What a fool is he who locks his door to keep out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone; whose voice, smothered far down, and piled over with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet of doom!
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
The literature of a people must so ring from the sense of its nationality; and nationality is impossible without self-respect, and self-respect is impossible without liberty.
Cause I’s wicked, – I is. I’s mighty wicked, anyhow, I can’t help it.
If we let our friend become cold and selfish and exacting without a remonstrance, we are no true lover, no true friend.
I no more thought of style or literary excellence than the mother who rushes into the street and cries for help to save her children from a burning house, thinks of the teachings of the rhetorician or the elocutionist.
It lies around us like a cloud- A world we do not see; Yet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be.
A little reflection will enable any person to detect in himself that setness in trifles which is the result of the unwatched instinct of self-will and to establish over himself a jealous guardianship.
Self respect is impossible without liberty...
God washes the eyes by tears unil they can behold the invisible land where tears shall come no more.
I wrote what I did because as a woman, as a mother, I was oppressed and broken-hearted with the sorrows and injustice I saw, because as a Christian I felt the dishonor to Christianity – because as a lover of my county, I trembled at the coming day of wrath.
Perhaps it is impossible for a person who does no good to do no harm.
Fanaticism is governed by imagination rather than judgment.
There are griefs which grow with years.
At last I have come into a dreamland...
The power of fictitious writing, for good as well as evil is a thing which ought most seriously to be reflected on. No one can fail to see that in our day it is becoming a very great agency.
Whipping and abuse are like laudanum: you have to double the dose as the sensibilities decline.
Women’s Day Women are the real architects of society.
A man builds a house in England with the expectation of living in it and leaving it to his children; we shed our houses in America as easily as a snail does his shell.
No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man.
Women are the true modelers of social order.