How the little courtesies of life on the surface of society, deemed so important from man towards woman, fade into utter insignificance in view of the deeper tragedies in which she must play her part alone, where no human aid is possible.

Whatever the theories may be of woman's dependence on man, in the supreme moments of her life he can not bear her burdens. Alone she goes to the gates of death to give life to every man that is born into the world. No one can share her fears, no one can mitigate her pangs; and if her sorrow is greater than she can bear, alone she passes beyond the gates into the vast unknown.

I remembered a definition of chivalry I'd heard once: a man protecting a woman against every man but himself.

Gentlemen, be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that which is the readiest to to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color.

The most part of all princes have more delight in warlike manners and feats of chivalry than in the good feats of peace.

Every man I meet wants to protect me. I can't figure out what from.

To risk life to save a smile on a face of a woman or a child is the secret of chivalry.