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Reflect on your present blessings, of which every man has many; not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.

The Bearings of this observation lays in the application on it.

Humanity has every reason to place the proclaimers of high moral standards and values above the discoverers of objective truth. What humanity own to personalities like Buddha, Moses, and Jesus ranks for me higher than all the achievements the inquiring constructive mind.

Morality is of the highest importance--but for us, not for God.

The most important human endeavor is the striving for morality in our actions. Our inner balance and even our very existence depend on it. Only morality in our actions can give beauty and dignity to life.

The American elite is almost beyond redemption. . . . Moral relativism has set in so deeply that the gilded classes have become incapable of discerning right from wrong. Everything can be explained away, especially by journalists. Life is one great moral mush--sophistry washed down with Chardonnay. The ordinary citizens, thank goodness, still adhere to absolutes. . . . It is they who have saved the republic from creeping degradation while their "betters" were derelict.

Known by the sobriquet of "The Artful Dodger."

The dodgerest of all the dodgers.

"Brooks of Sheffield": "'Somebody's sharp.' 'Who is?'" asked the gentleman, laughing. I looked up quickly, being curious to know. "Only Brooks of Sheffield," said Mr. Murdstone. I was glad to find it was only Brooks of Sheffield; for at first I really thought that it was I.

Called me wessel, Sammy--a wessel of wrath.

Which fiddle-strings is weakness to expredge my nerves this night!

Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called man! Oh the little that unhinges it, poor creatures that we are!

Secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.

It's a wery remarkable circumstance, sir," said Sam, "that poverty and oysters always seem to go together."

Why then we should drop into poetry.

"And a bird-cage, sir," said Sam. "Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison."

The next time you go out to a smoking party, young feller, fill your pipe with that 'ere reflection.

He had used the work in its Pickwickian sense . . . he had merely considered him a humbug in a Pickwickian point of view.

In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile.

Jobling, there are chords in the human mind.