Happiness, Or Misery, Is In The Mind.

It Is No Small Mischief To A Boy, That Many Of The Best Years Of His Life Should Be Devoted To The Learning Of What Can Never Be Of Any Real Use To Any Human Being. His Mind Is Necessarily Rendered Frivolous And Superficial By The Long Habit Of Attaching Importance To Words Instead Of Things; To Sound Instead Of Sense.

But I Do Not Remember Ever Having Seen A Newspaper In The House; And, Most Certainly, That Privation Did Not Render Us Less Industrious, Happy, Or Free.

It Is Not The Greatness Of A Man's Means That Makes Him Independent, So Much As The Smallness Of His Wants.

Having Still In My Recollection So Many Excellent Men, To Whose Grandfathers, Upon The Same Spots, My Grandfather Had Yielded Cheerful Obedience And Reverence, It Is Not Without Sincere Sorrow That I Have Beheld Many Of The Sons Of These Men Driven From Their Fathers' Mansions, Or Holding Them As Little Better Than Tenants Or Stewards, While The Swarms Of Placemen, Pensioners, Contractors, And Nabobs... Have Usurped A Large Part Of The Soil.

I Defy You To Agitate Any Fellow With A Full Stomach.