In Seasons Of Pestilence, Some Of Us

Sadly, Sadly, The Sun Rose; It Rose Upon No Sadder Sight Than The Man Of Good Abilities And Good Emotions, Incapable Of Their Directed Exercise, Incapable Of His Own Help And His Own Happiness, Sensible Of The Blight On Him, And Resigning Himself To Let It Eat Him Away.

I Don't Feel Any Vulgar Gratitude To You[for Helping Me]. I Almost Feel As If You Ought To Be Grateful To Me, For Giving You The Opportunity Of Enjoying The Luxury Of Generosity. . . I May Have Come Into The World Expressly For The Purpose Of Increasing Your Stock Of Happiness. I May Have Been Born To Be A Benefactor To You, By Giving You An Opportunity Of Assisting Me.

I Think It Impossible, Utterly Impossible, For Any Englishman To Live Here [in America], And Be Happy.

All Through It, I Have Known Myself To Be Quite Undeserving. And Yet I Have Had The Weakness, And Have Still The Weakness, To Wish You To Know With What A Sudden Mastery You Kindled Me, Heap Of Ashes That I Am, Into Fire- A Fire, However, Inseparable In Its Nature From Myself, Quickening Nothing, Lighting Nothing, Doing No Service, Idly Burning Away.

Others Had Been A Little Wild, Which Was Not To Be Wondered At, And Not Very Blamable; But, He Had Made A Lamentation And Uproar Which It Was Dangerous For The People To Hear, As There Is Always Contagion In Weakness And Selfishness.