The last, best fruit which comes to late perfection, even in the kindliest soul, is tenderness toward the hard, forbearance toward the unforbearing, warmth of heart toward the cold, philanthropy toward the misanthropic.

Sorrows gather around great souls as storms do around mountains; but, like them, they break the storm and purify the air of the plain beneath them.

It is not great, but little good-haps that make up happiness.

What a father says to his children is not heard by the world, but it will be heard by posterity.

What Cicero said of men-that they are like wines, age souring the bad, and bettering the good-we can say of misfortune, that it has the same effect upon them.

For the Infinite has sowed his name in the heavens in burning stars, but on the earth He has sowed his name in tender flowers.

Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.