Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?

Childhood, whose very happiness is love.

Hopes and regrets are the sweetest links of existence.

Every other species of talent carries with it its eternity; we enjoy the work of the poet, the painter, the sculptor, only as thousands will do after us; but the actor - his memory is with his generation, and that passes away.

Truly, a little love-making is a very pleasant thing.

A preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author, like a lover, is privileged to be egotistical.

There is a large stock on hand; but somehow or other, nobody's experience ever suits us but our own.