The Finest Landscape In The

Genius Now And Then Produces A Lucky Trifle. We Still Read The Dove Of Anacreon, And Sparrow Of Catullus; And A Writer Naturally Pleases Himself With A Performance Which Owes Nothing To The Subject.

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.

I Will Be Conquered; I Will Not Capitulate.

To Read, Write, And Converse In Due Proportions, Is, Therefore, The Business Of A Man Of Letters.

To Grieve For Evils Is Often Wrong; But It Is Much More Wrong To Grieve Without Them. All Sorrow That Lasts Longer Than Its Cause Is Morbid, And Should Be Shaken Off As An Attack Of Melancholy, As The Forerunner Of A Greater Evil Than Poverty Or Pain.