A Transition From An Author's Book To

Our Minds, Like Our Bodies, Are In Continual Flux; Something Is Hourly Lost, And Something Acquired.... Do Not Suffer Life To Stagnate; It Will Grow Muddy For Want Of Motion: Commit Yourself Again To The Current Of The World.

There Are Few So Free From Vanity As Not To Dictate To Those Who Will Hear Their Instructions With A Visible Sense Of Their Own Beneficence.

...a Common Observation, That Few Are Mended By Imprisonment, And That He, Whose Crimes Have Made Confinement Necessary, Seldom Makes Any Other Use Of His Enlargement, Than To Do, With Greater Cunning, What He Did Before With Less.

Solitude Is The Surest Nurse Of All Prurient Passions, And A Girl In The Hurry Of Preparation, Or Tumult Of Gaiety, Has Neither Inclination Nor Leisure To Let Tender Expressions Soften Or Sink Into Her Heart. The Ball, The Show, Are Not The Dangerous Places: No, 'tis The Private Friend, The Kind Consoler, The Companion Of The Easy Vacant Hour, Whose Compliance With Her Opinions Can Flatter Her Vanity, And Whose Conversation Can Sooth, Without Ever Stretching Her Mind, That Is The Lover To Be Feared: He Who Buzzes In Her Ear At Court, Or At The Opera, Must Be Contented To Buzz In Vain.

He That Compares What He Has Done With What He Has Left Undone, Will Feel The Effect Which Must Always Follow The Comparison Of Imagination With Reality; He Will Look With Contempt On His Own Unimportance, And Wonder To What Purpose He Came Into The World; He Will Repine That He Shall Leave Behind Him No Evidence Of His Having Been, That He Has Added Nothing To The System Of Life, But Has Glided From Youth To Age Among The Crowd, Without Any Effort For Distinction.