on November 11th, 2006
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Help a wer this question below.
I'm gay, and I want to know the truth on the amount of
people on average who are okay with it and who have a problem
with it. Thoughts?
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on November 11th, 2006
I am a 52 year old white heterosexual female. I have no problem with anyone' sexual orientation, and I do #039;t feel it is nece ary for me to know what anyone' sexual orientation is unle they choose to tell me. Unfortunately we still have #039;t reached a point socially that gay or bisexual perso can enjoy their freedom without repercu io , so I do feel concern for people whose lifestyles are the target of ignorance.
To the person(s) who downrated -- this is an OPINION question. Learn the difference or get out.
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on November 11th, 2006
I really do #039;t care what your sexual orientation is, nor do I feel it is any of my busine .
I'm not sure that you are going to get an accurate study on the number of people who have a problem with homosexuals. Bais is self-identifying, and not likely to be accurately reported.
Peace out...
********************************************
To those rating me down on this:
Who exactly do you think you are? Do you REALLY think you know better than I do what my thoughts are on this? It asked for my OPINION. I gave it. I fail to see how my a wer can be co idered anything other than useful since I gave what the question asked for.
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on December 3rd, 2006
I'm also gay, and for the first time my boyfriend and I went to the gay bar downtown Toronto last week (I should #039;t call it a gay bar because it is so diverse, there are 50% straight people there, about 25% le ia , 20% gay men, and 5% tra exuals)... we were just watching one of the shows together and within a couple hours we had 3 people come up to us (all straight) telling us how much they re ected the bar we were at, how great we looked together, and how much fun the 'gay community' is... I find that in the past couple years homosexuality has been more widely accepted (at least in north america)... and it' great!!!
For anyone that does have a problem with it... well they will have to get used to it since it is becoming more widely accepted. Maybe some religio do #039;t tollerate it, but it' not something that is 'acquired'... this has been proven. for example for all the straight people out there that think it' a choice let me ask you this: when did you CHOOSE to be straight? Welcome to the year 2006 people :)
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on November 11th, 2006
I love gay guys.
Why are people rating this down? It' an opinion.
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on November 11th, 2006
As a gay rights activist, not only am I OK with you being gay, I am doing everything I can to defend your right to be gay.
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on December 3rd, 2006
there is a olutely nothing wrong with it.
You ca #039;t help who you love!
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on November 11th, 2006
No problem.
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on November 11th, 2006
i do #039;t know that i really Care so much because, i mean, you're walking your walk &am i'm walking mine, you know?
but the image of gay sex does kinda gro me out. (please do #039;t take offe e, i can a ure you that i do #039;t mean any offe e!)
i figured out that it' because if you think about the physical act of sexual intercouse (Any kind of sexual intercourse) in a purely clinical way then it is pretty una ealing, kinda gro , right?
&am since that' the only way that i can imagine gay sex, then that' what i'm left with -- that clinical, kinda gro , imagery.
the Only reason that i do #039;t get gro ed out by heterosexual sex is because i can view it from a more subjective, sexy, point of view, if you get my drift.
so... if my theory is correct, it begs the question... do You find Heterosexual sex kinda gro ? you do, right? a little bit? maybe even people who think that they're prejudiced agai t gays are #039;t really prejudiced at all. they're just getting ick'd out by the ick-y clinical act of sexual intercourse! which is perfectly reasonable. now, if those people could separate it out &am realize that that' all it is... who knows?
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on November 11th, 2006
I am not gay, but some of my friends are gay. these friends are just like everyone else.
the only difference is their preference for a sexual partner. i can live with that.
I do not aree with same sex marriages. even if a child is adopted, in this type of marriage, the child does not receive the needed benefits of a real mother and father for guidance.
If God had meant there to be only one sex on earth, he would not have created adam and eve.
besides, how could two same sex people have had children, for all of our future?
we would not be here today.
I compare people who are gay to people throughout the world with different languages.
again, if God wanted all the people to be as one, he would not have given individual languages to people of different parts of the globe.
Sexual preference is a perso own individual choice.
I love my wife.
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on November 11th, 2006
The question is are you okay with being gay.
Who cares what others think as long as they do #039;t interfere with your rights.
And yes I know that there are people who interfere with gay rights.
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on December 3rd, 2006
I have no problem with the sexual private life of others.
As long as each party is willing-- have at it.. do what you like.
The fact that someone is gay has no effect on my life.
It is no different than knowing someone that is straight or bi.
I am not their partner, so why the heck should I care.
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on November 12th, 2006
To each his own. I have no problem with it. I #039;t the gift of free will great?!
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on December 4th, 2006
I am fine with it,as you would be fine with me being straight.
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on December 4th, 2006
Your sexual preference is a personal and private matter of yours. It is nobody' busine to judge you.
You have right to live as you want according to your own co cience, not of others.
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on December 3rd, 2006
No problem with me. I think everyone is entitled to do their own thing as long as it doe #039;t impact anyone else agai t their wishes. People should be free to do and believe in whatever they want.
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on November 11th, 2006
It is none of my busine whether you are straight or gay, so of course I have no problem with anyone else' sexual orientation.
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on November 11th, 2006
To be completely honest I have no problem with people being gay, straight, bi or whatever as long as they do no harm to others.
Hey it' your choice.
Go for it.
But (and I ca #039;t help this so do #039;t think I am i ulting, it' an i tinctive reaction), I find the sight of two men ki ing somewhat disturbing.
Do #039;t ask me why two women together doe #039;t affect me similarly, I have no idea.
But if I saw it in the street I would just look away.
And two men having sex - the idea doe #039;t bother me either.
It' just ki ing.
How wierd is that?
As an aside, would you say you are a good dancer?
Or is that just a stereotype?
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on December 3rd, 2006
Honestly, I have no problem whatsoever with homosexuality or bisexuality. I'll admit that I do #039;t know very many gay men, so sometimes when I'm around them, I'm scared that I'll accidentally say something stupid or create an awkward situation. De ite my potential social clumsine , I do #039;t mind gay people and I am a pa ionate advocate of gay rights.
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on December 3rd, 2006
I have no problem with anyone being gay.
Most of my frinds are.
I think in this day and age most peole dont have a problem with it.
One thums up from Norway.
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on November 12th, 2006
I do #039;t have a problem with it- but then- I do #039;t get why you care what I think.
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on December 4th, 2006
I'm not gay, however i feel that there' nothing wrong with being gay. In fact i'm ha y you're secure enough to come out, i know some people who fear that they wo #039;t be excepted and hide the truth.
I'm an officer in my school' GSA club, Gay Straight Alliance, actually and we promote tolerance and provide knowledge to anyone who seeks it.
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on November 18th, 2006
I feel that this depends mainly on the area you live in. Some areas are more co ervative and some areas do #039;t bother interfering with other people' busine regaredle of their opinio .
Around where I live there are many homosexuals and they can go east to get a Civil Union or go south and try to get married before legislature amends the State Co titution. THere is some grumbling but for the most part people here do #039;t care much.
In the South and the Bible Belt people tend to be a little more u ity about that sort of thing, but so long as you are #039;t flaunting your sexual preference you should be left alone. I would likely catch more flak for my out oken anti-dogmatism. That said, there are also many that would co ider it one of those things for God to judge and not them, so you should #039;t have too much of a problem.
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on November 11th, 2006
I do #039;t have a problem with people being gay. I think it is a difficult and confusing lifestyle, one I would not want to have.
I have several friends who are gay.
They are wonderful people, but the identification with their sexuality seems to come first, rather than the person they are. I wonder if they are trying to struggle with this in
some way or are not at peace with it.
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on December 4th, 2006
I'm also gay.
Needle to say, I have no problem with your being gay.
Wait, there is a need to say that, sad as it is.
How many ex-gay people or anti-gay gays are out there going around beating their Drum of Intolerance and Denial?
There is a current undermining of basic human rights and dignity that has not always been there, nor shall it always be.
One can only hope for the time that the prefix gay can be dro ed altogether.
After that, all that remai are just " eople.
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on November 18th, 2006
I do #039;t have problems with gays, like i said, everyones equal, but you also have to ask yourself, the same question.
Stupid person who kee rating down a wers, no re ect for people. Honestly.
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on November 11th, 2006
I do #039;t care who you sleep with, as long as they are a co enting adult. I do however find it bizarre and theatrical when I see a man emulating a woma #039 ma erisms and vice versa.
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on December 3rd, 2006
Since you asked. No. I do #039;t have a problem. I do #039;t ha en to believe it' right, but I also believe that It' not my busine . I do ha en to believe in the biblical God, and that he is not okay with it. However, I also maintain awarene that He is not sto ing you from doing what you desire to do with your life. Since I do #039;t really think I should be putting myself above Him, I have no desire to interfere with your life choices. I also ha en to believe that we as the human race are so far removed from perfection, that it is altogether po ible that imbalances in our genetic makeup could very well be causing some of us to do, and desire things that were not part of our creators natural plan at the start. If this is the case, He knows, and He is the only one qualified to judge whether we are making co ious choices to do anything we do, or are making the choices based on things we have no control over. I'm not qualified to make that judgement, as I am just as geneticaly, or otherwise, screwed up as anyone else. Let the one of you who is without sin cast the first stone. Well, I'm not exacly without sin, so I do #039;t judge. Even if you thought in the back of your mind that it were wrong and keep on doing it, it' still not my place to judge you, whether or not choice is involved.
