1. Courage and fearless, the two are a contradiction in terms.

Only the unimagin ative are fearless, and only the keenly imaginative, capable of feeling fear in every fibre, ever scale the heights of true courage. 2. The measure of a man's worth is not to be found in a heroic impulse or a fine idea, but in the steadfast working out of either through weeks and months--when the glow has faded from the heights, when the inspiration of an illumined moment has passed into the unrecognised chivalry of daily life; 3. "White hands cling to the tightened rein, Slipping the spur from the booted heel, Tenderest voices cry 'Turn again!' Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel. High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone; He travels the fastest who travels alone." --KIPLING.

4. 'Good Life starts only when you stop wanting a better One' 5. I love walking in the rain because no one knows I'm crying. 6. I don't need any Money to lead a good life!! 7. When you look back at the years that have by gone do you repent or are you ha ppy with how things have gone so far. If you are happy then you have led a good life irrespective whether you don t have an shelter to stay, your pocket has been empty for most of the times and you went without food for several days. If you l ook back and you repent then it is obvious you missed the precious moments of yo ur life which is irrecoverable (whether you have expensive cars, tons of money, popularity doesn t count). No money or no popularity can bring those days back. No man in this planet gets a second chance in this case. 8. Ye realms yet unrevealed to human sight, Ye canes athwart the hapless hands that write, Ye critic chiefs,-permit me to relate The mystic wonders of your silent state! VIRGIL, AEneid, book vi. 9. "'Of all the griefs that harass the distrest, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest!'" 10. He asked me to take a ride with him that night towards Hounslow. I did so, and found a purse." "How fortunate! Where?" "In a gentleman's pocket" 11. "All crime and all excellence depend upon a good choice of words. If you take money from the public, and say you have robbed, you have indubitably committed a great crime; but if you do the same, and say you have been relieving the necessities of the poor, you have done an ex cellent action. 12. To knock a man on the head is neither virtuous nor guilty, but it depends upon the language applied to the

action to make it murder or glory. 13. What is here?-Gold? Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair. Timon of Athens. 14. There are two charming situations in life for a woman,--one, the first freshness of heiressship and beauty; the other, youthful widowhood, with a large jointure. 15. "'As leaves of trees the race of man is found, Now fresh with dew, now withering on the ground.'" More nice than starvation!' 17. Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still! Is human love the growth of human will? To her he might be gentleness! LORD BYRON. 18. "Passion," said Augustus, coolly, "is the usual enemy of reason; in your case it is the friend." 19. "To be loved and tended by the one I love," said Clifford, in a low voice, "I would walk blind and barefoot over the whole earth!" 20. Posterity does justice to those who really deserve fame. 21. 'What can't be cured must be endured.' 22. "Farewell, my beloved London, farewell! Where shall I ever find a city like you? Never, till now, did I feel how inexpressibly dear you were to me. You have been my father and my brother and my mistress and my tailor and my shoemaker and my hatter and my cook and my wine-merchant! You and I never misunderstood each other. I did not grumble when I saw what fine houses and good strong boxes you gave to other men. No! I rejoiced at their prosperity. I delighted to see a rich man,--my only disappointment was in stumbling on a poor one. You gave riches to my neighbours; but, O generous London, you gave those neighbours to me! Magnificent streets, all Christian virtues abide within you! Charity is as common as smoke! Where, in what corner of the habitable world, shall I find human beings with so many superfluities? Where shall I so easily decoy, from benevolent credulity, those superfluities to myself? Heaven only knows, my dear, dear, darling London, what I lose in you! O public charities! O public institutions! O banks that belie mathematical axioms and make lots out of nothing! O ancient constitution always to be questioned! O modern improvements that never answer! O speculations! O companies! O usury laws which guard against usurers, by making as many as possible! O churches in which no one profits, save the parson, and the old women that let pews of an evening! O superb theatres, too small for parks, too enormous for houses, which exclude comedy and comfort, and have a monopoly for performing nonsense gigantically! O houses of plaster, built in a day! O palaces four yards high, with a dome in the middle,

