I Think There Is A Blossom About

Writing A Book I Have Found To Be Like Building A House. A Man Forms A Plan, And Collects Materials. He Thinks He Has Enough To Raise A Large And Stately Edifice; But After He Has Arranged, Compacted And Polished, His Work Turns Out To Be A Very Small Performance. The Authour However Like The Builder, Knows How Much Labour His Work Has Cost Him; And Therefore Estimates It At A Higher Rate Than Other People Think It Deserves

He Had No Settled Plan Of Life, Nor Looked Forward At All, But Merely Lived From Day To Day. Yet He Read A Great Deal In A Desultory Manner, Without Any Scheme Of Study, As Chance Threw Books In His Way, And Inclination Directed Him Through Them.

Many Infidels Have Maintained That Ignorance Is The Mother Of Devotion.

In Every Place, Where There Is Any Thing Worthy Of Observation, There Should Be A Short Printed Directory For Strangers.

Buffon, Who, With All His Theoretical Ingenuity And Extraordinary Eloquence, I Suspect Had Little Actual Information In The Science On Which He Wrote So Admirably For Instance, He Tells Us That The Cow Sheds Her Horns Every Two Years; A Most Palpable Error. ... It Is Wonderful That Buffon Who Lived So Much In The Country At His Noble Seat Should Have Fallen Into Such A Blunder I Suppose He Has Confounded The Cow With The Deer.