A Garden, Sir, Wherein All

After All, There Is Such A Thing As Looking Like A Gentleman. There Are Men Whose Class No Dirt Or Rags Can Hide, Any More Than They Could Ulysses. I Have Seen Such Men In Plenty Among Workmen, Too; But, On The Whole, The Gentleman--by Whom I Do Not Mean Just Now The Rich--have The Superiority In That Point. But Not, Please God, Forever. Give Us The Same Air, Water, Exercise, Education, Good Society, And You Will See Whether This "haggardness," This "coarseness" (etc., For The List Is Too Long To Specify), Be An Accident, Or A Property, Of The Man Of The People.

Those Clouds Are Angels' Robes.

Now, To Tell My Story--if Not As It Ought To Be Told, At Least As I Can Tell It,--i Must Go Back Sixteen Years, To The Days When Whitbury Boasted Of Forty Coaches Per Diem, Instead Of One Railway, And Set Forth How In Its Southern Suburb, There Stood Two Pleasant House Side By Side, With Their Gardens Sloping Down To The Whit, And Parted From Each Other Only By The High Brick Fruit-wall, Through Which There Used To Be A Door Of Communication; For The Two Occupiers Were Fast Friends.

Did It Ever Strike You That Goodness Is Not Merely A Beautiful Thing, But By Far The Most Beautiful Thing In The Whole World? So That Nothing Is To Be Compared For Value With Goodness; That Riches, Honor, Power, Pleasure, Learning, The Whole World And All In It, Are Not Worth Having In Comparison With Being Good; And The Utterly Best Thing For A Person Is To Be Good, Even Though They Were Never To Be Rewarded For It.

All Who Have Travelled Through The Delicious Scenery Of North Devon Must Needs Know The Little White Town Of Bideford, Which Slopes Upwards From Its Broad Tide-river Paved With Yellow Sands, And Many-arched Old Bridge, Where Salmon Wait For Autumn Floods, Toward The Pleasant Upland On The West.