The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.

It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

The heart, like the mind, has a memory. And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.

Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood.