No One Who Can Read, Ever Looks

Remember, To The Last, That While There Is Life There Is Hope.

Shall We Speak Of The Inspiration Of A Poet Or A Priest, And Not Of The Heart Impelled By Love And Self-devotion To The Lowliest Work In The Lowliest Way Of Life?

'do You Spell It With A 'v' Or A 'w'?' Inquired The Judge. 'that Depends Upon The Taste And Fancy Of The Speller, My Lord'.

When I Speak Of Home, I Speak Of The Place Where In Default Of A Better--those I Love Are Gathered Together; And If That Place Where A Gypsy's Tent, Or A Barn, I Should Call It By The Same Good Name Notwithstanding.

When They Took A Young Man Into Tellson's London House, They Hid Him Somewhere Till He Was Old. They Kept Him In A Dark Place, Like A Cheese, Until He Had The Full Tellson Flavour And Blue-mould Upon Him. Then Only Was He Permitted To Be Seen, Spectacularly Poring Over Large Books, And Casting His Breeches And Gaiters Into The General Weight Of The Establishment.