Language Is The Dress Of Thought.

It Ought To Be The First Endeavour Of A Writer To Distinguish Nature From Custom; Or That Which Is Established Because It Is Right, From That Which Is Right Only Because It Is Established; That He May Neither Violate Essential Principles By A Desire Of Novelty, Nor Debar Himself From The Attainment Of Beauties Within His View, By A Needless Fear Of Breaking Rules Which No Literary Dictator Had Authority To Enact.

Spring Is The Season Of Gaiety, And Winter Of Terror; In Spring The Heart Of Tranquility Dances To The Melody Of The Groves, And The Eye Of Benevolence Sparkles At The Sight Of Happiness And Plenty: In Winter, Compassion Melts At Universal Calamity, And The Tear Of Softness Starts At The Wailing Of Hunger And The Cries Of The Creation In Distress

The Wretched Have No Compassion, They Can Do Good Only From Strong Principles Of Duty.

No Wise Man Will Go To Live In The Country, Unless He Has Something To Do Which Can Be Better Done In The Country. For Instance, If He Is To Shut Himself Up For A Year To Study Science, It Is Better To Look Out To The Fields, Than To An Opposite Wall. Then, If A Man Walks Out In The Country, There Is Nobody To Keep Him From Walking In Again: But If A Man Walks Out In London, He Is Not Sure When He Will Walk In Again. A Great City Is, To Be Sure, The School For Studying Life.

Such Is The Uncertainty Of Human Affairs, That Security And Despair Are Equal Follies; And As It Is Presumption And Arrogance To Anticipate Triumphs, It Is Weakness And Cowardice To Prog-nosticate Miscarriages.