'Humph!' grunted Mr. Romford, seeing his worst fears about to be realized. He had dreamt that he had timbled over read more

'Humph!' grunted Mr. Romford, seeing his worst fears about to be realized. He had dreamt that he had timbled over a poodle in the drawing-room, and squirted a bottle of porter right into a lady's face. 'Who's goin' besides ourselves?' asked Romford, wishing to know the worst at once. 'Better be killed than frightened to death,' thought he. - Mr. Facey Romford's Hounds.

Literature is the question minus the answer.

Literature is the question minus the answer.

Our high respect for a well-read man is praise enough of literature.

Our high respect for a well-read man is praise enough of literature.

The great Cham of literature. (Samuel Johnson)

The great Cham of literature. (Samuel Johnson)

The writer in western civilization has become not a voice of his tribe, but of his individuality. This is a read more

The writer in western civilization has become not a voice of his tribe, but of his individuality. This is a very narrow-minded situation.

I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have read more

I hold it true,what'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all. - In Memoriam.

Draw a crazy picture,Write a nutty poem,Sing a mumble-gumble song,Whistle through your comb.Do a loony-goony dance'Cross the kitchen floor,Put something read more

Draw a crazy picture,Write a nutty poem,Sing a mumble-gumble song,Whistle through your comb.Do a loony-goony dance'Cross the kitchen floor,Put something silly in the worldThat ain't been there before.

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While read more

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,The matrons glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These were thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms -- but all these charms are fled. - Deserted Village, The.

A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke.

A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke.