I have once before in these “Confessions” claimed to myself the privilege, not inconsistent with a full disclosure of the memorabilia of my life, to pass slightly over those passages, the burden of which was unhappy, and whose memory is painful.  I must now, therefore, claim the “benefit of this act,” and beg of the reader to let me pass from this sad portion of my history, and for the full expression of my mingled rage, contempt, disappointment, and sorrow, let me beg of him to receive instead, what a learned pope once gave as his apology for not reading a rather polysyllabic word in a Latin letter—­“As for this,” said he, looking at the phrase in question, “soit qui’l dit,” so say I. And now —­en route.

EBOOK EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: 

A rather unlady-like fondness for snuff
Amount of children which is algebraically expressed by an X
And some did pray—­who never prayed before
Annoyance of her vulgar loquacity
Brought a punishment far exceeding the merits of the case
Chateaux en Espagne
Ending—­I never yet met the man who could tell when it ended
Escaped shot and shell to fall less gloriously beneath champagne
Exclaimed with Othello himself, “Chaos was come again;”
Fearful of a self-deception where so much was at stake
Green silk, “a little off the grass, and on the bottle”
Had a most remarkable talent for selecting a son-in-law
Had to hear the “proud man’s contumely”
Has but one fault, but that fault is a grand one
How ingenious is self-deception
If such be a sin, “then heaven help the wicked”
Indifferent to the many rebuffs she momentarily encountered
Memory of them when hallowed by time or distance
No equanimity like his who acts as your second in a duel
Nothing seemed extravagant to hopes so well founded
Now, young ladies, come along, and learn something, if you can
Oh, the distance is nothing, but it is the pace that kills
Opportunely been so overpowered as to fall senseless
Profuse in his legends of his own doings in love and war
Respectable heir-loom of infirmity
Stoicism which preludes sending your friend out of the world
Suppose I have laughed at better men than ever he was
That land of punch, priests, and potatoes
That vanity which wine inspires
That “to stand was to fall,”
The divil a bit better she was nor a pronoun
There are unhappily impracticable people in the world
Time, that ‘pregnant old gentleman,’ will disclose all
Vagabond if Providence had not made me a justice of the peace
What will not habit accomplish
When you pretended to be pleased, unluckily, I believed you
Whose paraphrase of the book of Job was refused
Wretched, gloomy-looking picture of woe-begone poverty
What we wish we readily believe