Fate Gave, What Chance Shall Not Control,

Sanity -- That Is The Great Virtue Of The Ancient Literature; The Want Of That Is The Great Defect Of The Modern, In Spite Of Its Variety And Power.

How Many Minds--almost All The Great Ones--were Formed In Secrecy And Solitude!

But Thou, My Son, Study To Make Prevail One Colour In Thy Life, The Hue Of Truth.

Alas! Is Even Love Too Weak To Unlock The Heart, And Let It Speak? Are Even Lovers Powerless To Reveal To One Another What Indeed They Feel? I Knew The Mass Of Men Conceal'd Their Thoughts, For Fear That If Reveal'd They Would By Other Men Be Met With Blank Indifference, Or With Blame Reproved; I Knew They Lived And Moved Trick'd In Disguises, Alien To The Rest Of Men, And Alien To Themselves - And Yet The Same Heart Beats In Every Human Breast!

One Has Often Wondered Whether Upon The Whole Earth There Is Anything So Unintelligent, So Unapt To Perceive How The World Is Really Going, As An Ordinary Young Englishman Of Our Upper Class.