The Modes Of Speech Are Scarcely More

Anger Is The Common Refuge Of Insignificance. People Who Feel Their Character To Be Slight, Hope To Give It Weight By Inflation: But The Blown Bladder At Its Fullest Distention Is Still Empty.

My Retirement Was Now Become Solitude; The Former Is, I Believe, The Best State For The Mind Of Man, The Latter Almost The Worst. In Complete Solitude, The Eye Wants Objects, The Heart Wants Attachments, The Understanding Wants Reciprocation. The Character Loses Its Tenderness When It Has Nothing To Strengthen It, Its Sweetness When It Has Nothing To Soothe It.

The Ingenuity Of Self-deception Is Inexhaustible.

If A Young Lady Has That Discretion And Modesty Without Which All Knowledge Is Little Worth, She Will Never Make An Ostentatious Parade Of It, Because She Will Rather Be Intent On Acquiring More Than On Displaying What She Has.

Sensibility Appears To Me To Be Neither Good Nor Evil In Itself, But In Its Application. Under The Influence Of Christian Principle, It Makes Saints And Martyrs; Ill-directed, Or Uncontrolled, It Is A Snare, And The Source Of Every Temptation; Besides, As People Cannot Get It If It Is Not Given Them, To Descant On It Seems To Me As Idle As To Recommend People To Have Black Eyes Or Fair Complexions.