The human species, according to the best theory I can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow and the men who lend.

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.

What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn dullness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old sundials! It stood as the garden god of Christian gardens. Why is it almost everywhere vanished? If its business-use be superseded by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance.

As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

I have been trying all my life to like Scotchmen, and am obliged to desist from the experiment in despair.

When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?