"The imagination makes the delight of the exertion which itself supports. The feeling with which Columbus saw the gleam of that white-winged bird which avouched that land was near—the breath of leaves and spices, sweet airs whose sweetness was of the 'earth, earthy'—the dim outline of the shore becoming gradually distinct, as the night-shade broke away from the face of morning and a new world,—I do think that such a feeling might be weighed in the balance with thousands of disgusts and disappointments, and find them wanting, and not pressing down the scale."
"I believe," observed Lady Mandeville, "that our greatest enjoyments go into the smallest space: they are like essences—the richer the more they are concentrated. One drop of the attar condenses a whole valley of roses."
"But, sir," said Mr. Brande—who, being a traveller himself, considered that their injuries were personal ones—"look at the long years of obloquy and wrong, of taunts and doubts, which embittered Bruce's return home."
"I can only repeat,—think of his feelings when he stood by the three mystic and sacred fountains, and saw the morning sun shine on
