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 strength can never break it.&hellip; There are many paths, the goal is one. Some, they are happy, are called upon to struggle for truth and right in the sight of God and man, to endure the weariness, the burning heat of the noonday sun, until the evening's well-earned rest is won at length.&hellip; For a third class, whom the Almighty knows as less gifted to act, less fit to soothe the woes and cares of others, another fate is given. This is to pass through life in the vain longing for doing better things, in stagnant quietness when the soul's passion is action, their sacrifice is that of will, and they too have their reward, and enter at last into the end and consummation of all things—God."

Novels fifty years ago were very different to what they are at the present day. Then, writers were free to philosophise as they pleased, and to give forth their own ideas on human life and experience. But now, this would not be tolerated, readers want sensation, variety, movement:—and they would rebel against the long disquisitions that found favour in the fifties, and were, doubtless, copied carefully into the extract books of sentimental young ladies. Julia Kavanagh is specially fond of these reflections. From one in "Sybil's Second Love," which throws a sidelight on her own experience, we may quote the following:—

"What would make you happy now, might make