A Man Never Speaks Of Himself Without

Difficulty Is A Coin The Learned Make Use Of Like Jugglers, To Conceal The Inanity Of Their Art.

We Commend A Horse For His Strength, And Sureness Of Foot, And Not For His Rich Caparisons; A Greyhound For His Share Of Heels, Not For His Fine Collar; A Hawk For Her Wing, Not For Her Jesses And Bells. Why, In Like Manner, Do We Not Value A Man For What Is Properly His Own? He Has A Great Train, A Beautiful Palace, So Much Credit, So Many Thousand Pounds A Year, And All These Are About Him, But Not In Him.

I Agree That We Should Work And Prolong The Functions Of Life As Far As We Can, And Hope That Death May Find Me Planting My Cabbages, But Indifferent To Him And Still More To The Unfinished State Of My Garden.

To Call Out For The Hand Of The Enemy Is A Rather Extreme Measure, Yet A Better One, I Think, Than To Remain In Continual Fever Over An Accident That Has No Remedy. But Since All The Precautions That A Man Can Take Are Full Of Uneasiness And Uncertainty, It Is Better To Prepare With Fine Assurance For The Worst That Can Happen, And Derive Some Consolation From The Fact That We Are Not Sure That It Will Happen.

We Only Labor To Stuff The Memory, And Leave The Conscience And The Understanding Unfurnished And Void.