To A Poet Nothing Can Be Useless.

Cruel With Guilt, And Daring With Despair, The Midnight Murderer Bursts The Faithless Bar; Invades The Sacred Hour Of Silent Rest And Leaves, Unseen, A Dagger In Your Breast.

As Every Writer Has His Use, Every Writer Ought To Have His Patrons; And Since No Man, However High He May Now Stand, Can Be Certain That He Shall Not Be Soon Thrown Down From His Elevation By Criticism Or Caprice, The Common Interest Of Learning Requires That Her Sons Should Cease From Intestine Hostilities, And, Instead Of Sacrificing Each Other To Malice And Contempt, Endeavour To Avert Persecution From The Meanest Of Their Fraternity.

There Is Less Flogging In Our Great Schools Than Formerly-but Then Less Is Learned There; So What The Boys Get At One End They Lose At The Other.

Whatever Is Formed For Long Duration Arrives Slowly To Its Maturity.

By Writing, You Learn To Write.