If mankind were only just what they pretend to be, the problem of the millennium would be immediately solved.

As long as we are lucky we attribute it to our smartness; our bad luck we give the gods credit for.

Too many individuals are like Shakespeare's definition of "echo,"--babbling gossips of the air.

Men are seldom underrated; the mercury in a man finds its true level in the eyes of the world just as certainly as it does in the glass of a thermometer.

Sekts and creeds ov religion, are like pocket compesses, good enuff tu pinte out the direction, but the nearer the pole yu git thewuss tha wurk.

Common sense is instinct, and enough of it is genius.

The happiest time in any man's life is when he is in red-hot pursuit of a dollar with a reasonable prospect of overtaking it.