Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called,… A great divine, and I’m a great p… You as a Congregationalist blink Some certain truths that I esteem… And dropp them in the coffers of m…

Let lowly themes engage my humble… Stupidities of critics, not of men… Be it mine once more the maunderin… Of the expounders’ self-directed r… Their wire-drawn fancies, finicall…

‘What are those, father?’ ‘States… Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild.’ ‘What are they that way for, fathe… ’Our candidate’s better,' they sai… ‘What did they say he was, father?…

In contact, lo! the flint and stee… By sharp and flame, the thought re… That he the metal, she the stone, Had cherished secretly alone.

Lord, shed thy light upon his dese… And gild his branded brow, that no… His forfeit life to balk thy holy… That spares him for the ripening o… Already, lo! the red sign is descr…

O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: I fain would view the lettered sto… What carvest thou?-perchance some… And solemn fancy all thine own. For oft to know the fitting word

Wallace, created on a noble plan To show us that a Judge can be a… Through moral mire exhaling mortal… God-guided sweet and foot-clean to… In salutation here and sign I lif…

If the wicked gods were willing (Pray it never may be true!) That a universal chilling Should ensue Of the sentiment of loving,

I know not if it was a dream. I v… A city where the restless multitud… Between the eastern and the wester… Had reared gigantic fabrics, stron… Colossal palaces crowned every hei…

RAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower Distance (_Seizes Dead Cat by the tail and swings it in act to throw._) (_Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he ...

OM JONESMITH _(loquitur)_: I… The night-a rather clever thing to… How soundly women sleep _(looks at… They’re all alike. The sweetest t… Is woman when she lies with folded…

Great poets fire the world with fa… That make a crackling racket, But I’m content with but a whispe… To warm some single jacket.

Assembled in the parlor Of the place of last resort, The smiler and the snarler And the guests of every sort The elocution chap

Och! Father McGlynn, Ye appear to be in Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; An’ there’s divil a doubt But he’s knockin’ ye out

‘What is that, mother?’ ‘The funny man, child. His hands are black, but his heart… ‘May I touch him, mother?’ ‘T were foolishly done: