Intimates Are Predestined.

Every Man Should Have A Fair-sized Cemetary In Which To Bury The Faults Of His Friends.

Every Syllable That Can Be Struck Out Is Pure Profit, And Every Page That Can Be Economised Is A Five-per-cent Dividend. Nature Rebels Against This Rule; The Flesh Is Weak, And Shrinks From The Scissors; I Groan In Retrospect Over The Weak.

Of All Studies, The One He Would Rather Have Avoided Was That Of His Own Mind. He Knew No Tragedy So Heartrending As Introspection.

No Historian Can Take Part With--or Against--the Forces He Has To Study. To Him Even The Extinction Of The Human Race Should Merely Be A Fact To Be Grouped With Other Vital Statistics.

History Is Only A Value Of Relation.