The Pilasters Reaching Down Were Adorned With

I Grow Ominously Tired Of Official Confinement. Thirty Years Have I Served The Philistines, And My Neck Is Not Subdued To The Yoke. You Don't Know How Wearisome It Is To Breathe The Air Of Four Pent Walls Without Relief Day After Day, All The Golden Hours Of The Day Between Ten And Four Without Ease Or Interposition ... These Pestilential Clerk-faces Always In One's Dish. O For A Few Years Between The Grave And The Desk!

The Truant Fancy Was A Wanderer Ever.

The Man Must Have A Rare Recipe For Melancholy, Who Can Be Dull In Fleet Street.

Be Not Frightened At The Hard Words "imposition," "imposture;" Give And Ask No Questions. Cast Thy Bread Upon The Waters. Some Have, Unawares, Entertained Angels.

Newspapers Always Excite Curiosity. No One Ever Puts One Down Without The Feeling Of Disappointment.