At Seventy-seven It Is Time To Be

Nay, Sir, Those Who Write In Them, Write Well, In Order To Be Paid Well.

Human Experience, Which Is Constantly Contradicting Theory, Is The Great Test Of Truth. A System, Built Upon The Discoveries Of A Great Many Minds, Is Always Of More Strength, Than What Is Produced By The Mere Workings Of Any One Mind, Which, Of Itself, Can Do Very Little. There Is Not So Poor A Book In The World That Would Not Be A Prodigious Effort Were It Wrought Out Entirely By A Single Mind, Without The Aid Of Prior Investigators.

Good Sense Alone Is A Sedate And Quiescent Quality, Which Manages Its Possessions Well, But Does Not Increase Them; It Collects Few Materials For Its Own Operations, And Preserves Safety, But Never Gains Supremacy.

The Greatest Human Virtue Bears No Proportion To Human Vanity. We Always Think Ourselves Better Than We Are, And Are Generally Desirous That Others Should Think Us Still Better Than We Think Ourselves. To Praise Us For Actions Or Dispositions Which Deserve Praise Is Not To Confer A Benefit, But To Pay A Tribute. We Have Always Pretensions To Fame Which, In Our Own Hearts, We Know To Be Disputable, And Which We Are Desirous To Strengthen By A New Suffrage; We Have Always Hopes Which We Suspect To Be Fallacious, And Of Which We Eagerly Snatch At Every Confirmation.

I Had Done All That I Could, And No Man Is Well Pleased To Have His All Neglected, Be It Ever So Little.