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Jo comes out of Tom-all-Alone’s, meeting the tardy morning which is always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of bread as he comes along. His way lying through many streets, and the houses not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the door-step of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts and gives it a brush when he has finished as an acknowledgment of the accommodation. He admires the size of the edifice and wonders what it’s all about. He has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific or what it costs to look up the precious souls among the coco-nuts and bread-fruit.

He goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. The town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been suspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo and the other lower animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is market-day. The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guided, run into wrong places and are beaten out, and plunge red- eyed and foaming at stone walls, and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his order; very, very like!

A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog –a drover’s dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher’s shop, and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for some hours and is happily rid of. He seems perplexed respecting three or four, can’t remember where he left them, looks up and down the street as half expecting to see them astray, suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. A thoroughly vagabond dog, accustomed to low company and public- houses; a terrific dog to sheep, ready at a whistle to scamper anavar steroids for sale over their backs and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog who has been taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. He and Jo listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal satisfaction; likewise as to awakened association, aspiration, or regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above the human listener is the brute!

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After her favourite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir Morbury’s near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into which she had married. When the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the king’s cause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night and lamed their horses; and the story is that once at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed her into the stall where his own favourite horse stood. There he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggle or in a fall or through the horse being frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the hip and from that hour began to pine away.

She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. She never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of being crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk upon the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater difficulty every day. At last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement. He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, ‘I will die here where I have walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. I will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled. And when calamity or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen for my step!

There and then she died. And from those days,” says Mrs. Rouncewell, “the name has come down–the Ghost’s Walk. If the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after maxpro.com dark, and is often unheard for a long while together. But it comes back from time to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard then.

That is the story. Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying sound,” says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair; “and what is to be noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD. My Lady, who is afraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. You cannot shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed there, ‘a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion and can play music. You understand how those things are managed?

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O poet’s city! one who scarce has seen Some twenty summers cast their doublets green For Autumn’s livery, would seek in vain To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain, Or tell thy days of glory;–poor indeed Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s reed, Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky, And flame across the heavens! and to try Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know That never felt my heart a nobler glow Than when I woke the silence of thy street With clamorous trampling of my horse’s feet, And saw the city which now I try to sing, After long days of weary travelling. anabol tablets

Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago, I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain: The sky was as a shield that caught the stain Of blood and battle from the dying sun, And in the west the circling clouds had spun A royal robe, which some great God might wear, While into ocean-seas of purple air Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.

Yet here the gentle stillness of the night Brings back the swelling tide of memory, And wakes again my passionate love for thee: Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come On meadow and tree the Summer’s lordly bloom; And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow, And send up lilies for some boy to mow. Then before long the Summer’s conqueror, Rich Autumn-time, the season’s usurer, Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees, And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze; And after that the Winter cold and drear. So runs the perfect cycle of the year. And so from youth to manhood do we go, And fall to weary days and locks of snow. Love only knows no winter; never dies: Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies And mine for thee shall never pass away, Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.

Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star, The night’s ambassador, doth gleam afar, And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold. Perchance before our inland seas of gold Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves, Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves, I may behold thy city; and lay down Low at thy feet the poet’s laurel crown.

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O lone Ravenna! many a tale is told Of thy great glories in the days of old: Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see Caesar ride forth to royal victory. Mighty thy name when Rome’s lean eagles flew From Britain’s isles to far Euphrates blue; And of the peoples thou wast noble queen, Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen. Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea, Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery! No longer now upon thy swelling tide, Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride! For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float, The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note; And the white sheep are free to come and go Where Adria’s purple waters used to flow.

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O fair! O sad! O Queen uncomforted! In ruined loveliness thou liest dead, Alone of all thy sisters; for at last Italia’s royal warrior hath passed Rome’s lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown In the high temples of the Eternal Town! The Palatine hath welcomed back her king, And with his name the seven mountains ring!

And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain, And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again, New risen from the waters! and the cry Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty, Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where The marble spires of Milan wound the air, Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore, And Dante’s dream is now a dream no more.

But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all, Thy ruined palaces are but a pall That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun Of new Italia! for the night is done, The night of dark oppression, and the day Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land, Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy, From the far West unto the Eastern sea.

I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died In Lissa’s waters, by the mountain-side Of Aspromonte, on Novara’s plain,– Nor have thy children died for thee in vain: And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine, Thou hast not followed that immortal Star Which leads the people forth to deeds of war. Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep, As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep, Careless of all the hurrying hours that run, Mourning some day of glory, for the sun Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face, And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.

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How lone this palace is; how grey the walls! No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls. The broken chain lies rusting on the door, And noisome weeds have split the marble floor: Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run By the stone lions blinking in the sun. Byron dwelt here in love and revelry For two long years–a second Anthony, Who of the world another Actium made! Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade, Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen, ‘Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen. For from the East there came a mighty cry, And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty, And called him from Ravenna: never knight Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight! None fell more bravely on ensanguined field, Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield! O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride, Thy day of might, remember him who died To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain: O Salamis! O lone Plataean plain! O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea! O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae! He loved you well–ay, not alone in word, Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword, Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon:

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For as the olive-garland of the race, Which lights with joy each eager runner’s face, As the red cross which saveth men in war, As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,– Such was his love for Greece and Liberty!

Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green: Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee, In hidden glades by lonely Castaly; The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine, And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.

The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas, And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright;– I wandered through the wood in wild delight, Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet, Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet, Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay, And small birds sang on every twining spray. O waving trees, O forest liberty! Within your haunts at least a man is free, And half forgets the weary world of strife: The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life Wakes i’ the quickening veins, while once again The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain. Long time I watched, and surely hoped to see Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid In girlish flight! or lurking in the glade, The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous face Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the chase, White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride, And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side! Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream.

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Wir haben uns bemüht, möglichst viel von den Wasserwundern dieser südkroatischen Märchenwelt auf die photographische Platte zu bringen. Doch der beste Apparat kann nicht das unsäglich schöne Farbenspiel offenbaren. Wollte ein gottbegnadeter Künstler sie malen, den Menschen möchte ich kennen lernen, der beim Anschauen der Bilder dem Maler glaubt, die Wahrheit auf die Leinwand gezaubert zu haben….

In Agram kann man immer viel Dinge hören, die man nicht zu glauben braucht. Die Versicherung, daß es in der Lika schon längst keine Räuber mehr gibt, das Reisen völlig sicher und gefahrlos sei, hatte mein „Automobilherr“ mit Vergnügen entgegengenommen. Mir war in Erinnerung, in einem Geschichtswerk gelesen zu haben: „Ni gora bez vuka, ni Lika bez hajduka!“ (Weder ist das Gebirge ohne Wölfe noch die Lika ohne Räuber!) Der Spruch stammt aus unruhigen Zeiten, als noch den Nordkroaten und Slavoniern Likabewohner und Räuber sinnverwandte Worte waren. Zu lesen war aber auch, daß der Likaner damals nicht aus Habsucht Hajduk wurde, sondern aus gekränktem — Ehrgefühl wegen Verprügelung; unter dem überstrengen Grenzregime wurde das geringste Vergehen grausam mit Stockschlägen usw. bestraft. Entehrenden Strafen zu entgehen, flohen die kurzhändig Verurteilten ins Gebirge; bitterste Not und Verzweiflung machten die Hungernden dann zu Räubern. Als Kaiser Franz Joseph die Leibesstrafe, ephedrin bestellen die grausame Verprügelung, aufhob, hörten in der Lika die Räubereien sehr rasch auf. Der letzte Hajduk namens Toma Kovačević aus Vranik wurde im Jahre 1872 hingerichtet.

Von alledem sagte ich kein Wort. Aber als „Justamentmensch“ und echt bayerischer Dickschädel wollte ich bezüglich der öffentlichen Sicherheit im südlichsten Zipfel Kroatiens und hart an der bosnischen Grenze, also „fern von Europa“ eine „Probe auf das Exempel“ machen, es auf einen räuberischen Überfall ankommen lassen. Also wurde die Geldtasche im Kasten des Hotelzimmers versperrt, als einzige Waffe wie immer nach alter Gewohnheit das griffeste Jagdmesser mitgenommen. Speiste vorher mit den Reisegenossen zu abend, und dann ging ich bei salzburgischem Schnürlregen „im Mondschein spazieren“. Ein Ausflug in pechschwarzer Nacht auf einsamer Landstraße zur bosnischen Grenze. Mutterseelenallein und furchtlos, neugierig und erpicht, mit likanischen Räubern Bekanntschaft zu machen und etliche Worte auf Südkroatisch wechseln zu können.

„Schrecklich solide“ Leute diese Likaner. Bleiben bei Muttern zu Hause, wenn es finster ist und schnürlregnet, lieben die Trockenheit und Wärme. Ein Vergnügen war dieser frostige Spaziergang so tief im Süden wirklich nicht; aber „poetisch“ das Geheul frierender Dorfköter in langgezogenen elegischen Tönen.

