What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal needs? – George Eliot
Poetry,—the language of the Imagination and the Passions,—the oldest and most beauteous offspring of Literature. – Frederick Hinde, Poetry, a lecture delivered in London on the evening of April 8
