The Book of Books Within this ample volume lies The mystery of mysteries. Happiest they of human race To whom their God has given grace To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, To lift the latch, to force the way; But better had they ne'er been born That read to doubt or read to scorn.

Still are the thoughts to memory dear.

I like a highland friend who will stand by me not only when I am in the right, but when I am a little in the wrong.

Give me an honest laugher.

Literature is a great staff, but a very sorry crutch.

Where is the coward that would not dare to fight for such a land as Scotland?

Each age has deemed the new-born year the fittest time for festal cheer.