In the tale proper--where there is no space for development of character or for great profusion and variety of incident--mere construction is, of course, far more imperatively demanded than in the novel.

I heed not that my earthly lot Hath - little of Earth in it - That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute: - I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer by.

Now this is the point. You fancy me a mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man.

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries