To Live Without Feeling Or Exciting Sympathy,

The True Art Of Memory Is The Art Of Attention.

He That Outlives A Wife Whom He Has Long Loved, Sees Himself Disjoined From The Only Mind That Has The Same Hopes, And Fears, And Interest; From The Only Companion With Whom He Has Shared Much Good And Evil; And With Whom He Could Set His Mind At Liberty, To Retrace The Past Or Anticipate The Future. The Continuity Of Being Is Lacerated; The Settled Course Of Sentiment And Action Is Stopped; And Life Stands Suspended And Motionless.

It Is True That Of Far The Greater Part Of Things, We Must Content Ourselves With Such Knowledge As Description May Exhibit, Or Analogy Supply; But It Is True Likewise, That These Ideas Are Always Incomplete, And That At Least, Till We Have Compared Them With Realities, We Do Not Know Them To Be Just. As We See More, We Become Possessed Of More Certainties, And Consequently Gain More Principles Of Reasoning, And Found A Wider Base Of Analogy.

In The Condition Of Men, It Frequently Happens That Grief And Anxiety Lie Hid Under The Golden Robes Of Prosperity; And The Gloom Of Calamity Is Cheered By Secret Radiations Of Hope And Comfort; As In The Works Of Nature, The Bog Is Sometimes Covered With Flowers, And The Mine Concealed In The Barren Crags.

Power Is Gradually Stealing Away From The Many To The Few, Because The Few Are More Vigilant And Consistent.