A Painter Can Hang His Pictures, But

I Know Sage, Wormwood, And Hyssop, But I Can't Smell Character Unless It Stinks.

A Man Who Can Be Entertaining For A Full Day Will Be In His Grave By Night-fall.

We Cannot Live, Suffer Or Die For Somebody Else, For Suffering Is Too Precious To Be Shared.

Though Man Is The Only Beast That Can Write, He Has Small Reason To Be Proud Of It. When He Utters Something That Is Wise It Is Nothing That The River Horse Does Not Know, And Most Of His Creations Are The Result Of Accident.

Hardly A Book Of Human Worth, Be It Heaven's Own Secret, Is Honestly Placed Before The Reader; It Is Either Shunned, Given A Periclean Funeral Oration In A Hundred And Fifty Words, Or Interred In The Potter's Field Of The Newspapers Back Pages.