All Censure Of A Man's Self Is

The Love Of Fame Is A Passion Natural And Universal, Which No Man, However High Or Mean, However Wise Or Ignorant, Was Yet Able To Despise.

We Have Always Pretensions To Fame Which, In Our Own Hearts, We Know To Be Disputable.

An Exotic And Irrational Entertainment.

Great Abilities Are Not Requisite For An Historian; For In Historical Composition, All The Greatest Powers Of The Human Mind Are Quiescent.

When A Friend Is Carried To His Grave, We At Once Find Excuses For Every Weakness, And Palliation Of Every Fault. We Recollect A Thousand Endearments, Which Before Glided Off Our Minds Without Impression, A Thousand Favors Unrepaid, A Thousand Duties Unperformed; And Wish, Vainly Wish, For His Return, Not So Much That We May Receive As That We May Bestow Happiness, And Recompense That Kindness Which Before We Never Understood.