To A Poet Nothing Can Be Useless.

Every Man, However Hopeless His Pretensions May Appear, Has Some Project By Which He Hopes To Rise To Reputation; Some Art By Which He Imagines That The Attention Of The World Will Be Attracted; Some Quality, Good Or Bad, Which Discriminates Him From The Common Herd Of Mortals, And By Which Others May Be Persuaded To Love, Or Compelled To Fear Him.

Memory Is Like All Other Human Powers, With Which No Man Can Be Satisfied Who Measures Them By What He Can Conceive, Or By What He Can Desire.

I Remember A Passage In Goldsmith's "vicar Of Wakefield," Which He Was Afterwards Fool Enough To Expunge: "i Do Not Love A Man Who Is Zealous For Nothing.

We Have Less Reason To Be Surprised Or Offended When We Find Others Differ From Us In Opinion, Because We Very Often Differ From Ourselves.

Don't Think Of Retiring From The World Until The World Will Be Sorry That You Retire. I Hate A Fellow Whom Pride Or Cowardice Or Laziness Drive Into A Corner, And Who Does Nothing When He Is There But Sit And Growl. Let Him Come Out As I Do, And Bark.