Who, in the midst of just provocation to anger, instantly finds the fit word which settles all around him in silence is more than wise or just; he is, were he a beggar, of more than royal blood, he is of celestial descent.

And still, laughter is akin to weeping.

He, who cannot forgive a trespass of malice to his enemy, has never yet tasted the most sublime enjoyment of love.

Neatness begets order; but from order to taste there is the same difference as from taste to genius, or from love to friendship.

Half talent is no talent.

You may depend upon it that he is a good man whose intimate friends are all good, and whose enemies are decidedly bad.

What knowledge is there of which man is capable that is not founded on the exterior,--the relation that exists between visible and invisible, the perceptible and the imperceptible?