My hands were weak, but I reached them out To feebler ones than mine, and over the shadow of my life Stole the light of a peace divine.

I belong to this race, and when it is down I belong to a down race; when it is up I belong to a risen race.

There is material among us for the broadest comedies and the deepest tragedies, but, besides money and leisure, it needs patience, perseverance, courage, and the hand of an artist to weave it into the literature of the country.

Oh, could slavery exist long if it did not sit on a commercial throne?

The respect that is only bought by gold is not worth much.

Slavery is dead, but the spirit which animated it still lives.

Every mother should endeavor to be a true artist.