The beauty of youth is inconstant and shifting as the tint at the heart of a rose, not two mornings the same; or the fall of snow-flakes, blown by every wind into new and airy relationships.
The Brook Farmer is extinct now as the dodo. It would be a delight to come across one who is sensitive yet on the subject of that Arcadian failure.
When genius seems to work disregarding rule, we may be sure that it has assimilated to itself whatever is best in every rule.
The undertaker ostensibly reverses the venerable truism that "the young may die, the old must," by thrusting forward the smaller coffins in his awful windows, and keeping the others (in the subjunctive mood, as it were) well in the background.