There Is No Wisdom In Useless And

Among The Calamities Of War May Be Numbered The Diminution Of The Love Of Truth, By The Falsehoods Which Interest Dictates, And Credulity Encourages.

A Transition From An Author's Book To His Conversation Is Too Often Like An Entrance Into A Large City, After A Distant Prospect. Remotely, We See Nothing But Spires Of Temples And Turrets Of Palaces, And Imagine It The Residence Of Splendour, Grandeur, And Magnificence; But When We Have Passed The Gates, We Find It Perplexed With Narrow Passages, Disgraced With Despicable Cottages, Embarrassed With Obstructions, And Clouded With Smoke.

Indolence Is The Devil's Cushion.

Such Is The State Of Life, That None Are Happy But By The Anticipation Of Change: The Change Itself Is Nothing; When We Have Made It, The Next Wish Is To Change Again.

Of All The Grief's That Harass The Distressed; Sure The Most Bitter Is A Scornful Jest.