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208 being able to tell the real water-colour from the printed semblance, and another had that experience with the strange It Is Written, by Marc Chagall. Lower Manhattan, a water-colour by Marin must have presented unheard of difficulties to these engravers, yet they rose to them conqueringly. It is simply an explosion of emotion with almost none of the usual passages that are met with in ordinary water-colours, yet all the disdainful audacities of the style are faithfully rendered. It is possible not to like it, but it is not possible to deny it is a Marin.

With this duplication the Marin dispute and indeed most of the other disputes connected with contemporary work may be indefinitely extended, for all of the hotly discussed artists are illustrated in this folio of Living Art. Discussions about art and even disputes about art are very necessary in live and fully developed communities and in fact the term "live" may not be applied to communities where they do not occur. And "live" artists, profoundly in earnest over their work, never worry over these discussions—it is only the sluggish and the political who fear the public and try to hush it up. The edition in itself is not an indefinite extension, as it is limited to five hundred copies, but it is easy to believe that each of these copies will be much scanned if the public libraries and museums that now dot the land see their duty. It is a handicap that art labours under that its great masterpieces gravitate to the big cities and vast sections of the populace in great countries like this, where distances are magnificent, are obliged to get along without it.

The thirty plates in the folio are not all facsimiles, ten carefully reproduced photographs of sculpture being included as well as two renderings of oil-paintings. The artists are these; Paul Signac, Pierre Bonnard, Henri Matisse, André Derain, Maurice de Vlaminck, André de Segonzac, Marie Laurencin, and Aristide Maillol, from France; Pablo Picasso, from Spain; Wilhelm Lehmbruck, from Germany; Wyndham Lewis, Duncan Grant, and Frank Dobson, from England; Marc Chagall and Alexander Archipenko, from Russia; Ernesto de Fiori, from Italy; Constantin Brancusi, from Roumania; Jules Pascin, from Bulgaria; Edvard Munch, from Norway; Boardman Robinson, Charles Demuth, John Marin, Gaston Lachaise, and Alfeo Faggi, from the United States.

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Rh A formidable list. Certainly most of the challenging spirits in the present-day world of art are included, and sometimes by their most challenging performances. I have already hinted that the Lower Manhattan of Mr Marin will test the openness of the minds of many advanced students, and in addition there is La Danse aux Capucines by Henri Matisse. M Matisse seldom deigns to explain to the outside world the genesis of his paintings and not only loves to be loved, like Richard Strauss, for the "absolute" quality of his compositions, but yearns to see the public occasionally charmed against its will. In the present case I think I may take it upon myself to say that this Danse aux Capucines is a painting of a painting and that only a portion of the great mural dance that Matisse painted just before the war for a German enthusiast shows in this arrangement of his studio corner. I have a sort of traitorous shame is thus betraying a "fact" in connexion with an abstract appeal, but since I have overcome it myself I think others may too. Matisse is undoubtedly one of the great painters of modern times and there are scores of his canvases that must seduce all those who succumb to virtuosity in painting, but in the Danse he throws all enticements to the winds and simplifies to an extent that would put even Giotto to shame. I am one of those charmed by it against my will. When I first saw the mural in the studio of the artist I was not precisely bowled over by it, preferring many other things in the studio to it, but now, of all the collection by which this folio has suddenly enriched me, it is this Danse aux Capucines I have chosen for my wall; and it glows there in a vital, relentlessly arresting way through all the day and through all changes of light.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

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TRAWINSKY a success in New York! But it was yesterday only that the Concertino was hissed, whole families uniting in the sport; and day before yesterday only that a Philharmonic audience sat mute motionless aghast during a parade of little Fireworks, or passed from diaphragm to diaphragm spasms of painful equilibration. Nevertheless there appears to exist a power not ourselves, thank heavens, which makes for motion, and therefore Renard was wildly summoned back again by the audience of the International Composers' Guild the evening of December second, not more than a half dozen people seeking the year 1910 through the exits. Earlier in the evening, the ecstatic Herzgewaechse of Schoenberg had been recalled, too; all the world was in a good humour which things by Delage, Lourie, and Hindemith had not been powerful to dampen. But the song with its strange accompaniment on harp, celesta, and harmonium had not been recalled by a house as unanimous. While the applause was becoming insistful, and Mesdames Leoni and Miller, Messrs Mattfeld and Salzedo were remaining ominously on the stage, hisses and protests ventured up, and several people turned about to where some of the applause came from and said loudly "Not again! Not again!" And there might have been motives other than aesthetic curiosity and delight beneath the demandful clapping. People must have known the newspaper critics a-squirm to a man upon the seat-leather underneath them. Also, the sudden unprepared high f pianpianissimo had been shock, and people were curious to know whether i1t had been intentional and whether it would come again from Miss Leoni's head. But after Renard, nothing other than a state of approaching satisfaction made the applause. The joy was universal, and sustained. The full Vanderbilt Theatre wanted the burlesque over again for the reason that in Strawinsky it had suddenly come upon the showman of genius who had given it just the delight it wanted, and wished to hold on tightly to its new-found friend.

