And the end of the fight is tombstone white with the name of the late deceased, and the epitaph drear, "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East."

The American has no language, he has a dialect, slang, provincialism, accent and so forth

Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent.

Single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.

We have done with Hope and Honour. we are lost to Love and Truth, We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung; And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth. God help us, for we knew the worst too young!

These are the four that are never content: that have never been filled since the dew began- Jacala's mouth, and the glut of the kite, and the hands of the ape, and the eyes of Man.

Brother, thy tail hangs down behind.