There Is A Time When

The Perfection Of Conversation Is Not To Play A Regular Sonata, But, Like The Aeolian Harp, To Await The Inspiration Of The Passing Breeze.

Between Craft And Credulity, The Voice Of Reason Is Stifled.

To Speak Of Atrocious Crime In Mild Language Is Treason To Virtue.

Nothing Turns Out To Be So Oppressive And Unjust As A Feeble Government.

For There Is In Mankind An Unfortunate Propensity To Make Themselves, Their Views And Their Works, The Measure Of Excellence In Every Thing Whatsoever