The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.

A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'

It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.

I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.