The busiest of living agents are certain dead men's thoughts.

False friends are like our shadow, keeping close to us while we walk in the sunshine, but leaving us the instant we cross into the shade.

Judicious praise is to children what the sun is to flowers.

Pride is like the beautiful acacia, that lifts its head proudly above its neighbor plants-forgetting that it too, like them, has its roots in the dirt.

Courage enlarges, cowardice diminishes resources. In desperate straits the fears of the timid aggravate the dangers that imperil the brave.

The body of a sensualist is the coffin of a dead soul.

The trouble with men of sense is that they are so dreadfully in earnest all the while.