—here his horse, whose sides were constantly being galled by the spurs of its unconscious rider, began to back a little, then to go on one side, and in Titmouse’s fright, his glass dropped from his eye, and he seized hold of the pummel. Nevertheless, to show the lady how completely he was at his ease all the while, he levelled a great many oaths and curses at the unfortunate eyes and soul of the wayward brute; who, however, not in the least moved by them, but infinitely disliking the spurs of its rider and the twisting round of its mouth by the reins, seemed more and more inclined for mischief, and backed close up to the edge of the ditch.

I.
Where, O where
Hath gentle Peace found rest?
Builds she in bower of lady fair?—
But Love — he hath possession there;
Not long is she the guest.

II.

Sits she crown’d
Beneath a pictured dome?
But there Ambition keeps his ground
And Fear and Envy Stalk around;
This cannot be her home!

III.

Will she hide
In scholar’s pensive cell?
But he already hath his bride:
Him Melancholy sits beside—
With her she may not dwell!

IV.

Now and then,
Peace, wandering lays her head
On regal couch, in captive’s den—
But nowhere finds she rest with men,
Or only with the dead!

From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night — from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight — from the manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering, murmuring love — suddenly as from the woods and fields — suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in revelation — suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death, the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger-roar of his voice.

The divisions between all the different stripes of desperado and the regular run-of-the-mill inhabitants were so fine and subtle that it was nearly impossible to identify a decent man.

Ah! what a vulgar thing does courage seem when we see nations buying and selling it for a shilling a day. Ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem when some fearful summons on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some tumultuous crisis, from which lie two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “One way lies hope; take the other, and mourn forever!”

In short, they were gambling on their luck, and luck is not to be coerced.

A duty few men are fit for, but you were born for.

She who sinks under real disappointment lacks philosophy; but she who sinks under a fancied one lacks purpose.

There, Watson! What do you think of pure reason and its fruit? If the green-grocer had such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it.

And then the various forms He cast
Gross organs first and finer last;
No one at once evolved, but all
By even touches grew and small
Degrees advanced, till, shade by shade,
To match all living things He’d made
Females, complete in all their parts
Except (His clay gave out) their hearts.
“No matter,” Satan cried; “with speed
I’ll fetch the very hearts they need”–
So flew away and soon brought back
The number needed, in a sack.
That night Earth rang with sounds of strife–
Ten million males had each a wife;
That night sweet Peace her pinions spread
O’er Hell – ten million devils dead!