Now let' get complicated. I have three so . I have often wondered how I would handle it if one of THEM came to me and asked a quesion like yours. You know what? I have #039;t as yet figured out what the a wer would be to them. It' a much easier question to a wer when it' someone you do #039;t know asking it. It gets a lot harder for someone with my convictio , when the asker is a close relative. E ecially your own child. I honestly do #039;t know yet. But I do think about it. I only hope, if it ever ha e , that I've prepared for it, and do #039;t have to hedge over it.
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on December 20th, 2006
I have no problem with it.Be who you are and be ha y.Your sexual orientation does not reflect solely who you are.Anyone who doe #039;t like it,can beg off.
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on December 9th, 2006
I think it' fine to be gay, to who you are. You are very lucky to be born at a time when there are many gay communities around and you can find others to share your life with openly.
Be well and ha y. Best wishes
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on December 6th, 2006
no problem.
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on December 3rd, 2006
i love gay people.
i mean, elton john is gay, come on. you have to love that guy.
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on December 4th, 2006
I think it is great. You are a really great person who is not afraid to tell anyone about who you are.
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on December 20th, 2006
cool by me, I could be gay too
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on December 19th, 2006
No problem at all here. A person is a person NOT a sexual orientation.
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on December 10th, 2006
A olutely, no problem with homosexuality whatsoever, and I think it' a real shame that people still do have problems with it.
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on December 6th, 2006
I do #039;t see a problem with it I think everyone has a right to be who they want and live the way they want. I personally think people make too big of a deal out of it. You only get ot live once so live your life how you choose and do whatever makes you ha y.
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on December 10th, 2006
Completely acceptable and okay in my books.
Personally, I do #039;t see any reason good enough for being agai t it.
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on November 11th, 2006
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on May 3rd, 2007
I have no problem at all.
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on December 10th, 2006
As a Christian, I am willing to accept you for who you are although I may not agree with how you choose to live your life.
But, it is your life and you have free-will to live it as you see fit, just as I do as a straight person.
As I a wered in a previous question, I have a gay uncle.
Just because he' gay doe #039;t mean I love him or his partner any le .
And as a Christian, I believe that God is the ultimate judge and it' up to Him, not me, to convict a person.
I have enough in my own life to deal with without having to worry about what someone else is doing with their life.
I would be just as comfortable being your friend and hanging out as I would with anyone else.
Although I do #039;t believe in the life choices you've made, I do a laud you for having the courage to admit to being gay.
Deep down I do #039;t believe being gay is born into you (that' just my opinion), but I'm sure it has to be a horrible internal struggle in your soul trying to figure it all out, and then having the courage to say what you believe.
You are a human being and deserving of re ect and friendship from everyone because you are a person and I'm sure have a lot to offer as a friend yourself.
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on December 4th, 2006
it doe t matter who on earth are ok with it or not.
the biggest question of all you need to ask yourself is, is our god, the creator of all things in heaven and on earth ok with it?
and with all due re ect he did make one man and one woman in the begining.
not two of the same sex.
and it is only through imperfection that this world has got to be where it is now.
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on August 13th, 2007
It does not bother me a bit... if anyone is GAY.
(Edited ;-)
What matters is the kind of person you are to yourself and others.
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on August 9th, 2007
I am a heterosexual woman and I have a problem with homosexuality period.
It is u atural and I have a problem with society trying to shove it' acceptance down my throat.
It sadde me that it is a growing epidemic. Yes I said epidemic. Every time you look around someone is coming out the closet.
It is gro and disgusting and not what God intended. You all ca #039;t even procreate, the human race would be extinct if left up to you.
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on July 1st, 2007
To each his own, man.
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on July 1st, 2007
Im fine with it, and Ive never met a person who wa t. Maybe we're entering a new age of acceptance..
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on June 20th, 2007
the king is straight as an arrow, but he is a friend to the gay man/woman
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on February 10th, 2007
Ive been gay for 32 years. Personally i dont really care what others think. It dose not change anything. we are who we are. I live the same life as anyone else. Go to work come home have di er with my " ouse hang out watch some tv, look around on line. all the same stuff as every one else. I live my life and love my life. wouldnt change a thing. well I could have more $$$.
good luck be proud. be your self.
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on January 25th, 2007
My best friend is gay, and he' fabulous. I love him to death. We have been friends since 7th grade, and he now lives in Hawaii. I have #039;t seen him in five years, and I plan to visit and stay with him and his boyfriend. He is one of the best people I know, and who he decides to love (as long as they treat him right)is his choice and really none of my concern. Worrying about who someone desires to love or be attracted too is just a waste of time if you ask me.
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on January 22nd, 2007
Being gay is an a ormality, just like being bald or blind is but I have learnt to accept them.
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on January 15th, 2007
hey man, nothing is wrong with it. i ha en to have some friends that are gay although I'm not gay. They are really nice. I have no problem with gay people.
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Very nice work on a unique topic!
Thanks,Co ie for your nice comment!Parasols remind me of an era of romance, like in the movie,"pollya a". I hope to make many more le es as I think of them. I'm still sort of a "Newbie" on the computer, but I'm learning through my children. I'm working on a Smurfs on now.
I love parasols! You're right; they are so romantic and feminine...I love the feeling they i till in one's heart. The videos you selected are wonderfully reminisce of true romance. Thanks for building another great le !
Co ie ...aka Squid Angel
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Make These Martha Stewart Drink Parsols Here
Summer Crafts With Martha!
Craft Time! I ired by the Fourth of July.
Martha Stewart Drink Parasols You Can Make Article on Parasol Designer
Fa of Perfect Parasols
12:00a.m. 11 June 2008
| By Amy Remeikis
In days past - when ladies were ladies and men were gentle, the humble fan had the power to tempt marriages and break hearts.
While it is unlikely that Victorian men understood all the rules of what is commonly referred to as the Language of the Fan, the fan and the parasol could be very powerful tools in a woman's seduction arsenal. A flutter of lashes over the lace of a fan, or the flirtatious twirl of a parasol could say a lot in a time when showing an ankle could have you banished to the country to wait out the scandal.
While society matro would probably be in a permanent swoon at today's relaxed dre and etiquette, the fan and parasol have made the tra ition to 2008.
At least they have in Helene Duval's world. The Land orough 65-year-old desig lace and embroidered parasols and has found a ready market in the bride-to-be and those looking for something different.
But in what would surely have secured her a voucher to Almacks in Lady Jersey's day, her reaso for creating such beautiful and whimsy objects are entirely practical.
I'm too short for a hat and unle you are wearing a dre , you are always overdre ed if you wear one with casual clothes, Helene said.
But my work (as a marriage celebrant) meant I was standing in the sun for up to an hour and a half and I needed something to keep the sun off me.
I went to a wedding expo and I saw a parasol at a photographer's stand and thought it was just what I was looking for. But when I asked her where she got it, she said, 'I wish I could get more. We just can't get them,' and I went home and decided that that is what I would do.
Helene found a su lier in Shanghai who would make her desig , and in just three months, she has sold more than 100 parasols. And the fan ha 't been forgotten, either. The delicate lace offerings are popular with brides looking for something different to carry.
When a fan is decorated by a florist, they are just gorgeous, Helene said.
The Sculptured Leaf florist created some to show me when I was creating my we ite. Eve Boutique provided the wedding dre and the whole e emble was just beautiful.
It's just something very different to introduce the bride as she walks down the aisle and is also lovely as something bridesmaids can carry.
But just like the parasol, the fa have found a practical market. Rock 'n' roll dancing. It gets very hot and the ladies just dangle them off their wrists. It is very physical, so it's good for them to have something to cool themselves down with.
Helene believes that far from being a dying art, parasols and lace fan creatio are actually on the up and up, something one could imagine the beau monde or Original of the noughties carrying on her arm.
I think it is a new trend, Helene said. It's something different for brides, but also for people who are fashion co cious and always looking for something new. And they want to be first. And really, they are just such great acce ories under the hot Quee land sun.
And that's something even Lady Jersey would a rove of.
Parasol:Fashion Acce ory
STYLE &am TRENDS
Parasols: Unfurl a frilly new fashion acce ory
Samantha Critchell | The A ociated Pre June 19, 2008
Why waste a fashion-forward umbrella on a dreary rainy day? I tead call it a parasol and show off the beautiful colors, fabrics and embroideries that have become a part of umbrella design.
Sun umbrellas are enjoying a moment in the, er, sun. Parasols were on the runways for several ring collectio , and celebrities, including Marcia Cro on the set of De erate Housewives, have been photographed holding them.
It seems a growing awarene of the damage caused by the sun has helped make an old-fashioned affectation hip again.
For ring, Totes-Isotoner made satin sun umbrellas, sun umbrellas in Asian-i ired floral prints and sun umbrellas with bold graphics. They are parasols because they provide su hade, but they're not the romantic and nostalgic lacy ones that people immediately think of when you say the word, says A Headley, director of Totes-Isotoner's rain-product development.
Those do exist, Headley says, just in a much smaller quantity.
Fashion designer A a Sui makes a strong case for the parasol as an objet d'art. She has put them on the runway at least four times. A model matched her turquoise-and-black print blouse to her turquoise-and-black print parasol.
Tracy Reese and Temperley London also made style statements with parasols this season.
Sui works with a lice ee to make umbrellas, and she says the parasols always sell out of her Manhattan store. She can't recall ever carrying one on the street, but an elaborate one from India with mirrors and a liques hangs in her bedroom.
It provides the nece ary drama as a prop, but it's also a traditional su hade, e ecially in India, China and Japan, as well as in the Old South, when the real-life equivalents of Scarlett O'Hara would use one to keep her skin from freckling, Sui says.
Cro , who is known for her porcelain skin, explai her use of a sun umbrella on the set: I have moments when I can't wear a hat or if my hair is done. If they've done my hair, they're not thrilled if I throw my hat on, she says with a laugh.
Right now, hats and su creen are the core of Cro ' sun-protection routine but she says a parasol might be something in my future.
I've seen people use the parasol and I think I might check it out, Cro says. I was on a hike and saw an Asian woman with one, and she looked great.
And they seem to be gaining in celebrity a eal. Among the stars photographed with a istants holding umbrellas for them in the sun are Beyonc%uFFFD, Mariah Carey, Sean Diddy Com and Michael Jackson. Riha a even has a new umbrella (ella, ella) line for Totes.
The modern sun umbrella is coated with UV protection, blocking 98 percent of ultraviolet rays, Headley says. It also often has a waterproofing treatment so the umbrella can be used in the sun and the rain. Most co umers, unle they're in a hot climate and find a parasol they love, they want an umbrella they'd want to use either way, she says.
Headley notes that dark umbrellas will do a better job blocking sunlight than a light-colored one if neither has the UV treatment. It's just like a white T-shirt versus a black T-shirt. If you're in inte e sun, the sun will get through light colors, she says.
She thinks you're seeing more parasols because of the increased awarene about sun damage to the skin.
They're le and le a commodity. They're a real lifestyle thing these days. People look for function and fashion in their umbrellas, Headley says.
Parasols/Umbrellas on eBay
Stylish to Outlandish
Parasol Info on Amazon
Morton Salt Girl Through The Year Double Stroller With Canopy
Exersize with baby. Get out and walk. Click on this ba er for baby strollers with canopy. Look for stroller under acce eries.
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Click on the ba er to go see this stroller. Look for strollers under acce ories.
Red Double Stroller With Canopy
Here's a red double stroller. Click on the ba er to see it. Look for strollers under acce ories.
Parasol for baby's stroller and breezy canopy stroller for hot days.
Just click on a picture for more info.
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Antique Baby Buggy With Parasol Girl With Parasol Parasols on the beach! Candy Pink Parasol Sunflower Parasol Black Lace Parasol With Fa Elegance! Elegant in Black Blue Lace Parasol With Fa Creamy Lace Mint Green Parasol Pink Parasol Colorful Parasol Lady With Parasol Mother And Child in The Garde Parasol Embroidery Parasol Play Girl Holding Parasol Summer Strolling With a Parasol Parasols in Black and White Eating Under Parasol Bamboo Parasol Parasol Label Great Featured Le es
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Notify me by email when new comments are added.The sunflower forest: ecological restoration and the new communion with nature 作者：William R. Jordan
The sunflower forest:
ecological restoration and the new communion with nature
University of California Pre , 2003 - 256 页
Ecological restoration, the attempt to guide damaged ecosystems back to a previous, usually healthier or more natural, condition, is rapidly gaining recognition as one of the most promising a roaches to co ervation. In this book, William R. Jordan III, who coined the term "restoration ecology," and who is widely re ected as an intellectual leader in the field, outlines a vision for a restoration-based environmentalism that has emerged from his work over twenty-five years.
Drawing on a provocative range of thinkers, from anthropologists Victor Turner, Roy Ra aport, and Mary Douglas to literary critics Frederick Turner, Leo Marx, and R.W.B. Lewis, Jordan explores the promise of restoration, both as a way of reversing environmental damage and as a context for negotiating our relatio hip with nature.
Exploring restoration not only as a technology but also as an experience and a performing art, Jordan claims that it is the indi e able key to co ervation. At the same time, he argues, restoration is valuable because it provides a context for confronting the most troubling a ects of our relatio hip with nature. For this reason, it offers a way past the e entially sentimental idea of nature that environmental thinkers have taken for granted since the time of Emerson and Muir. 获取此书
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大家的评论 - Review: The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion with Nature
用户评论 - Suza e - Goodreads
This is a difficult book to sum up quickly--you might expect it to be all about ecological restoration, but it is primarily a book of ideas. Nonethele it is very interesting and covers some ...
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热门引用章节
I am affected as if in a peculiar se e I stood in the laboratory of the Artist who made the world and me, — had come to where he was still at work, orting on this bank, and with exce of energy strewing his fresh desig about.
‎
O, reason not the need ! Our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous. Allow not nature more than nature needs, Ma #39 life is cheap as beast' . Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear' t, Which scarcely kee thee warm.
‎
The atmo here is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorle , It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
‎
Comedy is an art form that arises naturally wherever people are gathered to celebrate life, in ring festivals, triumphs, birthdays, weddings, or initiatio .
‎
... that of vegetation. As it flows it takes the forms of sa y leaves or vines, making hea of pulpy rays a foot or more in depth, and resembling, as you look down on them, the laciniated, lobed, and imbricated thalluses of some liche or you are reminded of coral, of leopard' paws or bird #39; feet, of brai or lungs or bowels, and excrements of all kinds.
‎
Pond of their own natures, and baited their hooks with darkne , — but they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left the world to darkne and to me, and the black kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighborhood.
‎
What is above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way about.
‎
Of course it is, the Controller agreed. But that' the price we have to pay for stability. You've got to choose between ha ine and what people used to call high art. We've sacrificed the high art. We have the feelies and the scent organ i tead.
‎
Now, shame, as we noted at the begi ing of this chapter, is shame of self; it is the recognition of the fact that I am indeed that object which the Other is looking at and judging. I can be ashamed only as my freedom escapes me in order to become a given object.
‎
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E Higgs
Restoration Ecology
ANDRE F CLEWELL, JAMES ARONSON
Co ervation Biology
Paul H Go ter, Mark G Ricke ach
Landscape and Urban Pla ing
Robert J Cabin
Restoration Ecology
网页引用
Select -, Authors, Titles, Subjects, Series, Catalogs. Find Books » Author List Title List Subject List Series List Huntington Library Catalogs ...
www.ucpre .edu/ books/ pages/ 9650.php
Excerpted with permi ion from The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion with Nature, by William R. Jordan III, University of ...
chicagowilderne mag.org/ i ues/ ring2004/ sunflowerforest.html
The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion with Nature by William R. Jordan III - Brief Article - Book Review. Carl Reidel. $27.50. ...
findarticles.com/ p/ articles/ mi_m1016/ is_3_109/ ai_109405675/ print
Importacao de Publicacoes Tecnicas sob Demanda - Livros Revista Normas - THE SUNFLOWER FOREST In this work, William R. Jordan III, who coined the term
www.pti.com.br/ view/ livro_resenha.php?lid=6332
The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion with Nature. 2003. Berkeley: University of California Pre . ...
forestfire.nau.edu/ restoration.htm
... Review Book Review The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion with Nature R. Michael Miller 1 1 Environmental Research Division, ...
www.blackwell-synergy.com/ doi/ xml/ 10.1111/ j.1061-2971.2004.012002.x
Jordan is the author of the acclaimed book, The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion with Nature, published by University of ...
www.restoration.mt.gov/ eakers.a William R. Jordan III, The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion With. Nature (Berkeley: University of California Pre , 2003). ...
www.cep.unt.edu/ theses/ mauritz.pdf
The Sunflower Forest: Ecological Restoration and the New Communion with Nature . By William R Jordan III. Berkeley (California): University of California ...
www.journals.uchicago.edu/ cgi-bin/ resolve?QRB790205056
Environmental Co ervation 31 (2): 169–176 © 2004 Foundation for Environmental Co ervation. BOOK REVIEWS. DOI: 10.1017/S0376892904211390. Invasion Biology. ...
journals.cambridge.org/ production/ action/ cjoGetFulltext?fulltextid=236340
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作者简介 (2003)
William R. Jordan III is Director of the New Academy for Nature and Culture and coeditor of "Restoration Ecology: A Synthetic A roach to Ecological Research "(1987). He is also the founding editor of the journal "Ecological Restoration "and a founding member of the Society for Ecological Restoration.
