If You Are Idle, Be Not Solitary;

In A Man's Letters You Know, Madam, His Soul Lies Naked, His Letters Are Only The Mirror Of His Breast, Whatever Passes Within Him Is Shown Undisguised In Its Natural Process. Nothing Is Inverted, Nothing Distorted, You See Systems In Their Elements, You Discover Actions In Their Motives.

I Remember A Passage In Goldsmith's "vicar Of Wakefield," Which He Was Afterwards Fool Enough To Expunge: "i Do Not Love A Man Who Is Zealous For Nothing.

All Discourse Of Which Others Cannot Partake Is Not Only An Irksome Usurpation Of The Time Devoted To Pleasure And Entertainment, But, What Never Fails To Excite Resentment, An Insolent Assertion Of Superiority, And A Triumph Over Less Enlightened Understandings. The Pedant Is, Therefore, Not Only Heard With Weariness But Malignity; And Those Who Conceive Themselves Insulted By His Knowledge Never Fail To Tell With Acrimony How Injudiciously It Was Exerted.

You Are Much Surer That You Are Doing Good When You Pay Money To Those Who Work, As The Recompense Of Their Labor, Than When You Give Money Merely In Charity.

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?