The More One Judges, The Less One

Kindness Is Not Without Its Rocks Ahead. People Are Apt To Put It Down To An Easy Temper And Seldom Recognize It As The Secret Striving Of A Generous Nature; Whilst, On The Other Hand, The Ill-natured Get Credit For All The Evil They Refrain From.

People Exaggerate Both Happiness And Unhappiness; We Are Never So Fortunate Nor So Unfortunate As People Say We Are.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

There Is Nothing Original; All Is Reflected Light.

Kindness Steers No Easy Course. Attributing It To Character, We Seldom Recognize The Secret Efforts Of A Noble Heart, Whereas We Reward Really Wicked People For The Evil They Refrain From Committing.