Am Dining At Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road,

There Is A Danger There - A Very Real Danger To Humanity. Consider, Watson, That The Material, The Sensual, The Worldly Would All Prolong Their Worthless Lives. The Spiritual Would Not Avoid The Call To Something Higher. It Would Be The Survival Of The Least Fit. What Sort Of Cesspool May Not Our Poor World Become?

There Was A Brisk Northern Wind, Heavy And Wet With The Salt Of The Sea, And He Felt, As He Turned His Face To It, Fresh Life And Strength Surging In His Blood And Bracing His Limbs.

Several Incidents In My Life Have Convinced Me Of Spiritual Interposition - Of The Promptings Of Some Beneficent Force Outside Ourselves, Which Tries To Help Us Where It Can.

London, That Great Cesspool Into Which All The Loungers And Idlers Of The Empire Are Irresistibly Drained.

You Know How Often The Turning Down This Street Or That, The Accepting Or Rejecting Of An Invitation, May Deflect The Whole Current Of Our Lives Into Some Other Channel. Are We Mere Leaves, Fluttered Hither And Thither By The Wind, Or Are We Rather, With Every Conviction That We Are Free Agents, Carried Steadily Along To A Definite And Pre-determined End?