I Inherited A Vile Melancholy

Criticism, Though Dignified From The Earliest Ages By The Labours Of Men Eminent For Knowledge And Sagacity, Has Not Yet Attained The Certainty And Stability Of Science.

He That Condemns Himself To Compose On A Stated Day Will Often Bring To His Task Attention Dissipated, A Memory Embarrassed, An Imagination Overwhelmed, A Mind Distracted With Anxieties, A Body Languishing With Disease: He Will Labour On A Barren Topic Till It Is Too Late To Change It; Or, In The Ardour Of Invention, Diffuse His Thoughts Into Wild Exuberance, Which The Pressing Hour Of Publication Cannot Suffer Judgment To Examine Or Reduce.

When A Language Begins To Teem With Books, It Is Tending To Refinement; As Those Who Undertake To Teach Others Must Have Undergone Some Labour In Improving Themselves, They Set A Proportionate Value On Their Own Thoughts, And Wish To Enforce Them By Efficacious Expressions; Speech Becomes Embodied And Permanent; Different Modes And Phrases Are Compared, And The Best Obtains An Establishment. By Degrees One Age Improves Upon Another.

Where There Is No Difficulty There Is No Praise.

The Great End Of Prudence Is To Give Cheerfulness To Those Hours Which Splendour Cannot Gild, And Acclamation Cannot Exhilarate; Those Soft Intervals Of Unbended Amusement, In Which A Man Shrinks To His Natural Dimensions, And Throws Aside The Ornaments Or Disguises Which He Feels In Privacy To Be Useless Incumbrances, And To Lose All Effect When They Become Familiar. To Be Happy At Home Is The Ultimate Result Of All Ambition, The End To Which Every Enterprise And Labour Tends, And Of Which Every Desire Prompts The Prosecution.