The rapidity with which ideas grow old in our memories is in a direct ratio to the squares of their importance. Their apparent age runs up miraculously, like the value of diamonds, as they increase in magnitude. A great calamity, for instance, is as old as the trilobites an hour after it has happened. It stains backward through all the leaves we have turned over in the book of life, before its blot of tears or of blood is dry on the page we are turning. For this we seem to have lived; it was foreshadowed in dreams that we leaped out of in the cold sweat of terror; in the “dissolving views” of dark day-visions; all omens pointed to it; all paths led to it. After the tossing half-forgetfulness of the first sleep that follows such an event, it comes upon us afresh, as a surprise, at waking; in a few moments it is old again, — as old as eternity.

Dead men’s bones, hobgoblins, ghosts are ever in their minds, and meet them still at every turn; all the bugbears of the night, and terrors, fairybabes of tombs and graves are before their eyes and in their thoughts, as to women and children, if they be in the dark alone.

Wonderful and terrible trial, from which the feeble come out infamous, from which the strong come out sublime. Crucible into which destiny casts a man whenever she desires a scoundrel or a demigod.

On hill and prairie, field and lawn,
Their dewy eyes upturning,
The flowers still watch from reddening dawn
Till western skies are burning.

I really believe some people save their bright thoughts, as being too precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring friend said the other day to one that was talking good things, — good enough to print? “Why,” said he, “you are wasting merchantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I can tell, of fifty dollars an hour.” The talker took him to the window and asked him to look out and tell what he saw.
   "Nothing but a very dusty street,“ he said, "and a man driving a sprinkling-machine through it.”
   "Why don’t you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our thought-sprinklers through them with the valves open, sometimes?

And now flutes with many stops breathed forth in sweet accord a Lydian air. But though their strains charmed the hearts of the spectators with their sweetness, Venus was sweeter far; and she began to move gently and to advance with slow and lingering step and body lightly swaying to and fro and softly bowing head, and with delicate gestures she kept time to the sound of the flutes and made signs with eyes now mildly closed, now flashing threats, and sometimes all her dancing was in her glances.

On the whole, I had rather judge men’s minds by comparing their thoughts with my own, than judge of thoughts by knowing who utter them.

He swoops all-conquering, borne on airy wing,
With fire and sword he makes his harvesting;
Trembles before him Jove, whom gods do dread,
And quakes the darksome river of the dead.

Some things are rushing into existence, others hastening to dissolution; and of those which now exist, some parts are already flown off and vanished. The world is renewed by continual change and fluctuation, as time is by perpetual succession. Who then would set any great value on things thus floating down the stream, and of which we cannot for a moment secure the possession? One might as well love a sparrow, which flies by us and is instantly gone out of sight. Such is the life of every man; a mere vapor exhaled from the blood; a momentary breath of air, drawn in by the lungs.

The first among elegances is idleness.