I had never had a piece of toastParticularly long and wide,But fell upon the sanded floor,And always on the buttered side.

Simplicity of life, even the barest, is not a misery, but the very foundation of refinement; a sanded floor and whitewashed walls and the green trees, and flowery meads, and living waters outside.

If it continues, he's toast.

This thing went like clockwork. To see that thing in one piece on the floor of the desert is very moving.

One forgives the critic - perhaps - but never the good-natured friend.

Some Critics on the Hearth are not only good-natured, but have rather too high, or, if that is impossible, let us say too pronounced, an opinion of the abilities of their literary friends.