My own experience and development deepen every day my conviction that our moral progress may be measured by the degree in which we sympathize with individual suffering and individual joy.

But most of us are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his personality excites in ourselves.

Falsehood is easy, truth so difficult.

O the anguish of the thought that we can never atone to our dead for the stinted affection we gave them.

Would not love see returning penitence afar off, and fall on its neck and kiss it?

...there's never a garden in all the parish but what there's endless waste in it for want o' somebody as could use everything up. It's what I think to myself sometimes, as there need nobody run short o' victuals if the land was made the most on, and there was never a morsel but what could find it's way to a mouth.

I think I am quite wicked with roses. I like to gather them, and smell them till they have no scent left.