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.
Liberty must be a mighty thing; for by it God punishes and rewards nations.
Loving souls are like paupers. They live on what is given them.
Respect is a serious thing in him who feels it, and the height of honor for him who inspires the feeling.
Death is the justification of all the ways of the Christian, the last end of all his sacrifices, the touch of the Great Master which completes the picture.
The world has no sympathy with any but positive griefs. It will pity you for what you lose; never for what you lack
He who has never denied himself for the sake of giving has but glanced at the joys of charity.
Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.
The heart has always the pardoning power.
Those who make us happy are always thankful to us for being so; their gratitude is the reward of their benefits.
The mind wears the colors of the soul, as a valet those of his master.
Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.
God has prohibited despair.
Consolation heaps without contact; somewhat like the blessed air which we need but to breathe.
Our faults afflict us more than our good deeds console. Pain is ever uppermost in the conscience as in the heart.
To reveal imprudently the spot where we are most sensitive and vulnerable is to invite a blow. The demigod Achilles admitted no one to his confidence.
The best of lessons, for a good many people, would be to listen at a keyhole. It is a pity for such that the practice is dishonorable.
I like people to be saints; but I want them to be first and superlatively honest men.
Antiquity is a species of aristocracy with which it is not easy to be on visiting terms.
Let us not fail to scatter along our pathway the seeds of kindness and sympathy. Some of them will doubtless perish; but if one only lives, it will perfume our steps and rejoice our eyes.
Old age is not one of the beauties of creation, but it is one of its harmonies. The law of contrasts is one of the laws of beauty. Under the conditions of our climate, shadow gives light its worth; sternness enhances mildness; solemnity, splendor. Varying proportions of size support and subserve one another.
Life grows darker as we go on, till only one pure light is left shining on it; and that is faith. Old age, like solitude and sorrow, has its revelations.
A good, finished scandal, fully armed and equipped, such as circulates in the world, is rarely the production of a single individual, or even of a single coterie. It sees the light in one; is rocked and nurtured in another; is petted, developed, and attains its growth in a third; and receives its finishing touches only after passing through a multitude of hands. It is a child that can count a host of fathers--all ready to disown it.
In this world of change naught which comes stays and naught which goes is lost.
Providence has hidden a charm in difficult undertakings, which is appreciated only by those who dare to grapple with them.
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