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The wretch who digs the mine for bread, or ploughs, that others may be fed, feels less fatigued than that decreed to him who cannot think or read.

Hannah More

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Hannah More
Age: 88 †
Born: 1745
Born: February 2
Died: 1833
Died: September 7
Abolitionist
Essayist
Philanthropist
Playwright
Poet
Tragedy Writer
Writer
Will Chip
Feels
Mines
Ploughs
Think
Mine
Fatigued
Thinking
Education
Digs
Less
Decreed
Read
Wretch
Others
Laziness
Cannot
Feds
May
Bread

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the uncandid censurer always picks out the worst man of a class, and then confidently produces him as being a fair specimen of it.
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Long habit so reconciles us to almost any thing, that the grossest improprieties cease to strike us when they once make a part of the common course of action.
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If we commit any crime, or do any good here, it must be in thought for our words are few and our deeds none at all.
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... it is a most severe trial for those women to be called to lay down beauty, who have nothing else to take up. It is for this sober season of life that education should lay up its rich resources.
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If faith produce no works, I see That faith is not a living tree.
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Glory darts her soul-pervading ray on thrones and cottages, regardless still of all the artificial nice distinctions vain human customs make.
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Wisdom views with an indifferent eye all finite joys, all blessings born to die.
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We do not really know how to forgive until we know what it is to be forgiven. Therefore we should be glad that we can be forgiven by others. It is our forgiveness of one another that makes the love of Jesus manifest in our lives, for in forgiving one another we act towards one another as He has acted towards us.
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O jealousy, Thou ugliest fiend of hell! thy deadly venom Preys on my vitals, turns the healthful hue Of my flesh check to haggard sallowness, And drinks my spirit up!
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Forgiveness is the economy of the heart... forgiveness saves the expense of anger, the cost of hatred, the waste of spirits.
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The artful injury, whose venomed dart scarce wounds the hearing, while it stabs the heart.
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The abuse of terms has at all times been an evil.
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That silence is one of the great arts of conversation is allowed by Cicero himself, who says, there is not only an art, but even an eloquence in it
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I am persuaded that there is no affection of the human heart more exquisitely pure, than that which is felt by a grateful son towards a mother.
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My plan of instruction is extremely simple and limited. They learn, on week-days, such coarse works as may fit them for servants. I allow of no writing for the poor. My object is not to make fanatics, but to train up the lower classes in habits of industry and piety.
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The soul on earth is an immortal guest.
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A slowness to applaud betrays a cold temper or an envious spirit.
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Sweet is the breath of praise when given by those whose own high merit claims the praise they give.
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In men this blunder still you find all think their little set mankind.
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Where evil may be done, it is right to ponder where only suffered, know the shortest pause is much too long.
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