Don't, Sir, Accustom Yourself To

How Many May A Man Of Diffusive Conversation Count Among His Acquaintances, Whose Lives Have Been Signalized By Numberless Escapes; Who Never Cross The River But In A Storm, Or Take A Journey Into The Country Without More Adventures Than Befel The Knights-errant Of Ancient Times In Pathless Forests Or Enchanted Castles! How Many Must He Know, To Whom Portents And Prodigies Are Of Daily Occurrence; And For Whom Nature Is Hourly Working Wonders Invisible To Every Other Eye, Only To Supply Them With Subjects Of Conversation?

Surely, It Is Much Easier To Respect A Man Who Has Always Had Respect, Than To Respect A Man Who We Know Was Last Year No Better Than Ourselves, And Will Be No Better Next Year.

Books Are Faithful Repositories, Which May Be Awhile Neglected Or Forgotten; But When They Are Opened Again, Will Again Impart Their Instruction: Memory, Once Interrupted, Is Not To Be Recalled. Written Learning Is A Fixed Luminary, Which, After The Cloud That Had Hidden It Has Passed Away, Is Again Bright In Its Proper Station. Tradition Is But A Meteor, Which, If Once It Falls, Cannot Be Rekindled.

Those Who Have No Power To Judge Of Past Times But By Their Own, Should Always Doubt Their Conclusions

No Man Is Much Regarded By The Rest Of The World. He That Considers How Little He Dwells Upon The Condition Of Others, Will Learn How Little The Attention Of Others Is Attracted By Himself. While We See Multitudes Passing Before Us, Of Whom Perhaps Not One Appears To Deserve Our Notice Or Excites Our Sympathy, We Should Remember, That We Likewise Are Lost In The Same Throng, That The Eye Which Happens To Glance Upon Us Is Turned In A Moment On Him That Follows Us, And That The Utmost Which We Can Reasonably Hope Or Fear Is To Fill A Vacant Hour With Prattle, And Be Forgotten.