And What About The Cash, My Existence's

After Tea, We Discussed A Variety Of Topics Before The Fire; And Mrs. Micawber Was Good Enough To Sing Us (in A Small, Thin, Flat Voice, Which I Remembered To Have Considered, When I First Knew Her, The Very Table-beer Of Acoustics) The Favourite Ballads Of "the Dashing White Sergeant", And "little Tafflin".

There Is Nothing--no, Nothing--innocent Or Good, That Dies And Is Forgotten; Let Us Hold To That Faith Or None. An Infant, A Prattling Child, Dying In The Cradle, Will Live Again In The Better Thoughts Of Those That Loved It, And Play Its Part Through Them In The Redeeming Actions Of The World, Though Its Body Be Burnt To Ashes Or Drowned In The Deep Sea.

Mr Lorry Asks The Witness Questions: Ever Been Kicked? Might Have Been. Frequently? No. Ever Kicked Down Stairs? Decidedly Not; Once Received A Kick At The Top Of A Staircase, And Fell Down Stairs Of His Own Accord.

There Was A Little Plate Of Hothouse Nectarines On The Table, And There Was Another Of Grapes, And Another Of Sponge-cakes, And There Was A Bottle Of Light Wine ... 'this Is My Frugal Breakfast ... Give Me My Peach, My Cup Of Coffee, And My Claret.'

Change Begets Change. Nothing Propagates So Fast. If A Man Habituated To A Narrow Circle Of Cares And Pleasures, Out Of Which He Seldom Travels, Step Beyond It, Though For Never So Brief A Space, His Departure From The Monotonous Scene On Which He Has Been An Actor Of Importance Would Seem To Be The Signal For Instant Confusion. The Mine Which Time Has Slowly Dug Beneath Familiar Objects Is Sprung In An Instant; And What Was Rock Before, Becomes But Sand And Dust.