The object of love expands and grows before us to eternity, until it includes all that is lovely, and we become all that can love.

But the divinest poem, or the life of a great man, is the severest satire.... The greater the genius, the keener the edge of the satire.

Friends will not only live in harmony, but in melody.

I put a piece of paper under my pillow, and when I could not sleep I wrote in the dark.

In Canada an ordinary New England house would be mistaken for the château, and while every village here contains at least severalgentlemen or "squires," there is but one to a seigniory.

There is an incessant influx of novelty into the world, and yet we tolerate incredible dullness.

I fear that I have not got much to say about Canada, not having seen much; what I got by going to Canada was a cold.