We Are Tethered To Our Kind, And

It Is The Steady And Merciless Increase Of Occupations, The Augmented Speed At Which We Are Always Trying To Live, The Crowding Of Each Day With More Work Than It Can Profitably Hold, Which Has Cost Us, Among Other Things, The Undisturbed Enjoyment Of Friends. Friendship Takes Time, And We Have No Time To Give It.

When The Contemplative Mind Is A French Mind, It Is Content, For The Most Part, To Contemplate France. When The Contemplative Mind Is An English Mind, It Is Liable To Be Seized At Any Moment By An Importunate Desire To Contemplate Morocco Or Labrador.

The Perfectly Natural Thing To Do With An Unreadable Book Is To Give It Away; And The Publication, For More Than A Quarter Of A Century, Of Volumes Which Fulfilled This One Purpose And No Other Is A Pleasant Proof, If Proof Were Needed, Of The Business Principles Which Underlay The Enlightened Activity Of Publishers.

We Know When We Have Had Enough Of A Friend, And We Know When A Friend Has Had Enough Of Us. The First Truth Is No More Palatable Than The Second.

There Are Few Things More Wearisome In A Fairly Fatiguing Life Than The Monotonous Repetition Of A Phrase Which Catches And Holds The Public Fancy By Virtue Of Its Total Lack Of Significance.