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The storm was driving the snow before it more furiously than ever; window-shutters were slamming and banging; a forlorn dog, with bowed head and tail withdrawn from service, was pressing his quaking body against a windward wall for shelter and protection; a young girl was plowing knee-deep through the drifts, with her face turned from the blast, and the cape of her waterproof blowing straight rearward over her head. Alonzo shuddered, and said with a sigh, “Better the slop, and the sultry rain, and even the insolent flowers, than this!

He turned from the window, moved a step, and stopped in a listening attitude. The faint, sweet notes of a familiar song caught his ear. He remained there, with his head unconsciously bent forward, drinking in the melody, stirring neither hand nor foot, hardly breathing. There was a blemish in the execution of the song, but to Alonzo it seemed an added charm instead of a defect. This blemish consisted of a marked flatting of the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh notes of the refrain or chorus of the piece. When the music ended, Alonzo drew a deep breath, and said, “Ah, I never have heard ‘In the Sweet By-and-by’ sung like that before!

While these young people chat themselves into an acquaintanceship, let us take the liberty of inspecting the sweeter and fairer of the two. She sat alone, at her graceful ease, in a richly furnished apartment which was manifestly the private parlor of a refined and sensible lady, if signs and symbols may go for anything. For instance, by a low, comfortable chair stood a dainty, top-heavy workstand, whose summit was a fancifully embroidered shallow basket, with varicolored crewels, and other strings and odds and ends protruding from under the gaping lid and hanging down in negligent profusion. On the floor lay bright shreds of Turkey red, Prussian blue, and kindred fabrics, bits of ribbon, a spool or two, a pair of scissors, and a roll or so of tinted silken stuffs. On a luxurious sofa, upholstered with some sort of soft Indian goods wrought in black and gold threads interwebbed with other threads not so pronounced in color, lay a great square of coarse white stuff, upon whose surface a rich bouquet of flowers was growing, under the deft cultivation of the crochet-needle. The household cat was asleep on this work of art. In a bay-window stood an easel with an unfinished picture on it, and a palette and brushes on a chair beside it. There were books everywhere: Robertson’s Sermons, Tennyson, Moody and Sankey, Hawthorne, Rab and His Friends, cook-books, prayer-books, pattern-books–and books about all kinds of odious and exasperating pottery, of course. There was a piano, with a deck-load of music, and more in a tender. There was a great plenty of pictures on the walls, on the shelves of the mantelpiece, and around generally; where coigns of vantage offered were statuettes, and quaint and pretty gimcracks, and rare and costly specimens of peculiarly devilish china. The bay-window gave upon a garden that was ablaze with foreign and domestic flowers and flowering shrubs.

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A certain man put an Image on the back of his Ass to take it to one of the temples of the town. As they went along the road all the people they met uncovered and bowed their heads out of reverence for the Image; but the Ass thought they were doing it out of respect for himself, and began to give himself airs accordingly. At last he became so conceited that he imagined he could do as he liked, and, by way of protest against the load he was carrying, he came to a full stop and flatly declined to proceed any further. His driver, finding him so obstinate, gucci replica handbags hit him hard and long with his stick, saying the while, “Oh, you dunder-headed idiot, do you suppose it’s come to this, that men pay worship to an Ass?

An Athenian and a Theban were on the road together, and passed the time in conversation, as is the way of travellers. After discussing a variety of subjects they began to talk about heroes, a topic that tends to be more fertile than edifying. Each of them was lavish in his praises of the heroes of his own city, until eventually the Theban asserted that Hercules was the greatest hero who had ever lived on earth, and now occupied a foremost place among the gods; while the Athenian insisted that Theseus was far superior, for his fortune had been in every way supremely blessed, whereas Hercules had at one time been forced to act as a servant. And he gained his point, for he was a very glib fellow, like all Athenians; so that the Theban, who was no match for him in talking, cried at last in some disgust, “All right, have your way; I only hope that, when our heroes are angry with us, Athens may suffer from the anger of Hercules, and Thebes only from that of Theseus.

A Goatherd was one day gathering his flock to return to the fold, when one of his goats strayed and refused to join the rest. He tried for a long time to get her to return by calling and whistling to her, but the Goat took no notice of him at all; so at last he threw a stone at her and broke one of her horns. In dismay, he begged her not to tell his master: but she replied, “You silly fellow, my horn would cry aloud even if I held my tongue.

