Confidence is a plant of slow growth in an aged heart.

Don’t talk to me about a man’s being able to talk sense; everyone can talk sense. Can he talk nonsense?

I cannot give them my confidence; pardon me, gentlemen, confidence is a plant of slow growth in an aged bosom: youth is the season of credulity.

If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms — never — never — never!

Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.

Poverty, of course, is no disgrace, but it is damned annoying.

The little I know of it has not served to raise my opinion of what is vulgarly called the “Monied Interest;” I mean, that blood-sucker, that muckworm, that calls itself “the friend of government.”

The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the forces of the Crown. It may be frail — its roof may shake — the wind may blow through it — the storm may enter — the rain may enter — but the King of England cannot enter! — all his forces dare not cross the threshold of the ruined tenement!

The press is like the air, a chartered libertine.

Theoretical principals must sometimes give way for the sake of practical advantages.