Ignorance, When It Is Voluntary, Is Criminal.

A Writer Only Begins A Book. A Reader Finishes It.

To Expect That The Intricacies Of Science Will Be Pierced By A Careless Glance, Or The Eminences Of Fame Ascended Without Labour, Is To Expect A Peculiar Privilege, A Power Denied To The Rest Of Mankind; But To Suppose That The Maze Is Inscrutable To Diligence, Or The Heights Inaccessible To Perseverance, Is To Submit Tamely To The Tyranny Of Fancy, And Enchain The Mind In Voluntary Shackles.

No Wise Man Will Go To Live In The Country, Unless He Has Something To Do Which Can Be Better Done In The Country. For Instance, If He Is To Shut Himself Up For A Year To Study Science, It Is Better To Look Out To The Fields, Than To An Opposite Wall. Then, If A Man Walks Out In The Country, There Is Nobody To Keep Him From Walking In Again: But If A Man Walks Out In London, He Is Not Sure When He Will Walk In Again. A Great City Is, To Be Sure, The School For Studying Life.

Sorrow Is Properly That State Of The Mind In Which Our Desires Are Fixed Upon The Past Without Looking Forward To The Future.

That Is The Happiest Conversation Where There Is No Competition, No Vanity, But A Calm, Quiet Interchange Of Sentiments...