You were only truly patriotic if you had a laborer for a grandfather and were glad of it.

War may be an armed angel with a mission, but she has the personal habits of the slums.

The sun, the earth, love, friends, our very breath are parts of the banquet.

Crime, to the man of the forties, was an alien monstrous terror.

North and South were equally confident that God was on their side, and appealed incessantly to Him.

But remember, I am no politician, and no seer into souls.

Every child was taught from his cradle that money was Mammon, the chief agent of the flesh and the devil.

America may have great poets and novelists, but she never will have more than one necromancer.

No man surely has so short a memory as the American.

It is a good rule never to see or talk to the man whose words have wrung your heart, or helped it, just as it is wise not to look down too closely at the luminous glow which sometimes shines on your path on a summer night, if you would not see the ugly worm below.

Our young people have come to look upon war as a kind of beneficent deity, which not only adds to the national honor but uplifts a nation and develops patriotism and courage. That is all true. But it is only fair, too, to let them know that the garments of the deity are filthy and that some of her influences debase and befoul a people.

It was part of your religion to hate the British.

Men and women thought and did noble and mean things that would have been impossible to them before or after. A man cannot drink old Bourbon long and remain in his normal condition. We did not drink Bourbon, but blood.

The only hero known to my childhood was Henry Clay.

Every child was taught from his cradle that money was Mammon, the chief agent of the flesh and the devil. As he grew up it was his duty as a Christian and a gentleman to appear to despise filthy lucre, whatever his secret opinion of it might be.

For, after all, put it as we may to ourselves, we are all of us from birth to death guests at a table which we did not spread. The sun, the earth, love, friends, our very breath are parts of the banquet.... Shall we think of the day as a chance to come nearer to our Host, and to find out something of Him who has fed us so long?

it is a mistake to talk of the twilight of age, or the blurred sight of old people. The long day grows clearer at its close, and the petty fogs of prejudice which rose between us and our fellows in youth melt away as the sun goes down. At last we see God's creatures as they are.