A woman's chastity consists, like an onion, of a series of coats.

If truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom.

A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.

If we take the freedom to put a friend under our microscope, we thereby insulate him from many of his true relations, magnify his peculiarities, inevitably tear him into parts, and, of course, patch him very clumsily together again. What wonder, then, should we be frightened by the aspect of a monster.

I do detest all offices - all, at least, that are held on a political tenure.

A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.

It was one of those moments—which sometimes occur only at the interval of years—when a man's moral aspect is faithfully revealed to his mind's eye. Not improbably, he had never before viewed himself as he did now.