So vanished secretly from life that strange, troubled little soul of a cat—a troubled soul, for it was not the animal loves and hates which were too much for her—these she had ample spirit and courage to endure, but she knew a jealous love for beings beyond her dim power of comprehension, a passionate desire for praise and admiration from creatures whom she did not understand, and these waked a strange conflict and turmoil in the vivid and limited nature, troubling her relations with her kind, filling her now with black despairs, and painful passions, and now with serene, half understood content.
Who shall say whether a creature like this can ever utterly perish? How shall we who know so little of their nature profess to know so much of their future?
JOEY AND MATILDA; OR, INTELLECT AND EMOTION
“A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shivered in my narrow frame.”
“But what a tongue, and O what brains