Rebecca H. Davis
Rebecca H. Davis
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Every child was taught from his cradle that money was Mammon, the chief agent of the flesh and the devil.
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TO preach a sermon or edit a newspaper were the two things in life which I always felt I could do with credit to myself and benefit to the world, if I only had the chance.
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Our village was built on the Ohio River, and was a halting place on this great national road, then the only avenue of traffic between the South and the North.
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No man surely has so short a memory as the American.
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It has happened to me to meet many of the men of my day whom the world agreed to call great.
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The only hero known to my childhood was Henry Clay.
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America may have great poets and novelists, but she never will have more than one necromancer.
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You will find the poet who wrings the heart of the world, or the foremost captain of his time, driving a bargain or paring a potato, just as you would do.
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Crime, to the man of the forties, was an alien monstrous terror.
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But, after all, we are a young nation, and vanity is a fault of youth.
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We don't often look into these unpleasant details of our great struggle. We all prefer to think that every man who wore the blue or gray was a Philip Sidney at heart.
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Sitting by the chimney corner as we grow old, the commonest things around us take on live meanings and hint at the difference between these driving times and the calm, slow moving days when we were young.
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It is a good rule never to see or talk to the man whose words have wrung your heart, or helped it, just as it is wise not to look down too closely at the luminous glow which sometimes shines on your path on a summer night, if you would not see the ugly worm below.