Nursed amid her [London's] noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with usury to such scenes?

The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.

Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life.