There is nothing I know of so sublime as a fact.

Away with the cant of 'Measures not men!'-the idle supposition that it is the harness and not the horses that draw the chariot along.

When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?

Needy knife-grinder! whither are ye going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order; Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in it. So have your breeches.

Intimately concerned as we are with the system of Europe, it does not follow that we are therefore called upon to mix ourselves onevery occasion, with a restless and meddling activity, in the concerns of the nations which surround us.

So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides The Derby dilly, carrying three INSIDES.

There is nothing I know of so sublime as a fact.