I Want Nothing But Death.

The Person, Be It Gentleman Or Lady, Who Has Not Pleasure In A Good Novel, Must Be Intolerably Stupid.

This Was A Lucky Recollection -- It Saved Her From Something Like Regret.

What A Shame, For I Dearly Love To Laugh.

When Any Two Young People Take It Into Their Heads To Marry, They Are Pretty Sure By Perseverance To Carry Their Point, Be They Ever So Poor, Or Ever So Imprudent, Or Ever So Little Likely To Be Necessary To Each Other's Ultimate Comfort.

Her Pleasure In The Walk Must Arise From The Exercise And The Day, From The View Of The Last Smiles Of The Year Upon The Tawny Leaves And Withered Hedges, And From Repeating To Herself Some Few Of The Thousand Poetical Descriptions Extant Of Autumn-that Season Of Peculiar And Inexhaustible Influence On The Mind Of Taste And Tenderness-that Season Which Has Drawn From Every Poet Worthy Of Being Read Some Attempt At Description, Or Some Lines Of Feeling.