It Is Very Often Nothing

It Is Only A Novel... Or, In Short, Only Some Work In Which The Greatest Powers Of The Mind Are Displayed, In Which The Most Thorough Knowledge Of Human Nature, The Happiest Delineation Of Its Varieties, The Liveliest Effusions Of Wit And Humour, Are Conveyed To The World In The Best-chosen Language

And To All This She Must Yet Add Something More Substantial, In The Improvement Of Her Mind By Extensive Reading.

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.

Do You Not Want To Know Who Has Taken It?" Cried His Wife Impatiently.

We Certainly Do Not Forget You, So Soon As You Forget Us. It Is, Perhaps, Our Fate Rather Than Our Merit. We Cannot Help Ourselves.