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

Marriage, by making us more contented, causes us often to be less enterprising.

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

Tranquil pleasures last the longest; we are not fitted to bear the burden of great joys.

God, we are told, looked upon the world after he had created it and pronounced it good; but ascetic pietists, in their wisdom, cast their eyes over it, and substantially pronounce it a dead failure, a miserable production, a poor concern.

Truth comes to us from the past, as gold is washed down from the mountains of Sierra Nevada, in minute but precious particles, and intermixed with infinite alloy, the debris of the centuries.

Care, admitted as guest, quickly turns to be master.