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 divine from the human, the permanent from the temporary, is no longer a divine, certain, infallible book,—it is degraded to the rank of profane books; for every profane book has the same quality, that together with or in the human it contains the divine, that is, together with or in the individual it contains the universal and eternal. But that only is a truly divine book in which there is not merely something good and something bad, something permanent and something temporary, but in which all comes as it were from one crucible, all is eternal, true and good. What sort of a revelation is that in which I must first listen to the apostle Paul, then to Peter, then to James, then to John, then to Matthew, then to Mark, then to Luke, until at last I come to a passage where my soul, athirst for God, can cry out: ! here speaks the Holy Spirit himself! here is something for me, something for all times and all men. How true, on the contrary, was the conception of the old faith, when it extended inspiration to the very words, to the very letters of Scripture! The word is not a matter of indifference in relation to the thought; a definite thought can only be rendered by a definite word. Another word, another letter—another sense. It is true that such faith is superstition; but this superstition is alone the true, undisguised, open faith, which is not ashamed of its consequences. If God numbers the hairs on the head of a man, if no sparrow falls to the ground without his will, how could he leave to the stupidity and caprice of scribes his Word—that word on which depends the everlasting salvation of man? Why should he not dictate his thoughts to their pen in order to guard them from the possibility of disfiguration?—“But if man were a mere organ of the Holy Spirit, human freedom would be abolished!” Oh what a pitiable argument! Is human freedom, then, of more value than divine truth? Or does human freedom consist only in the distortion of divine truth?

And just as necessarily as the belief in a determinate historical revelation is associated with superstition, so necessarily is it


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 associated with sophistry. The Bible contradicts morality, contradicts reason, contradicts itself, innumerable times; and yet it is the word of God, eternal truth, and “truth cannot contradict itself.” How does the believer in revelation elude this contradiction between the idea in his own mind, of revelation as divine, harmonious truth, and this supposed actual revelation? Only by self-deception, only by the silliest subterfuges, only by the most miserable, transparent sophisms. Christian sophistry is the necessary product of Christian faith, especially of faith in the Bible as a divine revelation.

Truth, absolute truth, is given objectively in the Bible, subjectively in faith; for towards that which God himself speaks I can only be believing, resigned, receptive. Nothing is left to the understanding, the reason, but a formal, subordinate office; it has a false position, a position essentially contradictory to its nature. The understanding in itself is here indifferent to truth, indifferent to the distinction between the true and the false; it has no criterion in itself; whatever is found in revelation is true, even when it is in direct contradiction with reason. The understanding is helplessly given over to the haphazard of the most ignoble empiricism;—whatever I find in divine revelation I must believe, and if necessary, my understanding must defend it; the understanding is the watch-dog of revelation; it must let everything without distinction be imposed on it as truth,—discrimination would be doubt, would be a crime: consequently, nothing remains to it but an adventitious, indifferent, i.e., disingenuous, sophistical, tortuous mode of thought, which is occupied only with groundless distinctions and subterfuges, with ignominious tricks and evasions. But the more man, by the progress of time, becomes estranged from revelation, the more the understanding ripens into independence,—the more glaring, necessarily, appears the contradiction between the understanding and belief in revelation. The believer can then prove revelation only by incurring contradiction with himself, with truth, with the understanding, only by the most impudent assumptions, only by shameless falsehoods, only by the sin against the Holy Ghost.

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 CHAPTER XXII. THE CONTRADICTION IN THE NATURE OF GOD IN GENERAL.

grand principle, the central point of Christian sophistry, is the idea of God. God is the human being, and yet he must be regarded as another, a superhuman being. God is universal, abstract Being, simply the idea of Being; and yet he must be conceived as a personal, individual being;—or God is a person, and yet he must be regarded as God, as universal, i.e., not as a personal being. God is; his existence is certain, more certain than ours; he has an existence distinct from us and from things in general, i.e., an individual existence; and yet his existence must be held a spiritual one, i.e., an existence not perceptible as a special one. One half of the definition is always in contradiction with the other half: the statement of what must be held always annihilates the statement of what is. The fundamental idea is a contradiction which can be concealed only by sophisms. A God who does not trouble himself about us, who does not hear our prayers, who does not see us and love us, is no God; thus humanity is made an essential predicate of God;—but at the same time it is said: a God who does not exist in and by himself, out of men, above men, as another being, is a phantom; and thus it is made an essential predicate of God that he is non-human and extra-human. A God who is not as we are, who has not consciousness, not intelligence, i.e., not a personal understanding, a personal consciousness, (as, for example, the “substance” of Spinoza,) is no God. Essential identity with us is the chief condition of deity; the idea of deity is made dependent on the idea of personality, of consciousness, quo nihil majus cogitari potest. But, it is said in the same breath, a God who is not essentially distinguished from us is no God.

The essence of religion is the immediate, involuntary, unconscious contemplation of the human nature as another, a distinct nature. But when this projected image of human


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 nature is made an object of reflection, of theology, it becomes an inexhaustible mine of falsehoods, illusions, contradictions, and sophisms.

A peculiarly characteristic artifice and pretext of Christian sophistry is the doctrine of the unsearchableness, the incomprehensibility of the divine nature. But, as will be shown, the secret of this incomprehensibility is nothing further than that a known quality is made into an unknown one, a natural quality into a supernatural, i.e., an unnatural one, so as to produce the appearance, the illusion, that the divine nature is different from the human, and is eo ipso an incomprehensible one.

In the original sense of religion, the incomprehensibility of God has only the significance of an impassioned expression. Thus, when we are affected by a surprising phenomenon, we exclaim: It is incredible, it is beyond conception! though afterwards, when we recover our self-possession, we find the object of our astonishment nothing less than incomprehensible. In the truly religious sense, incomprehensibility is not the dead full stop which reflection places wherever understanding deserts it, but a pathetic note of exclamation marking the impression which the imagination makes on the feelings. The imagination is the original organ of religion. Between God and man, in the primitive sense of religion, there is on the one hand only a distinction in relation to existence, according to which God as a self-subsistent being is the antithesis of man as a dependent being; on the other hand there is only a quantitative distinction, i.e., a distinction derived from the imagination, for the distinctions of the imagination are only quantitative. The infinity of God in religion is quantitative infinity; God is and has all that man has, but in an infinitely greater measure. The nature of God is the nature of the imagination unfolded, made objective. God is a being conceived under the forms of the senses, but freed from the limits of sense,—a being at once unlimited and sensational. But what is the imagination?—limitless activity of the senses. God


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 is eternal, i.e., he exists at all times; God is omnipresent, i.e., he exists in all places; God is the omniscient being, i.e., the being to whom every individual thing, every sensible existence, is an object without distinction, without limitation of time and place.

Eternity and omnipresence are sensational qualities, for in them there is no negation of existence in time and space, but only of exclusive limitation to a particular time, to a particular place. In like manner omniscience is a sensational quality, a sensational knowledge. Religion has no hesitation in attributing to God himself the nobler senses: God sees and hears all things. But the divine omniscience is a power of knowing through the senses while yet the necessary quality, the essential determination of actual knowledge through the senses is denied to it. My senses present sensible objects to me only separately and in succession; but God sees all sensible things at once, all locality in an unlocal manner, all temporal things in an untemporal manner, all objects of sense in an unsensational manner. That is to say: I extend the horizon of my senses by the imagination; I form to myself a confused conception of the whole of things; and this conception, which exalts me above the limited stand-point of the senses, and therefore affects me agreeably, I posit as a divine reality. I feel the fact that my knowledge is tied to a local stand-point, to sensational experience, as a limitation; what I feel as a limitation I do away with in my imagination, which furnishes free space for the play of my feelings. This negativing of limits by the imagination is the positing of omniscience as a divine power and reality. But at the same time there is only a quantitative distinction between omniscience and my knowledge; the quality of the knowledge is the same. In fact it would be impossible for me to predicate omniscience of an object or being external to myself, if this omniscience were essentially different from my own knowledge, if it were not a mode of perception of my own, if it had nothing in common with my own power of cognition. That which is recognised by the senses is as much the object and content of the divine


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 omniscience as of my knowledge. Imagination does away only with the limit of quantity, not of quality. The proposition that our knowledge is limited, means: we know only some things, a few things, not all.

The beneficial influence of religion rests on this extension of the sensational consciousness. In religion man is in the open air, sub deo; in the sensational consciousness he is in his narrow confined dwelling-house. Religion has relation essentially, originally—and only in its origin is it something holy, true, pure, and good—to the immediate sensational consciousness alone; it is the setting aside of the limits of sense. Isolated, uninstructed men and nations preserve religion in its original sense, because they themselves remain in that mental state which is the source of religion. The more limited a man’s sphere of vision, the less he knows of history, Nature, philosophy—the more ardently does he cling to his religion.

For this reason the religious man feels no need of culture. Why had the Hebrews no art, no science, as the Greeks had? Because they felt no need of it. To them this need was supplied by Jehovah. In the divine omniscience man raises himself above the limits of his own knowledge; in the divine omnipresence, above the limits of his local stand-point; in the divine eternity, above the limits of his time. The religious man is happy in his imagination; he has all things in nuce; his possessions are always portable. Jehovah accompanies me everywhere; I need not travel out of myself; I have in my God the sum of all treasures and precious things, of all that is worth knowledge and remembrance. But culture is dependent on external things; it has many and various wants, for it overcomes the limits of sensational consciousness and life by real activity, not by the magical power of the religious imagination. Hence the Christian religion also, as has been often mentioned already, has in its essence no principle of culture, for it triumphs over the limitations and difficulties of earthly life only through the imagination, only in God, in heaven. God is all that the heart needs and desires—all good things, all blessings. “Dost thou desire love, or faithfulness, or


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 truth, or consolation, or perpetual presence, this is always in Him without measure. Dost thou desire beauty—He is the supremely beautiful. Dost thou desire riches—all riches are in Him. Dost thou desire power—He is supremely powerful. Or whatever thy heart desires, it is found a thousandfold in Him, in the best, the single good, which is God.” But how can he who has all in God, who already enjoys heavenly bliss in the imagination, experience that want, that sense of poverty, which is the impulse to all culture? Culture has no other object than to realize an earthly heaven; and the religious heaven is only realized or won by religious activity.

