History is not the soil in which happiness grows. The periods of happiness in it are the blank pages of history.
History is in a manner a sacred thing, so far as it contains truth; for where truth is, the supreme Father of it may also he said to be, at least, in as much as concerns truth.
History is a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will perforce happen again.
But who, if it comes to that, has fully realized that history is not contained in thick books but lives in our very blood?
But again and again there comes a time in history when the man who dares to say that two and two make four is punished with death. The schoolteacher is well aware of this. And the question is not one of knowing what punishment or reward attends the making of this calculation. The question is that of knowing whether two and two do make four.