I Was A Blacksmith's Boy But Yesterday;

It Was Darkly Rumoured That The Butler, Regarding Him With Favour Such As That Stern Man Had Never Shown Before To Mortal Boy, Had Sometimes Mingled Porter With His Table Beer To Make Him Strong.

Procrastination Is The Thief Of Time, Collar Him.

To Be Shelterless And Alone In The Open Country, Hearing The Wind Moan And Watching For Day Through The Whole Long Weary Night; To Listen To The Falling Rain, And Crouch For Warmth Beneath The Lee Of Some Old Barn Or Rick, Or In The Hollow Of A Tree; Are Dismal Things - But Not So Dismal As The Wandering Up And Down Where Shelter Is, And Beds And Sleepers Are By Thousands; A Houseless Rejected Creature.

We Part With Tender Relations Stretching Far Behind Us, That Never Can Be Exactly Renewed, And With Others Dawning - Yet Before Us.

... What Such People Miscall Their Religion, Is A Vent For Their Bad Humours And Arrogance.