Make my happiness--I will make yours.

Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow it on?

as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.

Your station is in my heart, and on the necks of those who would insult you.

My fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are absolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter.

Shake me off, then, sir--push me away; for I'll not leave you of my own accord.

Tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.