There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. I know. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. “Great!” Cathy squealed. Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight; Such dullards know nothing about it.
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