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Rain

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(Other Writ, Poetry, The King of Terrors)

THEY sing their dearest songs–
He, she, all of them — yea,
Treble and ten­or and bass.
And one to play;
With the candles moon­ing each face.…
Ah, no; the years O !
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs !

They clear the creep­ing moss–
Eld­ers and juni­ors — aye,
Mak­ing the path­ways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat.…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across !

They are blithely break­fast­ing all —
Men and maid­ens — yea,
Under the sum­mer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee.…
Ah, no; the years O !
And the rot­ten rose is ripped from the wall.

They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them — aye,
Clocks and car­pets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And bright­est things that are theirs.…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain­drop plows.

Thomas Hardy : Dur­ing Wind and Rain

Black Bird Flying

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Acceptance

Autumn eves are chilly
The sand is soft enough
Propped without move­ment
Con­sider the frac­ture as less

That sail is going, that ship is gone

Yet to cross to the tree shade, no…
Brought here from the brig­and craft
The swift-biting metal blow
Broke above the knee.

That sail is going, that ship is gone

I have water, days-worth
Days that fever will not give;
Food even…
To give a voided strength­en­ing.

That sail is going, that ship is gone

The empti­ness hangs palp­able
The rim of the world holds naught.
No birds mut­ter,
No creatures fumble ‘pon this Isle.

That sail is going, that ship is gone

Too sick to curse the fate,
Over-cold to con­cern on causes:
Death shall take me as I still stare
Along the pro­spect where hope died first.

That sail is going, that ship is gone

Johann Win­ter­felt : Broken Leg On the Lee Shore

de Stael Fort Carre

Nic­olas De Staël — Le Fort Car­ré d’Antibes
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Eagles fly alone, but sheep flock together

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at 4:20 am (High Germany, Other Writ, Royalism, Self Writ, The King of Terrors, War)

polish eagle

In 1846, the Pol­ish exiles of Par­is fomented a rebel­lion in and around Galicia again­st two of the tri­part­ite powers who held Poland in thrall. The Prus­si­ans merely arres­ted the exiles’ envoy, and that suf­ficed around Pozn­an; for Aus­tria, though, who pos­sessed Galicia, events could have taken an unpleas­ant turn, had it not been for the fact that the intel­lec­tu­als in Par­is had under­es­tim­ated the sturdy good sense of the sim­ple Pol­ish peas­antry…

On 17th Feb­ru­ary, how­ever, the loc­al com­mand­er at Tar­now in west­ern Galicia was told by a group of Pol­ish peas­ants that they had been urged to rise up and mas­sacre all Ger­mans and Jews and sack their shops in the towns. Although at first as dis­in­clined to believe them as his super­i­ors in Vien­na, he became con­vinced of the truth of this tale when the peas­ants returned to him on the fol­low­ing day. He found it rel­at­ively sim­ple to show them it was their duty to uphold the exist­ing order, advice which many inter­preted as an invit­a­tion to butcher any mem­bers of the Pol­ish landown­ing class sus­pec­ted of dis­loy­alty to the Mon­archy. There were scenes of blood­shed and destruc­tion around Tar­now  —  and fur­ther east, around Lem­berg  —  for two or three days; and it is prob­able that some 1,500 to 2000 Pol­ish landown­ers per­ished at the hands of the peas­ants.

Alan Palmer : Met­ter­nich

hapsburg eagle

Preuss eagle
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Two from Tosca

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(Art, Music, The King of Terrors, Videos)

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Suat Arik­an sings the Te Deum

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Raina Kabaivanska and Pla­cido Domin­go in the Finale

Tosca Cat

Susan Her­bert — Tosca Places the Candles
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Eisen

StahlArt

Indus­tri­al Pho­to­graphy, even as the build­ings are being des­troyed…

german pepperpot dalek
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A Touch of Class

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at 3:53 am (Generalia)

Indi­an teach­ers sprinkled cow urine on low-caste stu­dents to puri­fy them and drive away evil, reports said on Sat­urday, in a coun­try where mil­lions of people remain oppressed at the bot­tom of the ancient Hindu caste sys­tem.

