To Whom, Then, Must I Dedicate My

Travelling Is The Ruin Of All Happiness. There's No Looking At A Building Here After Seeing Italy.

Insensibility, Of All Kinds, And On All Occasions, Most Moves My Imperial Displeasure

. . . Men Seldom Risk Their Lives Where An Escape Is Without Hope Of Recompense.

I Looked About For Some Of My Acquaintance, But In Vain, For I Saw Not One Person That I Knew, Which Is Very Odd, For All The World Seemed There.

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.