Art Hath An Enemy Called Ignorance.

Officious, Innocent, Sincere, Of Every Friendless Name The Friend.

The Accidental Prescriptions Of Authority, When Time Has Procured Them Veneration, Are Often Confounded With The Laws Of Nature, And Those Rules Are Supposed Coeval With Reason, Of Which The First Rise Cannot Be Discovered.

No Place Affords A More Striking Conviction Of The Vanity Of Human Hopes Than A Public Library; For Who Can See The Wall Crowded On Every Side By Mighty Volumes, The Works Of Laborious Meditations And Accurate Inquiry, Now Scarcely Known But By The Catalogue.

No Mind Is Much Employed Upon The Present; Recollection And Anticipation Fill Up Almost All Our Moments.

There Is Certainly No Greater Happiness Than To Be Able To Look Back On A Life Usefully And Virtuously Employed, To Trace Our Own Progress In Existence, By Such Tokens As Excite Neither Shame Nor Sorrow.