The difference, however, between God and man, which is originally only quantitative, is by reflection developed into a qualitative difference; and thus what was originally only an emotional impression, an immediate expression of admiration, of rapture, an influence of the imagination on the feelings, has fixity given to it as an objective quality, as real incomprehensibility. The favourite expression of reflection in relation to this subject is, that we can indeed know concerning God that he has such and such attributes, but not how he has them. For example, that the predicate of the Creator essentially belongs to God, that he created the world, and not out of matter already existing, but out of nothing, by an act of almighty power,—this is clear, certain—yes, indubitable; but how this is possible naturally passes our understanding. That is to say: the generic idea is clear, certain, but the specific idea is unclear, uncertain.

The idea of activity, of making, of creation, is in itself a divine idea; it is therefore unhesitatingly applied to God. In activity, man feels himself free, unlimited, happy; in passivity, limited, oppressed, unhappy. Activity is the positive sense of one’s personality. That is positive which in man is accompanied with joy; hence God is, as we have already said, the idea of pure, unlimited joy. We succeed only in what we do willingly; joyful effort conquers all things. But that is joyful activity which is in accordance with our nature, which we do not feel as a limitation, and consequently not as a constraint. And the happiest, the most blissful activity is that which is productive. To read is delightful,


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 reading is passive activity; but to produce what is worthy to be read is more delightful still. It is more blessed to give than to receive. Hence this attribute of the species—productive activity—is assigned to God; that is, realized and made objective as divine activity. But every special determination, every mode of activity is abstracted, and only the fundamental determination, which however is essentially human, namely, production of what is external to self, is retained. God has not, like man, produced something in particular, this or that, but all things; his activity is absolutely universal, unlimited. Hence it is self-evident, it is a necessary consequence, that the mode in which God has produced the All is incomprehensible, because this activity is no mode of activity, because the question concerning the how is here an absurdity, a question which is excluded by the fundamental idea of unlimited activity. Every special activity produces its effects in a special manner, because there the activity itself is a determinate mode of activity; and thence necessarily arises the question: How did it produce this? But the answer to the question: How did God make the world? has necessarily a negative issue, because the world-creating activity in itself negatives every determinate activity, such as would alone warrant the question, every mode of activity connected with a determinate medium, i.e., with matter. This question illegitimately foists in between the subject or producing activity, and the object or thing produced, an irrelevant, nay, an excluded intermediate idea, namely, the idea of particular, individual existence. The activity in question has relation only to the collective—the All, the world; God created all things, not some particular thing; the indefinite whole, the All, as it is embraced by the imagination,—not the determinate, the particular, as, in its particularity, it presents itself to the senses, and as, in its totality as the universe, it presents itself to the reason. Every particular thing arises in a natural way; it is something determinate, and as such it has—what it is only tautology to state—a determinate cause. It was not God, but carbon, that produced the diamond; a given salt owes its origin, not to God, but to the combination of a particular acid with a particular base. God only created all things together without distinction.

It is true that according to the religious conception, God has created every individual thing, as included in the whole;—but


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 only indirectly; for he has not produced the individual in an individual manner, the determinate in a determinate manner; otherwise he would be a determinate or conditioned being. It is certainly incomprehensible how out of this general, indeterminate or unconditioned activity the particular, the determinate, can have proceeded; but it is so only because I here intrude the object of sensational, natural experience, because I assign to the divine activity another object than that which is proper to it. Religion has no physical conception of the world; it has no interest in a natural explanation, which can never be given but with a mode of origin. Origin is a theoretical, natural-philosophical idea. The heathen philosophers busied themselves with the origin of things. But the Christian religious consciousness abhorred this idea as heathen, irreligious, and substituted the practical or subjective idea of Creation, which is nothing else than a prohibition to conceive things as having arisen in a natural way, an interdict on all physical science. The religious consciousness connects the world immediately with God; it derives all from God, because nothing is an object to him in its particularity and reality, nothing is to him as it presents itself to our reason. All proceeds from God:—that is enough, that perfectly satisfies the religious consciousness. The question, how did God create? is an indirect doubt that he did create the world. It was this question which brought man to atheism, materialism, naturalism. To him who asks it, the world is already an object of theory, of physical science, i.e., it is an object to him in its reality, in its determinate constituents. It is this mode of viewing the world which contradicts the idea of unconditioned, immaterial activity: and this contradiction leads to the negation of the fundamental idea—the creation.

The creation by omnipotence is in its place, is a truth, only when all the phenomena of the world are derived from God. It becomes, as has been already observed, a myth of past ages where physical science introduces itself, where man makes the determinate causes, the how of phenomena, the object of investigation. To the religious consciousness, therefore, the creation is nothing incomprehensible, i.e., unsatisfying; at least it is so only in moments of irreligiousness, of doubt, when the mind turns away from God to actual things; but it is highly unsatisfactory to reflection, to theology, which looks with one eye at heaven and with the other at earth. As the


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 cause, so is the effect. A flute sends forth the tones of a flute, not those of a bassoon or a trumpet. If thou hearest the tones of a bassoon, but hast never before seen or heard any wind-instrument but the flute, it will certainly be inconceivable to thee how such tones can come out of a flute. Thus it is here:—the comparison is only so far inappropriate as the flute itself is a particular instrument. But imagine, if it be possible, an absolutely universal instrument, which united in itself all instruments, without being itself a particular one; thou wilt then see that it is an absurd contradiction to desire a particular tone which only belongs to a particular instrument, from an instrument which thou hast divested precisely of that which is characteristic in all particular instruments.

But there also lies at the foundation of this dogma of incomprehensibility the design of keeping the divine activity apart from the human, of doing away with their similarity, or rather their essential identity, so as to make the divine activity essentially different from the human. This distinction between the divine and human activity is “nothing.” God makes,—he makes something external to himself, as man does. Making is a genuine human idea. Nature gives birth to, brings forth; man makes. Making is an act which I can omit, a designed, premeditated, external act;—an act in which my inmost being is not immediately concerned, in which, while active, I am not at the same time passive, carried away by an internal impulse. On the contrary, an activity which is identical with my being is not indifferent, is necessary to me, as for example intellectual production, which is an inward necessity to me; and for that reason lays a deep hold on me, affects me pathologically. Intellectual works are not made,—making is only the external activity applied to them;—they arise in us. To make is an indifferent, therefore a free, i.e., optional activity. Thus far then—that He makes—God is entirely at one with man, not at all distinguished from him; but an especial emphasis is laid on this, that his making is free, arbitrary, at his pleasure. “It has pleased God” to create a world. Thus man here deifies satisfaction in self-pleasing, in caprice and groundless arbitrariness. The fundamentally human character of the divine activity is by the idea of arbitrariness degraded into a human manifestation of a low kind; God, from a mirror of human nature is converted into a mirror of human vanity and self-complacency.


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 And now all at once the harmony is changed into discord; man, hitherto at one with himself, becomes divided:—God makes out of nothing; he creates,—to make out of nothing is to create,—this is the distinction. The positive condition—the act of making—is a human one; but inasmuch as all that is determinate in this conception is immediately denied, reflection steps in and makes the divine activity not human. But with this negation, comprehension, understanding comes to a stand; there remains only a negative, empty notion, because conceivability is already exhausted, i.e., the distinction between the divine and human determination is in truth a nothing, a nihil negativum of the understanding. The naïve confession of this is made in the supposition of “nothing” as an object.

God is Love, but not human love; Understanding, but not human understanding,—no! an essentially different understanding. But wherein consists this difference? I cannot conceive an understanding which acts under other forms than those of our own understanding; I cannot halve or quarter understanding so as to have several understandings; I can only conceive one and the same understanding. It is true that I can and even must conceive understanding in itself, i.e., free from the limits of my individuality; but in so doing I only release it from limitations essentially foreign to it; I do not set aside its essential determinations or forms. Religious reflection, on the contrary, denies precisely that determination or quality which makes a thing what it is. Only that in which the divine understanding is identical with the human, is something, is understanding, is a real idea; while that which is supposed to make it another, yes, essentially another than the human, is objectively nothing, subjectively a mere chimera.

In all other definitions of the Divine Being the “nothing” which constitutes the distinction is hidden; in the creation, on the contrary, it is an evident, declared, objective nothing;—and is therefore the official, notorious nothing of theology in distinction from anthropology.

But the fundamental determination by which man makes his own nature a foreign, incomprehensible nature, is the idea of individuality or—what is only a more abstract expression—personality. The idea of the existence of God first realizes itself in the idea of revelation, and the idea of revelation first


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 realizes itself in the idea of personality. God is a personal being:—this is the spell, which charms the ideal into the real, the subjective into the objective. All predicates, all attributes of the divine being are fundamentally human; but as attributes of a personal being, and therefore of a being distinct from man and existing independently, they appear immediately to be really other than human, yet so as that at the same time the essential identity always remains at the foundation. Hence reflection gives rise to the idea of so-called anthropomorphisms. Anthropomorphisms are resemblances between God and man. The attributes of the divine and of the human being are not indeed the same, but they are analogous.

