Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the North of England.

The City seems so much more in earnest: its business, its rush, its roar are such serious things, sights and sounds. The City is getting its living - the West-End but enjoying its pleasure.

Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect; and as to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, and worship none

The practice of hinting by single letters those expletives with which profane and violent persons are wont to garnish their discourse, strikes me as a proceeding which, however, well meant, is weak and futile. I cannot tell what good it does - what feeling it spares - what horror it conceals.

as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.

Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different meanings.

Make my happiness--I will make yours.