'T is sweet to think that where'er we rove We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that when we 're far from the lips we love, We 've but to make love to the lips we are near.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.

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

She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.

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?

Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Faerie Queen for a stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews's Sermons?