A coxcomb is the blockhead's man of merit.

Friendship * * * is a long time in forming, it is of slow growth, through many trials and months of familiarity.

Everything has been said, and we have come too late, now that men have been living and thinking for seven thousand years and more.

The doctors allow one to die, the charlatans kill.

Pure friendship is something which men of an inferior intellect can never taste.

The pleasure of criticizing takes away from us the pleasure of being moved by some very fine things.

Manners carry the world for the moment, character for all time.