Build Me Straight. O Worthy Master! Staunch

The Twilight That Surrounds The Border-land Of Old Romance.

The Love Of Learning, The Sequestered Nooks, And All The Sweet Serenity Of Books.

I Dislike An Eye That Twinkles Like A Star. Those Only Are Beautiful Which, Like The Planets, Have A Steady Lambent Light, Are Luminous, But Not Sparkling.

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.

Mercy More Becomes A Magistrate Than The Vindictive Wrath Which Men Call Justice.