Thus personality is the antidote to Pantheism; i.e., by the idea of personality religious reflection expels from its thought the identity of the divine and human nature. The rude but characteristic expression of pantheism is: man is an effluence or a portion of the divine being; the religious expression is: man is the image of God, or a being akin to God;—for according to religion man does not spring from Nature, but is of divine race, of divine origin. But kinship is a vague, evasive expression. There are degrees of kinship, near and distant. What sort of kinship is intended? For the relation of man to God, there is but one form of kinship which is appropriate,—the nearest, profoundest, most sacred that can be conceived,—the relation of the child to the father. According to this God is the Father of man, man the son, the child of God. Here is posited at once the self-subsistence of God and the dependence of man, and posited as an immediate object of feeling; whereas in Pantheism the part appears just as self-subsistent as the whole, since this is represented as made up of its parts. Nevertheless this distinction is only an appearance. The father is not a father without the child; both together form a correlated being. In love man renounces his independence, and reduces himself to a part:—a self-humiliation which is only compensated by the fact that the one whom he loves at the same time voluntarily becomes a part also; that they both submit to a higher power, the power of the spirit of family, the power of love. Thus there is here the same relation between God and man as in pantheism, save that in the one it is represented as a personal, patriarchal relation, in the other as an impersonal, general one,—save that pantheism expresses logically and therefore definitely, directly, what religion invests with the


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 imagination. The correlation or rather the identity of God and man is veiled in religion by representing both as persons or individuals, and God as a self-subsistent, independent being apart from his paternity:—an independence which however is only apparent, for he who, like the God of religion, is a father from the depths of the heart, has his very life and being in his child.

The reciprocal and profound relation of dependence between God as father and man as child, cannot be shaken by the distinction, that only Christ is the true, natural son of God, and that men are but his adopted sons; so that it is only to Christ as the only-begotten Son, and by no means to men, that God stands in an essential relation of dependence. For this distinction is only a theological, i.e., an illusory one. God adopts only men, not brutes. The ground of adoption lies in the human nature. The man adopted by divine grace is only the man conscious of his divine nature and dignity. Moreover, the only-begotten Son himself is nothing else than the idea of humanity, than man preoccupied with himself, man hiding from himself and the world in God,—the heavenly man. The Logos is latent, tacit man; man is the revealed, expressed Logos. The Logos is only the prelude of man. That which applies to the Logos applies also to the nature of man. But between God and the only-begotten Son there is no real distinction,—he who knows the Son knows the Father also,—and thus there is none between God and man.

It is the same with the idea that man is the image of God. The image is here no dead, inanimate thing, but a living being. “Man is the image of God,” means nothing more than that man is a being who resembles God. Similarity between living beings rests on natural relationship. The idea of man being the image of God reduces itself therefore to kinship; man is like God, because he is the child of God. Resemblance is only kinship presented to the senses; from the former we infer the latter.

But resemblance is just as deceptive, illusory, evasive an idea


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 as kinship. It is only the idea of personality which does away with the identity of nature. Resemblance is identity which will not admit itself to be identity, which hides itself behind a dim medium, behind the vapour of the imagination. If I disperse this vapour, I come to naked identity. The more similar beings are, the less are they to be distinguished; if I know the one, I know the other. It is true that resemblance has its degrees. But also the resemblance between God and man has its degrees. The good, pious man is more like God than the man whose resemblance to Him is founded only on the nature of man in general. And even with the pious man there is a highest degree of resemblance to be supposed, though this may not be obtained here below, but only in the future life. But that which man is to become, belongs already to him, at least so far as possibility is concerned. The highest degree of resemblance is that where there is no further distinction between two individuals or beings than that they are two. The essential qualities, those by which we distinguish things from each other, are the same in both. Hence I cannot distinguish them in thought, by the Reason,—for this all data are wanting;—I can only distinguish them by figuring them as visible in my imagination or by actually seeing them. If my eyes do not say—there are really two separately existent beings, my reason will take both for one and the same being. Nay, even my eyes may confound the one with the other. Things are capable of being confounded with each other which are distinguishable by the sense and not by the reason, or rather which are different only as to existence, not as to essence. Persons altogether alike have an extraordinary attraction not only for each other, but for the imagination. Resemblance gives occasion to all kinds of mystifications and illusions, because it is itself only an illusion; my eyes mock my reason, for which the idea of an independent existence is always allied to the idea of a determinate difference.

Religion is the mind’s light, the rays of which are broken by the medium of the imagination and the feelings, so as to make the same being appear a double one. Resemblance is to the Reason identity, which in the realm of reality is divided or broken up by immediate sensational impressions, in the sphere of religion by the illusions of the imagination; in short, that which is identical to the reason is made separate by the idea of individuality or personality. I can discover no distinction


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 between father and child, archetype and image, God and man, if I do not introduce the idea of personality. Resemblance is here the external guise of identity;—the identity which reason, the sense of truth, affirms, but which the imagination denies; the identity which allows an appearance of distinction to remain,—a mere phantasm, which says neither directly yes, nor directly no.


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Wikisource:Administrators/Archives/AdamBMorgan

2010-11 admin
I would like to put forward AdamBMorgan as a candidate for adminship at English Wikisource. He has 13k+ edits in the overall wikis, and [4k+ edits here, dating back to mid 2007, though quite actively from early 2009. He has edited over a broad range of namespace, and participated in several of our projects. Most recently he has done some good work on updating bits and pieces of templates, especially some good wikignoming for some of the audio and vision templates, and is now working on trying to give us some sanity in the Portal namespace.  I feel that for the work in the Portal namespace, the use of the admin tools would be of benefit to the reorganisation. — [[user:billinghurst|billinghurst]]  sDrewth  07:09, 9 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Thank you. It's an honour and I accept the nomination. - AdamBMorgan (talk) 13:04, 9 November 2010 (UTC)

 * Support as per my nomination. — billinghurst  sDrewth  07:09, 9 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support - excellent contributor — George Orwell III (talk) 07:21, 9 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support - sounds like an awesome contributor! Full support. :) --Mattwj2002 (talk) 10:45, 9 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support - Yes, I've seen him in action.--Longfellow (talk) 11:34, 9 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support, yes, sounds good to me. No worries, -- Cirt (talk) 13:12, 9 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support, Charles Matthews (talk) 14:32, 9 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support, --Zyephyrus (talk) 12:43, 11 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support - Looks like doing a great job. JeepdaySock (talk) 15:44, 17 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support as well; does good work. —Spangineer (háblame) 21:44, 17 November 2010 (UTC)
 * Support -- John Vandenberg (chat) 10:25, 20 November 2010 (UTC)

 * Appointed.—Zhaladshar (Talk) 15:31, 28 November 2010 (UTC)

2011-12 confirmation

 * Support. Portals thing good. Charles Matthews (talk) 10:44, 1 December 2011 (UTC)
 * keep without hesitation — billinghurst  sDrewth  12:15, 1 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support - Theornamentalist (talk) 17:57, 1 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support - Good work. --Zyephyrus (talk) 19:45, 1 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support -- Value his contributions. George Orwell III (talk) 20:02, 1 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support — Ineuw talk 03:54, 9 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support --Katarighe (talk) 00:35, 10 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support - in very warm tones Beeswaxcandle (talk) 02:38, 10 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support - Excellent admin.--Doug.(talk • contribs) 20:38, 15 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support --Mattwj2002 (talk) 01:32, 18 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support Sane and sensible. —Tom Morris (talk) 14:51, 20 December 2011 (UTC)
 * Support — ResScholar (talk) 20:08, 28 December 2011 (UTC)

2013-01 confirmation

 * Keeper — billinghurst  sDrewth  10:51, 1 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support--Mpaa (talk) 11:02, 1 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support.— George Orwell III (talk) 13:11, 1 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support. --Zyephyrus (talk) 17:22, 3 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support.—Absolutely support. It shouldn't even be a question of support unless Adam wanted to quit. —Maury (talk) 17:37, 3 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support Beeswaxcandle (talk) 02:33, 4 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support *3 — Ineuw talk 16:43, 4 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support. EVula // talk // ☯  // 19:38, 25 January 2013 (UTC)
 * Support. ResScholar (talk) 09:37, 29 January 2013 (UTC)

2014-02 confirmation

 * — Clockery Fairfeld [t·c] 03:01, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * — George Orwell III (talk) 03:14, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * — Charles Matthews (talk) 08:23, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * ✅ — billinghurst  sDrewth  17:11, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * —Maury (talk) 17:43, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * — Ineuw talk 18:19, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * — AuFCL (talk) 20:47, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * --Mpaa (talk) 23:30, 1 February 2014 (UTC)
 * Zyephyrus (talk) 01:31, 2 February 2014 (UTC)
 * Beeswaxcandle (talk) 08:51, 2 February 2014 (UTC)
 * Prosody (talk) 05:37, 9 February 2014 (UTC)
 * --Eliyak T · C 03:57, 10 February 2014 (UTC)
 * --Jusjih (talk) 23:28, 10 February 2014 (UTC)
 * --EncycloPetey (talk) 03:12, 16 February 2014 (UTC)

2015-03 confirmation

 * --EncycloPetey (talk) 03:21, 1 March 2015 (UTC)
 * --Charles Matthews (talk) 09:29, 1 March 2015 (UTC)
 * Ineuw (talk) 05:12, 3 March 2015 (UTC)
 * --Zyephyrus (talk) 01:44, 4 March 2015 (UTC)
 * BD2412 T 18:30, 6 March 2015 (UTC)
 * --Jusjih (talk) 04:30, 7 March 2015 (UTC)
 * —Clockery_Fairfeld 03:40, 8 March 2015 (UTC)
 * easy! — billinghurst  sDrewth  15:01, 8 March 2015 (UTC)

