Hope Is A Memory That Desires, The

Lofty Souls Are Always Inclined To Make A Virtue Of Misfortune.

No Hawk Swooping Down Upon His Prey, No Stag Improvising New Detours By Which To Trick The Huntsman, No Dog Scenting Game From Afar Is Comparable In Speed To The Celerity Of A Salesman When He Gets Wind A Deal, To His Skill In Tripping Up Or Forestalling A Rival, And To The Art With Which He Sniffs Out And Discovers A Possible Sale.

A Country Is Strong Which Consists Of Wealthy Families, Every Member Of Whom Is Interested In Defending A Common Treasure; It Is Weak When Composed Of Scattered Individuals, To Whom It Matters Little Whether They Obey Seven Or One, A Russian Or A Corsican, So Long As Each Keeps His Own Plot Of Land, Blind In Their Wretched Egotism, To The Fact That The Day Is Coming When This Too Will Be Torn From Them.

A Woman, Even A Prude, Is Not Long At A Loss, However Dire Her Plight. She Would Seen Always To Have In Hand The Fig Leaf Our Mother Eve Bequeathed To Her.

Conscience Is A Cudgel Which All Men Pick Up In Order To Thwack Their Neighbors Instead Of Applying It To Their Own Shoulders.