Vice And The Beauties Of Virtue.

An Actor's Life Is The Shadow Of A Cloud, The Echo Of A Sound, The Memory Of A Dream, Nothing Come Of Nothing. The Finest Actor Does Not Create, He Is But A Translator Of Another Man's Work.

In The North We Could Not Hope To Keep The Worst And Poorest Servant For A Single Day In The Wretched Discomfort In Which Our Negro Servants Are Forced Habitually To Live.