We can't all be lions in this world. There must be some lambs, harmless, kindly, gregarious creatures for eating and shearing.

There is a skeleton in every house.

Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.

I never was much of an oyster eater, nor can I relish them 'in naturalibus' as some do, but require a quantity of sauces, lemons, cayenne peppers, bread and butter, and so forth, to render them palatable.

If fathers are sometimes sulky at the appearance of the destined son-in-law, is it not a fact that mothers become sentimental and, as it were, love their own loves over again.

An immense percentage of snobs, I believe, is to be found in every rank of this mortal life.

Could the best and kindest of us who depart from the earth have an opportunity of revisiting it, I suppose he or she (assuming that any Vanity Fair feelings subsist in the sphere whither we are bound) would have a pang of mortification at finding how soon our survivors were consoled.