Chess is a sad waste of brains.

One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honor or observation.

In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster.

Still are the thoughts to memory dear.

Without courage there cannot be truth, and without truth there can be no other virtue.

Cats are a mysterious kind of folk.

Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel.