Ignorance, Madam, Pure Ignorance.

Golf Is A Game In Which You Claim The Privileges Of Age, And Retain The Playthings Of Childhood.

Some Read For Style, And Some For Argument: One Has Little Care About The Sentiment, He Observes Only How It Is Expressed; Another Regards Not The Conclusion, But Is Diligent To Mark How It Is Inferred; They Read For Other Purposes Than The Attainment Of Practical Knowledge; And Are No More Likely To Grow Wise By An Examination Of A Treatise Of Moral Prudence, Than An Architect To Inflame His Devotion By Considering Attentively The Proportions Of A Temple.

By Writing, You Learn To Write.

In Traveling, A Man Must Carry Knowledge With Him, If He Would Bring Home Knowledge.

There Lurks, Perhaps, In Every Human Heart A Desire Of Distinction, Which Inclines Every Man First To Hope, And Then To Believe, That Nature Has Given Him Something Peculiar To Himself.