The Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of anything beyond mere intellect to any other set upon the continent of North America. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive.
I reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom, and that many points in the routine of his existence are deemed essentially important, which are only so at all by his having rendered them habitual.
I dare say you have often observed this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who are labouring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of any thing like action, and like nothing in the world so well as to liequietly in bed and “nurse their grief,” as the old ladies express it- that is to say, ruminate over the trouble.
Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object with God, that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of matter to fill it.
And spite of all dogmas, current in all ages, One settled fact is better than ten sages.
He who has never swooned, is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who ponders over the perfume of some novel flower – is not he whose brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence which has never before arrested his attention.
Who does not remember that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off places, the wo which is close at hand?
Eager vehemence of desire for life.
MISERY is manifold.
What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones – that is to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief.
That holy dream – that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding.
An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a sense of the Beautiful.
I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence – whether much that is glorious – whether all that is profound – does not spring from disease of thought – from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God’s power.
You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason.
The moon’s distance from the earth is, in round numbers, 240,000 miles.
Such weakness can scarcely be conceived, and to those who have never been similarly situated will, no doubt, appear unnatural;.
No more than any other talent, is that for music susceptible of complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces effects which may be fully enjoyed in solitude... the higher order of music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively alone.
Si no hay junto a nosotros un brazo amigo que nos detenga, o somos incapaces de alejarnos, nos arrojamos, nos aniquilamos en el abismo.
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac Je suis plus savant que Balzac – Plus sage que Pibrac; Mon brass seul faisant l’attaque De la nation Coseaque, La mettroit au sac; De Charon je passerois le lac En dormant dans son bac, J’irois au fier Eac, Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac, Premmer du tabac. – French Vaudeville.
And they hated her for her pride – But she grew in feeble health, And they love her – that she died.