My Life Is One Demd Horrid Grind.

I Think It Impossible, Utterly Impossible, For Any Englishman To Live Here [in America], And Be Happy.

If Her Eyes Had No Expression, It Was Probably Because They Had Nothing To Express. If She Had Few Wrinkles, It Was Because Her Mind Had Never Traced Its Name Or Any Other Inscription On Her Face.

But Tears Were Not The Things To Find Their Way To Mr. Bumble’s Soul; His Heart Was Waterproof. Like Washable Beaver Hats That Improve With Rain, His Nerves Were Rendered Stouter And More Vigorous, By Showers Of Tears, Which, Being Tokens Of Weakness, And So Far Tacit Admissions Of His Own Power, Pleased And Exalted Him.

I Was So Humiliated, Hurt, Spurned, Offended, Angry, Sorry--i Cannot Hit Upon The Right Name For The Smart--god Knows What Its Name Was--that Tears Started To My Eyes.

In The Destroyer's Steps There Spring Up Bright Creations That Defy His Power, And His Dark Path Becomes A Way Of Light To Heaven.