To Begin Perfect Happiness At

I Am Not At All In A Humour For Writing; I Must Write On Till I Am.

I Do Not Think It Worth While To Wait For Enjoyment Until There Is Some Real Opportunity For It.

I Have Faults Enough, But They Are Not, I Hope, Of Understanding. My Temper I Dare Not Vouch For. It Is, I Believe, Too Little Yielding— Certainly Too Little For The Convenience Of The World. I Cannot Forget The Follies And Vices Of Other So Soon As I Ought, Nor Their Offenses Against Myself. My Feelings Are Not Puffed About With Every Attempt To Move Them. My Temper Would Perhaps Be Called Resentful. My Good Opinion Once Lost, Is Lost Forever.

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.

Women Are The Only Correspondents To Be Depended On.