Ignorance, Madam, Pure Ignorance.

At Seventy-seven It Is Time To Be In Earnest.

The Mind Is Refrigerated By Interruption; The Thoughts Are Diverted From The Principle Subject; The Reader Is Weary, He Suspects Not Why; And At Last Throws Away The Book, Which He Has Too Diligently Studied.

The Whole Power Of Cunning Is Privative; To Say Nothing, And To Do Nothing , Is The Utmost Of Its Reach. Yet Men, Thus Narrow By Nature And Mean By Art, Are Sometimes Able To Rise By The Miscarriages Of Bravery And The Openness Of Integrity, And, Watching Failures And Snatching Opportunities, Obtain Advantages Which Belong To Higher Characters.

When A Poet Mentions The Spring, We Know That The Zephyrs Are About To Whisper, That The Groves Are To Recover Their Verdure, The Linnets To Warble Forth Their Notes Of Love, And The Flocks And Herds To Frisk Over Vales Painted With Flowers: Yet, Who Is There So Insensible Of The Beauties Of Nature, So Little Delighted With The Renovation Of The World, As Not To Feel His Heart Bound At The Mention Of The Spring?

Where No Man Thinks Himself Under Any Obligation To Submit To Another, And, Instead Of Co-operating In One Great Scheme, Every One Hastens Through By-paths To Private Profit, No Great Change Can Suddenly Be Made; Nor Is Superior Knowledge Of Much Effect, Where Every Man Resolves To Use His Own Eyes And His Own Judgment, And Every One Applauds His Own Dexterity And Diligence, In Proportion As He Becomes Rich Sooner Than His Neighbour.