16. "'Hanging is 'nation

meant to be invisible! "O shops worth thousands, and O shopkeepers not worth a shilling! O system of credit by which beggars are princes, and princes are beggars! O imprisonment for debt, which lets the mare be stolen, and then locks up the bridle! O sharpers, bubbles, senators, beaux, taverns, brothels, clubs, houses private and public!---O LONDON, in a word, receive my last adieu! Long may you flourish in peace and plenteousness! May your knaves be witty, and your fools be rich! May you alter only two things,--your damnable tricks of transportation and hanging! Those are your sole faults; but for those I would never desert you. Adieu!" 23. Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail.... 24. One hundred friends are too few against one enemy. One hundred friends will wish you well, and one enemy will do you ill. 25. "Well dear, you are handsome enough for the kind of men you'll pick up in this generation--most of them bald at thirty, wearing spectacles at twenty or earlier, and in spite of the fuss they make about athletics breaking all to nervous bits about fifty." 26. NOVELISTS should never allow themselves to weary of the study of real life. If they observed this duty conscientiously, they would give us fewer pictures chequered with vivid contrasts of light and shade; they would seldom elevate their heroes and heroines to the heights of rapture--still seldomer sink them to the depths of despair; for if we rarely taste the fulness of joy in this life, we yet more rarely savour the acrid bitterness of hopeless anguish; unless, indeed, we have plunged like beasts into sensual indulgence, abused, strained, stimulated, again overstrained, and, at last, destroyed our faculties for enjoyment; then, truly, we may find ourselves without support, robbed of hope. Our agony is great, and how can it end? We have broken the spring of our powers; life must be all suffering--too feeble to conceive faith--death must be darkness--God, spirits, religion can have no place in our collapsed minds, where linger only hideous and polluting recollections of vice; and time brings us on to the brink of the grave, and dissolution flings us in--a rag eaten through and through with disease, wrung together with pain, stamped into the churchyard sod by the inexorable heel of despair. But the man of regular life and rational mind never despairs. He loses his property--it is a blow--he staggers a moment; then, his energies, roused by the smart, are at work to seek a remedy; activity soon mitigates regret. Sickness affects him; he takes patience--endures what he cannot cure. Acute pain racks him; his writhing limbs know not where to find rest; he leans on Hope's anchors. Death takes from him what he loves; roots up, and tears violently away the stem round which his affections were twined--a dark, dismal time, a frightful wrench--but some morning Religion looks into his desolate house with sunrise, and says, that in another world, another life, he shall meet his kindred again. She speaks of that world as a place unsullied by sin--of that life, as an era unembittered by suffering; she mightily strengthens her consolation by connecting with it two ideas--which mortals cannot comprehend, but on which they love to repose--Eternity, Immortality; and the mind of the mourner, being filled with an image, faint yet glorious, of heavenly hills all light and peace--of a spirit resting there in bliss--of a day when his spirit shall also alight there, free and

disembodied--of a reunion perfected by love, purified from fear--he takes courage--goes out to encounter the necessities and discharge the duties of life; and, though sadness may never lift her burden from his mind, Hope will enable him to support it. --Charlotte Bronte 27. Criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing -Aristotle 28. The Importance of Walking Walking can add minutes to your life. This enables you at 85 years old to spend an additional 5 months in a nursing home at $7000 per month. My grandpa started walking five miles a day when he was 60. Now he's 97 years old and we don't know where he is. I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me. The only reason I would take up walking is so that I could hear heavy breathing again. I have to walk early in the morning, before my brain figures out what I'm doing.. I joined a health club last year, spent about 400 bucks. Haven't lost a pound. Apparently you have to go there. Every time I hear the dirty word 'exercise', I wash my mouth out with chocolate. The advantage of exercising every day is so when you die, they'll say, 'Well, she looks good doesn't she.' If you are going to try cross-country skiing, start with a small country. I know I got a lot of exercise the last few years,...... just getting over the hill. We all get heavier as we get older, because there's a lot more information in our heads. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. AND Every time I start thinking too much about how I look, I just find a Happy Hour

and by the time I leave, I look just fine.

