These gems have life in them: their colors speak, say what words fail of.
The best travel is that which one can take by one's own fireside. In memory or imagination.
Those who trust us educate us.
But, bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope?
Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves.
Don't let us rejoice in punishment, even when the hand of God alone inflicts it. The best of us are but poor wretches, just saved from shipwreck. Can we feel anything but awe and pity when we see a fellow-passenger swallowed by the waves?