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The Book of Maxims, Poems and Anecdotes

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Michael Bassey Johnson

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“He had lived a man's life, and now it was at an end, and what had he to show for it? Two horses and a few fixin's and a letter of credit for three hundred and forty-three dollars. That was all, unless you counted the way he had felt about living and the fun he had had while time ran along unnoticed. It had been rich doings, except that he wondered at the last, seeing everything behind him and nothing ahead. It was strange about time: it slipped under a man like quiet water, soft and unheeded but taking a part of him with every drop - a little quickness of the muscles, a little sharpness of the eye, a little of his youngness, until by and by he found it had taken the best of him almost unbeknownst. He wanted to fight it then, to hold it back, to catch what had been borne away. It wasn't that he minded going under, it wasn't that he was afraid to die and rot and forget and be forgotten; it was that things were lost to him more and more - the happy feeling, the strong doing, the fresh taste for things like drink and women and danger, the friends he had fought and funned with, the notion that each new day would be better than the last, good as the last one was. A man's later life was all a long losing, of friends and fun and hope, until at last time took the mite that was left of him and so closed the score.”

“Who ignores not weak foe, with intellect waits for his opportunity, Who displays in season ability, with the stronger desires no hostility; Grieves not in calamity, applying all senses, patiently bearing misery, Is wise – foremost of persons and all his foes but vanquished do be. [98] - 33 Mahatma Vidur”

“That stream, Arthur,’ said the elder traveller, as with one consent they stopped to gaze on such a scene as I have described, ‘resembles the life of a good and a happy man.’ ‘And the brook, which hurries itself headlong down yon distant hill, marking its course by a streak of white foam,’ answered Arthur,—‘what does that resemble?’ ‘That of a brave and unfortunate one,’ replied his father. ‘The torrent for me,’ said Arthur; ‘a headlong course which no human force can oppose, and then let it be as brief as it is glorious’.... This stream, by a devious and gentle course, which seemed to indicate a reluctance to leave this quiet region, found its way at length out of the sequestered domain, and, like a youth hurrying from the gay and tranquil sports of boyhood into the wild career of active life, finally united itself with the boisterous torrent, which, breaking down tumultuously from the mountains, shook the ancient Tower of Geierstein as it rolled down the adjacent rock, and then rushed howling through the defile in which our youthful traveller had well-nigh lost his life.”