Bring In The Bottled Lightning, A Clean

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.

He Wore A Sprinkling Of Powder Upon His Head, As If To Make Himself Look Benevolent; But If That Were His Purpose, He Would Perhaps Have Done Better To Powder His Countenance Also, For There Was Something In Its Very Wrinkles, And In His Cold Restless Eye, Which Seemed To Tell Of Cunning That Would Announce Itself In Spite Of Him.

Sudden Shifts And Changes Are No Bad Preparation For Political Life.

If They Would Rather Die, . . . They Had Better Do It, And Decrease The Surplus Population.

A Tranquil Summer Sunset Shone Upon Him As He Approached The End Of His Walk, And Passed Through The Meadows By The River Side. He Had That Sense Of Peace, And Of Being Lightened Of A Weight Of Care, Which Country Quiet Awakens In The Breasts Of Dwellers In Towns.