Hatred is a tonic, it makes one live, it inspires vengeance; but pity kills, it makes our weakness weaker.

The human heart may find here and there a resting-place short of the highest height of affection, but we seldom stop in the steep, downward slope of hatred.

To Foreswear vengeance is to chain oneself to forgiveness, to flounder in pardon, to be tainted by the hatred smothered within.

Though the human heart may have to pause for rest when climbing the heights of affection it rarely stops on the slippery slope of hatred.

Wit needs leisure, and certain inequalities of position

The art of motherhood involves much silent, unobtrusive self-denial, an hourly devotion which finds no detail too minute.