Doubt Whom You Will, But Never Yourself.

In Secluding Himself Too Much From Society, An Author Is In Danger Of Losing That Intimate Acquaintance With Life Which Is The Only Sure Foundation Of Power In A Writer.

There Is No Tyrant Like Custom, And No Freedom Where Its Edicts Are Not Resisted.

What We Call Conscience In Many Instances, Is Only A Wholesome Fear Of The Law.

Hope Is The Best Part Of Our Riches.

At The Best, Sarcasms, Bitter Irony, Scathing Wit, Are A Sort Of Swordplay Of The Mind. You Pink Your Adversary, And He Is Forthwith Dead; And Then You Deserve To Be Hung For It.