Beauty hath no true glass, except it be in the sweet privacy of loving eyes.

It seems to me that the bane of our country is a profession of faith either with no basis of real belief, or with no proper examination of the grounds on which the creed is supposed to rest.

There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.

Attention is the stuff that memory is made of, and memory is accumulated genius.

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne.

Most long lives resemble those threads of gossamer, the nearest approach to nothing unmeaningly prolonged, scarce visible pathways of some worm from his cradle to his grave.

The only faith that wears well and holds its color in all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with the sharp mordant of experience.