A Fishing Rod Is A Stick With

A Man, Doubtful Of His Dinner, Or Trembling At A Creditor, Is Not Much Disposed To Abstracted Meditation, Or Remote Enquiries.

Every Man That Has Felt Pain Knows How Little All Other Comforts Can Gladden Him To Whom Health Is Denied. Yet Who Is There Does Not Sometimes Hazard It For The Enjoyment Of An Hour?

The Roads Of Science Are Narrow, So That They Who Travel Them, Must Wither Follow Or Meet One Another.

Knock The 't' Off The 'can't.'

Was There Ever Yet Anything Written By Mere Man That Was Wished Longer By Its Readers, Excepting Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, And The Pilgrim's Progress?