The love of a mother is never exhausted. It never changes – it never tires – it endures through all; in good repute, in bad repute. In the face of the world’s condemnation, a mother’s love still lives on.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
A father may turn his back on his child, brothers and sisters may become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, wives their husbands. But a mother’s love endures through all.
Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above them.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Enthusiasts soon understand each other.
I sometimes think one of the great blessings we shall enjoy in heaven, will be to receive letters by every post and never be obliged to reply to them.
The Englishman is too apt to neglect the present good in preparing against the possible evil.
Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven.
There is in every true woman’s heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.
Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a ray of brightness over everything; it is the sweetener of toil and the soother of disquietude!
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.
I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow.
Honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small and laughter abundant.
There is certainly something in angling that tends to produce a serenity of the mind.
A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles.
The only happy author in this world is he who is below the care of reputation.
I am always at a loss at how much to believe of my own stories.
There is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that trancends all other affections of the heart.
He is the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart.