TO presume to multiply books in this day of excellent
writers and learned book-makers is a rash thing per¬
haps for a novice. It may even be a presumption that shall
be met by the production itself being driven from the market
by the keen, searching criticism of not only the reviewers,
but less noted objectors. And yet there are books that
meet a ready sale because they seem like " Ishmaelites "—
against everybody and everybody against them. Whether
this work shall ever accomplish the design of the author
may not at all be determined by its sale. While I hope to
secure some pecuniary gain that I may accompany it with
a companion illustrating what our women have done, yet
by no means do I send it forth with the sordid idea of
gain. I would rather it would do some good than make
a single dollar, and I echo the wish of " Abou Ben Adhem,"
in that sweet poem of that name, written by Leigh Hunt.
The angel was writing at the table, in his vision,
The names of those who love the Lord.
Abou wanted to know if his was there—and the angel said
"No." Said Abou,
I pray thee, then, write me as one that loves his fellow-men.