A Gothic Church Is A Petrified Religion.

Her Lips Were Red, Her Looks Were Free, Her Locks Were Yellow As Gold: Her Skin Was White As Leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-death Was She, Who Thicks Man's Blood With Cold.

Facts Are Not Truths; They Are Not Conclusions; They Are Not Even Premises, But In The Nature And Parts Of Premises.

Our Quaint Metaphysical Opinions, In An Hour Of Anguish, Are Like Playthings By The Bedside Of A Child Deathly Sick.

Conscience Is The Pulse Of Reason

That Only Can With Propriety Be Styled Refinement Which, By Strengthening The Intellect, Purifies The Manners.