Book 1 — ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

A contented Irishman scarcely seems my countryman A country of compromise goes to pieces at the first cannon-shot A lady's company-smile A superior position was offered her by her being silent And it's one family where the dog is pulled by the collar Arch-devourer Time As if she had never heard him previously enunciate the formula As secretive as they are sensitive Be politic and give her elbow-room for her natural angles Becoming air of appropriation that made it family history Constitutionally discontented Decency's a dirty petticoat in the Garden of Innocence England's the foremost country of the globe Enjoys his luxuries and is ashamed of his laziness Fires in the grates went through the ceremony of warming nobody Foist on you their idea of your idea at the moment Grimaces at a government long-nosed to no purpose He judged of others by himself Hear victorious lawlessness appealing solemnly to God the law Her aspect suggested the repose of a winter landscape Here, where he both wished and wished not to be I 'm the warming pan, as legitimately I should be I detest enthusiasm I never saw out of a doll-shop, and never saw there Indirect communication with heaven Ireland 's the sore place of England Irishman there is a barrow trolling a load of grievances Irony in him is only eulogy standing on its head Lack of precise words admonished him of the virtue of silence Married at forty, and I had to take her shaped as she was Men must fight: the law is only a quieter field for them Mika! you did it in cold blood? No man can hear the words which prove him a prophet (quietly) Not so much read a print as read the imprinting on themselves Not to bother your wits, but leave the puzzle to the priest Old houses are doomed to burnings Our lawyers have us inside out, like our physicians Philip was a Spartan for keeping his feelings under Taste a wound from the lightest touch, and they nurse the venom That fiery dragon, a beautiful woman with brains The race is for domestic peace, my boy We're all of us hit at last, and generally by our own weapon We're smitten to-day in our hearts and our pockets Welsh blood is queer blood Where one won't and can't, poor t' other must Winds of panic are violently engaged in occupying the vacuum With a frozen fish of admirable principles for wife Withdrew into the entrenchments of contempt You'll tell her you couldn't sit down in her presence undressed

[The End]