There Is A Sunday Conscience As Well

It Was A Murky Confusion — Here And There Blotted With A Color Like The Color Of The Smoke From Damp Fuel — Of Flying Clouds Tossed Up Into Most Remarkable Heaps, Suggesting Greater Heights In The Clouds Than There Were Depths Below Them To The Bottom Of The Deepest Hollows In The Earth, Through Which The Wild Moon Seemed To Plunge Headlong, As If, In A Dread Disturbance Of The Laws Of Nature, She Had Lost Her Way And Were Frightened.

There Was A Frosty Rime Upon The Trees, Which, In The Faint Light Of The Clouded Moon, Hung Upon The Smaller Branches Like Dead Garlands.

By The By, Who Ever Knew A Man Who Never Read Or Wrote Neither Who Hadn't Got Some Small Back Parlour Which He Would Call A Study!

He Was Wise Enough To Know That Nothing Ever Happened On This Globe, For Good, At Which Some People Did Not Have Their Fill Of Laughter In The Outset

I Had Seen The Damp Lying On The Outside Of My Little Window, As If Some Goblin Had Been Crying There All Night, And Using The Window For A Pocket-handkerchief.