29. Most gentle Sleep! Two nights I wooed in vain; Thou wouldst not come to banish racking pain: For what is Sleep but Life in stone bound fast? Oblivion of the Present, Future, Past. ---After Two Nights of the Ear-ache, by Francis Hard-30. I wasn't around during caveman days, and haven't seen any memoirs or histori es that detail the cro-magnon banking practices, but i'll take your word for it. would it have been like this: "Let me use your spear for the hunt and i'll return your spear plus half of the animal(s) i kill?" "half? i want more than half; what if you injure my spear?" "well, that's the chance you take." "no, i don't think so. i'm risking my spear and you're not risking anything." "but i'm risking my life--you're only risking a spear." "but it's my only spear." "but you're not using it. loan it to me and it will be earning you half the food i get with it." "i don't need any more food--i'm a farmer. i've all the food i need already." "okay, then you don't need the spear at all." "but it's MY spear." "but i need it and you don't. so give me the spear." "NO! it's mine and i don't want to loan it to you." "well, it's here in my hand and i'm going to take it with me." "that's stealing." "not if i need it more than you do." "but that's communism--taking things from me because i'm not using them and you need them." "actually it's socialism, but you can call it anything you want to. GOODBYE!" so the potential hunter turns to leave the cave with the spear in his hand and the spear owner hits him on the head with a ten pound jagged rock. gee, maybe i was there....and this is how morality and ethics and banking and borrowing all b egan. and it's not changed much... 31. "Recollect," added the good father, "that to lead a blameless life you must curb your passions, and that whatever misfortune may befall you it cannot be ascribed by any one to a want of good luck, or attributed to fate; those words are devoid of sense, and all the fault will rightly fall on your own head." 32. There are three real wants which nature has implanted in all human creatures. They must feed themselves, and to prevent that task from being insipid and tedious they have the agreeable sensation of appetite, which they feel pleasure in satisfying. They must propagate their respective species; an absolute necessity which proves the wisdom of the Creator, since without reproduction all would, be annihilated--by the constant law of degradation, decay and death. And, whatever St. Augustine may say, human creatures would not perform the work of generation if they did not find pleasure in it, and if there was not in that great work an irresistible attraction for them. In the third place, all creatures have a determined and invincible propensity to destroy their enemies; and it is certainly a very wise ordination, for that feeling of self-preservation makes it a duty for them to do their best for the

destruction of whatever can injure them. Each species obeys these laws in its own way. The three sensations: hunger, desire, and hatred--are in animals the satisfaction of habitual instinct, and cannot be called pleasures, for they can be so only in proportion to the intelligence of the individual. Man alone is gifted with the perfect organs which render real pleasure peculiar to him; because, being, endowed with the sublime faculty of reason, he foresees enjoyment, looks for it, composes, improves, and increases it by thought and recollection. Man comes down to the level of beasts whenever he gives himself up to the three natural propensities without calling reason and judgment to his assistance; but when the mind gives perfect equilibrium to those propensities, the sensations derived from them become true enjoyment, an unaccountable feeling which gives us what is called happiness, and which we experience without being able to describe it. The voluptuous man who reasons, disdains greediness, rejects with contempt lust and lewdness, and spurns the brutal revenge which is caused by a first movement of anger: but he is dainty, and satisfies his appetite only in a manner in harmony with his nature and his tastes; he is amorous, but he enjoys himself with the object of his love only when he is certain that she will share his enjoyment, which can never be the case unless their love is mutual; if he is offended, he does not care for revenge until he has calmly considered the best means to enjoy it fully. If he is sometimes more cruel than necessary, he consoles himself with the idea that he has acted under the empire of reason; and his revenge is sometimes so noble that he finds it in forgiveness. Those three operations are the work of the soul which, to procure enjoyment for itself, becomes the agent of our passions. We sometimes suffer from hunger in order to enjoy better the food which will allay it; we delay the amorous enjoyment for the sake of making it more intense, and we put off the moment of our revenge in order to mike it more certain. It is true, however, that one may die from indigestion, that we allow ourselves to be often deceived in love, and that the creature we want to annihilate often escapes our revenge; but perfection cannot be attained in anything, and those are risks which we run most willingly. 33. There's a disease called optical-rectalitiis. It's where the optic nerve get s crossed with the rectal nerve and someone has a crappy outlook on life.They sa y it's of almost epidemic proportions 34. forty, an age that is supposed to be the prime of life, though most of us would prefer to be ten years younger. At forty one has shed most illusions, but at least there is the consolation of having arrived at a workable philosophy. For some of us this philosophy may mean simple acquiescence; for others an attitude of pleased contemplation, like a yokel smoking his pipe, leaning on the gate of a summer evening. Those of us who are married and without the philosophy of our own are fortunate in having one--if not several--provided by a wife. And her philosophy, grounded on practical common sense rather than a study of the metaphysicians, is of much more value to the world than abstract thought. She is, in short, better adapted for keeping us up to the mark. 35. "Only give us time," said he, with a characteristic nod. "The Pyramids of Eg ypt were only built up stone by stone."

