All people have their blind side-their superstitions.

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!

There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.

The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.

To be thankful for what we grasp exceeding our proportion is to add hypocrisy to injustice.

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.

May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.