What sort of faults may we retain, nay, even cherish in ourselves? Those faults which are rather pleasant than offensive to others.

Everyone only hears what he understands.

Whatever Nature undertakes, she can only accomplish it in a sequence. She never makes a leap.

Come my little one, and give me your hand.

Piety, like nobility, has its aristocracy.

Must it ever be thus-that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harrasses me.

Nothing is more fearful than imagination without taste.