He is not dead, this friend; not dead, Gone some few, trifling steps ahead, And nearer to the end; So that you, too, once past the bend, Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend You fancy dead.

If it comes to a swinging, swing all, say I.

The full truth of this odd matter is what the world has long been looking for and the public curiosity is sure to welcome.

We live in an ascending scale when we live happily, one thing leading to another in an endless series.

The difficulty is not to write, but to write what you mean.

So soon as prudence has begun to grow up in the brain, like a dismal fungus, it finds its first expression in a paralysis of generous acts.

There is indeed one element in human destiny that not blindness itself can controvert: whatever else we are intended to do, we are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted. It is so in every art and study; it is so above all in the continent art of living well.