Remote And Ineffectual Don.

It Seems To Be Saying Perpetually; 'i Am The End Of The Nineteenth Century; I Am Glad They Built Me Of Iron; Let Me Rust.' ... It Is Like A Passing Fool In A Crowd Of The University, A Buffoon In The Hall; For All The Things In Paris Has Made, It Alone Has Neither Wits Nor Soul.

Here Richly, With Ridiculous Display, The Politician's Corpse Was Laid Away. While All Of His Acquaintance Sneered And Slanged I Wept: For I Had Longed To See Him Hanged.

Of All Fatiguing, Futile, Empty Trades, The Worst, I Suppose, Is Writing About Writing.

It Has Long Been Recognized By Public Men Of All Kinds. . . That Statistics Come Under The Head Of Lying, And That No Lie Is So False Or Inconclusive As That Which Is Based On Statistics.

Oh, You Should Never, Never Doubt What Nobody Is Sure About.