Date: 1786

"But your humanity must ever be engraved on my heart."

— Inchbald [née Simpson], Elizabeth (1753-1821)

Date: 1788

"Well-tutor'd Learning, from his books / Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty looks, / Their order on his shelves exact, / Not more harmonious or compact / Than that, to which he keeps confined / The various treasures of his mind."

— Cowper, William (1731-1800)

Date: 1788-89

"According to Mr. Locke, the soul is a mere rasa tabula, an empty recipient, a mechanical blank."

— Taylor, Thomas (1758-1835)

Date: 1788-89

"According to Plato, she [the soul] is an ever-written tablet, a plenitude of forms, a vital and intellectual energy."

— Taylor, Thomas (1758-1835)

Date: 1788

"The parson frank'd their souls to kingdom-come!"

— Wolcot, John, pseud. Peter Pindar, (1738-1819)

Date: 1788

"'Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to be composed---to forget my Henry?' the 'my', the pen was directly drawn across in an agony."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"But in general, I know of no method of getting money, not even that of robbing for it upon the highway, which has so direct a tendency to efface the moral sense, to rob the heart of every gentle and humane disposition, and to harden it, like steel, against all impressions of sensibility."

— Newton, John (1725-1807)

Date: 1788

"When Rochely got home, he set about examining the state of his heart exactly as he would have examined the check book of one of his customers."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1788

"My Lord, my present concern is of a very different nature; and I do assure and protest to your Lordship that no time nor intreaties nor persuasion will erase and obliterate and wipe away from my mind, the injury and prejudice the parties have done me, by thus."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1789

"Ah! hide for ever from my sight / The faithless flatterer Hope--whose pencil, gay, / Portrays some vision of delight, / Then bids the fairy tablet fade away; / While in dire contrast, to mine eyes / Thy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise, / And Memory draws, from Pleasure's wither'd flower, / Corr...

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)