None Of Us Want To Be In

There Is Something In The Eloquence Of The Pulpit, When It Is Really Eloquence, Which Is Entitled To The Highest Praise And Honour. The Preacher Who Can Touch And Affect Such An Heterogeneous Mass Of Hearers, On Subjects Limited, And Long Worn Thread-bare In All Common Hands; Who Can Say Any Thing New Or Striking, Any Thing That Rouses The Attention, Without Offending The Taste, Or Wearing Out The Feelings Of His Hearers, Is A Man Whom One Could Not (in His Public Capacity) Honour Enough.

One Does Not Love A Place The Less For Having Suffered In It, Unless It Has Been All Suffering, Nothing But Suffering.

Have A Little Compassion On My Nerves. You Tear Them To Pieces.

Nobody Is Healthy In London, Nobody Can Be.

If I Could But Know His Heart, Everything Would Become Easy.