We are ourselves our happiness.
There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness.
There is no wretchedness like self-reproach.
Travel is as much a passion as ambition or love.
In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbors are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form.
Whatever people in general do not understand, they are al ways prepared to dislike; the incomprehensible is always the obnoxious.