Let a few years pass, and nothing in the world can make us live those hours over again.

Where was once a volcano, we perceive only a heap of blackened ashes, and scarcely, at long intervals, will a chance meeting, a sound, a word, awaken memory and unseal the fountain of recollection; and even then it is only a flash; we have had but a glimpse and all has sunk back into shadow and silence.
We find the same difficulty when we try to take note of the fiery enthusiasms of the thirteenth century, its poetic inspirations, its amorous and chaste visions--all this is thrown up against a background of coarseness, wretchedness, corruption, and folly.
The men of that time had all the vices except triviality, all the virtues except moderation; they were either ruffians or saints.

Life was rude enough to kill feeble organisms; and thus characters had an energy unknown to-day.

It was forever necessary to provide beforehand against a thousand dangers, to take those sudden resolutions in which one risks his life.

Open the chronicle of Fra Salimbeni and you will be shocked to find that the largest place is taken up with the account of the annual expeditions of Parma against the neighboring cities, or of the neighboring cities against Parma.