Tact, If It Be Genuine, Never Sleeps.

If There Is One Notion I Hate More Than Another, It Is That Of Marriage - I Mean Marriage In The Vulgar, Weak Sense, As A Mere Matter Of Sentiment.

I Shall Be Thirty-one Next Birthday. My Youth Is Gone Like A Dream; And Very Little Use Have I Ever Made Of It. What Have I Done These Last Thirty Years? Precious Little.

Writers Cannot Choose Their Own Mood: With Them It Is Not Always Hide-tide, Nor --thank Heaven!--always Storm.

As Much Good-will May Be Conveyed In One Hearty Word As In Many.

What Delusion Has Come Over Me? What Sweet Madness Has Seized Me?