(H)ope, be it never so faint, bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that costeth but a groat.

It doth make a man better,' quoth Robin Hood, 'to bear of those noble men so long ago. When one doth list to such tales, his soul doth say, 'put by thy poor little likings and seek to do likewise.' Truly, one may not do as nobly one's self, but in the striving one is better.

You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath not to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you.

Will you come with me, sweet Reader? I thank you. Give me your hand.

An I must drink sour ale, I must, but never have I yielded me to man before, and that without wound or mark upon my body. Nor, when I bethink me, will I yield now.

(H)ope, be it never so faint, bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that costeth but a groat.

For ages past the Genius of Literature and the Genius of Art have walked together hand in hand. For the Goddess of letters is blind, and only she of Art can lend her sight.