O! How Short A Time

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.

Wealth Per Se I Never Too Much Valued, And My Acquaintance With Its Possessors Has By No Means Increased My Veneration For It.

But How Cool, How Quiet Is True Courage!

I Am Too Inexperienced And Ignorant To Conduct Myself With Propriety In This Town, Where Every Thing Is New To Me, And Many Things Are Unaccountable And Perplexing.

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!