The inventory of my faith for this lower world is soon made out. I believe in Him who made it.

The Christian's God is a God of metamorphoses. You cast grief into his bosom: you draw thence, peace. You cast in despair: 'tis hope that rises to the surface. It is a sinner whose heart he moves. It is a saint who returns him thanks.

Our faults afflict us more than our good deeds console. Pain is ever uppermost in the conscience as in the heart.

There are questions so indiscreet, that they deserve neither truth nor falsehood in reply.

God Himself allows certain faults; and often we say, "I have deserved to err; I have deserved to be ignorant.

Suspicion has its dupes, as well as credulity.

The beings who appear cold, but are only timid, adore where they dare to love.