书目信息
The sunflower forest: ecological restoration and the new communion with nature
University of California Pre , 2003
0520233204, 9780520233201
256 页 导出参考文献 -
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from The Independent &am The Independent on Sunday
The power of the pre : We all love a drizzle of olive oil, but what about co ut, avocado or truffle?
Christopher Hirst explai the art of judicious lubrication
Thursday, 13 January 2011
A drizzle of oil enhances pasta
As anyone under 40 will be bored with hearing, at one time you could only get olive oil from the chemists. Today, more than 20 varietals are available, ranging from the delicate La Tanche from Provence, with its sweet hints of a les and pears, to the hefty Frantoio from Tuscany, which delivers a potent pe ery hit of wood, rocket and watercre . Yet we retain certain misa rehe io about this invaluable culinary ingredient. Bottles of olive oil are among those residents of the kitchen cu oard whose use-by date should be o erved. We are, after all, talking about a type of fruit juice.
De ite our growing familiarity with oils, we tend to ignore many of their
best a licatio . In my view, a fine olive oil is never used to better
effect than when added as a swirl to a bowl of thick Italian soup such as
rebollita or pasta and bean. Orange-infused oil works wonderfully with green
salads and, more surprisingly, shellfish. A drizzle of walnut oil with a few
dots of soy sauce makes a tra orting dre ing for thinly sliced raw tuna.
More unusual oils have enlarged the culinary palette. Dark green pistachio oil
works in Greek pastries or drizzled on steamed vegetable. Sumptuous avocado
oil enriches dre ings and stews. Roasted sesame oil can be used (with
discretion dash; it's very strong) in stir-fries and salad dre ings. Pine nut
oil can provide an alternative to olive oil in pesto, mixed with cho ed
basil for a dre ing or added to cooked meat.
Which oil to use?
Oils are merely fats that are liquid at room temperature, which explai why
olive oil tur cloudy in the cold as a first step towards solidity. Just
like animals, plants make oil as a form of concentrated chemical energy.
Like animal fats, vegetable oils are highly flavoured, calorie-packed and
have a high boiling point. Some oils are best suited for frying, such as
refined sunflower, rapeseed and groundnut oil, while others are used at room
temperature for their flavour in dre ings and marinades. These include
walnut, hazelnut and extra virgin olive oils. Infused oils take on the
flavours of added ingredients such as basil, lemon zest and chilli pe er.
Sometimes you only need a little oil to add flavour. Giorgio Ale io of the
Scarborough restaurant La Lanterna bakes fresh turbot and sea ba with
butter in the style of his native Piedmont, but uses olive oil as a
condiment on the cooked fish. It adds a nice little bit of flavour.
Similarly, mayo aise made with olive oil is too strong. A combination of
sunflower oil and olive oil in a ratio of 10:1 makes mayo aise with a
sufficiently rich flavour.
Nut oils
Nuts produce the tastiest of all edible oils, resulting from their remarkable
nutritional richne . Walnuts and hazelnuts are more than 60 per cent oil.
Mainly produced in France, both oils are excellent in salad dre ings. A lash of walnut oil enhances stir-fries (heated hazelnut oil tur bitter).
A newcomer in this field is Kentish co ut oil from Hurstwood Farm near
Sevenoaks in Kent (www.co utoil.co.uk). The first oil to be made from
British co uts, it won the award of Supreme Champion in the 2010 Great
Taste Awards. Along with an inte e nuttine , it has a distinctive
freshne . The nuts are shelled and dried before being cold pre ed to make
the oil. More than a kilo of co uts is required for each 250ml bottle
( The Project Gute erg EBook of Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great,
Vol. 2 of 14, by Elbert Hu ard
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictio whatsoever.
You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gute erg Lice e included
with this eBook or online at www.gute erg.net
Title: Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great, Vol. 2 of 14
Little Journeys To the Homes of Famous Women
Author: Elbert Hu ard
Release Date: October 18, 2004 [EBook #13778]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE JOURNEYS ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Little Journeys To The Homes Of Famous Women
Elbert Hu ard
Memorial Edition
Printed and made into a Book by The Roycrofters,
who are in East Aurora, Erie County, New York
New York
CONTENTS
ELBERT HUBBARD II
BERT HUBBARD
We are not sent into this world to do anything into
which we can not put our hearts. We have certain
work to do for our bread and that is to be done strenuously,
other work to do for our delight and that is to
be done heartily; neither is to be done by halves or
shifts, but with a will; and what is not worth this effort
is not to be done at all.
John Ruskin
I am Elbert Hu ard's son, and I
am entirely familiar with the proposition
that Genius never reproduces.
Heretofore, it has always been nece ary
to sign my name, Elbert
Hu ard II" mdash ut now there is an
embarra ment in that signature,
an a umption that I do not feel.
There is no Second Elbert Hu ard. To five hundred
Roycrofters, to the Village of East Aurora, and to a
few dozen personal friends scattered over the face of
the earth, I am Bert Hu ard, plain Bert Hu ardand
as Bert Hu ard I want to be known to you.
I lay no claim to having inherited Elbert Hu ard's
Genius, his Personality, his I ight into the Human
Heart. I am another and totally different sort of man.
I know my limitatio .
Also, I am acquainted with such ability as I po e ,
and I believe that it can be directed to serve you.
I got my schooling in East Aurora.
I have never been to College. But I have traveled acro this Country several times with my Father.
traveled abroad with him. One time we walked from
Edi urgh to London to prove that we could do it.
My Father has been my teacherand I do not at all
envy the College Man.
For the last twenty years I
have been working in the Roycroft Sho .
I believe
I am well grounded in Busine mdash;also, in Work.
When I was twelve years old my father tra ferred Ali
Baba to the garde mdash;and I did the chores around the
house and barn for a dollar a week. From that day
forward I earned every dollar that ever came to me.
I fed the printing-pre at four dollars a week. Then,
when we purchased a gas-engine, I was promoted to be
engineer, and given a pair of long overalls.
Two or three years later I was moved into the General
Office, where I opened mail and filled in orders.
Again, I was promoted into the Private Office and
permitted to sign my name under my Father's, on
checks.
Then the re o ibility of purchasing materials
was given me.
One time or another I have worked in every Department
of the Roycroft Sho .
My a ociation with Elbert Hu ard has been friendly,
brotherly. I have enjoyed his complete confidenceand
I have tried to deserve it.
He believed in me, loved me, hoped for me. Whether
I disa ointed him at times is not important. I know
my average must have pleased him, because the night
he said Farewell to the Roycrofters he oke well of
me, very well of me, and he left the Roycroft I titution
in my charge.
He sailed away on the Lusitania intending to be
gone several weeks. His Little Journey has been prolonged
into Eternity.
But the work of Elbert and Alice Hu ard is not done.
With them one task was scarcely under way when
another was launched. Whether complete or incomplete,
there had to be an end to their effort sometime, and this
is the end.
Often Elbert Hu ard would tell the story of Tolstoy,
who sto ed at the fence to question the worker in the
field, My Man, if you knew you were to die tomorrow,
what would you do today? And the worker begrimed
with sweat would a wer, I would plow!
That's the way Elbert Hu ard lived and died, and
yet he did morehe pla ed for the future. He pla ed
the future of the Roycroft Shop. Death did not meet
him as a stranger. He came as a sometime-expected
friend. Father was not u repared.
The plan that would have sustained us the seven weeks
he was in Europe will sustain us seven year mdash;and
another seven years.
Elbert Hu ard's work will go on.
I know of no Memorial that would please Elbert Hu ard
half so well as to broaden out the Roycroft Idea.
So we will continue to make handmade Furniture,
hand-hammered Co er, Modeled Leather. We shall
still triumph in the arts of Printing and Bookmaking.
The Roycroft I will continue to swing wide its welcoming
door, and the kind greeting is always here for you.
The Fra will not mi an i ue, and you who have
enjoyed it in the past will continue to enjoy it!
The Philistine belonged to Elbert Hu ard. He
wrote it himself for just twenty years and one month.
No one else could have done it as he did. No one else
can now do it as he did.
So, for very sentimental reaso mdash;which overbalance
the strong temptation to continue The PhilistineI
co ider it a duty to pay him the tribute of discontinuing
the little Magazine of Protest.
The Roycrofters, Incorporated, is a band of skilled
men and women. For years they have accomplished the
work that has invited your admiration. You may expect
much of them now. The su ort they have given me,
the confidence they have in me, is as a great ma of
power and courage pushing me on to succe .
This thought I would impre upon you: It will not be
the policy of The Roycrofters to imitate or copy. This
place from now on is what we make it. The past is past,
the future reads a golden red agai t the eastern sky.
I have the determination to make a Roycroft Sho mdash;that
Elbert Hu ard, leaning out over the balcony, will
look down and say, Good boy, Bertgood boy!
