Much May Be Made Of A Scotchman,

There Is Less Flogging In Our Great Schools Than Formerly-but Then Less Is Learned There; So What The Boys Get At One End They Lose At The Other.

There Is No Temper More Unpropitious To Interest Than Desultory Application And Unlimited Inquiry, By Which The Desires Are Held In A Perpetual Equipoise, And The Mind Fluctuates Between Different Purposes Without Determination.

When A Friend Is Carried To His Grave, We At Once Find Excuses For Every Weakness, And Palliation Of Every Fault. We Recollect A Thousand Endearments, Which Before Glided Off Our Minds Without Impression, A Thousand Favors Unrepaid, A Thousand Duties Unperformed; And Wish, Vainly Wish, For His Return, Not So Much That We May Receive As That We May Bestow Happiness, And Recompense That Kindness Which Before We Never Understood.

The Hapless Wit Has His Labors Always To Begin, The Call For Novelty Is Never Satisfied, And One Jest Only Raises Expectation Of Another.

We Have Always Pretensions To Fame Which, In Our Own Hearts, We Know To Be Disputable.