Thousands of poets--but the Elizabethan eras are separated by centuries.

Great is the company of the orators--but to each generation only one Webster and one Clay.

As each continent hath but one mountain range, so the elect minds stand isolated in the ages.

All greatness is mysterious, and like God's throne, genius is girt about with clouds and darkness.

If great men are infrequent, the world's need of great men is as occasional.
Society advances in happiness and culture, not through striking, dramatic acts, but through myriads of unnumbered and unnoticed deeds.
Even the heroes dying upon the battlefield ask not for Plato nor Bacon, but for a cup of cold water.