I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager.

We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.

You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

To see distinctly the machinery--the wheels and pinions--of any work of Art is, unquestionably, of itself, a pleasure, but one which we are able to enjoy only just in proportion as we do not enjoy the legitimate effect designed by the artist.

You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.

The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of Artist

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.