I Have Always Maintained The Importance Of

The Truth Is, That In London It Is Always A Sickly Season. Nobody Is Healthy In London, Nobody Can Be.

I Trust That Absolutes Have Gradations.

In A Letter From Bath To Her Sister, Cassandra, One Senses Her Frustration At Her Sheltered Existence, Tuesday, 12 May 1801. Another Stupid Party . . . With Six People To Look On, And Talk Nonsense To Each Other.

A Report Of A Most Alarming Nature Reached Me Two Days Ago.

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.