Charity in various guises is an intruder the poor see often; but courtesy and delicacy are visitors with which they are seldom honoured.
There is no shame more bitter to endure than to despise oneself. It is harder to keep true to high laws and pure instincts in modern society than it was in the days of martyrdom.
One weeps for the death of children, but perhaps the change of them into callous men and women is a sadder change to see after all.
Honour is an old-world thing, but it smells sweet to those in whose hand it is strong.
Young lives are tossed upon the stream of life like rose-leaves on a fast-running river, and the rose-leaves are blamed if the river be too strong and too swift for them and they perish. It is the fault of the rose-leaves.