He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; - all this comes of Authorship.
This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.