Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.