A Mr. (save, perhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of explanation.

There seems almost a general wish of descrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.

We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.

...when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.

A woman, especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.

One cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.

Success supposes endeavour.