He did not paw you with his hands to show his affection
   Heine
   Heroic lies
   His remembrance absolutely ceased with an event
   His readers trusted and loved him
   His enemies suffered from it almost as much as his friends
   His coming almost killed her, but it was worth it
   His plays were too bad for the stage, or else too good for it
   Hollowness, the hopelessness, the unworthiness of life
   Honest men are few when it comes to themselves
   I find this young man worthy
   I believe neither in heroes nor in saints
   I did not know, and I hated to ask
   If he was half as bad, he would have been too bad to be
   If he was not there to your touch, it was no fault of his
   In the South there was nothing but a mistaken social ideal
   Incredible in their insipidity
   Industrial slavery
   Insatiable English fancy for the wild America no longer there
   Intellectual poseurs
   It is well to hold one’s country to her promises
   It was mighty pretty, as Pepys would say
   Jane Austen
   Julia Ward Howe
   Left him to do what the cat might
   Lie, of course, and did to save others from grief or harm
   Liked being with you, not for what he got, but for what he gave
   Liked to find out good things and great things for himself
   Lincoln
   Literary dislikes or contempts
   Livy Clemens:  nthe loveliest person I have ever seen
   Long breath was not his; he could not write a novel
   Longfellow
   Looked as if Destiny had sat upon it
   Love of freedom and the hope of justice
   Love and gratitude are only semi-articulate at the best
   Lowell
   Made all men trust him when they doubted his opinions
   Man who may any moment be out of work is industrially a slave
   Man who had so much of the boy in him
   Marriages are what the parties to them alone really know
   Mellow cordial of a voice that was like no other
   Memory will not be ruled
   Men who took themselves so seriously as that need
   Men’s lives ended where they began, in the keeping of women
   Met with kindness, if not honor
   Might so far forget myself as to be a novelist
   Mind and soul were with those who do the hard work of the world
   Mock modesty of print forbids my repeating here
   Most desouthernized Southerner I ever knew
   Most serious, the most humane, the most conscientious of men
   Motley
   Napoleonic height which spiritually overtops the Alps
   Nearly nothing as chaos could be
   Never saw a man more regardful of negroes
   Never saw a dead man whom he did not envy
   Never paid in anything but hopes of paying
   No man ever yet told the truth about himself
   No time to make money
   No man more perfectly sensed and more entirely abhorred slavery
   Not quite himself till he had made you aware of his quality
   Not a man who cared to transcend;