All History Was At First Oral.

It Is In Refinement And Elegance That The Civilized Man Differs From The Savage.

He That Reads And Grows No Wiser Seldom Suspects His Own Deficiency, But Complains Of Hard Words And Obscure Sentences, And Asks Why Books Are Written Which Cannot Be Understood.

Sorrow Is A Kind Of Rust Of The Soul, Which Every New Idea Contributes In Its Passage To Scour Away. It Is The Putrefaction Of Stagnant Life, And Is Remedied By Exercise And Motion.

There Is Certainly No Greater Happiness Than To Be Able To Look Back On A Life Usefully And Virtuously Employed, To Trace Our Own Progress In Existence, By Such Tokens As Excite Neither Shame Nor Sorrow.

Politeness Is Fictitious Benevolence. Depend Upon It, The Want Of It Never Fails To Produce Something Disagreeable To One Or Other.