The habit of pleasing by flattery makes a language soft; the fear of offending by truth makes it circuitous and conventional.
Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear; Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear.
Next in criminality to him who violates the laws of his country, is he who violates the language.
Every good writer has much idiom; it is the life and spirit of language.
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