Error Is Always Talkative.

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.

Modesty Seldom Resides In A Breast That Is Not Enriched With Nobler Virtues.

Near Yonder Copse, Where Once The Garden Smil'd, And Still Where Many A Garden Flower Grows Wild, There, Where A Few Torn Shrubs The Place Disclose, The Village Preacher's Modest Mansion Rose. A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year; Remote From Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.

He Who Fights And Runs Away May Live To Fight Another Day.

We May Affirm Of Mr. Buffon, That Which Has Been Said Of The Chemists Of Old; Though He May Have Failed In Attaining His Principal Aim, Of Establishing A Theory, Yet He Has Brought Together Such A Multitude Of Facts Relative To The History Of The Earth, And The Nature Of Its Fossil Productions, That Curiosity Finds Ample Compensation, Even While It Feels The Want Of Conviction.