2016-04 confirmation

 * Most recent edit here: 15 May 2015; globally inactive since January 2016. Hesperian 00:39, 1 April 2016 (UTC)
 * BD2412 left me a message about this. I'm sorry I've been away so long. I intend to be back and active on Wikisource as soon as I can but my computer is currently dead and needs to be repaired first (I've had other problems but that's the current one). I'm afraid I don't know how long that will be. - AdamBMorgan (talk) 17:06, 1 April 2016 (UTC)

 * AGF for next 12 months — billinghurst  sDrewth  00:45, 1 April 2016 (UTC)
 * — Ineuw talk 07:59, 1 April 2016 (UTC)
 * --EncycloPetey (talk) 16:48, 1 April 2016 (UTC)
 * --Zyephyrus (talk) 02:43, 2 April 2016 (UTC)
 * per response to my inquiry. BD2412 T 20:46, 2 April 2016 (UTC)
 * --Jusjih (talk) 01:33, 26 April 2016 (UTC)
 * —Prosody (talk) 03:31, 30 April 2016 (UTC)

2017-05 confirmation

 * Adam has dropped off in activity here, but has been contributing on Wikidata. I think he could remain an admin here for another year, without that being any sort of loss to us. Charles Matthews (talk) 07:00, 1 May 2017 (UTC)
 * definite loss! Who is going to crank on the portals?!?  — billinghurst  sDrewth  07:31, 1 May 2017 (UTC)
 * Londonjackbooks (talk) 12:58, 1 May 2017 (UTC)
 * --Zyephyrus (talk) 16:34, 1 May 2017 (UTC)
 * — Hrishikes (talk) 16:48, 1 May 2017 (UTC)
 * and give some more time, but not necessarily next time if still inactive.--Jusjih (talk) 04:09, 10 May 2017 (UTC)
 * — Ineuw talk 08:28, 12 May 2017 (UTC)
 * --EncycloPetey (talk) 15:56, 22 May 2017 (UTC)
 * BD2412 T 00:01, 23 May 2017 (UTC)
 * —Best of intentions: last activity 13+ months ago? Please reapply when active again. 127·0·0·2 (talk) 06:20, 26 May 2017 (UTC)

2018-06 confirmation (declined)

 * He did say he would come back, but it's been two years. BD2412 T 02:42, 1 June 2018 (UTC)
 * --Zyephyrus (talk) 12:46, 1 June 2018 (UTC)
 * three years since practical editing; if reappears more than happy to look at rights — billinghurst  sDrewth
 * --EncycloPetey (talk) 14:13, 5 June 2018 (UTC)
 * —C. F. 13:50, 20 June 2018 (UTC)
 * for being too inactive for too long.--Jusjih (talk) 15:02, 27 June 2018 (UTC)


text:
Farmhand's Refrain

You Repocrat squires in the Farm Bureau, You Demirep lairds in the Grange, Your bigness content with the status quo And alarmed at the rumblings of Change, We'll never go fascist to froth and kill For assuring the girth of your belts: Not ours, not ours the farms we till, We're working for somebody else—

Ranging somebody else's ownsome ground, Lacking somebody else's thrill, Haunting somebody else's too profound, Just a-ghosting for somebody else!

We hirelings and sharecroppers here below, You thanes with your organized Front, We walking at last with the See-Eye-Oh, You in dread of an organized brunt, We'd languish till Gabriel ends it all, Should we wait till your apathy melts: Not ours, not ours the creed you bawl, We're working for somebody else—

Planting somebody else's ownsome Spring, Reaping somebody else's Fall, Making somebody else's proudness ring, Just a-serfing for somebody else!

For you--all these versions of A.A.A., More money on top of your means. For us--yet the paltry six bits a day, Through winter for bedding and beans. No matter how far from the Dixon line, How unAfric the shade of our pelts: Not ours, not ours your class-combine, We're working for somebody else—

Milking somebody else's ownsome cow, Calling somebody else's swine, Doing somebody else's chores, and how, Just a-being for somebody else!

Our Neighbors in Russia "belong" at least, No landlord impugning their worth; Have much consolation of goods increased, If not the sole havings of earth. What here on the chattelized veldts? Not ours, not ours the homes and cars, We're working for somebody else—

Breathing somebody else's ownsome air, Counting somebody else's stars, Finding somebody else's god up there Just a-ghosting for somebody else!

title: Farmhand's Refrain


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 indeed particularly exerted in the two last divisions of his poem: the whole of his Winter and great part of his Autumn having been entirely finished before a single verse was written down.

When the manuscript was completed, it passed through several hands before it was examined by any person of sufficient judgment to appreciate its value; or, in other words, before it had the fortune to be read by any one enough superior to prejudice, to allow that a good poem could be composed by an uneducated and unpresuming mechanic. At length, in November 1798, it was referred to the well-known Capel Lofft, Esq., of Troston Hall, near Bury; and under his patronage, and most warmly supported by his influence, it was published in March 1800. To the taste and superior sense of this gentleman, therefore, are the public indebted for all the pleasure they have derived from the productions of a Bloomfield: and while the wreath of immortality is decreed to the poet, the civic crown shall encircle the brow of his protector and his friend.

The publication of The Farmers Boy proved eminently successful, and a greater number perhaps was sold in a less space of time, than had ever occurred with any poem previously committed to


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 the press. It attracted the attention of the most exalted personages in the kingdom; and many of the most eminent literary characters concurred in bestowing the meed of approbation upon its author. His domestic affairs were greatly improved by the various presents which he received from those who were emulous to reward the exertion of talents under such untoward circumstances, and, conjoined with the profits derived from the sale of the work, enabled him to emerge from the obscurity of his former situation, and to remove to a small house near the Shepherd and Shepherdess, in the City Road. One of the greatest pleasures, however, resulting to Bloomfield from the printing of The Farmer's Boy, was the opportunity of transmitting a copy to his mother; which he did immediately after its publication.

In the year 1802 he published a second volume of poems, under the title of : these added considerably to his reputation:—his familiar representations of nature giving a charm to his poetry that renders it attractive to every class of readers. A third volume, bearing the appellation of, has very recently been published, and will be found to possess an equal degree of merit with his former productions.


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540


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N NAME


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 The family of Bloomfield consists of his wife, three daughters, and a son: to the latter, who is unfortunately afflicted with lameness, his father has dedicated his Wild Flowers. His wife's father is also resident in his house, and it will not be thought undeserving of notice, by those for whom the "simple annals of the poor" have interest, that the "Old Oak Table" upon whose "back" The Farmer's Boy was written, was a gift from this relation towards housekeeping; and to use the words of Bloomfield himself, composed of his

the little that can at present be ascertained of the family of, it appears that the great-grandfather of the Poet, both on the male and on the female side, is the most distant ancestor whose relationship can regularly be traced; and it is singular that both these relations were tailors, and that they were both placed out to that trade by ladies, whose names are now unknown. Isaac Bloomfield, his great-grandfather by the male line, was apprenticed at Framlingham, in Suffolk; but in the latter part of his life he was Churchwarden during twenty-seven years, of the parish of Ousden, in the same county. He lived to the age of


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542

) | topic = Name | page = 542 }}


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, and had seventeen children alive at one time, of whom James, the youngest, and by a second marriage, was father to Mr. Charles Blomfield, who keeps a very respectable school at Bury St. Edmunds, and is at this time a capital Burgess of that town. The difference in the orthography of the names by the omission of an o, is known to have been occasioned by a quarrel between old Isaac Bloomfield, and a brother of his, who afterwards settled in the neighbourhood of Colchester, where many of his descendants are now living. This Isaac Bloomfield was accustomed to tell a story of his childhood, which has been regularly transmitted to his great-grandson Robert, and is to this effect; that, "he remembered being at a house at Framlingham, surrounded by a moat, and that a party of horse soldiers were lodged there who were in the interest of Charles the First, but that the partisans of Cromwell overpowering them, the people of the house fled, and in the confusion the maid gave him a handful of silver spoons, and told him to throw them into the moat to prevent them falling into the hands of the enemy: he did so, and then ran away himself:'" and this he would observe, on concluding his tale, "was the downfal [sic] of our family." What his particular meaning was by this dark


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 cannot now be told; but it is a very curious and remarkable circumstance, that an event which occurred in America about two years ago. appears to bear a strong; reference to the above narrative. Elizabeth Bloomfield, an elder sister to Robert, is now resident in George Town, Potomac; and in a letter which she sent to her brother, of the date of February 11, 1805, is the following passage:

"Your Poems, &c., make a great bustle here; they are printing again at New York, Baltimore, and Philadelphia; and before I left Philadelphia the Governor of the State of Jersey sent for me. He is an original in his manner; his name is Bloomfield; and every one of that name he meets with he sends for, and examines his genealogy to find if they spring from the same branch. I assure you I have not been so catechized since I was a baby: he seemed to wish to find himself allied to the Poet, as he was pleased to call you. He is an old man; he tells me his great-great-grandfather fled from England in the time of the revolution in England, in the time of Oliver Cromwell. He has a town in the Jerseys called Bloomfield, the inhabitants chiefly composed of that name, which he has hunted out:— he finished by telling me, if ever I wanted assistance,


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 to apply to him, as he made it an invariable rule to help his country people all he could, and particularly those of his own name."

