One Man's Style Must Not Be The

But People Themselves Alter So Much, That There Is Something New To Be Observed In Them For Ever.

If This Man Had Not Twelve Thousand A Year, He Would Be A Very Stupid Fellow.

Let Other Pens Dwell On Guilt And Misery. I Quit Such Odious Subjects As Soon As I Can, Impatient To Restore Everybody Not Greatly In Fault Themselves To Tolerable Comfort, And To Have Done With All The Rest.

The Younger Brother Must Help To Pay For The Pleasures Of The Elder.

If Any One Faculty Of Our Nature May Be Called More Wonderful Than The Rest, I Do Think It Is Memory. There Seems Something More Speakingly Incomprehensible In The Powers, The Failures, The Inequalities Of Memory, Than In Any Other Of Our Intelligences. The Memory Is Sometimes So Retentive, So Serviceable, So Obedient; At Others, So Bewildered And So Weak; And At Others Again, So Tyrannic, So Beyond Control! We Are, To Be Sure, A Miracle Every Way; But Our Powers Of Recollecting And Of Forgetting Do Seem Peculiarly Past Finding Out.