A contented Irishman scarcely seems my countryman
A country of compromise goes to pieces at the first cannon-shot
A lady’s company-smile
A superior position was offered her by her being silent
And it’s one family where the dog is pulled by the collar
Arch-devourer Time
As if she had never heard him previously enunciate the formula
As secretive as they are sensitive
Be politic and give her elbow-room for her natural angles
Becoming air of appropriation that made it family history
Constitutionally discontented
Decency’s a dirty petticoat in the Garden of Innocence
England’s the foremost country of the globe
Enjoys his luxuries and is ashamed of his laziness
Fires in the grates went through the ceremony of warming nobody
Foist on you their idea of your idea at the moment
Grimaces at a government long-nosed to no purpose
He judged of others by himself
Hear victorious lawlessness appealing solemnly to God the law
Her aspect suggested the repose of a winter landscape
Here, where he both wished and wished not to be
I ’m the warming pan, as legitimately I should be
I detest enthusiasm
I never saw out of a doll-shop, and never saw there
Indirect communication with heaven
Ireland ’s the sore place of England
Irishman there is a barrow trolling a load of grievances
Irony in him is only eulogy standing on its head
Lack of precise words admonished him of the virtue of silence
Married at forty, and I had to take her shaped as she was
Men must fight:  the law is only a quieter field for them
Mika! you did it in cold blood? 
No man can hear the words which prove him a prophet (quietly)
Not so much read a print as read the imprinting on themselves
Not to bother your wits, but leave the puzzle to the priest
Old houses are doomed to burnings
Our lawyers have us inside out, like our physicians
Philip was a Spartan for keeping his feelings under
Taste a wound from the lightest touch, and they nurse the venom
That fiery dragon, a beautiful woman with brains
The race is for domestic peace, my boy
We’re all of us hit at last, and generally by our own weapon
We’re smitten to-day in our hearts and our pockets
Welsh blood is queer blood
Where one won’t and can’t, poor t’ other must
Winds of panic are violently engaged in occupying the vacuum
With a frozen fish of admirable principles for wife
Withdrew into the entrenchments of contempt
You’ll tell her you couldn’t sit down in her presence undressed

[The End]

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**************** The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Celt and Saxon, v1, by George Meredith ***********This file should be named gm95v10.txt or gm95v10.zip**********

Corrected editions of our etexts get a new number, gm95v11.txt versions based on separate sources get new letter, gm95v10a.txt