Our brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the Angel of the Resurrection.

What a blessed thing it is, that Nature, when she invented, manufactured, and patented her authors, contrived to make critics out of the chips that were left!

Chicago sounds rough to the maker of verse. One comfort we have - Cincinnati sounds worse.

The Indian is but a sketch in red crayon of a rudimental manhood. To the problem of his relation to the white race, there is one solution: extermination.

There is no friend like an old friend who has shared our morning days, no greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise.

For nothing burns with such amazing speed, As the dry sticks of a religious creed.

I firmly believe that if the whole material medica, as now used, could be sunk to the bottom of the sea, it would be better for mankind-and all the worse for the fishes.