All Romances End At Marriage.

People Go On Marrying Because They Can't Resist Natural Forces, Although Many Of Them May Know Perfectly Well That They Are Possibly Buying A Month's Pleasure With A Life's Discomfort.

George's Son Had Done His Work So Thoroughly That He Was Considered Too Good A Workman To Live, And Was, In Fact, Taken And Tragically Shot At Twelve O'clock That Same Day—another Instance Of The Untoward Fate Which So Often Attends Dogs And Other Philosophers Who Follow Out A Train Of Reasoning To Its Logical Conclusion, And Attempt Perfectly Consistent Conduct In A World Made Up So Largely Of Compromise.

The Beauty Or Ugliness Of A Character Lay Not Only In Its Achievements, But In Its Aims And Impulses; Its True History Lay, Not Among Things Done, But Among Things Willed.

Dialect Words Are Those Terrible Marks Of The Beast To The Truly Genteel.

We Ought To Have Lived In Mental Communion, And No More.