To The Composition Of Novels

Scarcely One Person In A Thousand Is Capable Of Tasting The Happiness Of Others.

Love May Be Likened To A Disease In This Respect, That When It Is Denied A Vent In One Part, It Will Certainly Break Out In Another; Hence What A Woman's Lips Often Conceal, Her Eyes, Her Blushes, And Many Little Involuntary Actions Betray.

An Author Ought To Consider Himself, Not As A Gentleman Who Gives A Private Or Eleemosynary Treat, But Rather As One Who Keeps A Public Ordinary, At Which All Persons Are Welcome For Their Money.

Enough Is Equal To A Feast.

The Raillery Which Is Consistent With Good-breeding Is A Gentle Animadversion Of Some Foible, Which, While It Raises The Laugh In The Rest Of The Company, Doth Not Put The Person Rallied Out Of Countenance, Or Expose Him To Shame Or Contempt. On The Contrary, The Jest Should Be So Delicate That The Object Of It Should Be Capable Of Joining In The Mirth It Occasions.