What Want These Outlaws Conquerors Should Have

It Is Singular How Soon We Lose The Impression Of What Ceases To Be Constantly Before Us. A Year Impairs, A Luster Obliterates. There Is Little Distinct Left Without An Effort Of Memory, Then Indeed The Lights Are Rekindled For A Moment - But Who Can Be Sure That The Imagination Is Not The Torch-bearer?

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

The Heart Ran O'er With Silent Worship Of The Great Of Old!-- The Dead, But Sceptred Sovereigns, Who Still Rule Our Spirits From Their Urns.

The Art Of Angling, The Cruelest, The Coldest And The Stupidest Of Pretended Sports.

I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.