An Exotic And Irrational Entertainment.

Corneille Is To Shakespeare As A Clipped Hedge Is To A Forest.

If, Sir, Men Were All Virtuous, I Should With Great Alacrity Teach Them All To Fly. But What Would Be The Security Of The Good If The Bad Could At Pleasure Invade Them From The Sky? Against An Army Sailing Through The Clouds Neither Wall, Nor Mountains, Nor Seas Could Afford Any Security.

Books Are Faithful Repositories, Which May Be Awhile Neglected Or Forgotten; But When They Are Opened Again, Will Again Impart Their Instruction: Memory, Once Interrupted, Is Not To Be Recalled. Written Learning Is A Fixed Luminary, Which, After The Cloud That Had Hidden It Has Passed Away, Is Again Bright In Its Proper Station. Tradition Is But A Meteor, Which, If Once It Falls, Cannot Be Rekindled.

It Is The Great Privilege Of Poverty To Be Happy Unenvied, To Be Healthful Without Physic, And Secure Without A Guard; To Obtain From The Bounty Of Nature, What The Great And Wealthy Are Compelled To Procure By The Help Of Artists And Attendants, Of Flatterers And Spies.

Nothing Has So Exposed Men Of Learning To Contempt And Ridicule As Their Ignorance Of Things Which Are Known To All But Themselves. Those Who Have Been Taught To Consider The Institutions Of The Schools As Giving The Last Perfection To Human Abilities Are Surprised To See Men Wrinkled With Study, Yet Wanting To Be Instructed In The Minute Circumstances Of Propriety, Or The Necessary Form Of Daily Transaction; And Quickly Shake Off Their Reverence For Modes Of Education Which They Find To Produce No Ability Above The Rest Of Mankind.