Though this information is defective in not specifying from what part of England the Governor of Jersey deduced his own origin, yet it may be presumed, with great appearance of probability, that it must have been from the eastern coast, as the Bloomfields (with some variation in spelling perhaps) are far more abundant in Suffolk than in any other part of the island; and if so, that his ancestors were the same as those of the Poet. Among others of the name of Bloomfield, and Blomefield, noticed in Loder's History of Framlingham, John Sutton is mentioned as holding a cottage which was Thomas Buckes' in 1676, and John Blumfield's in 1659.

To those who are anywise interested in tracing the rise, the decay, and the connexions of families, a few more words on this subject will not be tedious.—Warton, in his History of English Poetry, vol. iii. p. 84, has these words: "William Blomefield, otherwise Battlesden, born at Bury, in Suffolk, bachelor in physic, and a monk of Bury Abbey, was an adventurer in quest of the philosopher's stone. While a monk at Bury, as I presume, he wrote a metrical


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text:
Author:Thomas Warton (1728-1790)

Works

 * Five Pastoral Eclogues (1745)
 * The Pleasures of Melancholy (1747)
 * The Triumph of Isis (1749)
 * A Description of the City, College, and Cathedral of Winchester. Exhibiting a Complete and Comprehensive Detail of their Antiquities and Present State. The whole illustrated with several Curious and Authentic Particulars collected from a Manuscript of Anthony Wood, preserved in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford; the College and Cathedral Registers, and other Original Authorities, never before published ([1750])
 * Newmarket, a Satire (1751)
 * Ode for music: as performed at the theatre in Oxford, on the second of July, 1751 : being the anniversary appointed by the late Lord Crew, Bishop of Durham, for the commemoration of benefactors to the University (1751)
 * The Union, or Select Scotch and English pieces (1753)
 * Observations on the Faery Queen of Spenser (1754)
 * Inscriptionum Romanarum Metricarum Delectus (1758)
 * A Companion to the Guide, and a Guide to the Companion, being a Complete Supplement to all the Accounts of Oxford hitherto published. … The whole interspersed with Original Anecdotes and Interesting Discoveries, occasionally resulting from the subject, and embellished with perspective Views and Elevations neatly engraved (1760)
 * (ed.) The Life and Literary Remains of Ralph Bathurst, M.D., Dean of Wells, and President of Trinity College in Oxford (1761)
 * (ed.) The Oxford Sausage; or Select Poetical Pieces written by the most celebrated Wits of the University of Oxford (1764)
 * Cephalas' ‘Anthologiæ Græcæ.’ (1766)
 * Theocriti Syracusii quae supersunt. Cum scholiis graecis auctioribus, emendationibus et animadversionibus in scholia editoris et Joannis Toupii, glossis selectis ineditis indicibus amplissimis. Praemittuntur editoris dissertatio de bucolicis Graecorum, vita Theocriti a Josua Barnesio scripta, cum nonnullis aliis auctariis. Accedunt editoris et variorum notae perpetuae epistola Joannis Toupii de Syracusiis, ejusdem addenda in Theocritum, necnon collationes quindecim codicum (1770)
 * The Life of Sir Thomas Pope, founder of Trinity College, Oxford, chiefly compiled from Original Evidences, with an Appendix of Papers never before printed (1772)
 * History of English Poetry (1774-1781)
 * History of the parish of Kiddington (1781)
 * An Enquiry into the Authenticity of the Poems attributed to Thomas Rowley, in which the Arguments of the Dean of Exeter and Mr. Bryant are examined (1782)
 * Poems upon several occasions, English, Italian, and Latin, with Translations, by John Milton, viz. Lycidas, L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Arcades, Comus, Odes, Sonnets, Miscellanies, English Psalms, Elegiarum liber, Epigrammatum liber, Sylvarum liber. With Notes, Critical and Explanatory, and other Illustrations (1785)
 * The Poems on various Subjects of Thomas Warton, B.D., late Fellow of Trinity College, Professor of Poetry and Camden Professor of History at Oxford, and Poet-Laureat. Now first collected (1791)

Works about Warton

 * "Reverend Thomas Warton", in The Lives of the Poets-Laureate, by W. S. Austin and J. Ralph (1853)

title: Author:Thomas Warton (1728-1790)


text:
Author:Robert Loder

Works

 * The History of Framlingham, in the County of Suffolk (1798)

title: Author:Robert Loder


text:
Page:Lectures on Modern History.djvu/379

 Lille, 239, 244, 260, 262

Limerick, "City of the Broken Treaty," 230

Limitation Bill, the, 214

Lingard, 7

Linnæus, 20

Lionne, 234; influence over Lewis XIV., 239

Lisbon, port of, 58

Lisola, Austrian statesman, 243

Livonia, retention by Peter the Great, 281

Livy, 110

Loaysa, Cardinal, 106

Locke, John, 136; principles, 217

Lollardry, 137

Lombard, Peter, 74

Lorraine, surrendered to France, 126

Lorraine, Cardinal, 147— Head of Gallicans, 119; character, 157; death, 167

Lorraine, Duke of, 243

Louvain University, 120

Louvois, cited, 229; influence over Lewis XIV., 239; policy, 243-4

Loyola, Ignatius, 114 sqq,

Ludovisi, family of, 226

Luther, Martin— Beginnings of the Reformation, 47; the letters to Ortwin Gratius, 86; question of the indulgences, 92-8, meeting with Miltitz, 94-5; and the Councils, 96-7; and Elector of Saxony, 97; excommunication of, 97; Reformation Tracts, 98; at the Diet of Worms, 98-101; and Erasmus, 100; outlawed by Charles V., 101; and Melanchthon, 101-2; stay at the Wartburg, 102; translation of the Bible, 102-3; Conservatism of, 104-5; passion for authority, 105; character, 129-30; and divine right, 196

Lutheranism. (See also Calvinism and Protestantism)— Repression of, 123-4; characteristics, 130, 136; in France, 155; in Prussia, 286

Lützen, battle of, 192

Luxemburg, becomes French, 243, 244

Luynes, favourite of Lewis XIII., 175

Lyons, Calvinism in, 156

Macaulay, Lord, 12, 15; cited, 27, 110, 231, 275

Macdonalds, massacre of the, 228-9

Machiavelli, 45, 50-51, 81, 95, 120, 142, 172, 196

Madrid, Treaty of, 48

Magdeburg, siege of, 188-9

Magellan, voyage of, 50, 65-6; acquisition of the Philippines, 66

Mahomet, seizes Otranto, 35

Maimonides, Jews forbidden to read, 86

Maintenon, Mme. de, 244

Maitland, advises Mary regarding Darnley, 147

Malacca, fall of, 57, 65

Malindi, 54

Malplaquet, battle of, 260, 261

Malta, Turkish repulse, 36

Manichees, 111

Mansfeld, account of, 186-7

Marchiali, mystery of, 243

Margaret of Valois, marriage with Henry IV., 158-9

Maria Theresa, empress, 291-2

Maria Theresa, wife of Lewis XIV., 235-6; renunciation of estates, 237-8

Mariana and the Jesuits, 116; cited, 167; teachings of, 169

Maria Mancini, Lewis XIV. and, 235

Marignano, battle of, 47

Marlborough, Duchess of, 261

Marlborough, Duke of— Personality, 257-8; campaign of, 259 et seq.; at the Hague, 261; dismissed by the Tories, 261

Marmont and Napoleon, 298-9

Martin of Connemara, 222

Martinitz, Bohemian minister, 183

Mary of Medici and Richelieu, 175-7

Mary, Princess of Orange, succession, 214

Mary Stuart— Religious policy, 146; marriage with Darnley, 146-7; death of Darnley, 147; marriage with Bothwell and imprisonment at Loch Leven, 148; battle of Langside and flight to England, 149; the Casket Letters, 149-52; Elizabeth and, 152-3; marriage with the Dauphin, 157

Mary Tudor, persecutions under, 119; proposed marriage of, 138, 140; Sir Thomas More and, 141

Masenius and Paradise Lost, 116

Massachusetts, attempt to coerce, 311-12

Maurice of Nassau, 126, 174

Max Emmanuel of Bavaria, 250

Maximilian, Emperor— Siege of Padua, 45; Council of Pisa, 46; the Jewish persecutions, 85

Maximilian II., Religious policy, 124, 182

Maximilian of Bavaria, 184-5

Mayenne, breach with Paris, 168

Mayflower, the, 199


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 tract, entitled ‘Bloomefield's Blossoms, or the Campe of Philosophy.'—Afterwards turning Protestant, he did not renounce his chemistry with his religion; for he appears to have dedicated to Queen Elizabeth another system of occult sciences, entitled ‘The Rule of Life, or the Fifth Essence.' "—Ritson, in his Bibliographia Poetica, styles him Sir William Bloomfield, and says, he wrote "The Compendiary of the Noble Science of Alkemy:" and Bishop Tanner, in his Bibliotheca, informs us, that after his recantation from Popery, he was made 'Vicar of St. Simon and St. Jude, in Norwich, 'whence he was afterwards ejected by the Papists.'

