grammar is generally left as its "aristocratic" writer penned it, in majestic incompleteness. The newspapers are full, not of thoughtful, honestly expressed public opinion on the affairs of the nation, but of vapid "personalities," interesting to none save gossips and busy-bodies. A lamentable lack of strength is apparent in the whole "tone" of modern Literature, together with a still more lamentable lack of wit. All topics, say the pessimists, are exhausted. The quarrels of politicians have exhausted earth,—the recriminations of the Churches have exhausted Heaven,—and the bold immoralities of society have, almost, if not quite, exhausted Hell. Yet the topic which holds in itself a great many of the pleasures of earth and heaven—with perhaps a touch of the other nameless place also, is still the Power of the Pen. It remains, even in these days, the greatest power for good or evil in the world. With the little instrument which rests so lightly in the hand, whole nations can be moved. It is nothing to look at; generally speaking it is a mere bit of wood with a nib at the end of it—but when it is poised between thumb and finger, it becomes a living thing—it moves with the pulsations of the loving heart and thinking brain, and writes down, almost unconsciously, the thoughts that live—the words that burn.
To the power of the Pen we owe our laws, our government, our civilization, our very religion. For without it we should have no Bible—no New Testament. Our histories, our classics, our philosophies, our poetry, would all be lost with their originators. We should not know that Julius Cæsar ever
