As Peace Is The End Of War,

No Man Reads A Book Of Science From Pure Inclination. The Books That We Do Read With Pleasure Are Light Compositions, Which Contain A Quick Succession Of Events.

The Botanist Looks Upon The Astronomer As A Being Unworthy Of His Regard; And He That Is Glowing Great And Happy By Electrifying A Bottle Wonders How The World Can Be Engaged By Trifling Prattle About War And Peace.

I Do Not Know, Sir, That The Fellow Is An Infidel; But If He Be An Infidel, He Is An Infidel As A Dog Is An Infidel; That Is To Say, He Has Never Thought Upon The Subject.

The Imaginations Excited By The View Of An Unknown And Untravelled Wilderness Are Not Such As Arise In The Artificial Solitude Of Parks And Gardens... The Phantoms Which Haunt A Desert Are Want, And Misery, And Danger; The Evils Of Dereliction Rush Upon The Thoughts; Man Is Made Unwillingly Acquainted With His Own Weakness, And Meditation Shows Him Only How Little He Can Sustain, And How Little He Can Perform.

He That Travels In Theory Has No Inconveniences.