Now, from the birthplace of this Bloomfield being at Bury, it is not improbable but that if the descent could be distinctly traced, he would be found named in the pedigree of the Poet; and it is possible also, that Blomefield, the Historian of Norfolk, might be descended from a branch of the same stock. — Whether, however, these things are so or not, the author of The Farmers Boy requires no adventitious lustre to be reflected upon his name from a connexion with literary ancestors. Modest and


text:
Author:Joseph Ritson

Works

 * The Stockton Jubilee, or Shakespeare in all his Glory (1781)
 * Observations on the three first volumes of the "History of English Poetry" (1782)
 * Remarks Critical and Illustrative on the Text of the last Edition of Shakespeare (1783)
 * The Spartan Manual or Tablet of Morality (1785)
 * The Quip Modest (1788)
 * The Office of Constable (1791)
 * The Jurisdiction of the Court Leet (1791)
 * Cursory Criticisms on the Edition of Shakspeare Published by Edmond Malone (1792) EEBO
 * An Essay on Abstinence from Animal Food as a Moral Duty (1802)
 * Bibliographia Poetica: a Catalogue of English Poets of the Twelfth, Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth, and Sixteenth Centurys, with a Short Account of their Works (1802)
 * The Office of Bailiff of a Liberty (1811)
 * The Caledonian Muse: a Chronological Selection of Scottish Poetry from the earliest times (1821).
 * The Life of King Arthur (1825)
 * Memoirs of the Celts or Gauls (1827)
 * Annals of the Caledonians, Picts, and Scots (1828), in 2 vols.
 * Fairy Tales, now first collected, to which are prefixed two dissertations (1) On Pygmies, (2) On Fairies, by Joseph Ritson, esq. (1831)

As editor

 * Gammer Gurton's Garland, or the Nursery Parnassus (1783)
 * Select Collection of English Songs (1783), in 3 vols.
 * Bishopric Garland, or Durham Minstrel (1784)
 * Yorkshire Garland (1788)
 * Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry from Authentic Manuscripts and old printed Copies adorned with [fifteen] Cuts’ by Thomas and John Bewick (1791)
 * Ancient Songs from the time of King Henry the Third to the Revolution (1792), in 2 vols.
 * The North Country Chorister (1792)
 * The Northumbrian Garland, or Newcastle Nightingale (1793)
 * English Anthology (1793–1794), in 3 vols.
 * Scottish Song with the genuine Music (1794), in 2 vols.
 * Poems, written anno-MCCCLII (1795), by Laurence Minot external scan
 * Robin Hood, a Collection of all the Ancient Poems, Songs, and Ballads now extant relating to that celebrated English Outlaw (1795), in 2 vols.
 * Ancient Engleish Metrical Romanceës (1802), in 3 vols.

title: Author:Joseph Ritson


text: Joseph Ritson

title: Joseph Ritson


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Page:Views in Suffolk, Norfolk, and Northamptonshire.djvu/37

 AN ILLUSTRATION

OF

OF

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

, in Suffolk, the seat of his Grace the Duke of Grafton, was formerly the property of the Earls of Arlington, but came into the possession of the Fitzroys by the marriage of the first Duke of Grafton with the daughter and heiress of Lord Arlington. The mansion is large and commodious, of a modern date, built with red brick, and without any superfluous decorations within or without: indeed, the good sense and good taste of its noble possessor, are conspicuous in every part. The house is almost surrounded by trees of uncommon growth, and the most healthy and luxuriant appearance; and near it glides the river Ouse. Over this stream is thrown a neat and substantial wooden


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Rh

WO fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two bodies can occupy one and the same place in the physical world. "Three, seven, ace," soon drove out of Hermann's mind the thought of the dead Countess. "Three, seven, ace," were perpetually running through his head and continually being repeated by his lips. If he saw a young girl, he would say: "How slender she is! quite like the three of hearts." If anybody asked: "What is the time?" he would reply: "Five minutes to seven." Every stout man that he saw reminded him of the ace. "Three, seven, ace" haunted him in his sleep, and assumed all possible shapes. The threes bloomed before him in the forms of magnificent flowers, the sevens were represented by Gothic portals, and the aces became transformed into gigantic spiders. One thought alone occupied his whole mind—to make a profitable use of the secret which he had purchased so dearly. He thought of applying for a furlough so as to travel abroad. He wanted to go to Paris and tempt fortune in some of the public gambling-houses that abounded there. Chance spared him all this trouble.

There was in Moscow a society of rich gamesters, presided over by the celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed all his life at the card-table and had amassed millions, accepting bills of exchange for his winnings and paying his losses in ready money. His long experience secured for him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, his famous cook, and his agreeable and fascinating manners gained for him the respect of the public. He came to St. Petersburg. The young men of the capital flocked to his rooms, forgetting balls for cards, and preferring the emotions of faro to the seductions of flirting. Narumov conducted Hermann to Chekalinsky's residence.

They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled with attentive domestics. The place was crowded. Generals and Privy Counsellors were playing at whist; young men were lolling carelessly upon the velvet-covered sofas, eating ices and smoking pipes. In the drawing-room, at the head

title: Page:Best Russian Short Stories.djvu/45


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26 of a long table, around which were assembled about a score of players, sat the master of the house keeping the bank. He was a man of about sixty years of age, of a very dignified appearance; his head was covered with silvery-white hair; his full, florid countenance expressed good-nature, and his eyes twinkled with a perpetual smile. Narumov introduced Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook him by the hand in a friendly manner, requested him not to stand on ceremony, and then went on dealing.

The game occupied some time. On the table lay more than thirty cards. Chekalinsky paused after each throw, in order to give the players time to arrange their cards and note down their losses, listened politely to their requests, and more politely still, put straight the corners of cards that some player's hand had chanced to bend. At last the game was finished. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.

"Will you allow me to take a card?" said Hermann, stretching out his hand from behind a stout gentleman who was punting.

Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acquiescence. Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on his abjuration of that abstention from cards which he had practised for so long a period, and wished him a lucky beginning.

"Stake!" said Hermann, writing some figures with chalk on the back of his card.

"How much?" asked the banker, contracting the muscles of his eyes; "excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly."

"Forty-seven thousand rubles," replied Hermann.

At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round, and all eyes were fixed upon Hermann.

"He has taken leave of his senses!" thought Narumov.

"Allow me to inform you," said Chekalinsky, with his eternal smile, "that you are playing very high; nobody here has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five rubles at once."

"Very well," replied Hermann; "but do you accept my card or not?"

Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent.

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Rh "I only wish to observe," said he, "that although I have the greatest confidence in my friends, I can only play against ready money. For my own part, I am quite convinced that your word is sufficient, but for the sake of the order of the game, and to facilitate the reckoning up, I must ask you to put the money on your card."

Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed it to Chekalinsky, who, after examining it in a cursory manner, placed it on Hermann's card.

He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on the left a three.

"I have won!" said Hermann, showing his card.

A murmur of astonishment arose among the players. Chekalinsky frowned, but the smile quickly returned to his face.

"Do you wish me to settle with you?" he said to Hermann.

"If you please," replied the latter.

Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of bank-notes and paid at once. Hermann took up his money and left the table. Narumov could not recover from his astonishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and returned home.

The next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky's. The host was dealing. Hermann walked up to the table; the punters immediately made room for him. Chekalinsky greeted him with a gracious bow.

Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed upon it his forty-seven thousand roubles, together with his winnings of the previous evening.

Chekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the right, a seven on the left.

Hermann showed his seven.

There was a general exclamation. Chekalinsky was evidently ill at ease, but he counted out the ninety-four thousand rubles and handed them over to Hermann, who pocketed them in the coolest manner possible and immediately left the house.

The next evening Hermann appeared again at the table. Every one was expecting him. The generals and Privy Counsellors left their whist in order to watch such extraordinary

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O one who has eyes in his head, and considers what he sees, if he has been on Dartmoor, can have failed to observe how that every stream-bed has been turned over, and how that every hollow in a hillside is furrowed.

The tin-streamers who thus scarred the face of the moor carried on their works far down below where the rivers debouch from the moor on to the lowlands, but there the evidences of their toil have been effaced by culture.

The tin found in the detritus of streams is the oxide, and is far purer than tin found in the lode. Mining for tin was pursued on Dartmoor during the Middle Ages to a limited extent only, and solely when the stream tin was exhausted.

A very interesting excursion may be made from Douseland Station up the Meavy valley to Nosworthy

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28 play. The young officers quitted their sofas, and even the servants crowded into the room. All pressed round Hermann. The other players left off punting, impatient to see how it would end. Hermann stood at the table and prepared to play alone against the pale, but still smiling Chekalinsky. Each opened a pack of cards. Chekalinsky shuffled. Hermann took a card and covered it with a pile of bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned around.

Chekalinsky began to deal; his hands trembled. On the right a queen turned up, and on the left an ace.

"Ace has won!" cried Hermann, showing his card.

"Your queen has lost," said Chekalinsky, politely.

Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him the queen of spades! He could not believe his eyes, nor could he understand how he had made such a mistake.

At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades smiled ironically and winked her eye at him. He was struck by her remarkable resemblance

"The old Countess!" he exclaimed, seized with terror.

Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings. For some time, Hermann remained perfectly motionless. When at last he left the table, there was a general commotion in the room.

"Splendidly punted!" said the players. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards afresh, and the game went on as usual.

Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in room Number 17 of the Obukhov Hospital. He never answers any questions, but he constantly mutters with unusual rapidity: "Three, seven, ace!" "Three, seven, queen!"

Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man, a son of the former steward of the old Countess. He is in the service of the State somewhere, and is in receipt of a good income. Lizaveta is also supporting a poor relative.

Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain and has become the husband of the Princess Pauline.

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Rh Bridge, above which several old tin-moulds may be seen lying in the track beside the river, and tinworkings are passed. But perhaps the most interesting portion of the walk is that up the Nillacombe that opens on to the Meavy from the right below Kingset.

Above this the stream has been turned about and

its bed torn up, and rubble heaped in huge piles. Not only so, but the hillslope to the south is marked as with confluent smallpox, the result of the gropings of miners after tin. They followed up every trickle from the side and dug costeening, or shoding, pits everywhere in search of metal.

The upper waters of the Webburn have in like manner been explored, and some idea of the extent to which the moor was lacerated by the miners may be obtained from the Warren Inn on the road

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110 from Post Bridge to Moreton, looking east, when the slopes of Headland Warren and Challacombe will be seen seamed deeply.

