A Writer Only Begins A Book. A

Still We Love The Evil We Do, Until We Suffer It.

Criticism, Though Dignified From The Earliest Ages By The Labours Of Men Eminent For Knowledge And Sagacity, Has Not Yet Attained The Certainty And Stability Of Science.

The Gloomy And The Resentful Are Always Found Among Those Who Have Nothing To Do Or Who Do Nothing.

It Is Very Natural For Young Men To Be Vehement, Acrimonious And Severe. For As They Seldom Comprehend At Once All The Consequences Of A Position, Or Perceive The Difficulties By Which Cooler And More Experienced Reasoners Are Restrained From Confidence, They Form Their Conclusions With Great Precipitance. Seeing Nothing That Can Darken Or Embarrass The Question, They Expect To Find Their Own Opinion Universally Prevalent, And Are Inclined To Impute Uncertainty And Hesitation To Want Of Honesty, Rather Than Of Knowledge.

Critics Ought Never To Be Consulted, But While Errors May Yet Be Rectified Or Insipidity Suppressed. But When The Book Has Once Been Dismissed Into The World, And Can Be No More Retouched, I Know Not Whether A Very Different Conduct Should Not Be Prescribed, And Whether Firmness And Spirit May Not Sometimes Be Of Use To Overpower Arrogance And Repel Brutality.