To be sure, Renard is not the greatest Strawinsky. It is not a large form. The rhythmic curves are short. And the instrumental

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 Is it that he really has grown to feel contempt for his master, and wishes to show it? They say no man is a hero to his valet; may it be that even stony-face Time himself is but a short-lived, puny mortal—a little greater than some others, that is all—to the dim eyes of this old servant of his? Has he, ticking, ticking, all these years, come at last to see into the littleness of that Time that looms so great to our awed human eyes?

Is he saying, as he grimly laughs, and strikes his thirty-fives and forties: "Bah! I know you, Time, godlike and dread though you seem. What are you but a phantom—a dream—like the rest of us here? Ay, less, for you will pass away and be no more. Fear him not, immortal men. Time is but the shadow of the world upon the background of Eternity!"


text: Author:Richard Redhead

title: Author:Richard Redhead


text:
FBI Director Christopher Wray Announces Major Operation Targeting the Qakbot Botnet

Hi, I'm Chris Wray, Director of the FBI.

I'm announcing today an FBI-led worldwide operation that crippled one of the longest running botnets ever seen.

The FBI neutralized this far-reaching criminal supply chain, cutting it off at the knees.

The victims ranged from financial institutions on the East Coast to a critical infrastructure government contractor in the Midwest to a medical device manufacturer on the West Coast.

Two years ago, ransomware actors used this service to attack a publishing company and forced the company to pay $4.9 million in ransom.

And last year, cyber crooks used this botnet to steal gigabytes of private information from a health care provider and later leaked that information on the dark web.

This botnet provided cybercriminals like these with a command-and-control infrastructure consisting of hundreds of thousands of computers used to carry out attacks against individuals and businesses all around the globe.

Just in the past year, this botnet infected something like 700,000 computers, directing them to attack even more unsuspecting victims.

And the botnet’s infrastructure enabled the most prolific ransomware groups, groups like Conti and ProLock to cause losses in the hundreds of millions to businesses around the world.

But that's where we came in.

Our FBI-led operation infiltrated the botnet servers and redirected their traffic to our own systems to uninstall the malware.

This is the first time we've deployed this innovative technique, severing thousands of computers from the botnet and restoring control back to the victims.

We also seized millions in cryptocurrency in the process.

Now, all of this was made possible by the dedicated work of FBI Los Angeles, our Cyber Division at FBI Headquarters, and our partners, both here at home and overseas.

The cyber threat facing our nation is growing more dangerous and complex every day.

But our success proves that our own network and our own capabilities are more powerful.

Working together, the FBI and its partners will continue to fight cyber crime and pursue justice and to promote safety, security and confidence in our digitally-connected world.

Thank you.


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 2. The Queen of Arragon, a Tragi-Comedy, which play he shewed to Philip Earl of Pembroke, who having a high opinion of it, caused it to be acted at court, and afterwards to be published, the contrary to the author's inclination.

3. Observations on History, Lond. 1641, 8vo.

4. History of Edward IV. Lond. 1640, in a thin folio, written and published at the desire of King Charles I. which in the opinion of some critics of that age, was too florid for history, and fell short of that calm dignity which is peculiar to a good historian, and which in our nation has never been more happily attained than by the great Earl of Clarendon and Bishop Burnet. During the civil war, Mr. Habington, according to Wood, temporized with those in power, and was not unknown to Oliver Cromwell; but there is no account of his being raised to any preferment during the Protector's government. He died the 30th of November, 1654.

