It may be made a question whether men grow wiser as they grow older, any more than they grow stronger or healthier or honester.

We do not die wholly at our deaths: we have mouldered away gradually long before. Faculty after faculty, interest after interest, attachment after attachment disappear: we are torn from ourselves while living.

As we grow old, our sense of the value of time becomes vivid. Nothing else, indeed, seems of any consequence.

Of all eloquence a nickname is the most concise; of all arguments the most unanswerable.

The ignorance of the world leaves one at the mercy, of its malice.

The assumption of merit is easier, less embarrassing, and more effectual than the actual attainment of it.

The way to get on in the world is to be neither more nor less wise, neither better nor worse than your neighbours.

Malice often takes the garb of truth.

As hypocrisy is said to be the highest compliment to virtue, the art of lying is the strongest acknowledgment of the force of truth.

The most rational cure after all for the inordinate fear of death is to set a just value on life.