I Only Ask To Be Free. The

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".

We Are So Very 'umble.

Spite Is A Little Word, But It Represents As Strange A Jumble Of Feelings And Compound Of Discords, As Any Polysyllable In The Language.

He Had But One Eye, And The Popular Prejudice Runs In Favor Of Two.

To Bring Deserving Things Down By Setting Undeserving Things Up Is One Of Its Perverted Delights; And There Is No Playing Fast And Loose With The Truth, In Any Game, Without Growing The Worse For It.