The cure for tender sensibilities is to make more of our objects and less of our selves.

Discretion is the salt, and fancy the sugar of life; the one preserves, the other sweetens it.

Many an honest man practices upon himself an amount of deceit sufficient, if practised upon another, and in a little different way, to send him to the state prison.

The body of a sensualist is the coffin of a dead soul.

The lively and mercurial are as open books, with the leaves turned down at the notable passages. Their souls sit at the windows of their eyes, seeing and to be seen.

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.

The heart contracts as the pocket expands.