A presentation copy, reader,-if haply you are yet innocent of such favours-is a copy of a book which does not sell, sent you by the author.

What a dead thing is a clock, with its ponderous embowelments of lead and brass, its pert or solemn dullness of communication, compared with the simple altar-like structure and silent heart-language of the old sundials! It stood as the garden god of Christian gardens. Why is it almost everywhere vanished? If its business-use be superseded by more elaborate inventions, its moral uses, its beauty, might have pleaded for its continuance.

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.

A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.

Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.

I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.

I allow no hot-beds in the gardens of Parnassus.