In the multitude of middle-aged men who go about their vocations in a daily course determined for them much in the same way as the tie of their cravats, there is always a good number who once meant to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little.

Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral.

"Abroad," that large home of ruined reputations.

Oh may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence.

The finest language is mostly made up of simple unimposing words.

Half the sorrows of women would be averted if they could repress the speech they know to be useless-nay, the speech they have resolved not to utter.

There's things to put up wi' in ivery place, an' you may change an' change an' not better yourself when all's said an' done.