Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.

Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.

I am determined that my children shall be brought up in their father's religion, if they can find out what it is.

English physicians kill you, the French let you die.

In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.

Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.

Presents, I often say, endear absents.