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.

Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, let us be merciful as well as just

Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procreates turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

He looks the whole world in the face for he owes not any man.

And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.

Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.