Eloquence, When In Its Highest

Truth Is Disputable, Not Human Taste.

The Feelings Of Our Heart, The Agitation Of Our Passions, The Vehemence Of Our Affections, Dissipate All Its Conclusions, And Reduce The Profound Philosopher To A Mere Plebeian

There Is An Inconvenience Which Attends All Abstruse Reasoning. That It May Silence, Without Convincing An Antagonist, And Requires The Same Intense Study To Make Us Sensible Of Its Force, That Was At First Requisite For Its Invention. When We Leave Our Closet, And Engage In The Common Affairs Of Life, Its Conclusions Seem To Vanish, Like The Phantoms Of The Night On The Appearance Of The Morning; And 'tis Difficult For Us To Retain Even That Conviction, Which We Had Attain'd With Difficulty.

It Is With Books As With Women, Where A Certain Plainness Of Manner And Of Dress Is More Engaging Than That Glare Of Paint And Airs And Apparel Which May Dazzle The Eye, But Reaches Not The Affections.

The Great End Of All Human Industry Is The Attainment Of Happiness. For This Were Arts Invented, Sciences Cultivated, Laws Ordained, And Societies Modeled, By The Most Profound Wisdom Of Patriots And Legislators. Even The Lonely Savage, Who Lies Exposed To The Inclemency Of The Elements And The Fury Of Wild Beasts, Forgets Not, For A Moment, This Grand Object Of His Being.