A Writer Only Begins A

A Transition From An Author's Book To His Conversation Is Too Often Like An Entrance Into A Large City, After A Distant Prospect. Remotely, We See Nothing But Spires Of Temples And Turrets Of Palaces, And Imagine It The Residence Of Splendour, Grandeur, And Magnificence; But When We Have Passed The Gates, We Find It Perplexed With Narrow Passages, Disgraced With Despicable Cottages, Embarrassed With Obstructions, And Clouded With Smoke.

The Applause Of A Single Human Being Is Of Great Consequence.

A Man, Doubtful Of His Dinner, Or Trembling At A Creditor, Is Not Much Disposed To Abstracted Meditation, Or Remote Enquiries.

Exercise Cannot Secure Us From That Dissolution To Which We Are Decreed; But While The Soul And Body Continue United, It Can Make The Association Pleasing, And Give Probable Hopes That They Shall Be Disciplined By An Easy Separation...to Die Is The Fate Of Man; But To Die With Lingering Anguish Is Generally His Folly.

From Ignorance Our Comfort Flows, The Only Wretched Are The Wise