Concealment Is The Foe Of Tranquility.

To Whom, Then, Must I Dedicate My Wonderful, Surprising And Interesting Adventures? To Whom Dare I Reveal My Private Opinion Of My Nearest Relations? The Secret Thoughts Of My Dearest Friends? My Own Hopes, Fears, Reflections And Dislikes? Nobody!

Misery Is A Guest That We Are Glad To Part With, However Certain Of Her Speedy Return.

Money Is The Source Of The Greatest Vice, And That Nation Which Is Most Rich, Is Most Wicked.

There's No Nation Under The Sun Can Beat The English For Ill-politeness: For My Part, I Hate The Very Sight Of Them; And So I Shall Only Just Visit A Person Of Quality Or Two Of My Particular Acquaintance, And Then I Shall Go Back Again To France.

I Have This Very Moment Finished Reading A Novel Called The Vicar Of Wakefield [by Oliver Goldsmith].... It Appears To Me, To Be Impossible Any Person Could Read This Book Through With A Dry Eye And Yet, I Don't Much Like It.... There Is But Very Little Story, The Plot Is Thin, The Incidents Very Rare, The Sentiments Uncommon, The Vicar Is Contented, Humble, Pious, Virtuous--but Upon The Whole The Book Has Not At All Satisfied My Expectations.