Harold, like the rest of us, had many impressions which saved him the trouble of distinct ideas.

In travelling I shape myself betimes to idleness And take fools' pleasure

There is no short-cut no patent tram-road, to wisdom. After all the centuries of invention, the soul's path lies through the thorny wilderness which must still be trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time.

History repeats itself.

The finest language is mostly made up of simple unimposing words.

For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by this involuntary appeal-this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully-illuminated life.

To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.