Chess Is A Sad Waste Of Brains.

That Day Of Wrath, That Dreadful Day. When Heaven And Earth Shall Pass Away.

What Skilful Limner E'er Would Choose To Paint The Rainbow's Varying Hues, Unless To Mortal It Were Given To Dip His Brush In Dyes Of Heaven?

There Never Will Exist Anything Permanently Noble And Excellent In The Character Which Is A Stranger To Resolute Self-denial.

It Was In The Beginning Of The Month Of November, 17--, When A Young English Gentleman, Who Had Just Left The University Of Oxford, Made Use Of The Liberty Afforded Him, To Visit Some Parts Of The North Of England; And Curiosity Extended His Tour Into The Adjacent Frontier Of The Sister Country.

If A Faultless Poem Could Be Produced, I Am Satisfied It Would Tire The Critics Themselves; And Annoy The Whole Reading World With The Spleen.