As The Faculty Of Writing Has Chiefly

We Are Perpetually Moralists, But We Are Geometricians Only By Chance. Our Intercourse With Intellectual Nature Is Necessary; Our Speculations Upon Matter Are Voluntary, And At Leisure.

There Is Scarcely Any Writer Who Has Not Celebrated The Happiness Of Rural Privacy, And Delighted Himself And His Reader With The Melody Of Birds, The Whisper Of Groves, And The Murmur Of Rivulets.

Extended Empires Are Like Expanded Gold, Exchanging Solid Strength For Feeble Splendor.

A Blade Of Grass Is Always A Blade Of Grass, Whether In One Country Or Another.

Self-love Is A Busy Prompter.