It is a sad weakness in us, after all, that the thought of a man's death hallows him anew to us; as if life were not sacred too.

The pride of the body is a barrier against the gifts that purify the soul.

A man falling into dark waters seeks a momentary footing even on sliding stones.

A prig is a fellow who is always making you a present of his opinions.

Duty has a trick of behaving unexpectedly -- something like a heavy friend whom we have amiably asked to visit us, and who breaks his leg within our gates.

The impulse to confession almost always requires the presence of a fresh ear and a fresh heart; and in our moments of spiritual need, the man to whom we have no tie but our common nature, seems nearer to us than mother, brother, or friend. Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of ourselves from each other behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, and those who sit with us at the same hearth, are often the farthest off from the deep human soul within us, full of unspoken evil and unacted good.

It is seldom that the miserable can help regarding their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less miserable.