He told an upper-caste col­league to spray cow urine in a cleans­ing cere­mony as the stu­dents were tak­ing an exam­in­a­tion, wet­ting their faces and their answer sheets

Yahoo

Ganesh on Rat
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The Phrases That We Breathed

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(Music, Videos)

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The Blow — True Affec­tion
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Progress to the Grave

This last point should make it clear that uncon­trolled immig­ra­tion is not the only factor in the sui­cid­al trend I have been describ­ing. Even if there were no immig­ra­tion at all, Amer­ica would still be exper­i­en­cing what can only be called a ter­ri­fy­ing social and mor­al decline. Con­cerns over mediocrity are hardly a new thing in this coun­try, but surely the attack on the intel­lect, the decay of fam­ily and indi­vidu­al char­ac­ter that have occurred over the past 25 years are phe­nom­ena of an entirely dif­fer­ent order, pos­ing a very real threat to the freedoms and the high level of civil­iz­a­tion this coun­try has enjoyed. The com­bin­a­tion of both factors — pro­gress­ive degen­er­acy and divis­ive­ness of the exist­ing soci­ety on one hand and per­petu­al mass immig­ra­tion on the oth­er — must be fatal. His­tory offers many examples of nations that have recovered from over­whelm­ing cata­strophe; Ancient Israel recovered more than once from spir­itu­al dec­ad­ence and con­quest; Europe recovered from the death of a third of its pop­u­la­tion in the Black Plague; the French recovered from the rav­ages of the French Revolu­tion. Renewal was pos­sible in such cases not least because the nation­al iden­tity of those peoples, and the spir­itu­al spark of their civil­iz­a­tions, remained intact. But if Amer­ica con­tin­ues “the slide into apathy, hedon­ism and mor­al chaos,” as Chris­topher Lasch has called it, and at the same time its present pop­u­la­tion is replaced by a chaot­ic mix of peoples from rad­ic­ally diverse, non-European cul­tures, then there will be no basis for con­tinu­ation or renewal. Like ancient Greece after the clas­sic­al Hel­le­nes had dwindled away and the land was repop­u­lated by Slavon­ic and Turkic peoples, Amer­ica will have become lit­er­ally a dif­fer­ent coun­try. There will be no Amer­ic­an Renais­sance — except per­haps as some face­less sub­di­vi­sion of the glob­al shop­ping mall.

Lawrence Aus­ter : The Path To Nation­al Sui­cide ( 1991 )

Chaos unknown painter 1841

Anon, 1841 : Chaos
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Trop d’Audace

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at 9:55 pm (Other Writ, Royalism, The Enemy)

…Now, in this aspect, as well as in a good many oth­ers, the Assembly is the people; sat­is­fied that it is in danger, it makes laws as the former make their insur­rec­tions, and pro­tects itself by strokes of legis­la­tion as the former pro­tects itself by blows with pikes. Fail­ing to take hold of the motor spring by which it might dir­ect the gov­ern­ment machine, it dis­trusts all the old and all the new wheels. The old ones seem to it an obstacle, and, instead of util­iz­ing them, it breaks them one by one — par­lia­ments, pro­vin­cial states, reli­gious orders, the church, the nobles, and roy­alty. The new ones are sus­pi­cious, and instead of har­mon­iz­ing them, it puts them out of gear in advance —  the exec­ut­ive power, admin­is­trat­ive powers, judi­cial powers, the police, the gen­darm­er­ie, and the army. Thanks to these pre­cau­tions it is impossible for any of them to be turned again­st itself; but, also, thanks to these pre­cau­tions, none of them can per­form their func­tions.

Hippolyte-Adolphe Taine : Les Ori­gines de la France con­tem­po­raine  —  ( La révolu­tion: l’anarchie. Vol I )

medal of French Rev
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My Heart, When First The Black-Bird Sings

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(Other Writ, Poetry)

My heart, when first the black­bird sings,
My heart drinks in the song:
Cool pleas­ure fills my bos­om through
And spreads each nerve along.

My bos­om eddies quietly,
My heart is stirred and cool
As when a wind-moved bri­ar sweeps
A stone into a pool

But unto thee, when thee I meet,
My pulses thick­en fast,
As when the maddened lake grows black
And ruffles in the blast.

Robert Louis Steven­son : My Heart, When First The Black-Bird Sings

crow from bestiary
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Throbbing With Ecstasy

Harry Mac­Donough & Haydn Quar­tet : Will You Love Me In Decem­ber, As You Do In May ? (1905)

Vide: Paul’s Ram­blings

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Ending of the Day

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at 11:41 pm (High Germany, Other Writ, Poetry, The King of Terrors)

Over all the hill­tops
Silence,
Among all the tree­tops
You feel hardly
A breath mov­ing.
The birds fall silent in the woods.
Simply wait ! Soon
You too will be silent.

Goethe : The Second Poem the Night-Walker Wro­te

Trans: Robert Bly

grouse at dusk

Empyri­um cov­er: Where At Night The Wood­grouse Plays

Über allen Gip­feln
Ist Ruh’
In allen Wip­feln
Spürest Du
Kaum ein­en Hauch;
Die Vögelein sch­wei­gen im Walde
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest Du auch.

