No One Is So Accursed By Fate,

I Feel A Kind Of Reverence For The First Books Of Young Authors. There Is So Much Aspiration In Them, So Much Audacious Hope And Trembling Fear, So Much Of The Heart's History, That All Errors And Shortcomings Are For A While Lost Sight Of In The Amiable Self Assertion Of Youth.

Thus Departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha The Beloved, In The Glory Of The Sunset, In The Purple Mists Of Evening, To The Regions Of The Home-wind, Of The Northwest-wind, Keewaydin, To The Islands Of The Blessed, To The Kingdom Of Ponemah, To The Land Of The Hereafter!

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

From Dust Thou Art To Dust Returneth, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.

No Literature Is Complete Until The Language It Was Written In Is Dead.