I have Youth and Strength.
I have Courage.
My Head is up.
Forwardall of u mdash;March!
ELIZABETH B. BROWNING
I have been in the meadows all the day,
And gathered there the nosegay that you see;
Singing within myself as bird or bee
When such do fieldwork on a morn of May.
Irreparablene ELIZABETH B. BROWNING
Writers of biography usually begin
their preachments with the rather
startling statement, The subject
of this memoir was bor quot mdash mdash;Here
follows a date, the name of the place
and a cheerful little Mrs. Gamp
anecdote: this as preliminary to
launching forth.
It was the merry Andrew Lang, I believe, who filed a
general protest agai t these machine-made biographies,
pleading that it was perfectly safe to a ume the
man was bor and as for the time and place it mattered
little. But the merry man was wrong, for Time
and Place are often masters of Fate.
For myself, I rather like the good old-fashioned way
of begi ing at the begi ing. But I will not tell where
and when Elizabeth was born, for I do not know. And
I am quite sure that her hu and did not know. The
encyclopedias waver between London and Herefordshire,
just according as the writers felt in their hearts
that genius should be produced in town or country.
One man, with opinio pretty well o ified on this subject,
having been challenged for his statement that
Mrs. Browning was born at Hope End, rushed into
print in a letter to the Gazette with the countercheck
quarrelsome to the effect, You might as well expect
throstles to build nests on Fleet Street 'buses, as for
folks of genius to be born in a big city. As apology for
the man's ardor I will explain that he was a believer in
the Religion of the East and held that irits choose
their own time and place for materialization.
Mrs. Ritchie, authorized by Mr. Browning, declared
Burn Hill, Durham, the place, and March Sixth, Eighteen
Hundred Nine, the time. In reply, John H. Ingram
brings forth a copy of the Tyne Mercury, for March
Fourteenth, Eighteen Hundred Nine, and points to
In London, the wife of Edward M. Barrett, of a
daughter.
Mr. Browning then comes forward with a fact that
derricks can not budge, that is, New apers have
ever had small regard for truth. Then he adds, My
wife was born March Sixth, Eighteen Hundred Six,
at Carlton Hall, Durham, the residence of her father's
brother. One might ha' thought that this would be
the end on't, but it wa 't, for Mr. Ingram came out
with this sharp rejoinder: Carlton Hall was not in
Durham, but in Yorkshire. And I am authoritatively
informed that it did not become the residence of
S. Moulton Barrett until some time after Eighteen
Hundred Ten. Mr. Browning's latest suggestio in
this matter can not be accepted. In Eighteen Hundred
Six, Edward Barrett, not yet twenty years of age, is
scarcely likely to have already been the father of the two
children a igned to him. And there the matter rests.
Having told this much I shall proceed to launch forth.
The earlier years of Elizabeth Barrett's life were ent
at Hope End, near Ledbury, Herefordshire. I visited
the place and thereby added not only one day, but
several to my life, for Ali counts not the days ent in
the chase. There is a description of Hope End written
by an eminent clergyman, to whom I was at once
attracted by his literary style. This gentleman's diction
contai so much clearne , force and elegance
that I can not resist quoting him verbatim: The
residentiary buildings lie on the ascent of the contiguous
eminences, whose projecting parts and bending
declivities, modeled by Nature, di lay astonishing
harmoniou e . It contai an elegant profusion of
wood, di osed in the most carele yet pleasing order;
much of the park and its scenery is in view of the residence,
from which vantage-point it presents a most
agreeable a earance to the enraptured beholder.
So there you have it!
Here Elizabeth Barrett lived until she was twenty.
She never had a childhood't was dro ed out of her
life in some way, and a Greek grammar inlaid i tead.
Of her mother we know little. She is never quoted;
never referred to; her wishes were so whi eringly
expre ed that they have not reached us. She glides, a
pale shadow, acro the diary pages. Her hu and's
will was to her supreme; his whim her co cience. We
know that she was sad, often ill, that she bore eight
children. She pa ed out seemingly unwept, unhonored
and u ung, after a married existence of sixteen years.
Elizabeth Barrett had the same number of brothers
and sisters that Shake eare had; and we know no
more of the seven Barretts who were swallowed by
oblivion than we do of the seven Shake eares that
went not astray.
Edward Moulton Barrett had a sort of fierce, pa ionate,
jealous affection for his daughter Elizabeth. He
set himself the task of educating her from her very
babyhood. He was her co tant companion, her tutor,
adviser, friend. When six years old she studied Greek,
and when nine made tra latio in verse. Mr. Barrett
looked on this sort of thing with much favor, and
tightened his discipline, reducing the little girl's hours
for study to a system as severe as the laws of Draco.
Of course, the child's health broke. From her thirteenth
year she a ears to us like a beautiful irit with an
astral form; or she would, did we not perceive that
this beautiful form is being racked with pain. No wonder
some one has asked, Where then was the Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children?
But this brave irit did not much complain. She had
a will as strong as her father's, and felt a Spartan pride
in doing all that he asked and a little more. She studied,
wrote, tra lated, read and thought.
And to ur
her on and to stimulate her, Mr. Barrett published
several volumes of her poems. It was immature, pedantic
work, but still it had a certain glow and gave
promise of the things yet to come.
One marked event in the life of Elizabeth Barrett
occurred when Hugh Stuart Boyd arrived at Hope
End. He was a fine, se itive, soula poet by nature
and a Greek scholar of repute. He came on Mr. Barrett's
invitation to take Mr. Barrett's place as tutor.
The young girl was confined to her bed through the
advice of physicia Boyd was blind.
Here at once was a bond of sympathy. No doubt this
break in the monotony of her life gave fresh courage
to the fair young woman. The gentle, sightle poet
relaxed the severe hours of study. I tead of grim
digging in musty tomes they talked: he sat by her
bedside holding the thin hands (for the blind see by
the se e of touch), and they talked for hour mdash;or
were silent, which served as well. Then she would
read to the blind man and he would recite to her, for
he had the blind Homer's memory. She grew better,
and the doctors said that if she had taken her medicine
regularly, and not i isted on getting up and walking
about as guide for the blind man, she might have gotten entirely well.
In that fine poem, Wine of Cyprus, addre ed to
Boyd, we see how she acknowledges his goodne .
There is no wine equal to the wine of friendshi and
love is only friendshi mdash lus something else. There is
nothing so hygienic as friendship.
Hell is a separation,
and Heaven is only a going home to our friends.
Mr. Barrett's fortune was invested in sugar-plantatio in Jamaica. Through the emancipation of the blacks his
fortune took to itself wings. He had to give up his lendid country hometo break the old ties. It was
decided that the family should move to London.
Elizabeth had again taken to her bed. The mattre on
which she lay was borne down the ste by four me one man might have carried her alone, for she weighed
only eighty-five pounds, so they say.
Cra Robi on, who knew everything
and everybody, being very much such a
man as John Kenyon, has left on record the
fact that Mr. Kenyon had a face like a
Benedictine monk, a wit that never lagged, a generous
heart, and a tongue that ran like an Alpine cascade.
A razor with which you can not shave may have better
metal in it than one with a perfect edge. One has been
sharpened and the other not. And I am very sure that
the men who write best do not nece arily know the
most; Fate has put an edge on themthat's all. A
good kick may start a stone rolling, when otherwise
it rests on the mountain-side for a generation.
Kenyon was one type of the men who rest on the
mountain-side. He da led in poetry, wrote book-reviews,
collected rare editio , attended first nights, oke mysteriously of " tuff he was working o and sometimes confidentially told his lady friends of
his intention to bring it out when he had gotten it
into shape, asking their advice as to bindings, etc.
Men of this type rarely bring out their stuff, for the
reason that they never get it into shape. When they
refer to the novel they have on the stocks, they refer
to a novel they intend to write. It is yet in the ink-bottle.
And there it remai mdash;all for the want of one
good kick&mdash ut perha it's just as well.
Yet these friendly beings are very useful members of
society. They are brighter companio and better
talkers than the men who exhaust themselves in creative
work and at odd times favor their friends with
choice samples of literary irritability. John Kenyon
wrote a few bright little things, but his best work was
in the encouragement he gave others. He sought out
all literary lio and tamed them with his steady
glance. They liked his prattle and good-cheer, and he
liked them for many reaso mdash;one of which was because
he could go away and tell how he advised them about
this, that and the other. Then he fed them, too.
And so unrivaled was Kenyon in this line that he won
for himself the title of The Feeder of Lio . Now,
John Kenyo mdash;rich, idle, bookish and generou mdash aw
in the magazines certain fine little poems by one
Elizabeth Barrett. He also ascertained that she had
published several books. Mr. Kenyon bought one of
these volumes and sent it by a me enger with a little
note to Mi Barrett telling how much he had enjoyed
it, and craved that she would i cribe her name and
his on the fly-leaf and return by bearer. Of course she
complied with such a modest request so gracefully
expre ed; these things are balm to poets' souls. Next,
Mr. Kenyon called to thank Mi Barrett for the autograph.
Soon after, he wrote to inform her of a startling
fact that he had just discovered: they were ki men,
cousi or somethinga little removed, but cousi still. In a few weeks they wrote letters back and forth
begi ing thus: Dear Cousin.
And I am glad of this cousinly arrangement between
lonely young people. They gra at it; and it gives an
excuse for a bit of closer relatio hip than could otherwise
exist with propriety. Goodne me! is he not my
cousin? Of course he may call as often as he chooses.
It is his right.
But let me explain here that at this time Mr. Kenyon
was not so very youngthat is, he was not a urdly
young: he was fifty. But men who really love books
always have young hearts. Kenyon's father left him
a fortune, no troubles had ever come his way, and his
was not the temperament that searches them out.
He dre ed young, looked young, acted young, felt
No doubt John Kenyon sincerely admired Elizabeth
Barrett, and prized her work. And while she read his
mind a deal more understandingly than he did her
poems, she was grateful for his kindly attention and
well-meant praise. He set about to get her poems into
better magazines and to find better publishers for her
work. He was not a gifted poet himself, but to dance
attendance on one afforded a gratification to his artistic
impulse. He could not write sublime verse himself,
but he could tell others how. So Mi Barrett showed
her poems to Mr. Kenyon, and Mr. Kenyon advised
that the P's be made bolder and the tails to the Q's be
lengthened. He also bought her a new kind of manuscript
paper, over which a quill pen would glide with glee:
it was the kind Byron used. But best of all, Mr. Kenyon
brought his friends to call on Mi Barrett; and many
of these friends were men with good literary i tincts.
The meeting with these strong minds was no doubt a
great help to the little lady, shut up in a big house
and living largely in dreams.
Mary Ru ell Mitford was in London about this time
on a little visit, and of course was sought out by John
Kenyon, who took her sightseeing. She was fifty years
old, too; she oke of herself as an old maid, but didn't
allow others to do so. Friends always oke of her as
Little Mi Mitford, not because she was little,
but because she acted so. Among other beautiful
sights that Mr. Kenyon wished to show gushing little
Mary Mitford was a Mi Barrett who wrote things.
So together they called on Mi Barrett.
Little Mi Mitford looked at the pale face in its
frame of dark curls, lying back among the pillows.
Little Mi Mitford bowed and said it was a fine day;
then she went right over and ki ed Mi Barrett, and
these two women held each other's hands and talked
until Mr. Kenyon twisted nervously and hinted that
it was time to go.
Mi Barrett had not been out for two months, but
now these two i isted that she should go with them.
The carriage was at the door, they would su ort her
very tenderly, Mr. Kenyon himself would drive&mdash o
there could be no accidents and they would bring her
back the moment she was tired. So they went, did
these three, and as Mr. Kenyon himself drove there
were no accidents.
I can imagine that James the coachman gave up the
rei that day with only an inward protest, and after
looking down and smiling rea urance Mr. Kenyon
drove slowly towards the Park; little Mi Mitford
forgot her promise not to talk ince antly; and the
dainty, white-porcelain lady brushed back the
raven curls from time to time and nodded indulgently.
Not long ago I called at Number Seventy-four
Gloucester Place, where the Barretts lived. It is a
plain, solid brick house, built just like the ten thousand
other brick houses in London where well-to-do
tradesmen live. The people who now occupy the house
never heard of the Barretts, and surely do not belong
to a Browning Club. I was told that if I wanted to
know anything about the place I should a ly to the
Agent, whose name is 'Opki and whose office is in
Clifford Court, off Fleet Street. The house probably
has not changed in any degree in these fifty years,
since little Mi Mitford on one side and Mr. Kenyon
on the other, tenderly helped Mi Barrett down the
ste and into the carriage.
I lingered about Gloucester Place for an hour, but
finding that I was being furtively shadowed by various
servants, and discovering further that a policeman had
been summoned to look after my case, I moved on.
That night after the ride, Mi Mitford wrote a
letter home and among other things she said: I called
today at a Mr. Barrett's. The eldest daughter is about
twenty-five. She has some inal affection, but she is
a charming, sweet young woman who reads Greek as I
do French. She has published some tra latio from
Æ chylus and some striking poems. She is a delightful
creature, shy, timid and modest.
The next day Mr. Kenyon gave a little di er in honor
of Mi Mitford, who was the author of a great book
called, Our Village. That night when Mi Mitford
wrote her usual letter to the folks down in the country,
telling how she was getting along, she described this
di er-party. She says: Wordsworth was therean
adorable old man. Then there was Walter Savage
Landor, too, as lendid a person as Mr. Kenyon himself,
but not so full of sweetne and sympathy. But best
of all, the charming Mi Barrett, who tra lated the
most difficult of the Greek plays, 'Prometheus Bound.'
She has written most exquisite poems, too, in almost
every modern style. She is so sweet and gentle, and
so pretty that one looks at her as if she were some
bright flower. Then in another letter Mi Mitford
adds: She is of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower
of dark curls falling on either side of a most expre ive
face; large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark lashe a
smile like a su eam, and such a look of youthfulne that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend that
she was really the tra lator of Æ chylus and the
author of the 'E ay on Mind.'
When Mi Mitford went back home, she wrote Mi Barrett a letter 'most every day. She addre es her as
My Sweet Love, My Dearest Sweet, and My
Sweetest Dear. She declares her to be the gentlest,
strongest, sanest, noblest and most iritual of all
living perso . And moreover she wrote these things
to others and published them in reviews. She gave
Elizabeth Barrett much good advice and some not so
good. Among other things she says: Your one fault,
my dear, is o curity. You must be simple and plain.
Think of the stupidest person of your acquaintance,
and when you have made your words so clear that
you are sure he will understand, you may venture to
hope it will be understood by others.
I hardly think that this advice caused Mi Barrett to
bring her lines down to the level of the stupidest person
she knew. She continued to write just as she chose. Yet
she was grateful for Mi Mitford's glowing friendship,
and all the pretty gush was accepted, although perha with good large pinches of the Syracuse product.
Of course there are foolish people who a ume that
gushing women are shallow, but this is jumping at
conclusio . A recent novel gives us a picture of a
tall soldier, who, in camp, was very full of brag and
bluster. We are quite sure that when the fight comes
on this man with the lubricated tongue will prove an
arrant coward; we a ume that he will run at the first
smell of smoke. But we are wronghe stuck; and
when the flag was carried down in the rush, he rescued
it and bore it bravely so far to the front that when he
came back he brought anotherthe tawdry, red flag
of the enemy!
I slip this in here just to warn hasty folk agai t the
a umption that talkative people are nece arily vacant-minded.
Man has a many-sided nature, and like the
moon reveals only certain phases at certain times.
And as there is one side of the moon that is never
revealed at all to dwellers on the planet Earth, so
mortals may unco ciously conceal certain phases of
soul-stuff from each other.
Mi Barrett seems to have written more letters and
longer ones to Mi Mitford than to any of her other
corre ondents, save one. Yet she was aware of this
rather indiscreet woman's limitatio and wrote down
to her understanding.
To Richard H. Horne she wrote freely and at her
intellectual best. With this all-round, gifted man she
kept up a corre ondence for many year and her
letters now published in two stout volumes afford a
literary history of the time. At the risk of being accused
of lack of taste, I wish to say that these letters of
Mi Barrett's are a deal more interesting to me than
any of her longer poems. They reveal the many-sided
qualities of the writer, and show the workings of her
mind in various moods. Poetry is such an exacting
form that it never allows the author to a ear in dre ing-gown
and sli er neither can he call over the
back fence to his neighbor without lo of dignity.
Horne was author, editor and publisher. His middle
name was Henry, but following that peculiar penchant
of the ink-stained fraternity to play flimflam with
their names, he changed the Henry to Hengist; so we
now see it writ thus: R. Hengist Horne.
He found a market for Mi Barrett's wares. More
properly, he i isted that she should write certain things
to fit certain publicatio in which he was interested.
They collaborated in writing several books. They met
very seldom, and their corre ondence has a fine friendly
flavor about it, tempered with a disinterestedne that is
unique. They encourage each other, criticize each other.
They rail at each other in witty qui and quirks, and at
times the air is so full of gibes that it looks as if a quarrel
were a earing on the horizo mdash o bigger than a man's
hand&mdash ut the storm always pa es in a gentle shower of
refreshing compliments.
Meantime, dodging in and out, we see the handsome,
gracious and kindly John Kenyon.
