If The Heroine Of One Novel Be

None Of Us Want To Be In Calm Waters All Our Lives.

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.

The Sooner Every Party Breaks Up The Better.

It Is Very Often Nothing But Our Own Vanity That Deceives Us.

Her Pleasure In The Walk Must Arise From The Exercise And The Day, From The View Of The Last Smiles Of The Year Upon The Tawny Leaves And Withered Hedges, And From Repeating To Herself Some Few Of The Thousand Poetical Descriptions Extant Of Autumn-that Season Of Peculiar And Inexhaustible Influence On The Mind Of Taste And Tenderness-that Season Which Has Drawn From Every Poet Worthy Of Being Read Some Attempt At Description, Or Some Lines Of Feeling.