The stories of childhood leave an indelible impression, and their author always has a niche in the temple of memory from which the image is never cast out to be thrown on the rubbish heap of things that are outgrown and outlived.

What is done is done; and the cracked egg cannot be cured.

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.

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

So passed the seasons then, so they pass now, and so they will pass in time to come, while we come and go like leaves of the tree that fall and are soon forgotten.

He who jumps for the moon and gets it not leaps higher than he who stoops for a penny in the mud.

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