It is odd but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for a time.

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

I am ashes where once I was fire.

The castled crag of Drachenfels, Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine.

Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

But I hate things all fiction... there should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric - and pure invention is but the talent of a liar.

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.