Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health.

Villains!' I shrieked. 'Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!

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

Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day; or the agonies which are have their origins in ecstasies which might have been.

To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths!

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.

A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare.