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

Still on it creeps, Each little moment at another's heels, Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up Of such small parts as these, and men look back Worn and bewilder'd, wondering how it is.

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

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.

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

I have seen the day, when, if a man made himself ridiculous, the world would laugh at him. But now, everything that is mean, disgusting, and absurd, pleases them but so much the better!

I wish I were with some of the wild people that run in the woods, and know nothing about accomplishments!