We May Fail Of Our Happiness, Strive

It Is Bad Enough To Be Bad, But To Be Bad In Bad Taste Is Unpardonable.

[mary Wortley Montagu] Wrote More Letters, With Fewer Punctuation Marks, Than Any Englishwoman Of Her Day; And Her Nephew, The Fourth Baron Rokeby, Nearly Blinded Himself In Deciphering The Two Volumes Of Undated Correspondence Which Were Printed In 1810. Two More Followed In 1813, After Which The Gallant Baron Either Died At His Post Or Was Smitten With Despair; For Sixty-eight Cases Of Letters Lay Undisturbed ... 'les Morts N'écrivent Point,' Said Madame De Maintenon Hopefully; But Of What Benefit Is This Inactivity, When We Still Continue To Receive Their Letters?

Why Do So Many Ingenious Theorists Give Fresh Reasons Every Year For The Decline Of Letter Writing, And Why Do They Assume, In Derision Of Suffering Humanity, That It Has Declined? They Lament The Lack Of Leisure, The Lack Of Sentiment ... They Talk Of Telegrams, And Telephones, And Postal Cards, As If Any Discovery Of Science, Any Device Of Civilization, Could Eradicate From The Human Heart That Passion For Self-expression Which Is The Impelling Force Of Letters.

Need Drives Men To Envy As Fullness Drives Them To Selfishness.

An Historian Without Political Passions Is As Rare As A Wasp Without A Sting.