Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.

Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

Love gives itself; it is not bought.

But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, And by going wrong all things come right. Things have been mended that were worse, and the the worse, the nearer they are to mend.

Three silences there are: the first of speech, the second of desire, the third of thought.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.