But the iron hand is not less irresistible because it wears the velvet glove.

The button-wood throws off its bark in large flakes, which one may find lying at its foot, pushed out, and at last pushed off, by that tranquil movement from beneath, which is too slow to be seen, but too powerful to be arrested.

One finds them always, but one rarely sees them fall.

So it is our youth drops from us, -- scales off, sapless and lifeless, and lays bare the tender and immature fresh growth of old age.

Looked at collectively, the changes of old age appear as a series of personal insults and indignities, terminating at last in death, which Sir Thomas Browne has called "the very disgrace and ignominy of our nature." My lady's cheek can boast no more The cranberry white and pink it wore; And where her shining locks divide, The parting line is all too wide-- No, no,--this will never do.