Alas, alas! On this food had Richard Mutimer pastured his soul since he grew to manhood, on this and this only.
English literature was to him a sealed volume; poetry he scarcely knew by name; of history he was worse than ignorant, having looked at this period and that through distorting media, and congratulating himself on his clear vision because he saw men as trees walking; the bent of his mind would have led him to natural science, but opportunities of instruction were lacking, and the chosen directors of his prejudice taught him to regard every fact, every discovery, as _for_ or _against_ something.
A library of pathetic significance, the individual alone considered.
Viewed as representative, not without alarming suggestiveness to those who can any longer trouble themselves about the world's future.

One dreams of the age when free thought--in the popular sense--will have become universal, when art shall have lost its meaning, worship its holiness, when the Bible will only exist in 'comic' editions, and Shakespeare be down-cried by 'most sweet voices as a mountebank of reactionary tendencies.
Richard was to lecture on the ensuing Sunday at one of the branch meeting-places of his society; he engaged himself this morning in collecting certain data of a statistical kind.

He was still at his work when the sound of the postman's knock began to be heard in the square, coming from house to house, drawing nearer at each repetition.

Richard paid no heed to it; he expected no letter.

Yet it seemed there was one for some member of the family; the letter-carrier's regular tread ascended the five steps to the door, and then two small thunderclaps echoed through the house.