Wan­der­ers Nacht­lied

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I Heard The Baby Owl Call My Name

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(Literature, Self Writ, The King of Terrors)

The rela­tion­ship between the Goo­roo and his dis­ciple is accoun­ted the most holy that can be formed, and sub­sists to the latest peri­od of life. A Thug may betray his father, but nev­er his Goo­roo.

So wro­te the redoubt­able Char­les Mack­ay in his ever pop­ular Mem­oirs of Pop­ular Delu­sions on the Thuggee cult: the wan­der­ing ritu­al­ists who, wheth­er mov­ing in small groups or in vast gangs, des­pite extreme affabil­ity were less admir­able on a walk­ing tour than, say, Chris­ti­an Andersen’s Trav­el­ling Com­pan­ion. Revi­sion­ists have down­played the mil­lions of alleged murders, as imper­i­al­ist slander, and as in all these cases, it can be assumed that the count is unknown; that it is vastly inflated; but that even if they killed hardly any­one, the per­pet­rat­ors were not nice people.

Mead­ows Taylor’s fam­ous Con­fes­sions of a Thug is reviewed here, and here. Dr. Mike Dash wro­te a more recent work, Thug, and a news­pa­per review men­tioned that ‘Only once they had found a suit­able place for dis­pos­ing of the bod­ies would the sig­nal be given  —  often the vic­tim would be invited to look sky­wards’ ( Look Upwards Angel ! )  —  then the chief stran­gler would make like Tod Slaughter. The vari­ous super­sti­tions attached to the cult added some ele­ment of chance to the busi­ness: people were safe if employed as an Ele­phant driver or wash­er­man; but black­smiths and car­penters were only dis­al­lowed if trav­el­ling togeth­er. If in tem­por­ary pos­ses­sion of a cow, you were safe; good thugs couldn’t start the day off until they had heard a part­ridge; yet to hear a baby owl in day­light pres­aged dis­aster  —  not to the vic­tims, though.

stuff owls

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As I Lay A-Thinkynge

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Mer­rie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye;
There came a noble Knyghte,
With his hauberke shynyn­ge brighte,
And his gal­lant heart was lyghte,
Free and gaye;
As I lay a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seem’d a crim­son plain,
Where a gal­lant Knyghte laye slayne,
And a steed with broken rein
Ran free,
As I laye a-thynkynge, most piti­ful to see !

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Mer­rie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe;
A lovely May­de came bye,
And a gen­til youth was nyghe,
And he breathed many a syghe
And a vowe;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was glad­some now.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne;
No more a Youth was there,
But a Maid­en rent her haire,
And cried in sad­de des­paire,
’That I was borne !’
As I laye a-thynkynge, she per­ished for­lorne.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the bri­ar;
There came a lovely childe,
And his face was meek and mild,
Yet joy­ously he smiled
On his sire;
As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cher­ub mote admire.

But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
And sadly sang the Birde as it perch’d upon a bier;
That joy­ous smile was gone,
And the face was white and wan,
As the downe upon the Swan
Doth appear,
As I laye a-thynkynge — oh ! bit­ter flow’d the tear !

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sink­ing,
O mer­rie sang that Birde as it glitter’d on her breast
With a thou­sand gor­geous dyes,
While soar­ing to the skies,
’Mid the stars she seem’d to rise,
As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her mean­ing was exprest: —
’Fol­low, fol­low me away,
It boots not to delay,’–
’Twas so she seem’d to saye,
HERE IS REST !’

The Last Lines of Thomas Ingolds­by

R. H. Bar­ham : The Ingolds­by Legends

Seraph

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Felicitious Co-mingling at the Bifröst Gate

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at 10:12 pm (Art, High Germany, Music, Norse, Odin, Self Writ, Videos)

Hil­dr Valkyrie joined the Ger­man band Femegericht this year. The illus­tri­ous Court of the Holy Vehm was of course foun­ded by Karl the Great, an enemy of the Norse reli­gion, yet who car­ried for­ward the Ger­man­ic tra­di­tion into it’s trans­ition into High Mediæval chris­tian­ity.

Here is Hil­dr singing an Ode to All­father, with the video arranged by BornInMidgard1987 on You­Tube:

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Child of Light

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(Literature, Self Writ, The King of Terrors)

Kurt Von­negut died yes­ter­day. He sur­vived  —  as a pris­on­er of the Ger­mans  —  the terror-bombing of Dresden.

