The Impulse To Travel Is

Wit Is A Pleasure-giving Thing, Largely Because It Eludes Reason; But In The Apprehension Of An Absurdity Through The Working Of The Comic Spirit There Is A Foundation Of Reason, And An Impetus To Human Companionship.

Woman Is Quick To Revere Genius, But In Her Secret Soul She Seldom Loves It.

When The Milk Of Human Kindness Turns Sour, It Is A Singularly Unpalatable Draught.

Love Is A Malady, The Common Symptoms Of Which Are The Same In All Patients.

A Villain Must Be A Thing Of Power, Handled With Delicacy And Grace. He Must Be Wicked Enough To Excite Our Aversion, Strong Enough To Arouse Our Fear, Human Enough To Awaken Some Transient Gleam Of Sympathy. We Must Triumph In His Downfall, Yet Not Barbarously Nor With Contempt, And The Close Of His Career Must Be In Harmony With All Its Previous Development.