To Delay Is Injustice.

It Seems To Me That The Spirit Of Politeness Is A Certain Attention In Causing That, By Our Words And By Our Manners, Others May Be Content With Us And With Themselves.

From Time To Time There Appear On The Face Of The Earth Men Of Rare And Consummate Excellence, Who Dazzle Us By Their Virtue, And Whose Outstanding Qualities Shed A Stupendous Light. Like Those Extraordinary Stars Of Whose Origins We Are Ignorant, And Of Whose Fate, Once They Have Vanished, We Know Even Less, Such Men Have Neither Forebears Nor Descendants: They Are The Whole Of Their Race.

Love Has This In Common With Scruples, That It Becomes Embittered By The Reflections And The Thoughts That Beset Us To Free Ourselves.

Criticism Is Often Not A Science; It Is A Craft, Requiring More Good Health Than Wit, More Hard Work Than Talent, More Habit Than Native Genius. In The Hands Of A Man Who Has Read Widely But Lacks Judgment, Applied To Certain Subjects It Can Corrupt Both Its Readers And The Writer Himself.

We Confide Our Secret To A Friend, But In Love It Escapes Us.