Of Wordsworth's demeanour and physical presence, De Quincey's account, silly, coxcombical, and vulgar, is the worst; Carlyle's, as might be expected from his magical gift of portraiture, is the best.

We are far more apt to yawn than to weep as we make our way through this series of loosely connected incidents, of unmotivated actions, of contrived metings-out of justice.

Dwight Eisenhower, a president not particularly remembered for his wit, once remarked that all isms are wasms. He was presumably referring, rather presciently, to the largely forgotten isms that were once perceived as a threat to truth, justice, and the American way: Marxism, socialism, communism.

The possession of the mortgagee is of the very essence of the Welsh mortgage, and every receipt of rent is a receipt, by virtue of the contract[…]