Great Minds Have Purposes; Others Have Wishes.

Men Are Always Doomed To Be Duped, Not So Much By The Arts Of The Other As By Their Own Imagination. They Are Always Wooing Goddesses, And Marrying Mere Mortals.

History Is But A Kind Of Newgate Calendar, A Register Of The Crimes And Miseries That Man Has Inflicted On His Fellow-man.

There Are Certain Half-dreaming Moods Of Mind In Which We Naturally Steal Away From Noise And Glare, And Seek Some Quiet Haunt Where We May Indulge Our Reveries And Build Our Air Castles Undisturbed.

There Is Something Nobly Simple And Pure In A Taste For The Cultivation Of Forest Trees. It Argues, I Think, A Sweet And Generous Nature To Have His Strong Relish For The Beauties Of Vegetation, And This Friendship For The Hardy And Glorious Sons Of The Forest. He Who Plants A Tree Looks Forward To Future Ages, And Plants For Posterity. Nothing Could Be Less Selfish Than This.

Sometimes He Spent Hours Together In The Great Libraries Of Paris, Those Catacombs Of Departed Authors, Rummaging Among Their Hoards Of Dusty And Obsolete Works In Quest Of Food For His Unhealthy Appetite. He Was, In A Manner, A Literary Ghoul, Feeding In The Charnel-house Of Decayed Literature.