Love in modern times has been the tailor's best friend. Every suitor of the nineteenth century spends more than his spare cash on personal adornment. A faultless fit, a glistening hat, tight gloves, and tighter boots proclaim the imminent peril of his position.

It is an error to suppose that a man belongs to himself. No man does. He belongs to his wife, or his children, or his relations, or to his creditors, or to society in some form or other.

Millions of people are provided with their thoughts as with their clothes authors, printers, booksellers, and newsmen stand, in relation to their minds, simply as shoemakers and tailors stand to their bodies.

England is surrounded by enemies - by real enemies who hate her. Why? Because she tries to be honest and she tries to be free.

There is great truth in Alphonse Karr's remark that modern men are ugly because they do not wear their beards.

The foaminess of the Falls, together with the tinge of tawny yellow in the troubled waters, only reminded me of so much unattainable soda and sherry, and made me feel thirstier than ever.

Make Hamilton Bamilton, make Douglas Puglas, make Percy Bercy, and Stanley Tanley and where would be the long-resounding march and energy divine of the roll-call of the peerage?

Life is a system of relations rather than a positive and independent existence and he who would be happy himself and make others happy must carefully preserve these relations. He cannot stand apart in surly and haughty egoism let him learn that he is as much dependent on others as others are on him.

Thought engenders thought. Place one idea on paper, another will follow it, and still another, until you have written a page you cannot fathom your mind. There is a well of thought which has no bottom the more you draw from it, the more clear and fruitful it will be.

Beauty is a fairy sometimes she hides herself in a flower-cup, or under a leaf, or creeps into the old ivy, and plays hide-and-seek with the sunbeams, or haunts some ruined spot, or laughs out of a bright young face.

I will not go so far as to say, with a living poet, that the world knows nothing of its greatest men but there are forms of greatness, or at least of excellence, which die and make no sign there are martyrs that miss the palm, but not the stake heroes without the laurel, and conquerors without the triumph.