The End We Aim At Must Be

Gray Hairs Seem To My Fancy Like The Soft Light Of The Moon, Silvering Over The Evening Of Life.

It Has Been Jestingly Said That The Works Of John Paul Richter Are Almost Unintelligible To Any But The Germans, And Even To Some Of Them. A Worthy German, Just Before Richter's Death, Edited A Complete Edition Of His Works, In Which One Particular Passage Fairly Puzzled Him. Determined To Have It Explained At The Source, He Went To John Paul Himself. The Author's Reply Was Very Characteristic: "my Good Friend, When I Wrote That Passage, God And I Knew What It Meant; It Is Possible That God Knows It Still; But As For Me, I Have Totally Forgotten."

For The Infinite Has Sowed His Name In The Heavens In Burning Stars, But On The Earth He Has Sowed His Name In Tender Flowers.

In Science The New Is An Advance; But In Morals, As Contradicting Our Inner Ideals And Historic Idols, It Is Ever A Retrogression.

A Woman Who Could Always Love Would Never Grow Old; And The Love Of Mother And Wife Would Often Give Or Preserve Many Charms If It Were Not Too Often Combined With Parental And Conjugal Anger. There Remains In The Face Of Women Who Are Naturally Serene And Peaceful, And Of Those Rendered So By Religion, An After-spring, And Later An After-summer, The Reflex Of Their Most Beautiful Bloom.