A Mind Lively And At Ease, Can

For What Do We Live, But To Make Sport For Our Neighbors And Laugh At Them In Our Turn?

No One Who Had Ever Seen Catherine Morland In Her Infancy, Would Have Supposed Her Born To Be A Heroine... But From Fifteen To Seventeen She Was In Training For A Heroine.

The Stream Is As Good As At First; The Little Rubbish It Collects In The Turnings Is Easily Moved Away.

She Went, However, And They Sauntered About Together Many A Half Hour In Mr. Grant's Shrubbery, The Weather Being Unusually Mild For The Time Of Year, And Venturing Sometimes Even To Sit Down On One Of The Benches Now Comparatively Unsheltered, Remaining There Perhaps Till, In The Midst Of Some Tender Ejaculation Of Fanny's On The Sweets Of So Protracted An Autumn, They Were Forced By The Sudden Swell Of A Cold Gust Shaking Down The Last Few Yellow Leaves About Them, To Jump Up And Walk For Warmth.

Her Pleasure In The Walk Must Arise From The Exercise And The Day, From The View Of The Last Smiles Of The Year Upon The Tawny Leaves And Withered Hedges, And From Repeating To Herself Some Few Of The Thousand Poetical Descriptions Extant Of Autumn-that Season Of Peculiar And Inexhaustible Influence On The Mind Of Taste And Tenderness-that Season Which Has Drawn From Every Poet Worthy Of Being Read Some Attempt At Description, Or Some Lines Of Feeling.