“it Is Not Everyone,” Said Elinor, “who

Pity Is For This Life, Pity Is The Worm Inside The Meat, Pity Is The Meat, Pity Is The Shaking Pencil, Pity Is The Shaking Voice-- Not Enough Money, Not Enough Love--pity For All Of Us--it Is Our Grace, Walking Down The Ramp Or On The Moving Sidewalk, Sitting In A Chair, Reading The Paper, Pity, Turning A Leaf To The Light, Arranging A Thorn.

It Would Be Difficult To Say Which Had Seen Highest Perfection In The Other, Or Which Had Been The Happiest: She, In Receiving His Declarations And Proposals, Or He In Having Them Accepted.

Grant Us Peace, Almighty Father, So To Pray As To Deserve To Be Heard.

We Are Each Of An Unsocial, Taciturn Disposition, Unwilling To Speak, Unless We Expect To Say Something That Will Amaze The Whole Room, And Be Handed Down To Posterity With All The Eclat Of A Proverb.

A Man . . . Must Have A Very Good Opinion Of Himself When He Asks People To Leave Their Own Fireside, And Encounter Such A Day As This, For The Sake Of Coming To See Him. He Must Think Himself A Most Agreeable Fellow.