Oh, For A Forty-parson Power To Chant

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

Love Rules The Camp, The Court, The Grove - For Love Is Heaven, And Heaven Is Love.

No Hand Can Make The Clock Strike For Me The Hours That Are Passed.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .