Presents, I often say, endear absents.

We love to chew the cud of a foregone vision; to collect the scattered rays of a brighter phantasm, or act over again, with firmer nerves, the sadder nocturnal tragedies.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted, And looks around in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds.

Is it a stale remark to say that I have constantly found the interest excited at a playhouse to bear an exact inverse proportion to the price paid for admission?

For with G. D., to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak profanely) to be present with the Lord.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.