d before him.
BARABAS. So that of thus much that return was made;And of the third part of the Persian shipsThere was the venture summ'd and satisfied.As for those Samnites,<17> and the men of Uz,That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece,Here have I purs'd their paltry silverlings.<18>Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash!Well fare the Arabians, who so richly payThe things they traffic for with wedge of gold,Whereof a man may easily in a dayTell<19> that which may maintain him all his life.The needy groom, that never finger'd groat,Would make a miracle of thus much coin;But he whose steel-barr'd coffers are cramm'd full,And all his life-time hath been tired,Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it,Would in his age be loath to labour so,And for a pound to sweat himself to death.Give me the merchants of the Indian mines,That trade in metal of the purest mould;The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocksWithout control can pick his riches up,And in his hous
tin, the state barber. Others, with clothes thrownover their arms, bustled down the passage which led to the ante-chamber.The knot of guardsmen in their gorgeous blue and silver coatsstraightened themselves up and brought their halberds to attention,while the young officer, who had been looking wistfully out of thewindow at some courtiers who were laughing and chatting on the terraces,turned sharply upon his heel, and strode over to the white and gold doorof the royal bedroom.
He had hardly taken his stand there before the handle was very gentlyturned from within, the door revolved noiselessly upon its hinges, and aman slid silently through the aperture, closing it again behind him.
"Hush!" said he, with his finger to his thin, precise lips, while hiswhole clean-shaven face and high-arched brows were an entreaty and awarning. "The king still sleeps."
The words were whispered from one to another among the group who hadassembled outside the door. The speaker, who was Monsieur Bontems, h
lled
The forest, letting in the sun, and made
Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight
And so returned.
For while he lingered there,
A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts
Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm
Flashed forth and into war: for most of these,
Colleaguing with a score of petty kings,
Made head against him, crying, 'Who is he
That he should rule us? who hath proven him
King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him,
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice,
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew.
This is the son of Gorlois, not the King;
This is the son of Anton, not the King.'
And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt
Travail, and throes and agonies of the life,
Desiring to be joined with Guinevere;
And thinking as he rode, 'Her father said
That there between the man and beast they die.
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts
Up to my throne, and side by side with m
IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION.
BY MR. BENJAMINS.
CHAPTER I.
"I remember him a little boy," said the Duchess. "His mother was a dear friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids."
"And you have never seen him since, mamma?" asked the oldest married daughter, who did not look a day older than her mother.
"Never; he was an orphan shortly after. I have often reproached myself, but it is so difficult to see boys."
This simple yet first-class conversation existed in the morning- room of Plusham, where the mistress of the palatial mansion sat involved in the sacred privacy of a circle of her married daughters. One dexterously applied golden knitting-needles to the fabrication of a purse of floss silk of the rarest texture, which none who knew the almost fabulous wealth of the Duke would believe was ever destined to hold in its silken meshes a less sum than L1,000,000; another adorned a slipper exclusively with
trodden out; and before long, therewere several burnt fingers of the party. But the solid quantity ofcookery accomplished was out of proportion with so much display;and when we desisted, after two applications of the fire, the soundegg was little more than loo-warm; and as for a la papier, it was acold and sordid fricassee of printer's ink and broken egg-shell.We made shift to roast the other two, by putting them close to theburning spirits; and that with better success. And then weuncorked the bottle of wine, and sat down in a ditch with our canoeaprons over our knees. It rained smartly. Discomfort, when it ishonestly uncomfortable and makes no nauseous pretensions to thecontrary, is a vastly humorous business; and people well steepedand stupefied in the open air are in a good vein for laughter.From this point of view, even egg a la papier offered by way offood may pass muster as a sort of accessory to the fun. But thismanner of jest, although it may be taken in good part, does notinvite
lthiness of the mental appetite of a human animal, place in its hands a short, well-written, but not exciting treatise on some popular subject--a mental bun, in fact. If it is read with eager interest and perfect attention, and if the reader can answer questions on the subject afterwards, the mind is in first-rate working order. If it be politely laid down again, or perhaps lounged over for a few minutes, and then, 'I can't read this stupid book! Would you hand me the second volume of "The Mysterious Murder"?' you may be equally sure that there is something wrong in the mental digestion.
If this paper has given you any useful hints on the important subject of reading, and made you see that it is one's duty no less than one's interest to 'read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest' the good books that fall in your way, its purpose will be fulfilled.
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Feeding the Mind, by Lewis Carro
e that?"
"You have chosen the only good bit in the painting," he declared stoutly. "Look at the boy's lips. Caravaggio must have modeled them from a girl's. What business has a fellow with pouting red lips like them to wear a sword on his thigh?"
Joan laughed with joyousness that was good to hear.
"Pooh! Run away and smite that ball with a long stick!" she said.
"Hum! More than the Italian could have done."
He was ridiculously in earnest. Joan colored suddenly and busied herself with tubes of paint. She believed he was jealous of the handsome Lombard. She began to mix some pigments on the palette. Delgrado, already regretting an inexplicable outburst, turned from the picture and looked at Murillo's "woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a diadem of twelve stars."
"Now, please help me to appreciate that and you will find me a willing student," he murmured.
But Joan had recovered her self-possession. "Suppose we come off the h
l's arm under his knee and with his left hand secured a throat grip, but the under man wriggled furiously and bridged so suddenly as to throw the hunter off him and Bill's freed hand, crashing full into the other's stomach, flashed back to release the weakened throat grip and jam the tensed fingers between his teeth, holding them there with all the power of his jaws. The dazed and gasping hunter, bending forward instinctively, felt his own throat seized and was dragged underneath his furious opponent.
In his Berserker rage Bill had forgotten about the -gun, his fury sweeping everything from him but the primal desire to kill with his hands, to rend and crush like an animal. He was brought to his senses very sharply by the jarring, crashing roar of the six-shooter, the powder blowing away part of his shirt and burning his side. Twisting sideways he grasped the weapon with one hand, the wrist with the other and bent the gun slowly back, forcing its muzzle farther and farther from him. The hunter, at last
indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House."
I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maitre d'hotel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.
"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."
I glanced at my companion a l
d before him.
BARABAS. So that of thus much that return was made;And of the third part of the Persian shipsThere was the venture summ'd and satisfied.As for those Samnites,<17> and the men of Uz,That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece,Here have I purs'd their paltry silverlings.<18>Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash!Well fare the Arabians, who so richly payThe things they traffic for with wedge of gold,Whereof a man may easily in a dayTell<19> that which may maintain him all his life.The needy groom, that never finger'd groat,Would make a miracle of thus much coin;But he whose steel-barr'd coffers are cramm'd full,And all his life-time hath been tired,Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it,Would in his age be loath to labour so,And for a pound to sweat himself to death.Give me the merchants of the Indian mines,That trade in metal of the purest mould;The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocksWithout control can pick his riches up,And in his hous
tin, the state barber. Others, with clothes thrownover their arms, bustled down the passage which led to the ante-chamber.The knot of guardsmen in their gorgeous blue and silver coatsstraightened themselves up and brought their halberds to attention,while the young officer, who had been looking wistfully out of thewindow at some courtiers who were laughing and chatting on the terraces,turned sharply upon his heel, and strode over to the white and gold doorof the royal bedroom.
He had hardly taken his stand there before the handle was very gentlyturned from within, the door revolved noiselessly upon its hinges, and aman slid silently through the aperture, closing it again behind him.
"Hush!" said he, with his finger to his thin, precise lips, while hiswhole clean-shaven face and high-arched brows were an entreaty and awarning. "The king still sleeps."
The words were whispered from one to another among the group who hadassembled outside the door. The speaker, who was Monsieur Bontems, h
lled
The forest, letting in the sun, and made
Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight
And so returned.
For while he lingered there,
A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts
Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm
Flashed forth and into war: for most of these,
Colleaguing with a score of petty kings,
Made head against him, crying, 'Who is he
That he should rule us? who hath proven him
King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him,
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice,
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew.
This is the son of Gorlois, not the King;
This is the son of Anton, not the King.'
And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt
Travail, and throes and agonies of the life,
Desiring to be joined with Guinevere;
And thinking as he rode, 'Her father said
That there between the man and beast they die.
