What a wretched thing is all fame! A renown of the highest sort endures, say, for two thousand years. And then? Why, then, a fathomless eternity swallows it. Work for eternity; not the meagre rhetorical eternity of the periodical critics, but for the real eternity wherein dwelleth the Divine.

Also, what mountains of dead ashes, wreck and burnt bones, does assiduous pedantry dig up from the past time and name it History.

Properly speaking, all true work is religion.

Youth is to all the glad season of life; but often only by what it hopes, not by what it attains, or what it escapes.

Democracy is, by the nature of it, a self-canceling business: and gives in the long run a net result of zero.

Ill-health, of body or of mind, is defeat. Health alone is victory. Let all men, if they can manage it, contrive to be healthy!

History is a mighty dramos, enacted upon the theatre of times, with suns for lamps and eternity for a background.