Sensuality Is The Death Of The Soul.

Nature Makes Only Dumb Animals. We Owe The Fools To Society.

The Human Heart May Find Here And There A Resting-place Short Of The Highest Height Of Affection, But We Seldom Stop In The Steep, Downward Slope Of Hatred.

The Press Is Like A Woman: Sublime When It Lies, It Will Not Let Go Until It Has Forced You To Believe It. The Public, Like A Foolish Husband, Always Succumbs.

Bankers Are Lynxes. To Expect Any Gratitude From Them Is Equivalent To Attempting To Move The Wolves Of The Ukraine To Pity In The Middle Of Winter.

Generally Our Confidences Move Downward Rather Than Upward; In Our Secret Affairs, We Employ Our Inferiors Much More Than Our Bettors.