The Indian who was laid under a curse, that the wind should not blow on him, nor water flow to him, nor fire burn him, is a type of us all. The dearest events are summer-rain, and we the Para coats that shed every drop. Nothing is left us now but death. We look to that with a grim satisfaction, saying, there at least is reality that will not dodge us.

If we meet no gods, it is because we harbor none.

The aid we can give each other is only incidental, lateral, and sympathetic.

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.

What forests of laurel we bring, and the tears of mankind, to those who stood firm against the opinion of their contemporaries!

Some men love only to talk where they are masters. They like to go to school-girls, or to boys, or into the shops where the sauntering people gladly lend an ear.

You cannot institute, without peril of charlatanism.