We All Love To Instruct, Though We

There Is Not The Hundredth Part Of The Wine Consumed In This Kingdom That There Ought To Be. Our Foggy Climate Wants Help.

Sir Walter Elliot, Of Kellynch-hall, In Somersetshire, Was A Man Who, For His Own Amusement, Never Took Up Any Book But The Barontage; There He Found Occupation For An Idle Hour, And Consolation In A Distressed One; . . .

I Want Nothing But Death.

Her Form, Though Not So Correct As Her Sister's, In Having The Advantage Of Height, Was More Striking; And Her Face Was So Lovely, That When In The Common Cant Of Praise She Was Called A Beautiful Girl, Truth Was Less Violently Outraged Than Usually Happens.

One Cannot Be Always Laughing At A Man Without Now And Then Stumbling On Something Witty.