The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother,

To Have To Die Is A Distinction Of Which No Man Is Proud.

There Is No Ghost So Difficult To Lay As The Ghost Of An Injury.

My Garden, With Its Silence And Pulses Of Fragrance That Come And Go On The Airy Undulations, Affects Me Like Sweet Music. Care Stops At The Gates, And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

To Bring The Best Human Qualities To Anything Like Perfection, To Fill Them With The Sweet Juices Of Courtesy And Charity, Prosperity, Or, At All Events, A Moderate Amount Of It, Is Required,--just As Sunshine Is Needed For The Ripening Of Peaches And Apricots.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.