Or on a Sunday afternoon, if I chanced to be at home, I heard the cronching of the snow made by the step of a long-headed farmer, who from far through the woods sought my house, to have a social “crack;” one of the few of his vocation who are “men on their farms;” who donned a frock instead of a professor’s gown, and is as ready to extract the moral out of church or state as to haul a load of manure from his barn-yard.

I am a legacy-hunter, a parasite, a rich man's minion. I bitterly despise myself already. The very servants will sneer at me; the lowest groom in the stable will point at me.

Little Sea grumbled in her sleep, while Desire, with wide-open, faunlike eyes, stared queerly at me.

[…] a double Mantle cast A’ thwart his Shoulders, his faire goers g[r]ac’st With fitted shooes; and in his hand, a Dart