We shall present the readers with the prologue to the Queen of Arragon, acted at Black-Fryars, as a specimen of this author's poetry.

 * Ere we begin that no man may repeat,
 * Two shillings, and his time, the author sent
 * The prologue, with the errors of his play,
 * That who will, may take his money and away.
 * First for the plot, 'tis no way intricate
 * By cross deceits in love, nor so high in state,
 * That we might have given out in our play-bill
 * This day's the Prince, writ by Nick Machiavil.
 * The language too is easy, such as fell
 * Unstudied from his pen; not like a spell
 * Big with mysterious words, such as inchant
 * The half-witted, and confound the ignorant.
 * Then, what must needs, afflict the amourist,
 * No virgin here, in breeches casts a mist

Before


text: Author:Arthur Henry Brown

title: Author:Arthur Henry Brown


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 * Before her lover's eyes; no ladies tell
 * How their blood boils, how high their veins do
 * swell.
 * But what is worse no baudy mirth is here;
 * (The wit of bottle-ale, and double beer)
 * To make the wife of citizen protest,
 * And country justice swear 'twas a good jest.
 * Now, Sirs, you have the errors of his wit.
 * Like, or dislike, at your own perils be't.

Francis Goldsmith

AS the son of Francis Goldsmith, of St. Giles in the Fields in Middlesex, Esq; was educated under Dr. Nicholas Grey, in Merchant-Taylor's School, became a gentleman commoner in Pembroke-College in the beginning of 1629, was soon after translated to St. John's College, and after he had taken a degree in arts, to Grey's-Inn, where he studied the common law several years, but other learning more*. Mr. Langbaine says, that he could recover no other memoirs of this gentleman, but that he lived in the reign of King Charles the First, and obliged the World with a translation of a play out of Latin called,

Sophompaneas, or the History of Joseph, with Annotations, a Tragedy, printed 4to. Lond. 1640, and dedicated to the Right Hon. Henry Lord Marquis of Dorchester. This Drama was written by the admirable Hugo Grotius, published by him at Amsterdam 1635, and dedicated to Vossius, Professor of History and Civil Arts in

Wood Athen, Oxon. v.2. p.194.

Amsterdam.


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 There are the wares exposed for sale without any kind of order, even in a charming disorder. Showy stuffs, colored glass beads, ivory rhinoceros' teeth, sharks' teeth, honey, tobacco, and cotton. There they carry on the most strange bargains, each object having just so much value as it excites desire.

Suddenly this hubbub and movement ceased, the noise immediately subsided. The " Victoria" had appeared in the sky, sailing along majestically and descending slowly without losing its vertical position. Men, women, children, slaves, merchants, Arabs, and negroes all disappeared and glided away into the "tembes" and beneath the huts.

"My dear Samuel," said Kennedy, "if we continue to produce such an effect as this we shall have some difficulty to establish commercial relations with these people."

"There is, nevertheless, one very simple mercantile transaction to be carried out," said Joe; "that is, to quietly descend and carry away the most valuable merchandise without troubling the merchants. We should then get rich."

"You see," said the doctor, "that the natives have only been terrified for the moment. They will not delay to return, impelled either by superstition or curiosity."

"You think so, sir?"

"We shall soon see, but it will be prudent to keep at a little distance. The 'Victoria' is neither an ironclad nor armored. There is no shelter from a bullet nor from an arrow."

"Do you then intend to enter into conference with these Africans, my dear Samuel?"

"Perhaps so—why not? There ought to be in Kazeh Arab merchants who are not ignorant men. I remember that Messrs. Burton and Speke were much pleased with the hospitality of this town. So we can try our luck."

The "Victoria" gradually approached the earth, and made fast one of the grapnels to the top of a tree near the market-place.

The entire population now turned out; heads were cautiously advanced. Many "Waganga," easily recognizable by their badges of shell-fish, advanced boldly. They were the sorcerers of the place. They carried at the waist small gourds rubbed over with grease, and many objects of magic use of a dirtiness, nevertheless, quite professional.


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 By degrees the crowd advanced to the sorcerers, the women and children surrounding them, the drummers rivaled each other in din, hands were clasped and held up towards the sky.

"That is their manner of praying," said Doctor Ferguson. "If I am not in error, we shall be called upon to undertake an important part."

