It is seldom that the imagination is disappointed in the 'ancestral piles' of England.

The grief of childhood is terrible while it lasts, it is so abandoned and so all-possessing.

No matter how hard a man may labor, some woman is always in the background of his mind. She is the one reward of virtue.

We never care to know new people unless we are sure we shall like them.

... France is the genius among nations.

It took me some time to learn that although every one secretly cherishes the ambition to be 'put in a book,' no one is ever satisfied with anything save incense, butter, and honey, unrelieved by salt or spice.

genius must ever be imperfect. Life is not long enough nor slow enough for both brain and character to grow side by side to superhuman proportions.