The Oil And Wine Of Merry Meeting.

I Consider A Story Merely As A Frame On Which To Stretch My Materials.

History Fades Into Fable; Fact Becomes Clouded With Doubt And Controversy; The Inscription Molders From The Tablet: The Statue Falls From The Pedestal. Columns, Arches, Pyramids, What Are They But Heaps Of Sand; And Their Epitaphs, But Characters Written In The Dust?

True Love Will Not Brook Reserve; It Feels Undervalued And Outraged, When Even The Sorrows Of Those It Loves Are Concealed From It.

Of All The Old Festivals, However, That Of Christmas Awakens The Strongest And Most Heartfelt Associations. There Is A Tone Of Solemn And Sacred Feeling That Blends With Our Conviviality, And Lifts The Sprit To A State Of Hallowed And Elevated Enjoyment.

There's Nothing Like Being In Fashion. A Man That Has Once Got His Character Up For A Wit Is Always Sure Of A Laugh, Say What He May. He May Utter As Much Nonsense As He Pleases, And All Will Pass Current. No One Stops To Question The Coin Of A Rich Man; But A Poor Devil Cannot Pass Off Either A Joke Or A Guinea Without Its Being Examined On Both Sides. Wit And Coin Are Always Doubted With A Threadbare Coat.