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.

Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.

Each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs.

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

Look, then, into thine heart, and write!