Hunting is a relic of the barbarism that once thirsted for human blood, but is now content with the blood of animals.

A sound discretion is not so much indicated by never making a mistake as by never repeating it.

Constant companionship is not enjoyable, any more than constant eating. We sit too long at the table of friendship, when we outsit our appetites for each other's thoughts.

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

Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.

We give our best affections to the beautiful, only our second best to the useful.

A failure establishes only this, that our determination to succeed was not strong enough.