How hard it is, sometimes, to trust the evidence of one's senses! How reluctantly the mind consents to reality.

How hard it is, sometimes, to trust the evidence of one's senses! How reluctantly the mind consents to reality.

I wish the English still possessed a shred of the old sense of humour which Puritanism, and dyspepsia, and newspaper reading, and tea-drinking have nearly extinguished.

Many a man who thinks to found a home discovers that he has merely opened a tavern for his friends.

Wine is a precarious aphrodisiac, and its fumes have blighted many a mating.

What is all wisdom save a collection of platitudes? But the man who orders his life according to their teachings cannot go far wrong.

How often could things be remedied by a word. How often is it left unspoken.