The true barbarian is he who thinks everything barbarous but his own tastes and prejudices.

By conversing with the mighty dead, we imbibe sentiment with knowledge. We become strongly attached to those who can no longer either hurt or serve us, except through the influence which they exert over the mind. We feel the presence of that power which gives immortality to human thoughts and actions, and catch the flame of enthusiasm from all nations and ages.

The soil of friendship is worn out with constant use. Habit may still attach us to each other, but we feel ourselves fettered by it. Old friends might be compared to old married people without the tie of children.

Conceit is vanity driven from all other shifts, and forced to appeal to itself for admiration.

No one ever approaches perfection except by stealth, and unknown to themselves.

We can scarcely hate anyone that we know.

Prejudice is the child of ignorance.