Some were almost tolerable, and others lofty rubbish, and the critics (not knowing the author) spoke their bright opinions freely.

The poet, though shy as a mouse in his preface, expected a mountain of inquiry as to the identity of this new bard, and modestly signed himself "Asteroid," which made his own father stare and swear.

Growing sore prematurely from much keelhauling--for the reviewers of the period were patriotic, and the English public anti-Gallic--Frank quitted his chambers at Lincoln's Inn, and came home to be comforted for Christmas.

This was the wisest thing that he could do, though he felt that it was not Harmodian.

In spite of all crotchets, he was not a bad fellow, and not likely to make a good lawyer.
As the fates would have it (being naturally hostile to poets who defy them), by the same coach to Stonnington came Master Johnny, in high feather for his Christmas holidays.