The Whitewash'd Wall, The Nicely Sanded Floor,

It World Be Well Had We More Misers Than We Have Among Us.

We Seldom Speak Of The Virtue Which We Have, But Much Oftener Of That Which We Lack.

A French Woman Is A Perfect Architect In Dress: She Never, With Gothic Ignorance, Mixes The Orders; She Never Tricks Out A Snobby Doric Shape With Corinthian Finery; Or, To Speak Without Metaphor, She Conforms To General Fashion Only When It Happens Not To Be Repugnant To Private Beauty.

[t]here Are Depths Of Thousands Of Miles Which Are Hidden From Our Inquiry. The Only Tidings We Have From Those Unfathomable Regions Are By Means Of Volcanoes, Those Burning Mountains That Seem To Discharge Their Materials From The Lowest Abysses Of The Earth.

Eternal Blessings Crown My Earliest Friend, And Round His Dwelling Guardian Saints Attend.