In America there are two classes of travel, first class and with children.
We that acquaint ourselves with every zone And pass both tropics and behold the poles, When we come home are to ourselves unknown And unacquainted still with our own souls.
We sack, we ransack to the utmost sands Of native kingdoms, and of foreign lands: We travel sea and soil; we pry, and prowl, We progress, and we prog from pole to pole.
Let observation with extensive view, Survey mankind from China to Peru; Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy scenes of crowded life.
I should like to spend the whole of my life in traveling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.
There is no unhappiness like the misery of sighting land again after a cheerful, careless voyage.
Down to Gehenna or up to the throne, He travels fastest who travels alone.
I am fevered with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay.
A traveller must have the back of an ass to bear all, a tongue like the tail of a dog to flatter all, the mouth of a hog to eat what is set before him, the ear of a merchant to hear all and say nothing.