I attribute the quarrelsome nature of the Middle Ages young men entirely to the want of the soothing weed.

It is well we cannot see into the future. There are few boys of fourteen who would not feel ashamed of themselves at forty.

I saw a great Newfoundland dog the other day sitting in front of a mirror at the entrance to a shop in Regent's Circus, and examining himself with an amount of smug satisfaction that I have never seen equaled elsewhere outside a vestry meeting.

They [dogs] never talk about themselves but listen to you while you talk about yourself, and keep up an appearance of being interested in the conversation.

Conceit is the finest armour a man can wear.

It is very strange, this domination of our intellect by our digestive organs. We cannot work, we cannot think, unless our stomach wills so. It dictates to us our emotions, our passions.

We are so bound together that no man can labor for himself alone. Each blow he strikes in his own behalf helps to mold the universe.