One person is as good as another in New England, and better, too.
Well, it is a humiliating reflection, that the straightest road to a man's heart is through his palate.
I am getting sick of people. I am falling in love with things. They hold their tongues.
Everything in the country, animate and inanimate, seems to whisper, be serene, be kind, be happy. We grow tolerant there unconsciously.
Never ask a favor until you are drawing your last breath; and never forget one.
There are so many ready to write (poor fools!) for the honor and glory of the thing, and there are so many ready to take advantage of this fact, and withhold from needy talent the moral right to a deserved remuneration.