I hate the man who eats without knowing what he’s eating. I doubt his taste in more important things.

Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.

Returning to town in the stage-coach, which was filled with Mr. Gilman's guests, we stopped for a minute or two at Kentish Town. A woman asked the coachman, "Are you full inside?" Upon which Lamb put his head through the window and said, "I am quite full inside; that last piece of pudding at Mr. Gilman's did the business for me."

I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

Sassafras wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and tempered with an infusion of milk and sugar hath to some a delicacy beyond the China luxury.

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.