Mournful And Never-ending Remembrance.

...the Agony Of My Soul Found Vent In One Loud, Long And Final Scream Of Despair.

He Is, As You Say, A Remarkable Horse, A Prodigious Horse, Although As You Very Justly Observe, A Suspicious And Untractable Character.

The Nose Of A Mob Is Its Imagination. By This, At Any Time, It Can Be Quietly Led.

It Is More Than Probable That I Am Not Understood; But I Fear, Indeed, That It Is In No Manner Possible To Convey To The Mind Of The Merely General Reader, An Adequate Idea Of That Nervous Intensity Of Interest With Which, In My Case, The Powers Of Meditation (not To Speak Technically) Busied And Buried Themselves, In The Contemplation Of Even The Most Ordinary Objects Of The Universe.

Man Is An Animal That Diddles, And There Is No Animal That Diddles But Man.