The remains of the tinners have not been subjected to as full an exploration as they merit, but certain results have nevertheless been reached. One thing is abundantly clear, that all the tin-streaming was done subsequently to the time when men occupied the hut circles. The population living in them knew nothing of tin.

Diodorus Siculus, who wrote B.C. 8, says that the dwellers at Belerium, a cape of Britain, mined and smelted tin. "After beating it up into knucklebone shapes they carry it to a certain island lying off Britain, named Ictis, for at ebb tides, the space between drying up, they carry the tin in waggons thither . . . and thence the merchants buy it from the inhabitants and carry it over to Gaul, and lastly, travelling by land through Gaul about thirty days, they bring down the loads on horses to the mouth of the Rhine."

There can exist little doubt that Ictis is the same as Vectis, the Isle of Wight. It is held that anciently the island was connected with the mainland. The Roman station and harbour was at Brading. The early workers first pounded the ore with stone crushers, and such have been found. They then fanned it in the wind, which carried off the fine light dust, and left the metal on the shovels on which they tossed the ore and grit into the air. Beside some of the workings heaps of this dust have been detected. The washing of the ore came

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Rh later. When sufficient had been collected, long troughs were sunk in the "calm," or native clay, and these were filled with charcoal; then the tin ore was laid on this charcoal, and either more of this latter was heaped above, or else peat was piled

up, with layers of ore. Finally the whole was kindled. No bellows were used, but a draught through the channel kept the whole glowing, and the metal ran through the fire into the bottom of the hollow, or ran out at the end, as this rude furnace was constructed on an incline.

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User:DeirdreAnne/Books/Agrippa:Three Books of Occult Philosophy

Translated by John French (1651)

 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/An encomium on the three books of Cornelius Agrippa Knight
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/The life of Henry Cornelius Agrippa, Knight
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/To my most honorable, and no less learned friend, Robert Childe, Doctor of Physick
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Poem
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/To the reader
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/To R.P.D. Iohn Tritemius, an abbot of Saint James in the suburbs of Herbipolis, Henry Cornelius Agrippa of Nettesheym sendeth greeting
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/John Tritemius, abbot of Saint James of Herbipolis, formerly of Spanhemia, to his Henry Cornelius Agrippa of Nettes-heym, health and love
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/To the Revernd Father in Christ, and most Illustrious Prince, Hermannus, ... Henry Cornelius Agrippa of Nettes-heym, sendeth greeting
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Judicious reader!
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Errata
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 1
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 2
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 3
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 4
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 5
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 6
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 7
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 8
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 9
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 10
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 11
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 12
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 13
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 14
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 15
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 16
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 17
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 18
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 19
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 20
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 21
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 22
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 23
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 24
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 25
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 26
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 27
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 28
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 29
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 30
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 31
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 32
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 33
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 34
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 35
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 36
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 37
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 38
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 39
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 40
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 41
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 42
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 43
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 44
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 45
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1, Chapter 46
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1/Part 3
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 1/Part 4
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 2
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 2/Part 1
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 2/Part 2
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 2/Part 3
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 2/Part 4
 * Three Books of Occult Philosophy/Book 3
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 3/Part 1
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 3/Part 2
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 3/Part 3
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 3/Part 4
 * De Occulta Philosophia/Book 3/Part 5


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112 In Staffordshire, at Kinver, and in the neighbourhood of Stourbridge, in Worcestershire, I have seen banks and hedges made up of what are locally called burrs. These consist of masses of sand and iron slag, two feet in diameter, round, and concave on one side, convex on the other. These burrs were formed in the primitive manufacture of iron, which much resembled that of tin. Andrew Yarranton, in England's Improvement by Sea and Land, 1698, says that he saw dug up near the walls of Worcester the hearth of an old Roman iron-furnace.

"It was an open hearth upon which was placed alternately charcoal and ironstone, to which fire being applied; it was urged by men treading upon bellows. The operation was very slow and imperfect. Unless the ore was very rich, not more than one hundredweight of iron could be extracted in a day. The ironstone did not melt, but was found at the bottom of the hearth in a large lump or bloom, which was afterwards taken out and beaten under massive hammers previous to its being worked into the required shape or form."

The burrs found are the sand and iron mixed that encased the bloom, which was taken out by pincers and worked on the anvil. The scoria that encased the bloom was thrown aside, and yet contains more than one-half of iron. The iron reduced in this simple manner never ran, but it became soft like dough, and could be removed and beaten into shape.

The method of dealing with the tin was similar, only that in this latter case the metal flowed. That

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Rh foot bellows were employed before the system of working bellows, and producing a continuous blast by means of a water-wheel, is most probable. The foot bellows are known to most primitive people, but in Agricola's illustration of the smelting of tin

none are shown. On the contrary, Æolus is represented in the corner as blowing a natural blast.

The book of Agricola, published in 1556, shows that this primitive method was still in practice so late as the middle of the sixteenth century.

But this clumsy method could not be long practised on Dartmoor, where fuel—except peat—was

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text:
Senator Dodd Farewell Address

For more than 200 years, a uniquely American story has unfolded here in the chamber of the United States Senate - a fascinating, inspiring, and often tumultuous tale of conflict and compromise, reflecting the awesome potential of our still young democracy--and its occasional moments of agonizing frustration.

For much of my life, this story has intersected with my own in ways that have been both thrilling and humbling.

As a 14-year-old boy, I sat in the family gallery of this chamber, watching as my father took the oath of office as a new Senator.

A few years later, in 1962, I sat where these young men and women sit today, serving as a Senate page. John F. Kennedy was our president and Lyndon Johnson presided over this body.

Eighteen years later, in the autumn of 1980, the people of Connecticut gave me the honor of a lifetime when they asked me to give voice to their views, electing me to serve as their United States Senator.

For the past thirty years I have worked hard to sustain their trust. I am proud of the work I have done, but it is time for my story and that of this institution, which I cherish so much, to diverge.

Thus, Mr. President, I rise to give some valedictory remarks as my service as a United States Senator from Connecticut comes to a close.

Now, it is common for retiring Senators to say the following; ―I'll miss the people - but not the work.

Mr. President, you won't hear that from me. Most assuredly, I will miss the people of the Senate. But I will miss the work, as well.

Over the years, I have both witnessed and participated in some great debates--moments when statesmen of both parties, gathered together in this hall to weigh the great questions of our time.

And while I wish there had been more of those moments, I will always remember the Senate's debates on issues like Central America and Iraq, campaign finance reform and securities litigation, health care and financial reform.

And when I am home in Connecticut, I see the results of the work we did every day.

I see workers coming off their shifts at Pratt & Whitney, Electric Boat, and Sikorsky, the lifeblood of a defense manufacturing sector so critical to our national security, and to the economic well being of my state.

I see communities preparing for high-speed rail and breaking ground on new community health centers,

I see the grants we fought for helping cities and towns to build sustainable communities and promote economic development.

When I am home, I meet parents who, because of the Family and Medical Leave Act, don't have to choose between keeping their jobs and taking care of sick children.

I visit with elderly folks who will no longer have to choose between paying for their prescription drugs and paying for their heat.

I hear from consumers who have been victimized by unfair practices on the part of credit card companies--and who will no longer be subject to those abuses.

And I meet young children who, through Early Head Start or access to afterschool programs, have blossomed academically in spite of difficult economic circumstances.

As proud as I am of the work that has made these stories possible over the last three decades, I am keenly aware that I did not do any of it alone.

Until this last Congress, with rare exceptions, every major piece of legislation I authored that became law, including the ones just mentioned, had a Republican cosponsor as well as support from my Democratic caucus.

So, to my Democratic and Republican Senate colleagues who joined me in all these efforts, I say thank you.

I also want to thank the unsung heroes of this institution: the Senate staff and my personal staff.

It would be a grievous understatement to say simply that they make the trains run on time. Without them, the trains would never make it out of the station.

The floor staff, the cloakroom professionals, and the hundreds of unknown and unseen people who show up every day to make this critical institution of our democracy function--without them, no Senator could fulfill his or her obligation to the American people.

Many of my personal staff and Committee staff are present in the Senate gallery today. And neither I, nor the millions of Americans whose lives you have enriched and whose burdens you have lightened, can ever thank you enough. I only hope that your time with me has been half as fulfilling as my time with you.

Of course, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the people of Connecticut whose confidence, patience, and spirit has given my life and its work meaning. As rich as our common language is, words cannot come close to capturing the depth of my affection for and appreciation of the people of Connecticut.

For almost four decades - three terms in the House of Representatives, and five terms in the Senate - you have entrusted me to labor on your behalf. I thank you.

And lastly, my family. My parents are long since deceased, but their guidance, inspiration and example have never departed.

For the past 30 years, I have sat at this same desk occupied by my father during the 12 years he served here.

His courage, character, and conviction have been a constant reminder of what it means to be a United States Senator.

I thank my siblings and their children and other relatives for their enthusiastic support, particularly during the rough patches. From time to time, we all need the safe harbor of family at the darker moments.

To Jackie, Grace and Christina, who have supported and inspired me every day: You mean more to me than I could ever say in these few short moments, so come January, I'm glad I'll have more time to say it more often.

And to Jackie in particular: You have been my anchor to windward in the rough and turbulent waters of public service. When it was the darkest - you were the brightest. So to you and my two young ladies: I love you more than life.

As this chapter in my career comes to a close, a new chapter in the Senate's history is beginning. When this body is gaveled to order in January, nearly half its members will be in their first term.