36. Horace: _Tu secanda marmora Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri Immemor, struis domos._ "You provide the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and a spade are only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred feet, forgetting that of six by two." 37. "The modesty and fortitude of men differ from those virtues in women; for t he fortitude which becomes a woman, would be cowardice in a man; and the modesty which becomes a man, would be pertness in a woman." ---Aristotle, 38. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals. It is, indeed, in theory only, and not in practice, as we have before hinted, that consists the difference: for though such great beings think much better and more wisely, they always act exactly like other men. They know very well how to subdue all appetites and passions, and to despise both pain and pleasure; and this knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is easily acquired; but the practice would be vexatious and troublesome; and, therefore, the same wisdom which teaches them to know this, teaches them to avoid carrying it into execution. 39. To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common observation, that men who are ill-natured and quarrelsome when they are drunk, are very worthy persons when they are sober: for drink, in reality, doth not reverse nature, or create passions in men which did not exist in them before. It takes away the guard of reason, and consequently forces us to produce those symptoms, which many, when sober, have art enough to conceal. It heightens and inflames our passions (generally indeed that passion which is uppermost in our mind), so that the angry temper, the amorous, the generous, the good-humoured, the avaricious, and all other dispositions of men, are in their cups heightened and exposed. 40. The answer which one Cleostratus gave many years ago to a silly fellow, who asked him, if he was not ashamed to be drunk? "Are not you," said Cleostratus, "ashamed to admonish a drunken man?" 42. "those who travel in order to acquaint themselves with the different manners of men might spare themselves much pains by going to a carnival at Venice; for there they will see at once all which they can discover in the several courts of Europe. The same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same follies and vices dressed in different habits. In Spain, these are equipped with much gravity; and in Italy, with vast splendor. In France, a knave is dressed like a fop; and in the northern countries, like a sloven. But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object of detestation and scorn. 43. Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says "Who steals my purse steals trash; 't is something, nothing;

'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thousands: But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that WHICH NOT ENRICHES HIM, BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED." 44. `Who would not die in his dear country's cause? Since, if base fear his dast ard step withdraws, From death he cannot fly: One common grave Receives, at last, the coward and the b rave.'" Horace 45. Shakespear "Between the acting of a dreadful thing, And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream; The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection." 46. "Seek not that the things which happen should happen as you wish."--_Epictetus_. 47. "When poverty looks in at the door, love flies out at the window," 48. "He who knows how to speak knows also when to speak."--_Plutarch_. 49. "The fire in the flint shows not till it be struck."--_Timon of Athens_. 50. "This life of ours is a wild Aeolian harp of many a joyous strain; But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain."--_L ongfellow_. 51. "'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after."--_Timon of Athens_. 52. "A bad beginning leads to a bad ending." 53. "For I am the only one of my friends that I can rely on."--_Appolodamus_. 54. "It is best to be cautious and avoid extremes."--_Plutarch_. 56. "Death is a black camel that kneels at the gate of all."--_Abd-el-Kader_. 57. "Of all the paths that lead to a woman's love, Pity's the straightest."--_B eaumont and Fletcher_. 58. A woman does not become a mother, she is a mother from her birth. - Carmen S ylva 59. "A friend who is both intelligent and well-affected is the most valuable of all possessions."--_Herodotus 60. "'Nothing that is can pause or stay, The moon will wax, the moon will wane, The mist and cloud will turn to rain, The rain to mist and cloud again, To-morrow be to-day.'" --- Longfellow

