I Am Not Yet Worthy; And I

I Never Lose An Opportunity Of Urging A Practical Beginning, However Small, For It Is Wonderful How Often In Such Matters The Mustard-seed Germinates And Roots Itself.

Woman Has Nothing But Her Affections,--and This Makes Her At Once More Loving And Less Loved.

Instead Of Wishing To See More Doctors Made By Women Joining What There Are, I Wish To See As Few Doctors, Either Male Or Female, As Possible. For, Mark You, The Women Have Made No Improvement They Have Only Tried To Be "men" And They Have Only Succeeded In Being Third-rate Men.

Nursing Is An Art: And If It Is To Be Made An Art, It Requires An Exclusive Devotion As Hard A Preparation As Any Painter's Or Sculptor's Work; For What Is The Having To Do With Dead Canvas Or Dead Marble, Compared With Having To Do With The Living Body, The Temple Of God's Spirit? It Is One Of The Fine Arts: I Had Almost Said, The Finest Of Fine Arts.

What The Horrors Of War Are, No One Can Imagine. They Are Not Wounds And Blood And Fever, Spotted And Low, Or Dysentery, Chronic And Acute, Cold And Heat And Famine. They Are Intoxication, Drunken Brutality, Demoralization And Disorder On The Part Of The Inferior... Jealousies, Meanness, Indifference, Selfish Brutality On The Part Of The Superior.