Truth Allows No Choice.

The Appearance And Retirement Of Actors Are The Great Events Of The Theatrical World; And Their First Performances Fill The Pit With Conjecture And Prognostication, As The First Actions Of A New Monarch Agitate Nations With Hope And Fear.

When A Poet Mentions The Spring, We Know That The Zephyrs Are About To Whisper, That The Groves Are To Recover Their Verdure, The Linnets To Warble Forth Their Notes Of Love, And The Flocks And Herds To Frisk Over Vales Painted With Flowers: Yet, Who Is There So Insensible Of The Beauties Of Nature, So Little Delighted With The Renovation Of The World, As Not To Feel His Heart Bound At The Mention Of The Spring?

It Is As Bad As Bad Can Be: It Is Ill-fed, Ill-killed, Ill-kept, And Ill-drest.

To Expect That The Intricacies Of Science Will Be Pierced By A Careless Glance, Or The Eminences Of Fame Ascended Without Labour, Is To Expect A Peculiar Privilege, A Power Denied To The Rest Of Mankind; But To Suppose That The Maze Is Inscrutable To Diligence, Or The Heights Inaccessible To Perseverance, Is To Submit Tamely To The Tyranny Of Fancy, And Enchain The Mind In Voluntary Shackles.

Reason Will By Degrees Submit To Absurdity, As The Eye Is In Time Accommodated To Darkness.