Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.

A man gazing at the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles in the road.

Fine phrases I value more than bank-notes. I have ear for no other harmony than the harmony of words. To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.

Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.

The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.

Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps.