Love Is In All Things A Most

But I Am Sure That I Have Always Thought Of Christmas Time, When It Has Come Round...as A Good Time; A Kind, Forgiving, Charitable, Pleasant Time; The Only Time I Know Of, In The Long Calendar Of The Year, When Men And Women Seem By One Consent To Open Their Shut-up Hearts Freely.

Day Was Breaking At Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. Stars Were Yet Visible, But There Was Dull Light In The East That Was Not The Light Of Night. The Moon Had Gone Down, And A Mist Crept Along The Banks Of The River, Seen Through Which The Trees Were The Ghosts Of Trees, And The Water Was The Ghost Of Water. This Earth Looked Spectral, And So Did The Pale Stars: While The Cold Eastern Glare, Expressionless As To Heat Or Colour, With The Eye Of The Firmament Quenched, Might Have Been Likened To The Stare Of The Dead.

By The By, Who Ever Knew A Man Who Never Read Or Wrote Neither Who Hadn't Got Some Small Back Parlour Which He Would Call A Study!

The Expression Of A Man's Face Is Commonly A Help To His Thoughts, Or Glossary On His Speech; But The Countenance Of Newman Noggs, In His Ordinary Moods, Was A Problem Which No Stretch Of Ingenuity Could Solve.

If You Could Say, With Truth, To Your Own Solitary Heart, To-night, 'i Have Secured To Myself The Love And Attachment, The Gratitude Or Respect, Of No Human Creature; I Have Won Myself A Tender Place In No Regard; I Have Done Nothing Good Or Serviceable To Be Remembered By!' Your Seventy-eight Years Would Be Seventy-eight Heavy Curses; Would They Not?