Civilization is the lamb’s skin in which barbarism masquerades.
The ocean moans over dead men’s bones.
Everyone ought to wish to marry; some ought to be allowed to marry; and others ought to marry twice – to make the average good.
The dead play a very prominent part in the experience of the wanderer abroad. The houses in which they were born, the tombs in which they lie, the localities they made famous by their good or evil deeds, and the works their genius left behind them are necessarily the chief shrines of his pilgrimage.
In every age have mighty spirits dwelt unseen with man, biding the hour that needed them.
A man should have duties outside of himself; without them, he is a mere balloon, inflated with thin egotism and drifting nowhere.
True art selects and paraphrases, but seldom gives a verbatim translation.
To be weak, and to know it, is something of a punishment for a proud man.
Everywhere on the Continent, the tourist is looked upon as a bird to be plucked, and presently the bird himself feebly comes to regard plucking as his proper destiny and abjectly holds out his wing so long as there is a feather left on it.
A man is known by the company his mind keeps.