The fire­bomb­ing of Dresden explains abso­lutely noth­ing about why I write what I write and am what I am,” Von­negut wro­te in Fates Worse Than Death, his 1991 auto­bi­o­graphy of sorts.

But he spent 23 years strug­gling to write about the ordeal, which he sur­vived by hud­dling with oth­er POW’s inside an under­ground meat lock­er labelled slaughterhouse-five.

I liked Mother Night the best of all his works. Even the film wasn’t bad.

Ave.

Madre
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Universal Love

equality crap

Now if you start with identi­fy­ing divine with divinely ordained, and identi­fy the Divin­ity with the bare fact of exist­ence, then all things are cer­tainly por­tions of the Divin­ity, and, in so far, divine. But if all things are in this sense divine, then divine ceases to be a qual­ity which evokes any sense of pref­er­ence; then divine is no longer an expres­sion com­men­sur­ate with esteem, still less legit­im­ately pro­duct­ive of emo­tion­al sat­is­fac­tion; if all things are divine, why then some may be divine and hon­our­able and oth­ers divine and dis­hon­our­able. There is some­thing akin in this anarch­ic theo­logy to the jug­gling with the word value of Karl Marx and his fol­low­ers. It is the accept­ance of the emo­tion­al qual­ity of a word after empty­ing out the mean­ing which had pro­duced it. Good, noble, divine; a hier­archy of words denot­ing such qual­it­ies as we think espe­cially desir­able; denot­ing fuller pos­ses­sion of that which we esteem most in ourselves, be it strength or beau­ty, mor­al or intel­lec­tu­al help­ful­ness; words which awaken in our mind the sense of approval, of respect, and finally of rev­er­ence and won­der. Per­form a little sleight-of-hand, and shuffle divin­ity with God, God with Nature, Nature with Being, and you con­trive to awaken that emo­tion of rare­ness, superi­or­ity, won­der­ful­ness, in con­nec­tion with… with what ? O irony of self-delusion ! with everything equally.

Ver­non Lee : Gos­pels of Anarchy and Oth­er Con­tem­por­ary Stud­ies

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Pit of Despair

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at 3:26 am (Animals, Other Writ, Self Writ)

Pit of Despair

Harry Harlow’s Pit of Des­pair

The pit of des­pair, or ver­tic­al cham­ber, was a device used in exper­i­ments con­duc­ted on rhesus macaque mon­keys dur­ing the 1970s by Amer­ic­an com­par­at­ive psy­cho­lo­gist Harry Har­low and his stu­dents at the Uni­ver­sity of Wisconsin-Madison. The aim of the research was to pro­duce an anim­al mod­el of human clin­ic­al depres­sion.

The ver­tic­al cham­ber was little more than a stainless-steel trough with sides that sloped to a roun­ded bot­tom. A 3/8 in. wire mesh floor 1 in. above the bot­tom of the cham­ber allowed waste mater­i­al to drop through the drain and out of holes drilled in the stainless-steel. The cham­ber was equipped with a food box and a water-bottle hold­er, and was covered with a pyr­am­id top — … — designed to dis­cour­age incar­cer­ated sub­jects from hanging from the upper part of the cham­ber.

Har­low placed baby mon­keys in the cham­ber alone for up to six weeks. With­in a few days, they stopped mov­ing about and remained huddled in a corner. The mon­keys were found to be psychot­ic when removed from the cham­ber, and most did not recov­er.

It gets worse…

After 30 days, the “total isol­ates,” as they were called, were found to be “enorm­ously dis­turbed”: two of them refused to eat and starved them­selves to death. After being isol­ated for a year, the mon­keys were found ini­tially to barely move, didn’t explore or play, and were incap­able of hav­ing sexu­al rela­tions. When put with oth­er mon­keys for a daily play ses­sion, they were badly bul­lied by the oth­er mon­keys.

In order to find out how the isol­ates would par­ent, Har­low devised what he called a “rape rack,” to which the female isol­ates were tied in the pos­i­tion taken by a nor­mal female mon­key in order to be impreg­nated. Arti­fi­cial insem­in­a­tion had not been developed at that time. He found that, just as they were incap­able of hav­ing sexu­al rela­tions, they were also unable to par­ent their off­spring, either abus­ing or neg­lect­ing them. “Not even in our most devi­ous dreams could we have designed a sur­rog­ate as evil as these real mon­key moth­ers were,” he wro­te. Hav­ing no social exper­i­ence them­selves, they were incap­able of appro­pri­ate social inter­ac­tion. One mother held her baby’s face to the floor and chewed off his feet and fin­gers. Another crushed her baby’s head. Most of them simply ignored their off­spring.

