You do not play then at whist, sir? Alas, what a sad old age you are preparing for yourself!
I have had playmates, I have had companions; In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!
I love to lose myself in other men's minds.... Books think for me.
I cannot sit and think; books think for me.
I am, in plainer words, a bundle of prejudices - made up of likings and dislikings.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
For with G. D., to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak profanely) to be present with the Lord.
Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.
The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.
Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the souls of all the writers that have bequeathed their labours to these Bodleians were reposing here as in some dormitory, or middle state. I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odor of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of the sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard.
How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the door.
The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.
A man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out in mixed company; everybody is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions.
Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.
Philanthropy, like charity, must begin at home.
How often you are irresistibly drawn to a plain, unassuming woman, whose soft silvery tones render her positively attractive! In the social circle, how pleasant it is to hear a woman talk in that low key which always characterizes the true lady. In the sanctuary of home, how such a voice soothes the fretful child and cheers the weary husband!
A presentation copy, reader,-if haply you are yet innocent of such favours-is a copy of a book which does not sell, sent you by the author.
Judge not man by his outward manifestation of faith; for some there are who tremblingly reach out shaking hands to the guidance of faith; others who stoutly venture in the dark their human confidence, their leader, which they mistake for faith; some whose hope totters upon crutches; others who stalk into futurity upon stilts. The difference is chiefly constitutional with them.
I toiled after it, sir, as some men toil after virtue.
Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
Pain is life - the sharper, the more evidence of life.
Who first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down . . . . To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? . . . . Sabbathless Satan!
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