England Is Never In A Hurry Because

Nevertheless, In This Sea Of Human Wretchedness And Malice There Bloomed At Times Compassion, As A Pale Flower Blooms In A Putrid Marsh.

Day Is Like Day As Two Beads In A Rosary, Unless Changes Of Weather Form The Only Variety.

In The Presence Of The Storm, Thunderbolts, Hurricane, Rain, Darkness, And The Lions, Which Might Be Concealed But A Few Paces Away, He Felt Disarmed And Helpless.

The Sky Is One Whole, The Water Another; And Between Those Two Infinities The Soul Of Man Is In Loneliness.

There Is Probably No Greater Idler Than Myself. And I Would Consider Myself A Lazy-bones If I Did Not Write So Many Volumes, And If I Did Not Admire My Diligence Once I Begin Writing.