He Who Has Provoked The Shaft Of

Sir, If You Wish To Have A Just Notion Of The Magnitude Of This City, You Must Not Be Satisfied With Seeing Its Great Streets And Squares, But Must Survey The Innumerable Little Lanes And Courts. It Is Not In The Showy Evolutions Of Buildings, But In The Multiplicity Of Human Habitations Which Are Crowded Together, That The Wonderful Immensity Of London Consists.

Foppery Is Never Cured; It Is The Bad Stamina Of The Mind, Which, Like Those Of The Body, Are Never Rectified; Once A Coxcomb Always A Coxcomb.

An Italian Philosopher Said That "time Was His Estate"; An Estate Indeed Which Will Produce Nothing Without Cultivation, But Will Always Abundantly Repay The Labors Of Industry, And Generally Satisfy The Most Extensive Desires, If No Part Of It Be Suffered To Lie In Waste By Negligence, To Be Overrun With Noxious Plants, Or Laid Out For Show Rather Than For Use.

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.

Faction Seldom Leaves A Man Honest, However It Might Find Him.