It is a characteristic of pleasure that we can never recognize it to be pleasure till after it is gone.

How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.

There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.

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

One never hugs one's good luck so affectionately as when listening to the relation of some horrible misfortunes which has overtaken others.

Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.

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.