Misery Generates Hate.

I Wished Critics Would Judge Me As An Author, Not As A Woman.

Every Atom Of Your Flesh Is As Dear To Me As My Own: In Pain And Sickness It Would Still Be Dear.

I Am Always Easy Of Belief When The Creed Pleases Me.

It Did Not Seem As If A Prop Were Withdrawn, But Rather As If A Motive Were Gone: It Was Not The Power To Be Tranquil Which Had Failed Me, But The Reason For Tranquility Was No More.

In Sunshine, In Prosperity, The Flowers Are Very Well; But How Many Wet Days Are There In Life—november Seasons Of Disaster, When A Man's Hearth And Home Would Be Cold Indeed, Without The Clear, Cheering Gleam Of Intellect.