Nothing can compare in beauty, and wonder, and admirableness, and divinity itself, to the silent work in obscure dwellings of faithful women bringing their children to honor and virtue and piety.

A woman's pity often opens the door to love.

There is no slave out of heaven like a loving woman; and of all loving women, there is no such slave as a mother.

The moment an ill can be patiently handled, it is disarmed of its poison, though not of its pain.

There is not a person we employ who does not, like ourselves, desire recognition, praise, gentleness, forbearance, patience.

There is no friendship, no love, like that of the parent for the child.

Nobody ever sees truth except in fragments.