I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.

Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket.

I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy.

It may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.

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