Blessed be the God's voice; for it is true, and falsehoods have to cease before it!

All greatness is unconscious, or it is little and naught.

The work an unknown good man has done is like a vein of water flowing hidden underground, secretly making the ground green.

Writing is a dreadful labor, yet not so dreadful as Idleness.

I had a lifelong quarrel with God, but in the end we made up.

Considering the multitude of mortals that handle the pen in these days, and can mostly spell, and write without glaring violations of grammar, the question naturally arises: How is it, then, that no work proceeds from them, bearing any stamp of authenticity and permanence; of worth for more than one day?

Alas! we know that ideals can never be completely embodied in practice. Ideals must ever lie a great way off--and we will thankfully content ourselves with any not intolerable approximation thereto! Let no man, as Schiller says, too querulously "measure by a scale of perfection the meager product of reality" in this poor world of ours.