Consistency is a human word, but it certainly expresses nothing human.
Conscience, like a child, is soon lulled to sleep.
Perhaps, from an innate desire of justification, sorrow always exaggerates itself. Memory is quite one of Job's friends; and the past is ever ready to throw its added darkness on the present.
A woman's fame is the tomb of her happiness.
Surprises are like misfortunes or herrings - they rarely come single.
A preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author, like a lover, is privileged to be egotistical.