We grow gray in our spirit long before we grow gray in our hair.

My theory is to enjoy life, but my practice is against it.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?

Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!

Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

Your absence of mind we have borne, till your presence of body came to be called in question by it.

A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.