In The Motive Lies The Good Or

He That Outlives A Wife Whom He Has Long Loved, Sees Himself Disjoined From The Only Mind That Has The Same Hopes, And Fears, And Interest; From The Only Companion With Whom He Has Shared Much Good And Evil; And With Whom He Could Set His Mind At Liberty, To Retrace The Past Or Anticipate The Future. The Continuity Of Being Is Lacerated; The Settled Course Of Sentiment And Action Is Stopped; And Life Stands Suspended And Motionless.

There Lurks, Perhaps, In Every Human Heart A Desire Of Distinction, Which Inclines Every Man First To Hope, And Then To Believe, That Nature Has Given Him Something Peculiar To Himself.

Genius Now And Then Produces A Lucky Trifle. We Still Read The Dove Of Anacreon, And Sparrow Of Catullus; And A Writer Naturally Pleases Himself With A Performance Which Owes Nothing To The Subject.

Wise Married Women Don't Trouble Themselves About Infidelity In Their Husbands.

Of All Kinds Of Credulity, The Most Obstinate Is That Of Party-spirit; Of Men, Who, Being Numbered, They Know Not Why, In Any Party, Resign The Use Of Their Own Eyes And Ears, And Resolve To Believe Nothing That Does Not Favor Those Whom They Profess To Follow.