O mysterious Night! thou art not silent; many tongues halt thou.

It is so seldom that a young fellow has any inclination for the company of an old man. . .

I believe this earth on which we stand is but the vestibule to glorious mansions through which a moving crowd forever press.

I can bear scorpion's stings, tread fields of fire, in frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie, be tossed aloft through tracts of endless void, but cannot live in shame.

To make the cunning artless, tame the rude, subdue the haughty, shake the undaunted soul; yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth, and lead him forth as a domestic cur,--these are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty.

Pride is a fault that great men blush not to own: it is the ennobled offspring of self-love; though, it must be confessed, grave and pompous vanity, Iike a fat plebeian in a rove of office, does very often assume its name.

My day is closed! the gloom of night is come! a hopeless darkness settles over my fate.