The Chief Glory Of Every

Whatever Is Formed For Long Duration Arrives Slowly To Its Maturity.

Composition Is For The Most Part An Effort Of Slow Diligence And Steady Perseverance, To Which The Mind Is Dragged By Necessity Or Resolution, And From Which The Attention Is Every Moment Starting To More Delightful Amusements.

Just Praise Is Only A Debt, But Flattery Is A Present. The Acknowledgment Of Those Virtues On Which Conscience Congratulates Us Is A Tribute That We Can At Any Tine Exact With Confidence; But The Celebration Of Those Which We Only Feign, Or Desire Without Any Vigorous Endeavours To Attain Them, Is Received As A Confession Of Sovereignty Over Regions Never Conquered, As A Favourable Decision Of Disputable Claims, And Is More Welcome As More Gratuitous.

Yet It Is Necessary To Hope, Though Hope Should Always Be Deluded; For Hope Itself Is Happiness, And Its Frustrations, However Frequent, Are Yet Less Dreadsul Than Its Extinction.

We Are More Pained By Ignorance Than Delighted By Instruction.