Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.

Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.

Eternity doth wear upon her face the veil of time. They only see the veil, and thus they know not what they stand so near!

Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.

Every day travels toward death; the last only arrives at it.

There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.