We were to found a University magazine. A pair of little, active brothers-Livingstone by name, great skippers on the foot, great rubbers of the hands, who kept a book-shop over against the University building-had been debauched to play the part of publishers. We four were to be conjuct editors and, what was the main point of the concern, to print our own works; while, by every rule of arithmetic-that flatterer of credulity-the adventure must succeed and bring great profit. Well, well: it was a bright vision.

Well, well, Henry James is pretty good, though he is of the nineteenth century, and that glaringly.

They say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, on the other hand, a great emboldener.

Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a poor substitute for life.

Lastly (and this is, perhaps, the golden rule), no woman should marry a man who does not smoke.

The best things are nearest: breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of God just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain common work as it comes certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things of life.

The little rift between the sexes is astonishingly widened by simply teaching one set of catchwords to the girls and another to the boys.