Fears Of The Brave And Follies Of

I Have Often Thought That There Has Rarely Passed A Life Of Which A Judicious And Faithful Narrative Would Not Be Useful; For Not Only Every Man Has, In The Mighty Mass Of The World, Great Numbers In The Same Condition With Himself, To Whom His Mistakes And Miscarriages, Escapes And Expedients, Would Be Of Immediate And Apparent Use; But There Is Such A Uniformity In The State Of Man, Considered Apart From Adventitious And Separable Decorations And Disguises, That There Is Scarce Any Possibility Of Good Or Ill But Is Common To Human Kind.

No Man Can Fall Into Contempt But Those Who Deserve It.

As Peace Is The End Of War, So To Be Idle Is The Ultimate Purpose Of The Busy.

In A Time Of War The Nation Is Always Of One Mind, Eager To Hear Something Good Of Themselves And Ill Of The Enemy. At This Time The Task Of The News-writer Is Easy; They Have Nothing To Do But To Tell That A Battle Is Expected, And Afterwards That A Battle Has Been Fought, In Which We And Our Friends, Whether Conquering Or Conquered, Did All, And Our Enemies Did Nothing.

He That Outlives A Wife Whom He Has Long Loved, Sees Himself Disjoined From The Only Mind That Has The Same Hopes, And Fears, And Interest; From The Only Companion With Whom He Has Shared Much Good And Evil; And With Whom He Could Set His Mind At Liberty, To Retrace The Past Or Anticipate The Future. The Continuity Of Being Is Lacerated; The Settled Course Of Sentiment And Action Is Stopped; And Life Stands Suspended And Motionless.