From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone.

In death - no! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed.

Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities- that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration.

Stupidity is a talent for misconception.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

Yet, mad am I not — and very surely do I not dream.

In reading some books we occupy ourselves chiefly with the thoughts of the author; in perusing others, exclusively with our own.