There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.