Love Is A Malady, The

There Is Always A Secret Irritation About A Laugh In Which We Cannot Join

The Worst In Life, We Are Told, Is Compatible With The Best In Art. So Too The Worst In Life Is Compatible With The Best In Humour.

A Villain Must Be A Thing Of Power, Handled With Delicacy And Grace. He Must Be Wicked Enough To Excite Our Aversion, Strong Enough To Arouse Our Fear, Human Enough To Awaken Some Transient Gleam Of Sympathy. We Must Triumph In His Downfall, Yet Not Barbarously Nor With Contempt, And The Close Of His Career Must Be In Harmony With All Its Previous Development.

In The Stress Of Modern Life, How Little Room Is Left For That Most Comfortable Vanity That Whispers In Our Ears That Failures Are Not Faults! Now We Are Taught From Infancy That We Must Rise Or Fall Upon Our Own Merits; That Vigilance Wins Success, And Incapacity Means Ruin

Tea Had Come As A Deliverer To A Land That Called For Deliverance; A Land Of Beef And Ale, Of Heavy Eating And Abundant Drunkenness; Of Gray Skies And Harsh Winds; Of Strong-nerved, Stout-purposed, Slow-thinking Men And Women. Above All, A Land Of Sheltered Homes And Warm Firesides - Firesides That Were Waiting - Waiting For The Bubbling Kettle And The Fragrant Breath Of Tea.