I Always Arrive Late At

(the Pig) Hath A Fair Sepulchre In The Grateful Stomach Of The Judicious Epicure - And For Such A Tomb Might Be Content To Die.

If Dirt Were Trumps, What Hands You Would Hold!

All People Have Their Blind Side-their Superstitions.

The Pilasters Reaching Down Were Adorned With A Glistering Substance (i Know Not What) Under Glass (as It Seemed), Resembling - A Homely Fancy, But I Judged It To Be Sugar-candy; Yet To My Raised Imagination, Divested Of Its Homelier Qualities, It Appeared A Glorified Candy.

Anything Awful Makes Me Laugh. I Misbehaved Once At A Funeral.