There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth

War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"

Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour; my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was unfit for me.

I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one. It is a title dearly enough bought by most men, to render it endurable, even when not quite clearly made out, which it never can be till the Posterity, whose decisions are merely dreams to ourselves, has sanctioned or denied it, while it can touch us no further.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.