Once upon a time the Sheep complained to the shepherd about the difference in his treatment of themselves and his Dog. “Your conduct,” said they, “is very strange and, we think, very unfair. We provide you with wool and lambs and milk and you give us nothing but grass, and even that we have to find for ourselves: but you get nothing at all from the Dog, and yet you feed him with tit-bits from your own table.” Their remarks were overheard by the Dog, who spoke up at once and said, “Yes, and quite right, too: where would you be if it wasn’t for me? Thieves would steal you! Wolves would eat you! Indeed, if I didn’t keep constant watch over you, you would be too terrified even to graze!” The Sheep were obliged to acknowledge that he spoke the truth, and never again made a grievance of the regard in which he was held by his master.

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A Lion and a Wild Ass went out hunting together: the latter was to run down the prey by his superior speed, and the former would then come up and despatch it. They met with great success; and when it came to sharing the spoil the Lion divided it all into three equal portions. “I will take the first,” said he, “because I am King of the beasts; I will also take the second, because, as your partner, I am entitled to half of what remains; and as for the third–well, unless you give it up to me and take yourself off pretty quick, the third, believe me, will make you feel very sorry for yourself!

A Man and a Satyr became friends, and determined to live together. All went well for a while, until one day in winter-time the Satyr saw the Man blowing on his hands. “Why do you do that?” he asked. “To warm my hands,” said the Man. That same day, when they sat down to supper together, they each had a steaming hot bowl of porridge, and the Man raised his bowl to his mouth and blew on it. “Why do you do that?” asked the Satyr. “To cool my porridge,” said the Man. The Satyr got up from the table. “Good-bye,” said he, “I’m going: I can’t be friends with a man who blows hot and cold with the same breath.

A certain man made a wooden Image of Mercury, and exposed it for sale in the market. As no one offered to buy it, however, he thought he would try to attract a purchaser by proclaiming the virtues of the Image. So he cried up and down the market, “A god for sale! a god for sale! One who’ll bring you luck and keep you lucky!” Presently one of the bystanders stopped him and said, “If your god is all you make him out to be, how is it you don’t keep him and make the most of him yourself?” “I’ll tell you why,” replied he; “he brings gain, it is true, but he takes his time about it; whereas I want money at once.

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An Eagle sat perched on a lofty rock, keeping a sharp look-out for prey. A huntsman, concealed in a cleft of the mountain and on the watch for game, spied him there and shot an Arrow at him. The shaft struck him full in the breast and pierced him through and through. As he lay in the agonies of death, he turned his eyes upon the Arrow. “Ah! cruel fate!” he cried, “that I should perish thus: but oh! fate more cruel still, that the Arrow which kills me should be winged with an Eagle’s feathers!

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A Farmer, being at death’s door, and desiring to impart to his Sons a secret of much moment, called them round him and said, “My sons, I am shortly about to die; I would have you know, therefore, that in my vineyard there lies a hidden treasure. Dig, and you will find it.” As soon as their father was dead, the Sons took spade and fork and turned up the soil of the vineyard over and over again, in their search for the treasure which they supposed to lie buried there. They found none, however: but the vines, after so thorough a digging, produced a crop such as had never before been seen.

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A rich man once invited a number of his friends and acquaintances to a banquet. His dog thought it would be a good opportunity to invite another Dog, a friend of his; so he went to him and said, “My master is giving a feast: there’ll be a fine spread, so come and dine with me to-night.” The Dog thus invited came, and when he saw the preparations being made in the kitchen he said to himself, “My word, I’m in luck: I’ll take care to eat enough to-night to last me two or three days.” At the same time he wagged his tail briskly, by way of showing his friend how delighted he was to have been asked. But just then the Cook caught sight of him, and, in his annoyance at seeing a strange Dog in the kitchen, caught him up by the hind legs and threw him out of the window. He had a nasty fall, and limped away as quickly as he could, howling dismally. Presently some other dogs met him, and said, “Well, what sort of a dinner did you get?” To which he replied, “I had a splendid time: the wine was so good, and I drank so much of it, that I really don’t remember how I got out of the house!

At a gathering of all the animals the Monkey danced and delighted them so much that they made him their King. The Fox, however, was very much disgusted at the promotion of the Monkey: so having one day found a trap with a piece of meat in it, he took the Monkey there and said to him, “Here is a dainty morsel I have found, sire; I did not take it myself, because I thought it ought to be reserved for you, our King. Will you be pleased to accept it?” The Monkey made at once for the meat and got caught in the trap. Then he bitterly reproached the Fox for leading him into danger; but the Fox only laughed and said, “O Monkey, you call yourself King of the Beasts and haven’t more sense than to be taken in like that!