Such Is Hope, Heaven's Own

How Could You Give Me Life, And Take From Me All The Inappreciable Things That Raise It From The State Of Conscious Death? Where Are The Graces Of My Soul? Where Are The Sentiments Of My Heart? What Have You Done, Oh, Father, What Have You Done With The Garden That Should Have Bloomed Once, In This Great Wilderness Here? Said Louisa As She Touched Her Heart.

I Only Ask To Be Free. The Butterflies Are Free. Mankind Will Surely Not Deny To Harold Skimpole What It Concedes To The Butterflies.

I Mean A Man Whose Hopes And Aims May Sometimes Lie (as Most Men's Sometimes Do, I Dare Say) Above The Ordinary Level, But To Whom The Ordinary Level Will Be High Enough After All If It Should Prove To Be A Way Of Usefulness And Good Service Leading To No Other. All Generous Spirits Are Ambitious, I Suppose, But The Ambition That Calmly Trusts Itself To Such A Road, Instead Of Spasmodically Trying To Fly Over It, Is Of The Kind I Care For.

What Greater Gift Than The Love Of A Cat.

There Is Something Indefinably Keen And Wan About Her Anatomy, And She Has A Watchful Way Of Looking Out Of The Corners Of Her Eyes Without Turning Her Head Which Could Be Pleasantly Dispensed With, Especially When She Is In An Ill Humour And Near Knives. Through All The Good Taste Of Her Dress And Little Adornments, These Objections So Express Themselves That She Seems To Go About Like A Very Neat She-wolf Imperfectly Tamed.