"Go to--I will not hear of it.

To-morrow! 'tis a sharper who stakes his penury against thy plenty--who takes thy ready cash and pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and promises, the currency of idiots.

_To-morrow_! it is a period nowhere to be found in all the hoary registers of time, unless perchance in the fool's calendar.

Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society with those that own it.

'Tis fancy's child, and folly is its father; wrought of such stuffs as dreams are; and baseless as the fantastic visions of the evening." Oh, how many a wreck on the road to success could say: "I have spent all my life in pursuit of to-morrow, being assured that to-morrow has some vast benefit or other in store for me." "But his resolutions remained unshaken," Charles Reade continues in his story of Noah Skinner, the defaulting clerk, who had been overcome by a sleepy languor after deciding to make restitution; "by and by, waking up from a sort of heavy doze, he took, as it were, a last look at the receipts, and murmured, 'My head, how heavy it feels!' But presently he roused himself, full of his penitent resolutions, and murmured again, brokenly, 'I'll take it to--Pembroke--Street to--morrow; to--morrow.' The morrow found him, and so did the detectives, dead." "To-morrow." It is the devil's motto.