Nothing Flatters A Man As Much As

Domestic Discord Is Not Inevitably And Fatally Necessary; But Yet It Is Not Easy To Avoid.

When A Language Begins To Teem With Books, It Is Tending To Refinement; As Those Who Undertake To Teach Others Must Have Undergone Some Labour In Improving Themselves, They Set A Proportionate Value On Their Own Thoughts, And Wish To Enforce Them By Efficacious Expressions; Speech Becomes Embodied And Permanent; Different Modes And Phrases Are Compared, And The Best Obtains An Establishment. By Degrees One Age Improves Upon Another.

False Taste Is Always Busy To Mislead Those That Are Entering Upon The Regions Of Learning; And The Traveller, Uncertain Of His Way, And Forsaken By The Sun, Will Be Pleased To See A Fainter Orb Arise On The Horizon, That May Rescue Him From Total Darkness, Though With Weak And Borrowed Lustre.

There Are Few Minds To Which Tyranny Is Not Delightful.

Books Are Faithful Repositories, Which May Be Awhile Neglected Or Forgotten; But When They Are Opened Again, Will Again Impart Their Instruction: Memory, Once Interrupted, Is Not To Be Recalled. Written Learning Is A Fixed Luminary, Which, After The Cloud That Had Hidden It Has Passed Away, Is Again Bright In Its Proper Station. Tradition Is But A Meteor, Which, If Once It Falls, Cannot Be Rekindled.