The Rev. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. "Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. "Lend a hand with the ruffles, Blueskin!" he shouted, as that personage, who had just recovered from the stunning effects of the blow, contrived to pick himself up.
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