70. While the six dined, a seventh, invisible to them, leaned moodily against the mantel-piece, watching them. He was not of their time. His long brown hair was knotted in a black riband behind. He wore a pale brocaded coat and lace ruffles, silken stockings, a sword. Privy to their doom, he watched them. He was loth that his Junta must die. Yes, his. Could the diners have seen him, they would have known him by his resemblance to the mezzotint portrait that hung on the wall above him. They would have risen to their feet in presence of Humphrey Greddon, founder and first president of the club. His face was not so oval, nor were his eyes so big, nor his lips so full, nor his hands so delicate, as they appeared in the mezzotint. Yet (bating the conventions of eighteenth-century portraiture) the likeness was a good one. Humphrey Greddon was not less well-knit and graceful than the painter had made him, and, hard though the lines of the face were, there was about him a certain air of high romance that could not be explained away by the fact that he was of a period not our own. You could understand the great love that Nellie O'Mora had borne him. Under the mezzotint hung Hoppner's miniature of that lovely and ill-starred girl, with her soft dark eyes, and her curls all astray from beneath her little blue turban. And the Duke was telling Mr. Oover her story--how she had left her home for Humphrey Greddon when she was but sixteen, and he an undergraduate at Christ Church; and had lived for him in a cottage at Littlemore, whither he would ride, most days, to be with her; and how he tired of her, broke his oath that he would marry her, thereby broke her heart; and how she drowned herself in a mill-pond; and how Greddon was killed in Venice, two years later, duelling on the Riva Schiavoni with a Senator whose daughter he had seduced. And he, Greddon, was not listening very attentively to the tale. He had heard it told so often in this room, and he did not understand the sentiments of the modern world. Nellie had been a monstrous pretty creature. He had adored her, and had done with her. It was right that she should always be toasted after dinner by the Junta, as in the days when first he loved her--"Here's to Nellie O'Mora, the fairest witch that ever was or will be!" He would have resented the omission of that toast. But he was sick of the pitying, melting looks that were always cast towards her miniature. Nellie had been beautiful, but, by God! she was always a dunce and a simpleton. How could he have spent his life with her? She was a fool, by God! not to marry that fool Trailby, of Merton, whom he took to see her. Mr. Oover's moral tone, and his sense of chivalry, were of the American kind: far higher than ours, even, and far better expressed. Whereas the English guests of the Junta, when they heard the tale of Nellie O'Mora, would merely murmur "Poor girl!" or "What a shame!" Mr. Oover said in a tone of quiet authority that compelled Greddon's ear "Duke, I hope I am not incognisant of the laws that govern the relations of guest and host. But, Duke, I aver deliberately that the founder of this fine old club; at which you are so splendidly entertaining me to-night, was an unmitigated scoundrel. I say he was not a white man." At the word "scoundrel," Humphrey Greddon had sprung forward, drawing his sword, and loudly, in a voice audible to himself alone, challenged the American to make good his words. Then, as this gentleman took no notice, with one clean straight thrust Greddon ran him through the heart, shouting "Die, you damned psalm-singer and traducer! And so die all rebels against King George!"* Withdrawing the blade, he wiped it

