Custom is a prison, locked and barred by those who long ago were dust, the keys of which are in the keeping of the dead.

Custom meets us at the cradle and leaves us only at the tomb.

Kindness is the sunshine in which virtue grows.

There are times when a falsehood well told bridges over quite a difficulty, but in the long run, you had better tell the truth, even if you swim the creek.

How poor this world would be without its graves, without the memories of its mighty dead. Only the voiceless speak forever.

Anger is a wind which blows out the lamp of the mind.