Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the North of England.

For I too liked reading, thought of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.

I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.

I recalled the voice I had heard; again I questioned whence it came, as vainly as before: it seemed in me not in the external world. I asked, was it a mere nervous impression a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: it was more like an inspiration.

God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness -- to glory?

When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should - so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it again.

Let your performance do the thinking.