In our man-of-war world, Life comes in at one gangway and Death goes overboard at the other. Under the man-of-war scourge, cursesmix with tears; and the sigh and the sob furnish the bass to the shrill octave of those who laugh to drown buried griefs of their own.

In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary?

Let us only hate hatred; and once give love a play, we will fall in love with a unicorn.

But the might-have-been is but boggy ground to build upon.

He who goes oftenest round Cape Horn goes the most circumspectly.

In metropolitan cases, the love of the most single-eyed lover, almost invariably, is nothing more than the ultimate settling of innumerable wandering glances upon some one specific object.

Poor people make a very poor business of it when they try to seem rich.