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

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.

Poor humanity!--so dependent, so insignificant, and yet so great.

Those who have suffered much are like those who know many languages; they have learned to understand and be understood by all.

We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.

Feeling loves a subdued light.

We are rich only through what we give.