Let Me Feel Now What Sharp Distress

Marley Was Dead, To Begin With. There Is No Doubt Whatever About That. The Register Of His Burial Was Signed By The Clergyman, The Clerk, The Undertaker, And The Chief Mourner. Scrooge Signed It. And Scrooge's Name Was Good Upon 'change For Anything He Chose To Put His Hand To. Old Marley Was As Dead As A Door-nail.

Man Cannot Really Improve Himself Without Improving Others.

Indeed, It May Be Laid Down As A General Principle, That The More Extended The Ancestry, The Greater The Amount Of Violence And Vagabondism; For In Ancient Days Those Two Amusements, Combining A Wholesome Excitement With A Promising Means Of Repairing Shattered Fortunes, Were At Once The Ennobling Pursuit And The Healthful Recreation Of The Quality Of This Land.

The Wide Stare Stared Itself Out For One While; The Sun Went Down In A Red, Green, Golden Glory; The Stars Came Out In The Heavens, And The Fire-flies Mimicked Them In The Lower Air, As Men May Feebly Imitate The Goodness Of A Better Order Of Beings; The Long Dusty Roads And The Interminable Plains Were In Repose-and So Deep A Hush Was On The Sea, That It Scarcely Whispered Of The Time When It Shall Give Up Its Dead.

It Is, As Mr. Rokesmith Says, A Matter Of Feeling, But Lor How Many Matters Are Matters Of Feeling!