Etc.…

Wiki­pe­dia Pit of Des­pair

Isolation Monkey

A rhesus mon­key infant in one of Harlow’s isol­a­tion cham­bers. The pho­to­graph was taken when the cham­ber door was raised for the first time after six months of total isol­a­tion.

…In action how like an angel !…’

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So, An Octave Struck The Answer

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(Other Writ, Poetry, The King of Terrors)

“As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,
“Here on earth they bore their fruit­age, mirth and folly were the crop:
“What of soul was left, I won­der, when the kiss­ing had to stop ?

Robert Brown­ing : A Toc­cata of Galuppi’s

camels on Venice Beach

Venice Beach

His­tor­ic Camel Pho­to­graphs

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Church of the Nerds

Yea though we must some­times walk through the val­ley of real­ity, we WILL fear no evil, for in vir­tu­al­ity there is the freedom of no con­sequences for our words and actions!’

My friend , Rev­er­end MacFel­low , the time has come again .

Pos­ted by Intel­li­hence at ZDNET

NY Society Suppression of Vice
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The Trail of the Lonesome Pine

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at 12:07 am (Art, Music, Videos)

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Going West

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(Other Writ, Poetry, The King of Terrors)

Orion M42 Spitzer

This is the night when I must die,
And great Ori­on walketh high
In silent glory over­head:
He’ll set just after I am dead.

A week this night, I’m in my grave:
Ori­on walketh o’er the wave:
Down in the dark damp earth I lie,
While he doth march in majesty.

A few weeks hence and spring will come;
The earth will bright array put on
Of daisy and of prim­rose bright,
And everything which loves the light.

And some one to my child will say,
“You’ll soon for­get that you could play
Beeth­oven; let us hear a strain
From that slow move­ment once again.”

And so she’ll play that melody,
While I among the worms do lie;
Dead to them all, for ever dead;
The church­yard clay dense over­head.

I once did think there might be mine
One friend­ship per­fect and divine;
Alas! that dream dis­solved in tears
Before I’d coun­ted twenty years.

For I was ever com­mon­place;
Of geni­us nev­er had a trace;
My thoughts the world have nev­er fed,
Mere echoes of the book last read.

Those whom I knew I can­not blame:
If they are cold, I am the same:
How could they ever show to me
More than a com­mon cour­tesy ?

There is no deed which I have done;
There is no love which I have won,
To make them for a moment grieve
That I this night their earth must leave.

Thus, moan­ing at the break of day,
A man upon his deathbed lay;
A moment more and all was still;
The Morn­ing Star came o’er the hill.

But when the dawn lay on his face,
It kindled an immor­tal grace;
As if in death that Life were shown
Which lives not in the great alone.

Ori­on sank down in the west
Just as he sank into his rest;
I closed in solitude his eyes,
And watched him till the sun’s uprise.

Proem to The Auto­bi­o­graphy of Mark Ruther­ford —  [ W. Hale White ]
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Maiden Dilemma

Or as the Meta­phys­ic­als would say, ‘Go for it: we haven’t got much time…’

Click to mag­ni­fy

Minette's Temptation


J. J. Grand­ville : The Tempta­tion of Minette
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‘Mundus Vult Decipi’">Mundus Vult Decipi’

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at 11:00 pm (Generalia, Other Writ)

A fam­ous social­ist who was also a close if not acute observer of men and events, Henry May­ers Hyndham, wro­te: “Why Mr Glad­stone, who changed his opin­ions whenev­er it suited his con­veni­ence, after turn­ing from the extremest Tory­ism to advanced Lib­er­al­ism, should have been cred­ited with the highest polit­ic­al mor­al­ity, while Dis­raeli, who, hav­ing once chosen his party, stuck to it all his life without the faintest shad­ow of turn­ing, was regarded as a man of few scruples, I am at a loss to under­stand.” The explan­a­tion is sim­ple. Apart from the fact that Eng­lish­men instinct­ively dis­trust any­one and any­thing ali­en to them­selves, Glad­stone was the mouth­piece of his race and peri­od. Everything that is impuls­ive, irra­tion­al, inco­her­ent, and hys­ter­ic­al in the Eng­lish people found expres­sion in that Eng­lish­man, who also con­tained with­in him­self the pecu­li­ar qual­it­ies of an age that exhib­ited self-righteousness, mor­al indig­na­tion, demo­crat­ic enthu­si­asm and reli­gious emo­tion­al­ism; everything in short that Dis­raeli could not endure.

Hes­keth Pear­son : Dizzy

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Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
This work by Claverhouse is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported.