The tale of the Divine Pity was never yet believed from lips that were not felt to be moved by human pity.

Blessed is the man, who having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact.

For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by this involuntary appeal-this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully-illuminated life.

There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman for ever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer --committed to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear.

We long for an affection altogether ignorant of our faults. Heaven has accorded this to us in the uncritical canine attachment.

God, immortality, duty - how inconceivable the first, how unbelievable the second, how peremptory and absolute the third.

The moment of finding a fellow-creature is often as full of mingled doubt and exultation, as the moment of finding an idea.