The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.

I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown; And all that history, much that fiction weaves.

In the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice.

Mother's love grows by giving.

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

The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.

Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.