The Death I Should Prefer Would Be

Christmas Is A Season Of Such Infinite Labour, As Well As Expense In The Shopping And Present-making Line, That Almost Every Woman I Know Is Good For Nothing In Purse And Person For A Month Afterwards, Done Up Physically, And Broken Down Financially.

[when Her Husband Said Her Earnings As A Married Woman Belonged To Him:] I Cannot Persuade Myself That That Which I Invent - Create, In Fact - Can Belong To Anyone But Myself! I Wish That Women Could Be Dealt With, Not Mercifully, Not Compassionately, Nor Affectionately, But Justly; It Would Be So Much Better - For The Men.

My Chief Time For Reading Is At Night While Brushing My Hair Before I Go To Bed, And As You May Suppose, But Little Profit And Pleasure Can Be Derived From Such Mere Sips At The Well Of Knowledge. 'tis A Great Privation To Me, For My Desire For Information Increases Instead Of Diminishing, And I Look Forward With Great Anxiety To The Time When I Can Improve My Poor Neglected Mind And Learn Some Of The Few Exhaustless Store Of Things Which I Wish To Know.

The Most Intense Curiosity And Excitement Prevailed, And Though The Weather Was Uncertain, Enormous Masses Of Densely Packed People Lined The Road, Shouting And Waving Hats And Handkerchiefs As We Flew By Them.

Though The Negroes Are Fed, Clothed, And Housed, And Though The Irish Peasant Is Starved, Naked, And Roofless, The Bare Name Of Freemen-the Lordship Over His Own Person, The Power To Choose And Will-are Blessings Beyond Food, Raiment, Or Shelter; Possessing Which, The Want Of Every Comfort Of Life Is Yet More Tolerable Than Their Fullest Enjoyment Without Them.