Much of the time Mi Barrett lived in a darkened
room, seeing no one but her nurse, the physician and her
father. Fortune had smiled again on Edward Barretta
legacy had come his way, and although he no longer
owned the black men in Jamaica, yet they were again
working for him. Sugar-cane mills ground slow, but
The brilliant daughter had blo omed in intellect until
she was beyond her teacher. She was so far ahead that
he called to her to wait for him. He could read Greek;
she could compose in it. But she preferred her native
tongue, as every scholar should. Now, Mr. Barrett was
jealous of the fame of his daughter. The pa ion of
father for daughter, of mother for so mdash;there is often
something very loverlike in ita deal of whimsy! Mi Barrett's darkened room had been illumined by a light
that the gruff and goodly merchant wist not of. Loneline and solitude and physical pain and heart-hunger
had taught her things that no book recorded nor tutor
knew. Her father could not follow her; her allusio were o cure, he said, wilfully o cure; she was growing
perverse.
Love is a pain at times. To ease the hurt the lover would
hurt the beloved. He badgers her, pinches her, provokes
her. One step more and he may kill her.
Edward Barrett's daughter, she of the raven curls and
gentle ways, was reaching a point where her father's
love was not her life. A good way to drive love away is
to be jealous. He had seen it coming years before; he
brooded over it; the calamity was upon him. Her fame
was growing: some one called her the Shake eare of
women. First, her books had been published at her
father's expe e; next, editors were willing to run their
own risks, and now me engers with bank-notes waited
at the door and begged to exchange the bank-notes for
manuscript. John Kenyon said, I told you so, but
Edward Barrett scowled. He accused her foolishly; he
attempted to dictate to her&mdash he must use this ink or
that. Why? Because he said so. He quarreled with her
to ease the love-hurt that was smarting in his heart.
Poor, little, pale-faced poet! Earthly succe has nothing
left for thee! Thy thoughts, too great for eech, fall on
dull ears. Even thy father, for whom thou first took up
pen, doth not understand thee! and a mother's love
thou hast never known. And fame without lovehow
barren! Heaven is thy home. Let slip thy thin, white
hands on the thread of life and glide gently out at e of tideout into the unknown. It can not but be better
than thi mdash;God understands! Compose thy troubled irit, give up thy vain hopes. See! thy youth is past,
little woma look closely! there are gray hairs in thy
locks, thy face is marked with lines of care, and have I
not seen sig of winter in thy vei ? Earth holds
naught for thee. Come, take thy pen and write, just a
last good-by, a tender farewell, such as thou alone ca t
say. Then fold thy thin hands, and make peace with all
by pa ing out and away, out and awayGod understands!
Elizabeth Barrett was thirty-seven,
and Mi Mitford, up to London from the
country for a couple of days, wrote home that
she had lost her wi ome beauty.
John Kenyon had turned well into sixty, but he carried
his years in a jaunty way. He wore a mo -rose bud in
the lapel of his well-fitting coat. His linen was immaculate,
and the only change people saw in him was that he
wore ectacles in place of a monocle.
The physicia allowed Mr. Kenyon to visit the darkened
room whenever he chose, for he never stayed so
very long, neither was he ever the bearer of bad news.
Did the greatest poete of the age (temporarily slightly
indi osed) know one BrowningRobert Browning, a
writer of verse? Why, no; she had never met him, but of
course she knew of him, and had read everything he had
written. He had sent her one of his books once. He was
surely a man of brilliant part mdash o strong and farseeing!
He lives in Italy, with the monks, they say. What a
pity the English people do not better a reciate him!
But he may succeed yet, said Mr. Kenyon. He is
not old.
Oh, of course, such genius must some day be recognized.
But he may be gone the mdash;how old did you say
he was?
Mr. Kenyon had not said; but he now explained that
Mr. Browning was thirty-four, that is to say, just the
age of himself, ahem! Furthermore, Mr. Browning did
not live in Italythat is, not now, for at that present
moment he was in London. In fact, Mr. Kenyon had
lunched with him an hour before. They had talked of
Mi Barrett (for who else was there among women
worth talking of!) and Mr. Browning had expre ed a
wish to see her. Mr. Kenyon had expre ed a wish that
Mr. Browning should see her, and now if Mi Barrett
would expre a wish that Mr. Browning should call
and see her, why, Mr. Kenyon would fetch himdoctors
or no doctors.
And he fetched him.
And I'm glad, aren't you?
Now Robert Browning was not at all of the typical poet
type. In stature, he was rather short; his frame was
compact and muscular. In his youth, he had been a
wrestlercarrying away laurels of a different sort from
those which he was to wear later. His features were
inclined to be heavy; in repose his face was dull, and
there was no fire in his glance. He wore loose-fitting,
plain, gray clothes, a slouch-hat and thick-soled shoes.
At first look you would have said he was a well-fed,
well-to-do country squire. On closer acquaintance you
would have been impre ed with his dignity, his perfect
poise and his fine reserve. And did you come to know
him well enough you would have seen that beneath that
seemingly phlegmatic outside there was a iritual
nature so se itive and tender that it re onded to all
the finer thrills that play acro the souls of men. Yet if
there ever was a man who did not wear his heart upon
his sleeve for daws to peck at, it was Robert Browning.
He was clean, wholesome, manly, healthy, i ide and
out. He was master of self.
Of course, the gentle reader is sure that the next act
will show a tender love-scene. And were I dealing with
the lives of Peter Smith and Martha the milkmaid, the
gentle reader might be right.
But the love of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett
is an i tance of the Divine Pa ion. Take off thy shoes,
for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground! This
man and woman had gotten well beyond the first flush
of youth; there was a joining of intellect and soul which
a roaches the ideal. I can not imagine anything so
preposterous as a " roposal pa ing between them;
I can not conceive a condition of hesitancy and timidity
leading up to a dam-bursting avowal. They met,
looked into each other's eyes, and each there read his
fate: no coyne , no affectation, no fencingthey loved.
Each at once felt a heart-rest in the other. Each had at
last found the other self.
That exquisite series of poems, So ets From the
Portuguese, written by Elizabeth Barrett before her
marriage and presented to her hu and afterward, was
all told to him over and over by the look from her eyes,
the pre ure of her hands, and in gentle words (or
silence) that knew neither shame nor embarra ment.
And now it seems to me that somewhere in these pages I
said that friendship was e entially hygienic. I wish to
make that remark again, and to put it in italics. The
Divine Pa ion implies the most exalted form of friendship
that man can imagine.
Elizabeth Barrett ran up the shades and flung open the
shutters. The sunlight came dancing through the apartment,
flooding each dark corner and driving out all the
shadows that lurked therein. It was no longer a darkened
The doctor was indignant; the nurse resigned.
Mi Mitford wrote back to the country that Mi Barrett was really looking better than she had for
As for poor Edward Moulton Barretthe raved. He
tried to quarrel with Robert Browning, and had there
been only a callow youth with whom to deal, Browning
would simply have been kicked down the ste , and that
would have been an end of it. But Browning had an
even pulse, a calm eye and a temper that was imperturbable.
His will was quite as strong as Mr. Barrett's.
And so it was just a plain runaway matchthe ideal
thing after all. One day when the father was out of the
way they took a cab to Marylebone Parish Church
and were married. The bride went home alone, and it
was a week before her hu and saw her; because he
would not be a hypocrite and go ask for her by her
maiden name. And had he gone, rung the bell and
asked to see Elizabeth Barrett Browning, no one would
have known whom he wanted. At the end of the week,
the bride stole down the ste alone, leading her dog
Flush by a string, and met her lover-hu and on the
corner. Next day, they wrote back from Calais, asking
forgivene and craving ble ings, after the good old
custom of Gretna Green. But Edward Moulton Barrett
did not forgive&mdash till, who cares!
Yet we do care, too, for we regret that this man, so
strong and manly in many ways, could not be reconciled
to this exalted love. Old men who nurse wrath are
pitiable sights. Why could not Mr. Barrett have followed
the example of John Kenyon?
Kenyon commands both our sympathy and admiration.
When the news came to him that Robert Browning and
Elizabeth Barrett were gone, it is said that he so ed
like a youth to whom has come a great, strange sorrow.
For months he was not known to smile, yet after a year
he visited the ha y home in Florence. When John
Kenyon died he left by his will fifty thousand dollars
to my beloved and loving friends, Robert Browning
and Elizabeth Barrett, his wife.
The old-time novelists always left their couples at the
church-door. It was not safe to follow furtherthey
wished to make a pleasant story. It seems meet to take
our leave of the bride and groom at the church: life
often ends there. However, it sometimes is the place
where life really begi . It was so with Elizabeth Barrett
and Robert Browningthey had merely existed before;
now, they began to live.
Much, very much has been
written concerning this ideal mating, and of the life of
Mr. and Mrs. Browning in Italy. But why should I
write of the things of which George William Curtis,
Kate Field, Anthony Trollope and James T. Fields have
written? No, we will leave the ha y pair at the altar,
in Marylebone Parish Church, and while the organ peals
the wedding-march we will tiptoe softly out.
MADAME GUYON
To me remai nor place nor time;
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care,
On any shore, since God is there.
While place we seek or place we shun,
The soul finds ha ine in none;
But with a God to guide our way,
'Tis equal joy to go or stay.
