The Present is the living sum-total of the whole Past.
Nothing that was worthy in the past departs; no truth or goodness realized by man ever dies, or can die.
In books lies the soul fo the whole past time.
The true past departs not, no truth or goodness realized by man ever dies, or can die; but all is still here, and, recognized or not, lives and works through endless change.
The past is all holy to us; the dead are all holy; even they that were wicked when alive.
In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time; the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.
Without oblivion, there is no remembrance possible. When both oblivion and memory are wise, when the general soul of man is clear, melodious, true, there may come a modern Iliad as memorial of the Past.
The leafy blossoming present time springs from the whole past, remembered and unrememberable.
The whole past is the procession of the present.
Also, what mountains of dead ashes, wreck and burnt bones, does assiduous pedantry dig up from the past time and name it History.
The past is always attractive because it is drained of fear.
Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, altogether past calculation its powers of endurance.
At the bottom there is no perfect history; there is none such conceivable. All past centuries have rotted down, and gone confusedly dumb and quiet.
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