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts
Up to my throne, and side by side with m
IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION.
BY MR. BENJAMINS.
CHAPTER I.
"I remember him a little boy," said the Duchess. "His mother was a dear friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids."
"And you have never seen him since, mamma?" asked the oldest married daughter, who did not look a day older than her mother.
"Never; he was an orphan shortly after. I have often reproached myself, but it is so difficult to see boys."
This simple yet first-class conversation existed in the morning- room of Plusham, where the mistress of the palatial mansion sat involved in the sacred privacy of a circle of her married daughters. One dexterously applied golden knitting-needles to the fabrication of a purse of floss silk of the rarest texture, which none who knew the almost fabulous wealth of the Duke would believe was ever destined to hold in its silken meshes a less sum than L1,000,000; another adorned a slipper exclusively with
trodden out; and before long, therewere several burnt fingers of the party. But the solid quantity ofcookery accomplished was out of proportion with so much display;and when we desisted, after two applications of the fire, the soundegg was little more than loo-warm; and as for a la papier, it was acold and sordid fricassee of printer's ink and broken egg-shell.We made shift to roast the other two, by putting them close to theburning spirits; and that with better success. And then weuncorked the bottle of wine, and sat down in a ditch with our canoeaprons over our knees. It rained smartly. Discomfort, when it ishonestly uncomfortable and makes no nauseous pretensions to thecontrary, is a vastly humorous business; and people well steepedand stupefied in the open air are in a good vein for laughter.From this point of view, even egg a la papier offered by way offood may pass muster as a sort of accessory to the fun. But thismanner of jest, although it may be taken in good part, does notinvite
lthiness of the mental appetite of a human animal, place in its hands a short, well-written, but not exciting treatise on some popular subject--a mental bun, in fact. If it is read with eager interest and perfect attention, and if the reader can answer questions on the subject afterwards, the mind is in first-rate working order. If it be politely laid down again, or perhaps lounged over for a few minutes, and then, 'I can't read this stupid book! Would you hand me the second volume of "The Mysterious Murder"?' you may be equally sure that there is something wrong in the mental digestion.
If this paper has given you any useful hints on the important subject of reading, and made you see that it is one's duty no less than one's interest to 'read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest' the good books that fall in your way, its purpose will be fulfilled.
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Feeding the Mind, by Lewis Carro
e that?"
"You have chosen the only good bit in the painting," he declared stoutly. "Look at the boy's lips. Caravaggio must have modeled them from a girl's. What business has a fellow with pouting red lips like them to wear a sword on his thigh?"
Joan laughed with joyousness that was good to hear.
"Pooh! Run away and smite that ball with a long stick!" she said.
"Hum! More than the Italian could have done."
He was ridiculously in earnest. Joan colored suddenly and busied herself with tubes of paint. She believed he was jealous of the handsome Lombard. She began to mix some pigments on the palette. Delgrado, already regretting an inexplicable outburst, turned from the picture and looked at Murillo's "woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a diadem of twelve stars."
"Now, please help me to appreciate that and you will find me a willing student," he murmured.
But Joan had recovered her self-possession. "Suppose we come off the h
l's arm under his knee and with his left hand secured a throat grip, but the under man wriggled furiously and bridged so suddenly as to throw the hunter off him and Bill's freed hand, crashing full into the other's stomach, flashed back to release the weakened throat grip and jam the tensed fingers between his teeth, holding them there with all the power of his jaws. The dazed and gasping hunter, bending forward instinctively, felt his own throat seized and was dragged underneath his furious opponent.
In his Berserker rage Bill had forgotten about the -gun, his fury sweeping everything from him but the primal desire to kill with his hands, to rend and crush like an animal. He was brought to his senses very sharply by the jarring, crashing roar of the six-shooter, the powder blowing away part of his shirt and burning his side. Twisting sideways he grasped the weapon with one hand, the wrist with the other and bent the gun slowly back, forcing its muzzle farther and farther from him. The hunter, at last
indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House."
I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maitre d'hotel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.
"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."
I glanced at my companion a l