"Very well, sir," said Joe, "play it."

"Even you, my brave Joe, may perhaps become a god."

"Well, sir, that won't worry me much, and the incense will be rather agreeable than otherwise."

At this moment one of the sorcerers, a "Waganga," made a gesture, and the clamor sank into profound silence. He addressed some words to the travelers, but in a tongue unknown to them.

Doctor Ferguson, not understanding what was said, replied at hazard in a few words of Arabic, and was immediately answered in that language.

The orator then delivered a flowing speech, very flowery and very distinct. The doctor had no difficulty in perceiving that the "Victoria" was actually taken for the moon in person, and that this amiable goddess had deigned to approach the town with her three sons, an honor which would never be forgotten in that country—beloved by the sun.

The doctor replied, with great dignity, that the moon made every thousand years a departmental tour, feeling the necessity of showing herself to her worshipers. He then prayed them to take advantage of her divine presence by making known their wants and vows.

The sorcerer replied that the sultan, the "Mwani," had been ill for many years, had asked the assistance of Heaven, and he now begged the sons of the moon to come to him.

The doctor imparted the invitation to his companions.

"And will you go to that nigger king?" said the Scotchman.

"Certainly. These people appear to me to be well disposed, the day is calm, there is scarcely a breath of wind. We have nothing to fear for the "Victoria."'Victoria.'" [sic]

"But what will you do?"

"Be quiet, my dear Dick; with a little medicine I will manage to get out of it."


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Rh invention is not extraordinary; more of the quality of Le Chant du Rossignol than of the Sacre. And still, the work is Strawinsky. It is an idea. The material has a uniform and appropriate colouration. The music is robust, rough to threadbareness, homely. The trumpet and drum begin it, and one hears the village band; and throughout, the musical background has the quality of peasant improvisation, sardonic, humorous, and dramatic, quite in keeping with the spirit of the ancient animal fable which it sets off. It may be the cock's little self-caressful refrain would not have been written had not another cock crowed from off the battlements in Le Coq d'Or. And still, Strawinsky's pattern, in its simplicity, its platitude, and unapparent subtlety, sets one in the bamyard, and into the atmosphere of birch bark shoes and red grinning peasant faces and the cruel and comic tale of primitive life. And it is improbable that any of the flavour of the bright little score failed to manifest itself that Sunday night. The audience saw the living spirit of a composition taken to themselves by instrumentalists and singers and tossed and caught and tossed again with verve and enjoyment. The singers remained stationary; there was very trifling mimetic play. After the "animals" had finished yelling their huzzas normal and falsetto, and while the old fable was enrolling itself, one saw an action as though a ballet were in progress upon the stage where singers and players in evening black sat about and stood. The self-complacency of the cock sunning himself upon his perch and priding himself that he was guarding the house; the hypocritical attitudes of mother fox disguised as a nun and entreating master cock to come down and be confessed; the writhing of poor cock in the hands of the crafty wretch and the fatal curiosity of the latter when cat and goat began their serenading, were there, somehow. One saw them through the ear.

But if Renard is not the greatest Strawinsky, there remains enough of relentless truthfulness to self in the writing to force a new equilibrium on the hearer. The relative brittleness, shrillness, threadbareness of the tonal flow startles; it is somewhat like a flower from which one turns at first, and to which, driven by some inexplicable curiosity, one returns again, to breathe a little less uncomfortably. And still, the International's audience made the grade perfectly. It seems the style of Strawinsky has become "nature." There is a time when every new style seems dissonant

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text:
Template:Italicization inconsistency

inconsistent italicization in source [sic]

title: Template:Italicization inconsistency


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212 and perverse, anarchistic and calculated. The green of the trees and it are separated as though they lie on uncommunicating unrelated planes. But, gradually, the green of the foliage and the new style commence approaching one another till one day, the styles of Wagner and Whitman and Cézanne, of Debussy and Joyce and John Marin upset and disequilibrate us no more than does the fall of snow in January. They have become part of the inherited experience. It seems the evening in the Vanderbilt Theatre was the moment of time in America when Strawinsky's style and with it that of his "generation" passed into the universe of accepted facts; and another "crazy" music rested with the pigmentation of the leaves. It doesn't at all matter that the Philharmonic audiences, and the body of the critics and musicians have not taken cognizance of it. Where do we go from here?

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 Amsterdam. He stiles it a Tragedy, notwithstanding it ends successfully, and quotes for his authority in so doing, Æschilus, Euripides, and even Vossius, in his own Art of Poetry. Some make it a Question, whether it be lawful to found a dramatic Poem on any sacred subject, and some people of tender consciences have murmured against this Play, and another of the same cast called Christ's Passion; but let us hear the opinion of Vossius himfelf, prefixed to this Play. "I am of opinion, (says he) it is better to chuse another argument than sacred. For it agrees not with the majesty of sacred things, to be made a play and a fable. It is also a work of very dangerous consequence, to mingle human inventions with things sacred; because the poet adds uncertainties of his own, sometimes falsities; which is not only to play with holy things, but also to graft in men's minds opinions, now and then false. These things have place, especially when we bring in God, or Christ speaking, or treating of the mysteries of religion. I will allow more where the history is taken out of the sacred scriptures; but yet in the nature of the argument is civil, as the action of David flying from his son Absolom; or of Joseph sold by his brethren, advanced by Pharaoh to the government of Egypt, and that dignity adored by, and made known unto his brethren. Of which argument is Sophompaneas, written by Hugo Grotius, embassador from the Queen of Sweden to the King of France; which tragedy, I suppose, may be set for a pattern to him, that would handle an argument from the holy scriptures." This is the opinion of Vossius, and with him all must agree who admire the truly admirable Samson Agonistes of Milton.

As we have frequently mentioned Grotius, the short account of so great a man, which is inserted in Langbaine, will not be unpleasing to the reader.

"Hugo


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Rue à Nesles - Maurice de Vlaminck

Death in Venice - Thomas Mann 213

Psychology and Common Sense - Thomas Craven 236

Three Water-colours - John Marin

A Motley Pantheon - Bertrand Russell 243

John of Belgrade -Leonard Doughty 246

Charles Spencer Chaplin - E. E. Cummings

In a Dance - Jessica Nelson North 249

The sorrows of Avicenna - G. Santayana 250

Nocturne - Robert Hillyer 256

Boy Stealing Forbidden Fruit - Yasuo Kuniyoshi

The Definition of Comedy - Herbert Read 257

Vision - Mabel Simpson 264

Irish Life - Jack B. Yeats

Paris Letter - Paul Morand 265

Book Reviews:

Horses and Men - Robert Morss Lovett 274

Mrs Wharton's Age of Faith - Edmund Wilson 277

Aubrey Beardlwy - A. E. Gallatin 280

The Lady Stuffed With Pistachio Nuts - Carl Van Vechten 283

Briefer Mention 287

Comment - The Editor 291

The Theatre - Gilbert Seldes 293

Modern Art - Henry McBride 295

Musical Chronicle - Paul Rosenfeld 298

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RV 585 (Rh)

አንድ (፩)፣ ሁለት (፪)፣ ሦስት (፫)፣ አራት (፬)፣ አምስት (፭)፣ ስድስት (፮)፣ ሰባት (፯)፣ ስምንት (፰)፣ ዘጠኝ (፱)፣ አሥር (፲)።


text: Category:Book reviews in The Dial

title: Category:Book reviews in The Dial


text: Amharic Basic Course/Volume 2/Reader Unit 2


text:
Page:The lives of the poets of Great Britain and Ireland to the time of Dean Swift - Volume 2.djvu/25

 "Hugo Grotius, says he, was an honour to his country: he was born in the year 1583, and will be famous to posterity, in regard of those many excellent pieces he has published. In some of his writings he defended Arminianism, for which he suffered imprisonment in the castle of Louverstein, in the year 1618; at which time his associate Barnevelt lost his head on the same account. Afterwards Grotius escaped out of prison, by means of Maria Reigersberg his wife, and fled into Flanders; and thence into France, where he was kindly received by Lewis XIII. He died at Rostock in Mecclebourg, Sept. 1, 1645. His life is written at large by Melchoir Adamus, in Latin.

As to our outhor's translation, which is in heroic verse, it is much commended by verses from four of his friends.

He also translated Grotius's consolatory oration to his father, with epitaphs; and also his Catechism into English verse.