And even though I could spend hours fondly recalling a lifetime of yesterdays, this new Senate -- and the nation -- must confront an uncertain tomorrow.

So, rather than recite a long list of personal memories or revisit the video highlights of my Senate service, I'd like to take this brief time to offer a few thoughts to those who will write the Senate's next chapter.

I will begin by stating the sadly obvious: Our electoral system is a mess. Powerful financial interests, free to throw money about with little transparency, have corrupted the basic principles underlying our representative democracy. And, as a result, our political system at the federal level is completely dysfunctional.

Those who were elected to the Senate, just a few weeks ago, must already begin the unpleasant work of raising money for their reelections six years hence.

Newly-elected Senators will learn that their every legislative maneuver, their every public utterance, and even some of their private deliberations, will be fodder for a 24 - 7 political media industry that seems to favor speculation over analysis and conflict over consensus.

This explosion of new media brings with it, its own benefits and drawbacks--and it is occurring at the same time the presence of traditional media outlets are declining.

So while the corridors of Congress are crowded with handheld video and cell phone cameras, there is a declining role for newspaper, radio and network journalists reporting the routine deliberations taking place inside subcommittee hearings.

Case in point: Ten years ago, 11 or 12 reporters from Connecticut covered the delegation's legislative activities. Today, there is only one doing the same work.

Meanwhile, intense partisan polarization has raised the stakes in every debate and on every vote, making it difficult to lose with grace, and nearly impossible to compromise without cost.

Americans' distrust of politicians provides compelling incentives for Senators to distrust each other, to disparage this very institution, and disengage from the policy making process.

These changes have already had their effect on the Senate. The purpose of insulating one half of the national legislature from volatile shifts in the public mood has been degraded.

And while I strongly favor reforming our campaign finance system, revitalizing and rehabilitating our journalistic traditions, and restoring citizen faith in government and politics, I know that wishes won't make it so.

I have heard some people suggest that the Senate as we know it simply can't function in such a highly charged political environment, that we should change Senate rules to make it more efficient, more responsive to the public mood, more like the House of Representatives, where the majority can essentially bend the minority to its will.

I appreciate the frustration many have with the slow pace of the legislative progress. And I certainly share some of my colleagues' anger with the repetitive use and abuse of the filibuster. Thus, I can understand the temptation to change the rules that make the Senate so unique -- and, simultaneously, so frustrating.

But whether such a temptation is motivated by a noble desire to speed up the legislative process, or by pure political expedience, I believe such changes would be unwise.

We one hundred Senators are but temporary stewards of a unique American institution, founded upon universal principles. The Senate was designed to be different, not simply for the sake of variety, but because the framers believed the Senate could and should be the venue in which statesmen would lift America up to meet its unique challenges.

As a Senator from the State of Connecticut -- and the longest serving one in its history -- I take special pride in the role two Connecticut Yankees played in the establishment of this body.

It was Roger Sherman and Oliver Ellsworth, delegates from Connecticut to the Constitutional Convention in 1787 who proposed the idea of a bicameral national legislature.

The Connecticut Compromise, as it came to be known, was designed to ensure that no matter which way the political winds blew, or how hard the gusts, there would be a place for every voice to be heard.

The history of this young democracy, the Framers decided, should not be written solely in the hand of the political majority. In a nation founded in revolution against tyrannical rule, which sought to crush dissent, there should be one institution that would always provide a space where dissent was valued and respected.

E Pluribus Unum - out of many, one. And though we would act as one, the Framers believed that our political debate should always reflect, that in our beliefs and in our aspirations, we are, in fact, many.

In short, our Founders were concerned not only with what was legislated, but, just as importantly, with how we legislated.

Now in my years here, I have learned that the appreciation of the Senate's role in our national debate, is an acquired taste.

Therefore, to my fellow Senators who have never served a day in the minority, I urge you to pause in your enthusiasm to change Senate rules.

And to those in the minority who routinely abuse the rules of the Senate to delay or defeat almost any Senate decision, know that you will be equally responsible for undermining the unique value of the United States Senate, a value greater than that which you might assign to the political motivations driving your obstruction.

But in the end, this isn't about the filibuster. What will determine whether this institution works or not, what has always determined whether we will fulfill the Framers' highest hopes or justify the cynics' worst fears, is not the Senate rules, the calendar, or the media.

It is whether each of the one hundred Senators can work together - living up to the incredible honor that comes with the title, and the awesome responsibility that comes with the office.

Politics today seemingly rewards only passion and independence, not deliberation and compromise as well.

It has become commonplace to hear candidates for the Senate campaign on how they are going to Washington to shake things up -- all by themselves.

May I politely suggest that you are seeking election to the wrong office. The United States Senate does not work that way, nor can it, or should it.

Mayors, governors, and presidents can sometimes succeed by the sheer force of their will. But there has never been a Senator so persuasive, so charismatic, so clever, or so brilliant that they could make a significant difference, while refusing to work with other members of this body.

Simply put, Mr. President, Senators cannot ultimately be effective alone.

As I noted earlier, until last year's health care bill, there had not been a single piece of legislation I had ever passed without a Republican partner.

Of course, none of those victories came easily. The notion that partisan politics is a new phenomena, or that partisan politics serve no useful purpose, is just wrong.

From the moment of our founding, America has been engaged in an eternal and often pitched partisan debate. That's no weakness. In fact, it is at the core of our strength as a democracy and success as a nation.

Political bipartisanship is a goal, not a process.

You don't begin the debate with bipartisanship - you arrive there. And you can do so only when determined partisans create consensus - and thus bipartisanship.

In the end, the difference between a partisan brawl and a passionate, but ultimately productive, debate rests on the personal relationships between Senators.

A legislative body that operates on unanimous consent, as does the Senate, cannot function unless the members trust each other. There is no hope of building that trust unless there is the will to treat each other with respect and civility, and to invest the time it requires to create that trust and strengthen those personal bonds.

No matter how obnoxious you find a colleague's rhetoric or how odious you find their beliefs, you will need them. And despite what some may insist, you do no injustice to your ideological principles when you seek out common ground. You do no injustice to your political beliefs when you take the time to get to know those who don't share them.

I've served with several hundred Senators under every partisan configuration imaginable: Republican presidents and Democratic presidents, divided government and one-party control.

And as odd as it may sound in the present political environment, in my three decades here, I cannot recall a single Senate colleague with whom I could not work.

Sometimes those relationships take time, but then, that is why the Framers gave us six-year terms: so that members could build the social capital necessary to make the Senate function.

Under our Constitution, Senators are given six years, but only you can decide how to use them. And as one Senator who has witnessed what is possible here, I urge each of you: Take the time to use those years well. I pledge to you, your tenure here will be so much more rewarding.

More importantly, you will be vindicating the confidence that the Framers placed in each person who takes the oath of office, as Senator, upholding a trust that echoes through the centuries.

I share the confidence that Roger Sherman, Oliver Ellsworth, and the Framers placed in this body and in its members. But I am not blind. The Senate today, in my view, is not functioning as it can and should.

But look around you. This moment is difficult, not only for this body, but for the nation it serves. And, in the end, what matters most in America is not what only happens within the walls of this chamber, but rather the consequences of our decisions across the nation and around the globe.

Our economy is struggling, and many of our people are experiencing real hardship - unemployment, home foreclosures, endangered pensions.

Meanwhile, our nation faces real challenges: a mounting national debt, energy, immigration, nuclear proliferation, ongoing conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq and so much more. All these challenges make the internal political and procedural conflicts we face as Senators seem small and petty.

History calls us to lift our eyes above the fleeting controversies of the moment, and to refocus our attention on our common challenge and common purpose.

By regaining its footing, the Senate can help this nation to regain confidence, and to restore the sense of optimism.

We must regain that focus. And, most importantly, we need our confidence back - we want to feel that same optimism that has sustained us through more than two centuries.

I am not naïve. I am aware of the conventional wisdom that predicts gridlock in the Congress.

But I know both the Democratic and Republican Leaders. I know the sitting members of the Senate. And my confidence is unshaken.

Why? Because we have been here before. The country has recovered from economic turmoil. Americans have come together to heal deep divides. And the Senate has led by finding its way through seemingly intractable political division. We have proven time and time again that this Senate is capable of meeting the test of history. We have evidenced the wisdom of the Framers who created its unique rules and set its high standards.

After all, no other legislative body grants so much power to each member, nor does any other legislative body ask so much of each member.

Just as the Senate's rules empower each member to act like a statesman, they also require statesmanship from each member.

But these rules are merely requiring from us the kind of leadership that our constituents need from us, that history calls on us to provide in difficult times such as these.

Maturity in a time of pettiness, calm in a time of anger, and leadership in a time of uncertainty - that is what the nation asks of the Senate, and that is what this office demands of us.

Over the past two centuries, some 1900 men and women have shared the privilege of serving in the Senate. Each of us has been granted a temporary, fleeting moment in which to indulge either our political ambition and ideological agenda, or, alternatively, to rise to the challenge and make a constructive mark on our history.

My moment is now at an end, but to those whose moments are not yet over, and to those whose moments will soon begin, I wish you so much more than mere good fortune.

I wish you wisdom. I wish you courage. And I wish for each of you that, one day, when you reflect on your moment, you will know that you have lived up to the tremendous honor and daunting responsibility of being a United States Senator.

But now, to quote St. Paul ―...the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

So Mr. President, it is with great pride, deep humility and incredible gratitude, as a United States Senator, that I yield the floor.

title: Senator Dodd Farewell Address


text:
Talk:Senator Dodd Farewell Address

Per -- Kendrick7 (talk) 08:42, 3 December 2010 (UTC)

title: Talk:Senator Dodd Farewell Address