There Are Books Of Which The Backs

The Heavy Rain Beat Down The Tender Branches Of Vine And Jessamine, And Trampled On Them In Its Fury; And When The Lightning Gleamed, It Showed The Tearful Leaves Shivering And Cowering Together At The Window, And Tapping At It Urgently, As If Beseeching To Be Sheltered From The Dismal Night.

The White Face Of The Winter Day Came Sluggishly On, Veiled In A Frosty Mist; And The Shadowy Ships In The River Slowly Changed To Black Substances; And The Sun, Blood-red On The Eastern Marshes Behind Dark Masts And Yards, Seemed Filled With The Ruins Of A Forest It Had Set On Fire.

Although A Skillful Flatterer Is A Most Delightful Companion If You Have Him All To Yourself, His Taste Becomes Very Doubtful When He Takes To Complimenting Other People.

This Fine Young Man Had All The Inclination To Be A Profligate Of The First Water, And Only Lacked The One Good Trait In The Common Catalogue Of Debauched Vices - Open-handedness - To Be A Notable Vagabond. But There His Griping And Penurious Habits Stepped In; And As One Poison Will Sometimes Neutralise Another, When Wholesome Remedies Would Not Avail, So He Was Restrained By A Bad Passion From Quaffing His Full Measure Of Evil, When Virtue Might Have Sought To Hold Him Back In Vain.

There Was A Little Plate Of Hothouse Nectarines On The Table, And There Was Another Of Grapes, And Another Of Sponge-cakes, And There Was A Bottle Of Light Wine ... 'this Is My Frugal Breakfast ... Give Me My Peach, My Cup Of Coffee, And My Claret.'