Mutual Cowardice Keeps Us In Peace.

It Is Easy For A Man Who Sits Idle At Home, And Has Nobody To Please But Himself, To Ridicule Or Censure The Common Practices Of Mankind.

The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked By Violence Together.

Many Causes May Vitiate A Writer's Judgement Of His Own Works. On That Which Has Cost Him Much Labour He Sets A High Value, Because He Is Unwilling To Think That He Has Been Diligent In Vain: What Has Been Produced Without Toilsome Efforts Is Considered With Delight As A Proof Of Vigorous Faculties And Fertile Invention; And The Last Work, Whatever It Be, Has Necessarily Most Of The Grace Of Novelty.

Every Man May Be Observed To Have A Certain Strain Of Lamentation, Some Peculiar Theme Of Complaint On Which He Dwells In His Moments Of Dejection.

Was There Ever Yet Anything Written By Mere Man That Was Wished Longer By Its Readers, Excepting Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, And The Pilgrim's Progress?