Mr. Goldfmith died at Ashton in Northamptonshire, in September 1655, and was buried there, leaving behind him an only daughter named Katherine, afterwards the wife of Sir Henry Dacres.

John


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 highest and interminable bliss. Where, then, if not in him, shall we be able to find a full gratification for all the high needs of our spirit?

“(2) Reflecting, in particular, on the separate properties of the divine essence, which distinguish God from his creatures, we can draw from them new lessons for ourselves. And (a) if God alone is self-existent, that is, is in no way under any obligations to any one, while all the other beings, consequently we, too, are under obligations to him, we must (aa) constantly humble ourselves before him, according to the words of Scripture, What hast thou that thou didst not receive? now if thou didst receive it, why dost thou glory, as if thou hadst not received it? (1 Cor. iv. 7); and (bb) constantly thank him: for in him we live and move and have our being (Acts xvii. 28). (b) If he alone is independent and all-satisfied, and so does not demand our goodness (Psalm xvi. 2), but, on the contrary, gives to all life and breath, and all things (Acts xvii. 25), we must (aa) experience within us a feeling of the fullest dependence on him and of the most complete submission to him, and (bb) in bringing him gifts or sacrifices not imagine that we are obliging the all-satisfied God in this manner, since all which we have is his property. (c) The confidence that we are always before the face of the omnipresent God, no matter where we may be, (aa) naturally inclines us to act before him with the greatest circumspection and reverence; (bb) can keep us from sins, as it once kept Joseph from sinning (Gen. xxxix. 9); (cc) can encourage and console us in all perils, as it consoled David, who said about himself: I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved (Psalm xvi. 8); (dd) can incite us to invoke, glorify, and thank the Lord in every place (John iv. 21-24).

“(d) Keeping in mind that God alone is eternal, while everything else which surrounds us on earth is temporal


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 and vanishing, we learn (aa) not to cleave with the soul to perishable possessions, but to seek the one, imperishable possession in God (Matt. vi. 19, 20); (bb) not to put our trust in princes, nor in the sons of man, who may die any moment and leave us without a support (Psalm cxlvi. 3-5), but to put our trust in him who alone has immortality (1 Tim. vi. 16) and will never abandon us.

“(e) The thought of God’s complete unchangeability (aa) can still more incite us to put this exclusive trust in God, for men in general are fickle, the favour of the great and mighty of the earth is easily shaken and passes, the very love of our relatives and friends frequently betrays us, whereas God alone is always the same and unchangeable; (bb) can at the same time incite us to imitate the unchangeableness of God in a moral sense, that is, to be as firm and constant as possible in all the honourable pursuits of our spirit, and in our unwavering march along the path of virtue and salvation.

“(f) The live faith in almighty God teaches us (aa) to implore his aid and blessing in all our undertakings: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain (Psalm cxxvii. 1); (bb) not to be afraid of anything and not to lose courage amidst the greatest dangers, so long as we are doing what pleases him and thus attract his good-will: if God be for us, who can be against us? (Rom. viii. 31); but (ce) to fear him and tremble before him, if we do what displeases him: he is able to destroy not only our body, but also our soul in hell (Matt. x. 28).

“(3) If we turn our attention to the properties of the divine mind, we shall find even here many edifying things for ourselves. (a) God is omniscient: what consolation and encouragement for the righteous man! Let people who do not know his intentions and are not able to appreciate his actions, insult, and even persecute him, he is rewarded by the knowledge that God himself clearly sees his soul with all its thoughts and wishes, knows all


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 his deeds in the bloody battle with the enemies of salvation, knows his intentional privations and innocent suffering, knows every sigh and every tear of his amidst heavy temptation! No matter how hypocritical he may be before men, how much he may try to conceal his criminal intentions, in what darkness he may be committing his lawlessness, he cannot help confessing that there is a being from whom it is impossible to conceal himself, before whom everything is naked and open (Heb. iv. 13), and that it is possible to deceive men, but never God. (b) God is infinitely wise; and thus (aa) let not our mind and soul be dejected if in social life or in Nature we shall see any phenomena which seem to threaten a universal ruin and destruction, for all that is done or omitted by the unsearchable fate of the highest wisdom; (bb) let us not be faint of heart or murmur against God if we ourselves have occasion to be in straitened circumstances, but let us rather give ourselves altogether to his holy will, believing that he knows better than we what is useful and what harmful to us; (cc) let us learn according to our strength to imitate his highest wisdom, tending all the time toward that supreme aim, which he has set for us, and selecting for ourselves those most reliable means, which he himself has outlined for us in his revelation.