daintily on his cambric handkerchief. There was no blood. Mr. Oover, with unpunctured shirt-front, was repeating "I say he was not a white man." And Greddon remembered himself--remembered he was only a ghost, impalpable, impotent, of no account. "But I shall meet you in Hell to-morrow," he hissed in Oover's face. And there he was wrong. It is quite certain that Oover went to Heaven.While the six dined, a seventh, invisibl e to them, leaned moodily against the mantel-piece, watching them. He was not of their time. His long brown hair was knotted in a black riband behind. He wore a pale brocaded coat and lace ruffles, silken stockings, a sword. Privy to their doom, he watched them. He was loth that his Junta must die. Yes, his. Could the diners have seen him, they would have known him by his resemblance to the mezzotint portrait that hung on the wall above him. They would have risen to their feet in presence of Humphrey Greddon, founder and first president of the club. His face was not so oval, nor were his eyes so big, nor his lips so full, nor his hands so delicate, as they appeared in the mezzotint. Yet (bating the conventions of eighteenth-century portraiture) the likeness was a good one. Humphrey Greddon was not less well-knit and graceful than the painter had made him, and, hard though the lines of the face were, there was about him a certain air of high romance that could not be explained away by the fact that he was of a period not our own. You could understand the great love that Nellie O'Mora had borne him. Under the mezzotint hung Hoppner's miniature of that lovely and ill-starred girl, with her soft dark eyes, and her curls all astray from beneath her little blue turban. And the Duke was telling Mr. Oover her story--how she had left her home for Humphrey Greddon when she was but sixteen, and he an undergraduate at Christ Church; and had lived for him in a cottage at Littlemore, whither he would ride, most days, to be with her; and how he tired of her, broke his oath that he would marry her, thereby broke her heart; and how she drowned herself in a mill-pond; and how Greddon was killed in Venice, two years later, duelling on the Riva Schiavoni with a Senator whose daughter he had seduced. And he, Greddon, was not listening very attentively to the tale. He had heard it told so often in this room, and he did not understand the sentiments of the modern world. Nellie had been a monstrous pretty creature. He had adored her, and had done with her. It was right that she should always be toasted after dinner by the Junta, as in the days when first he loved her--"Here's to Nellie O'Mora, the fairest witch that ever was or will be!" He would have resented the omission of that toast. But he was sick of the pitying, melting looks that were always cast towards her miniature. Nellie had been beautiful, but, by God! she was always a dunce and a simpleton. How could he have spent his life with her? She was a fool, by God! not to marry that fool Trailby, of Merton, whom he took to see her. Mr. Oover's moral tone, and his sense of chivalry, were of the American kind: far higher than ours, even, and far better expressed. Whereas the English guests of the Junta, when they heard the tale of Nellie O'Mora, would merely murmur "Poor girl!" or "What a shame!" Mr. Oover said in a tone of quiet authority that compelled Greddon's ear "Duke, I hope I am not incognisant of the laws that govern the relations of guest and host. But, Duke, I aver deliberately that the founder of this fine old club; at which you are so splendidly entertaining me to-night, was an unmitigated scoundrel. I say he was not a white man." At the word "scoundrel," Humphrey Greddon had sprung forward, drawing

his sword, and loudly, in a voice audible to himself alone, challenged the American to make good his words. Then, as this gentleman took no notice, with one clean straight thrust Greddon ran him through the heart, shouting "Die, you damned psalm-singer and traducer! And so die all rebels against King George!"* Withdrawing the blade, he wiped it daintily on his cambric handkerchief. There was no blood. Mr. Oover, with unpunctured shirt-front, was repeating "I say he was not a white man." And Greddon remembered himself--remembered he was only a ghost, impalpable, impotent, of no account. "But I shall meet you in Hell to-morrow," he hissed in Oover's face. And there he was wrong. It is quite certain that Oover went to Heaven. 71. In the lives of most of us is some one thing that we would not after the lapse of how many years soever confess to our most understanding friend; the thing that does not bear thinking of; the one thing to be forgotten; the unforgettable thing. Not the commission of some great crime: this can be atoned for by great penances; and the very enormity of it has a dark grandeur. Maybe, some little deadly act of meanness, some hole-and-corner treachery? But what a man has once willed to do, his will helps him to forget. The unforgettable thing in his life is usually not a thing he has done or left undone, but a thing done to him--some insolence or cruelty for which he could not, or did not, avenge himself. This it is that often comes back to him, years after, in his dreams, and thrusts itself suddenly into his waking thoughts, so that he clenches his hands, and shakes his head, and hums a tune loudly--anything to beat it off.