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

Love has its own instinct, finding the way to the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its flower, with a will which nothing can dismay nor turn aside.

Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve. It is a perfect maze of intrigue.

A grocer is attracted to his business by a magnetic force as great as the repulsion which renders it odious to artists.

Wisdom is that apprehension of heavenly things to which the spirit rises through love.

Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught.