A Writer Who Obtains His Full Purpose

Those Who Have Past Much Of Their Lives In This Great City, Look Upon Its Opulence And Its Multitudes, Its Extent And Variety, With Cold Indifference; But An Inhabitant Of The Remoter Parts Of The Kingdom Is Immediately Distinguished By A Kind Of Dissipated Curiosity, A Busy Endeavour To Divide His Attention Amongst A Thousand Objects, And A Wild Confusion Of Astonishment And Alarm.

So Scanty Is Our Present Allowance Of Happiness That In Many Situations Life Could Scarcely Be Supported If Hope Were Not Allowed To Relieve The Present Hour By Pleasures Borrowed From The Future.

I Will Be Conquered; I Will Not Capitulate.

The Prospect Of Penury In Age Is So Gloomy And Terrifying That Every Man Who Looks Before Him Must Resolve To Avoid It; And It Must Be Avoided Generally By The Science Of Sparing.

Yet It Is Necessary To Hope, Though Hope Should Always Be Deluded; For Hope Itself Is Happiness, And Its Frustrations, However Frequent, Are Yet Less Dreadsul Than Its Extinction.