Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination--_her_ soft, bright foe, _our_ sweet Help, our divine Hope.
We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return.

Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother.

If I have obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love.

Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage her stint, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance.

Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing more for me--harshly denied my right to ask better things....