The Hearts Of Men Are Their Books;

Language, The Machine Of The Poet, Is Best Fitted For His Purpose In Its Rudest State. Nations, Like Individuals, First Perceive, And Then Abstract. They Advance From Particular Images To General Terms. Hence The Vocabulary Of An Enlightened Society Is Philosophical, That Of A Half-civilized People Is Poetical.

No War Ought Ever To Be Undertaken But Under Circumstances Which Render All Intercourse Of Courtesy Between The Combatants Impossible. It Is A Bad Thing That Men Should Hate Each Other; But It Is Far Worse That They Should Contract The Habit Of Cutting One Another's Throats Without Hatred. War Is Never Lenient But Where It Is Wanton; When Men Are Compelled To Fight In Self-defence, They Must Hate And Avenge: This May Be Bad; But It Is Human Nature.

We Cannot Absolutely Prove That Those Are In Error Who Tell Us That Society Has Reached A Turning Point, That We Have Seen Our Best Days. But So Said All Before Us, And With Just As Much Apparent Reason.

We Hardly Know An Instance Of The Strength And Weakness Of Human Nature So Striking And So Grotesque As The Character Of This Haughty, Vigilant, Resolute, Sagacious Blue-stocking, Half Mithridates And Half Trissotin, Bearing Up Against A World In Arms, With An Ounce Of Poison In One Pocket And A Quire Of Bad Verses In The Other.

At Present, The Novels Which We Owe To English Ladies Form No Small Part Of The Literary Glory Of Our Country. No Class Of Works Is More Honorably Distinguished For Fine Observation, By Grace, By Delicate Wit, By Pure Moral Feeling.