The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
I could never hate anyone I knew.
New Year's Day is every man's birthday.
How sickness enlarges the dimension of a man’s self to himself!
Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates; but they are unwholesome companions for grown people.