If grief is to be mitigated, it must either wear itself out or be shared.

Feeling loves a subdued light.

Real sorrow is almost as difficult to discover as real poverty. An instinctive delicacy hides the rays of the one and the wounds of the other.

Virtue is the daughter of Religion; Repentance, her adopted child,--a poor orphan who, without the asylum which she offers, would not know where to hide her sole treasure, her tears!

Love sometimes elevates, creates new qualities, suspends the working of evil inclinations; but only for a day. Love, then, is an Oriental despot, whose glance lifts a slave from the dust, and then consigns him to it again.

Respect is a serious thing in him who feels it, and the height of honor for him who inspires the feeling.

Repentance is accepted remorse.