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: 1788

"Her mind, to borrow Mr. Locke's figure, was a mere tabula rasa, a blank as to every thing beyond mortality"

— Author Unknown

Date: 1789

"[T]he important overthrow of the common enemy of our religious liberty ... must be engraven on our hearts in the very deepest characters of gratitude and praise"

— Colvill, Robert (d. 1788)

Date: 1789

"I conceive that a newly created spiritual substance would be a perfect tabula rasa, without a single idea till it was supplied by its own experience and reflection; nor can I understand how matter, mere matter, unconnected with a really active substance, could begin to perceive or ...

— Holmes, Edward (1737/8-1799)

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)