Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

For character too is a process and an unfoldingamong our valued friends is there not someone or other who is a little too self confident and disdainful; whose distinguished mind is a little spotted with commonness; who is a little pinched here and protruberent there with native prejudices; or whose better energies are liable to lapse down the wrong channel under the influence of transient solicitations?

In the man whose childhood has known caresses and kindness, there is always a fiber of memory that can be touched to gentle issues.

I am not resigned: I am not sure life is long enough to learn that lesson.

Those old stories of visions and dreams guiding men have their truth; we are saved by making the future present to ourselves.

But if Maggie had been that young lady, you would probably have known nothing about her: her life would have had so few vicissitudes that it could hardly have been written; for the happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history.

There are answers which, in turning away wrath, only send it to the other end of the room.