The multitude is always wrong.

Words are like leaves; some wither every year, and every year a younger race succeed.

Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.

Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece.

Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

Choose an author as you would a friend.

Invention is not so much the result of labor as of judgment.