Let The Dean And Canons Lay Their

Find Fault, When You Must Find Fault, In Private, If Possible; And Some Time After The Offense, Rather Than At The Time.

Marriage Resembles A Pair Of Shears, So Joined That They Cannot Be Separated; Often Moving In Opposite Directions, Yet Always Punishing Anyone Who Comes Between Them.

The Main Question To A Novel Is -- Did It Amuse? Were You Surprised At Dinner Coming So Soon? Did You Mistake Eleven For Ten? Were You Too Late To Dress? And Did You Sit Up Beyond The Usual Hour? If A Novel Produces These Effects, It Is Good; If It Does Not -- Story, Language, Love, Scandal Itself Cannot Save It. It Is Only Meant To Please; And It Must Do That Or It Does Nothing.

Some Men Have Only One Book In Them, Others A Library.

Lucy, Dear Child, Mind Your Arithmetic. You Know In The First Sum Of Yours I Ever Saw There Was A Mistake. You Had Carried Two (as A Cab Is Licensed To Do), And You Ought, Dear Lucy, To Have Carried But One. Is This A Trifle? What Would Life Be Without Arithmetic, But A Scene Of Horrors.