An elderly coxcomb may be compared to a butterfly deprived of wings—he becomes a caterpillar once more.
Certain acts may be rendered legal; but can never be made legitimate.
Human life is like a game at chess; each piece holds its place upon the chess-board—king, queen, bishop, and pawn. Death comes, the game is up, and all are thrown, without distinction, pell-mell into the same bag.
The bold defiance of a woman is the certain sign of her shame—when she has once ceased to blush, it is because she has too much to blush for.
Life, to a young man, is like a new acquaintance, of whom he grows disgusted as he advances in years.
When certain absurd opinions become too generally adopted, they must be replaced by less noxious errors—that is the best way of arriving at Truth.
It is an attribute of true philosophy, never to force the progress of Truth and Reason, but to wait till the dawn of Light; meanwhile, the philosopher may wander into hidden paths, but he will never depart far from the main track.
Prudence in a woman should be an instinct, not a virtue.
Churchmen and men of letters have peculiar difficulties in the world,—the first are continually divided between scandal and hypocrisy, the second between pride and baseness.
The thought of death throws upon life a lurid glow, resembling that of a conflagration, lighting up that which it is about to devour.