The Works of Walter Bagehot: With Memoirs by R. H. Hutton, 2

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˹ 120 - It is come, I know not how, to be taken for granted, by many persons, that Christianity is not so much as a subject of inquiry , but that it is, now at length, discovered to be fictitious.
˹ 286 - Grace was in all her steps. Heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love.
˹ 48 - Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore...
˹ 80 - The perfect historian is he in whose work the character and spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature. He relates no fact, he attributes no expression to his characters, which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony. But by judicious selection, rejection, and arrangement, he gives to truth those attractions which have been usurped by fiction. In his narrative, a due subordination is observed ; some transactions are prominent, others retire.
˹ 205 - Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen He stood, in simple Lincoln green, The centre of the glittering ring, And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!
˹ 126 - For these words of good, evil, and contemptible, are ever used with relation to the person that useth them: there being nothing simply and absolutely so; nor any common rule of good and evil, to be taken from the nature of the objects themselves...
˹ 48 - But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised...
˹ 12 - I arrived at Oxford with a stock of erudition, that might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance, of which a school-boy would have been ashamed.
˹ 239 - Sketches," called MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, into a dark letterbox, in a dark office, up a dark court in Fleet Street...
˹ 205 - These fertile plains, that softened vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land. Where dwell we now ? See, rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. Ask we this savage hill we tread, For...

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