Curiosity is its own suicide.

There is no wretchedness like self-reproach.

Our first love-letter ... There is so much to be said, and which no words seems exactly to say - the dread of saying too much is so nicely balanced by the fear of saying too little. Hope borders on presumption, and fear on reproach.

Imagination is to love what gas is to the balloon-that which raises it from earth.

Travel is as much a passion as ambition or love.

the fact is, that life is too short to be occupied by aught but the present - hope and remembrance are equally a waste of time.

who has not experienced, at some time or other, that words had all the relief of tears?