On The Wings Of Fancy, Gentle Readers,

I Believe No Gentleman Would Like To Have His Family Affairs Neglected Because His Wife Was Filling Her Head With Crotchets And Pothooks, And Who, Because She Understood A Few Scraps Of Latin, Valued That More Than Minding Her Needle Or Providing Her Husband's Dinner.

I Often Used To Think Myself In The Case Of The Fox-hunter, Who, When He Had Toiled And Sweated All Day In The Chase As If Some Unheard-of Blessing Was To Crown His Success, Finds At Last All He Has Got By His Labor Is A Stinking Nauseous Animal. But My Condition Was Yet Worse Than His; For He Leaves The Loathsome Wretch To Be Torn By His Hounds, Whilst I Was Obliged To Fondle Mine, And Meanly Pretend Him To Be The Object Of My Love.

[t]he Judicious Reader Ought To Know What The Chief Character In Any Work Of The Imagination Will Naturally Perform, According To The Situation He Is Thrown Into, As Well As Doth The Author Himself.

Agreeable Then To My Present Inclination, I Formed The Object Of My Own Worship, Which Was No Other Than My Own Understanding.

There Appears To Be But Two Grand Master Passions Or Movers In The Human Mind, Namely, Love And Pride. And What Constitutes The Beauty Or Deformity Of A Man's Character Is The Choice He Makes Under Which Banner He Determines To Enlist Himself. But There Is A Strong Distinction Between Different Degress In The Same Thing And A Mixture Of Two Contraries.