Beauty Of Whatever Kind, In Its Supreme

Convinced Myself, I Seek Not To Convince.

I Have Before Suggested That A Genuine Blackguard Is Never Without A Pocket-handkerchief.

There Is No Beauty Without Some Strangeness

I Never Can Hear A Crowd Of People Singing And Gesticulating, All Together, At An Italian Opera, Without Fancying Myself At Athens, Listening To That Particular Tragedy, By Sophocles, In Which He Introduces A Full Chorus Of Turkeys, Who Set About Bewailing The Death Of Meleager.

Now This Is The Point. You Fancy Me A Mad. Madmen Know Nothing. But You Should Have Seen Me. You Should Have Seen How Wisely I Proceeded.