Except During The Nine Months Before He

Many A Man Is Mad In Certain Instances, And Goes Through Life Without Having It Perceived. For Example, A Madness Has Seized A Person Of Supposing Himself Obliged Literally To Pray Continually; Had The Madness Turned The Opposite Way, And The Person Thought It A Crime Ever To Pray, It Might Not Improbably Have Continued Unobserved.

No Man Is Much Regarded By The Rest Of The World. He That Considers How Little He Dwells Upon The Condition Of Others, Will Learn How Little The Attention Of Others Is Attracted By Himself. While We See Multitudes Passing Before Us, Of Whom Perhaps Not One Appears To Deserve Our Notice Or Excites Our Sympathy, We Should Remember, That We Likewise Are Lost In The Same Throng, That The Eye Which Happens To Glance Upon Us Is Turned In A Moment On Him That Follows Us, And That The Utmost Which We Can Reasonably Hope Or Fear Is To Fill A Vacant Hour With Prattle, And Be Forgotten.

Nothing Detains The Reader's Attention More Powerfully Than Deep Involutions Of Distress, Or Sudden Vicissitudes Of Fortune; And These Might Be Abundantly Afforded By Memoirs Of The Sons Of Literature. They Are Entangled By Contracts Which They Know Not How To Fulfill, And Obliged To Write On Subjects Which They Do Not Understand. Every Publication Is A New Period Of Time, From Which Some Increase Or Declension Of Fame Is To Be Reckoned. The Gradations Of A Hero's Life Are From Battle To Battle, And Of An Author's From Book To Book.

Our Aspirations Are Our Possibilities.

Sleep Is A State In Which A Great Part Of Every Life Is Passed. No Animal Has Yet Been Discovered, Whose Existence Is Not Varied With Intervals Of Insensibility; And Some Late Philosophers Have Extended The Empire Of Sleep Over The Vegetable World.