The happier a man, the more apt he is to tremble. In hearts exclusively tender, anxiety and jealousy are in exact proportion to happiness.

Incurable wounds are those inflicted by tongue and eye, by mockery and disdain.

Thanks to the toleration preached by the encyclopedists of the eighteenth century, the sorcerer is exempt from torture.

We are scarcely apt to berate the source of enjoyment.

The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.

Chance, my dear, is the sovereign deity in child-bearing.

Power is not revealed by striking hard or often, but by striking true.