I stood checked for a moment - awe, not fear, fell upon me - and whist I stood, a solemn wind began to blow, the most mournful that ever ear heard. Mournful! That is saying nothing. It was a wind that had swept the fields of mortality for a hundred centuries.

Enough if every age produce two or three critics of this esoteric class, with here and there a reader to understand them.

Even imperfection itself may have its ideal or perfect state.

Call for the grandest of all earthly spectacles, what is that? It is the sun going to his rest.

It is one of the misfortunes in life that one must read thousands of books only to discover that one need not have read them.

As is the inventor of murder, and the father of art, Cain must have been a man of first-rate genius.

The burden of the incommunicable.