If You Wish To Preserve Your Secret,

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.

Seated In My Library At Night, And Looking On The Silent Faces Of My Books, I Am Occasionally Visited By A Strange Sense Of The Supernatural.

Vanity In Its Idler Moments Is Benevolent, Is As Willing To Give Pleasure As To Take It, And Accepts As Sufficient Reward For Its Services A Kind Word Or An Approving Smile.

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.

Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature Has To Hide, And She Hides It Well.