is prevented from narrating a singular occurrence,
  is presented with a pair of new spectacles,
  his church services indecorously sketched by Mr. Sawin,
  hopes to decipher a Runic inscription,
  a fable by,
  deciphers Runic inscription,
  his method therein,
  is ready to reconsider his opinion of tobacco,
  his opinion of the Puritans,
  his death,
  born in Pigsgusset,
  letter of Rev. Mr. Hitchcock concerning,
  fond of Milton’s Christmas hymn,
  his monument (proposed),
  his epitaph,
  his last letter,
  his supposed disembodied spirit,
  table belonging to,
  sometimes wrote Latin verses,
  his table-talk,
  his prejudices,
  against Baptists,
  his sweet nature,
  his views of style,
  a story of his. 
Wildbore, a vernacular one, how to escape. 
Wilkes, Captain, borrows rashly. 
Wind, the, a good Samaritan. 
Wingfield, his ‘Memorial’. 
Wooden leg,
  remarkable for sobriety,
  never eats pudding. 
Woods, the.  See Belmont. 
Works, covenants of, condemned. 
World, this, its unhappy temper. 
Wright, Colonel, providentially rescued. 
Writing, dangerous to reputation. 
Wrong, abstract, safe to oppose.

Yankees, their worst wooden nutmegs.

Zack, Old.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A beggar through the world am I,
A camel-driver, angry with his drudge,
A heap of bare and splintery crags,
A hundred years! they’re quickly fled,
A legend that grew in the forest’s hush,
A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
A poet cannot strive for despotism,
A presence both by night and day,
A race of nobles may die out,
A stranger came one night to Yussouf’s tent,
About the oak that framed this chair, of old,
Alike I hate to be your debtor,
Along a river-side, I know not where,
Amid these fragments of heroic days,
An ass munched thistles, while a nightingale,
‘And how could you dream of meeting?’
Another star ’neath Time’s horizon dropped,
Are we, then, wholly fallen?  Can it be,
As a twig trembles, which a bird,
As, cleansed of Tiber’s and Oblivion’s slime,
As, flake by flake, the beetling avalanches,
As life runs on, the road grows strange,
As sinks the sun behind yon alien hills,
As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth,
At Carnac in Brittany, close on the bay,
At length arrived, your book I take,
At twenty we fancied the blest Middle Ages,
Ay, pale and silent maiden,

B, taught by Pope to do his good by stealth,
Beauty on my hearth-stone blazing! 
Beloved, in the noisy city here,
Beneath the trees,
Bowing thyself in dust before a Book,

Can this be thou who, lean and pale,
Come back before the birds are flown,
‘Come forth!’ my catbird calls to me,
Curtis, whose Wit, with Fancy arm in arm,