“(4) Finally, each of the properties of the divine will either only offers us a model for imitation, or at the same time also imparts certain other moral lessons. (a) God is called supremely free, because he always selects only what is good, and this he does without any external pressure or incitement; it is in this, then, that our true freedom ought to consist! In the possibility and freely acquired habit of doing only what is good, only because it is good, and not in the arbitrary will of doing good and evil, as people generally think, and still less in the arbitrary will of doing only what is bad: for whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin, says our Saviour (John


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RV 15 (Rh)

Glottalized Consonants


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are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as "Green Heys Fields," through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and


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 viii. 34), and, committing evil, we every time lose part of our freedom, more and more submitting to our passions and impure strivings, over which we ought to rule. (6) God is supremely holy and has commanded to us: ye shall sanctify yourselves, and ye shall be holy; for I am holy, the Lord your God (Lev. xi. 44). Without this condition we can never become worthy of the most blissful union with the Lord: for what communion hath light with darkness? (2 Cor. vi. 14); nor shall we ever be worthy of seeing God: for only the pure in heart shall see God (Matt. v. 8). (c) God is infinitely good to all his creatures and to us in particular; this (aa) teaches us to thank him for all his benefits, and for his paternal love to repay him with filial love: we love him, because he first loved us (1 John iv. 19).”

Not only is there no sense in all that, but there is not even any connection except what the French call à propos. Indeed, what moral application can there be from the fact that God is one and immeasurable, and a spirit, and trine? What is remarkable is not that the exposi tion of this moral application of the dogma is written disconnectedly and badly, but that an application has been invented for a dogma that can have no applications at all. Involuntarily it occurs to me: why should I know these incomprehensible, most contradictory dogmas, since from their knowledge absolutely nothing can result?


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 feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town, he left but half an hour ago. Here and there an old black and white farm-house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch; and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids' call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm-yards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farm-yard, belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public foot-path leads. The porch of this farm-house is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow


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 in scrambling and wild luxuriance—roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. This farm-house and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and black-thorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that prim-roses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.

I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of nature and her beautiful spring time by the workmen but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening—the April of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours.

Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which


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 Then addressing the crowd he said: "The moon, taking pity upon the sovereign, so dear to the people of Unyamwezy, has confided his recovery to our hands. Let him prepare to receive us."

The cries, shouts, and gesticulations were redoubled, and the entire vast "ant-hill" ant-hill" of black heads was in motion.

"Now, my friends," said Doctor Ferguson, "it will be necessary to be ready for anything; we may be obliged to retreat at any moment. Dick shall remain in the car, and by means of the blow-pipe, keep up a sufficient ascensional power. The grapnel is firmly fixed, so there is no danger on that score. I will get down, Joe will also get out, but will remain at the foot of the ladder."

"What, are you going alone to this blackamoor's house?" asked Kennedy.

"Why, Mr. Samuel, don't you wish me to accompany you through this?" said Joe.

"No, I shall go alone: these people imagine that the moon has come to pay them a visit. I am protected by their superstition, so have no fear, and let each one remain at his post as I have arranged."

"Since you wish it," said the Scot, "it shall be so."

"Mind you attend to the expansion of the gas."

"All right."

The cries of the natives again increased, they demanded the intervention of heaven very energetically indeed.

"Do you hear?" cried Joe. "I think they are a little too dictatorial to their beautiful moon and her sons."

The doctor, supplied with his medicine-chest, came out of the balloon, preceded by Joe, and descended. The latter was as grave and dignified as was in his nature to be. He sat down at the foot of the ladder, and crossed his legs, Arab-fashion—a portion of the crowd surrounded him at a respectful distance.

Meantime, Doctor Ferguson, preceded by musicians, and escorted by religious dancers, advanced slowly towards the royal "tembe," situated some distance from the town. It was now about three o'clock, and the sun was shining hotly—he could not do less under the circumstances.

The doctor advanced with dignity; the Waganga surrounded him, and kept back the crowd. Ferguson was soon joined by the natural son of the sultan, a well-made