Avarice, Or The Desire Of

Reading And Sauntering And Lounging And Dosing, Which I Call Thinking, Is My Supreme Happiness.

There Is Nothing, In Itself, Valuable Or Despicable, Desirable Or Hateful, Beautiful Or Deformed; But That These Attributes Arise From The Particular Constitution And Fabric Of Human Sentiment And Affection.

Reason, In A Strict Sense, As Meaning The Judgment Of Truth And Falsehood, Can Never, Of Itself, Be Any Motive To The Will, And Can Have No Influence But So Far As It Touches Some Passion Or Affection. Abstract Relations Of Ideas Are The Object Of Curiosity, Not Of Volition. And Matters Of Fact, Where They Are Neither Good Nor Evil, Where They Neither Excite Desire Nor Aversion, Are Totally Indifferent, And Whether Known Or Unknown, Whether Mistaken Or Rightly Apprehended, Cannot Be Regarded As Any Motive To Action.

There Surely Is A Being Who Presides Over The Universe; And Who, With Infinite Wisdom And Power, Has Reduced The Jarring Elementsinto Just Order And Proportion. Let Speculative Reasoners Dispute, How Far This Beneficent Being Extends His Care, And Whether He Prolongs Our Existence Beyond The Grave, In Order To Bestow On Virtue Its Just Reward, And Render It Fully Triumphant.

And What Is The Greatest Number? Number One.