No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!

Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.

I learned to love despair.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, . . . that I think there should be a law amongst us to set our young men abroad for a term among the few allies our wars have left us.

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.