Nations, Like Individuals, Interest Us In Their

No Good Writer Was Ever Long Neglected; No Great Man Overlooked By Men Equally Great. Impatience Is A Proof Of Inferior Strength, And A Destroyer Of What Little There May Be.

Let Me Take Up Your Metaphor. Friendship Is A Vase, Which, When It Is Flawed By Heat Or Violence Or Accident, May As Well Be Broken At Once; It Can Never Be Trusted After. The More Graceful And Ornamental It Was, The More Clearly Do We Discern The Hopelessness Of Restoring It To Its Former State. Coarse Stones, If They Are Fractured, May Be Cemented Again; Precious Stones, Never.

If There Were No Falsehood In The World, There Would Be No Doubt, If There Were No Doubt, There Would Be No Inquiry; If No Inquiry, No Wisdom, No Knowledge, No Genius; And Fancy Herself Would Lie Muffled Up In Her Robe, Inactive, Pale, And Bloated.

There Is A Desire Of Property In The Sanest And Best Men, Which Nature Seems To Have Implanted As Conservative Of Her Works, And Which Is Necessary To Encourage And Keep Alive The Arts.

Democracy Is Always The Work Of Kings. Ashes, Which In Themselves Are Sterile, Fertilize The Land They Are Cast Upon.