The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

Nothing with God can be accidental.

Man is always more than he can know of himself; consequently, his accomplishments, time and again, will come as a surprise to him.

I love thee, as the good love heaven.

Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon, In the round-tower of my heart, And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in the dust away!

Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.