For What Do We Live, But To

If This Man Had Not Twelve Thousand A Year, He Would Be A Very Stupid Fellow.

If Any One Faculty Of Our Nature May Be Called More Wonderful Than The Rest, I Do Think It Is Memory. There Seems Something More Speakingly Incomprehensible In The Powers, The Failures, The Inequalities Of Memory, Than In Any Other Of Our Intelligences. The Memory Is Sometimes So Retentive, So Serviceable, So Obedient; At Others, So Bewildered And So Weak; And At Others Again, So Tyrannic, So Beyond Control! We Are, To Be Sure, A Miracle Every Way; But Our Powers Of Recollecting And Of Forgetting Do Seem Peculiarly Past Finding Out.

What A Shame, For I Dearly Love To Laugh.

She Was Stronger Alone; And Her Own Good Sense So Well Supported Her, That Her Firmness Was As Unshaken, Her Appearance Of Cheerfulness As Invariable, As, With Regrets So Poignant And So Fresh, It Was Possible For Them To Be.

Life Could Do Nothing For Her, Beyond Giving Time For A Better Preparation For Death.