Could I be cast where Thou art not,
That were indeed a dreadful lot;
But regio none remote I call,
Secure of finding God in all.
God Is Everywhere
MADAME GUYON
Jea e Marie Bouvier sat one
day writing at her little oaken desk,
when her father a roached and,
ki ing her very gently on the forehead,
told her that he had arranged
for her marriage, and that her future
hu and was soon to arrive. Jea e's
fingers lost their cu ing, the pen
dro ed; she arose to her feet, but her tongue was dumb.
Jea e Marie was only sixteen, but you would have
thought her twenty, for she was tall and dignified&mdash he
was as tall as her father: she was five feet nine. She had
a lendid length of limb, hi that gave only a suggestion
of curve line, a slender waist, a shapely, well-poised
neck, and a head that might have made a Juno
envious. The face and brow were not those of Venu mdash;rather
they belonged to Minerva; for the nose was large,
the chin full, and the mouth no pea's blo om. The hair
was light brown, but when the sun shone on it people
said it was red. It was as generous in quantity and
unruly in habits as the westerly wind. Her eyes were all
colors, changing according to her mood. Withal, she
had freckles, and no one was ever so rash as to call her
pretty.
Now, Jea e's father had not ki ed her for two years,
for he was a very busy man: he had not time for soft
demo tration. He was rich, he was religious, and he
was looked upon as a model citizen in every way.
The daughter had grown like a sunflower, and her
intellect had unfolded as a mo -rose tur from bud to
blo om. This lendid girl had thought and studied and
dreamed dreams. She had imagined she heard a voice eaking to her: Arise, maiden, and prepare thee, for
I have a work for thee to do!
Her wish and prayer was to enter a convent, and after
co ecrating herself to God in a way that would allow of
no turning back, to go forth and give to men and
women the me ages that had come to her. And these
things filled the heart of the worthy bourgeois with
alarm; so he said to his wife one day: That girl will be
a foot taller than I am in a year, and even now when I
give her advice, she ope her big eyes and looks at me
in a way that thi my words to whey. She will get us
into trouble yet! She may disgrace us! I thinkI think
I'll find her a hu and.
Yet that would not have been a difficult task. She was
loved by a score of youths, but had never oken to any
of them. They stood at corners and sighed as she walked
by; and others, with religious bent, timed her hours for
ma and took positio in church from whence they
could see her kneel. Still others patroled the narrow
street that led to her home, with hopes that she might
pa that way, so that they might touch the hem of her
garment.
These things were as naught to Jea e Marie. She had
never yet seen a man for whose intellect she did not
have both a pity and a contempt.
But Claude Bouvier did not pick a hu and for his
daughter from among the simple youths of the town.
He wrote to a bachelor friend, Jacques Guyon by name,
and told him he could have the girl if he wanted herthat
is, after certain little preliminaries had been
arranged.
Now, Jacques Guyon had been at the Bouvier residence
on a visit three months before, and had looked the la over stealthily with peculiar interest, and had intimated
that if Mo ieur Bouvier wished to get rid of her it
could be brought about. So, after some weeks had pa ed,
Mo ieur bethought him of the offer of Jacques Guyon,
and he concluded that inasmuch as Guyon was rich and
re ectable it would be a good match.
So he wrote to Guyon, and Guyon replied that he would
come, probably within a fortnightjust as soon as his
rheumatism got better.
Mo ieur Claude Bouvier read the letter, and walking
into the next room, surprised Jea e Marie by ki ing
her tenderly on her foreheadall as herein truthfully
recorded.
So Jacques Guyon came, came in his carriage,
with two servants riding on horseback in
front and another riding on horseback behind.
Jea e Marie sat on the floor, tailor fashion,
up in her little room of the old stone house, and peeked
out of the diamond-paned gable-window very cautiously;
and she was sorely disa ointed.
In some of her dreams (and these dreams she thought
were very bad), she had pictured a lover coming alone
on a foam-flecked charger; and as the steed paused, the
rider leaped lightly from saddle to ground, ki ing his
hand to her as she peeked through the curtai . For he
discovered her when she hoped he would not, but she
did not care much if he did.
But Mo ieur Guyon's eyes did not search the windows.
He got out of the carriage with difficulty, and his breath
came wheezy and short as he mounted the ste . His
complexion was dusty blue, his nose tinged with carmine,
his eyes watery, and his girth aldermanic. He was
growing old, and, saddest of all, he was growing old
rebelliously and therefore ungracefullydyeing his
whiskers purple.
That evening when Jea e Marie was introduced to
Mo ieur Guyon at di er she found him very polite
and very gracious. His breeches were real black velvet
and his stockings were silk, and the buckles on his shoes
were polished silver and the frill of his shirt was finest
lace. His conversation was directed mostly to Jea e's
father, so Jea e did not feel nearly so uncomfortable
as she had expected.
The next day a notary came, and long papers were
written out, and red and green seals placed on them,
and then everybody held up his right hand as the notary
mumbled something, and then all signed their names.
The room seemed to be teetering up and down, and it
looked quite like rain. Mo ieur Bouvier stood on his
tiptoes and again ki ed his daughter on the forehead,
and Mo ieur Guyon, taking her hand, lifted the long,
slender fingers to his li , and told her that she would
soon be a great lady and the mistre of a lendid
ma ion, and have everything that one needed to make
one ha y.
And so they were married by a bishop, with two priests
and three curates to a ist. The ceremony was held at
the great stone church; and as the proce ion came out,
the verger had a hard time to keep the crowd back, so
that the little girls in white could go before and strew
flowers in their pathway. The organ pealed, and the
chimes clanged and rang as if the tune and the times
were out of joint; then other bells from other parts of
the old town a wered, and acro the valley rang
mellow and soft the chapel-bell of Montargis Castle.
Jea e was seated in a carriagehow she got there she
never knew; by her side sat Jacques Guyon. The post-boys
were lashing their horses into a savage run, like
devils ru ing away with the souls of i ocents, and
behind clattered the mounted, liveried servant. People
on the sidewalks waved good-bys and called God-ble -yous.
Soon the sleepy old town was left behind and the
horses slowed down to a lazy trot. Jea e looked back,
like Lot's wife: only a church- ire could be seen. She
hoped that she might be turned into a pillar of salt&mdash ut
she wa 't. She crouched into the corner of the seat
and cried a good honest cry.
And Mo ieur Jacques Guyon smiled and muttered to
himself, Her father said she was a bit stu orn, but
I'll see that she gets over it!
And this was over three hundred years ago. It doe 't
seem like it, but it was.
Read the lives of great men and you will come
to the conclusion that it is harder to find a
gentleman than a genius. While the clock
ticks off the seconds, count on your finger mdash;within
five minutes, if you ca mdash;five such gentlemen as
Sir Philip Sidney! Of course, I know before you eak
that Fenelon will be the first on your tongue. Fenelon,
the low-voiced, the mild, the sympathetic, the courtly,
the gracious! Fenelon, favored by the gods with beauty
and far-reaching intellect! Fenelon, who knew the gold
of silence. Fenelon, on whose li dwelt grace, and who
by the magic of his words had but to eak to be
believed and to be beloved.
When Louis the Little made that most audacious
blunder which cost France millio in treasure and
untold lo in men and women, Fenelon wrote to the
Prime Minister: These Huguenots have many virtues
that must be acknowledged and co erved. We must
hold them by mildne . We can not produce conformity
by force. Converts made in this ma er are hypocrites.
No power is great enough to bind the mindthought
forever escapes. Give civil liberty to all, not by a roving
all religio , but by permitting in patience what God
allows.
You shall go as mi ionary to these renegades! was
the a werhalf-ironical, half-earnest.
I will go only on one condition.
And that is?
That from my province you withdraw all armed
me mdash;all sign of compulsion of every sort!
Fenelon was of noble blood, but his sympathies were
ever with the people. The lowly, the weak, the o re ed,
the persecutedthese were ever the objects of his
solicitudethese were first in his mind.
It was in prison that Fenelon first met Madame Guyon.
Fenelon was thirty-seven, she was forty. He occasionally
preached at Montargis, and while there had heard of
her goodne , her piety, her fervor, her resignation. He
had small sympathy for many of her peculiar views,
but now she was sick and in prison and he went to her
and admonished her to hold fast and to be of good-cheer.
Twelve years before this Madame Guyon had been
left a widow. She was the mother of five childre mdash;two
were dead. The others were placed under the care of
kind ki me and Madame Guyon went forth to give
her days to study and to teaching. This action of placing
her children partly in the care of others has been harshly
criticized. But there is one phase of the subject that I
have never seen commented upo mdash;and that is that a
mother's love for her off ring bears a certain ratio to
the love she bore their father. Had Madame Guyon ever
carried in her arms a love-child, I can not conceive of
her allowing this child to be cared for by other mdash o
matter how competent.
The favor that had greeted Madame Guyon wherever
she went was very great. Her animation and devout
enthusiasm won her entrance into the homes of the
great and noble everywhere. She organized societies of
women that met for prayer and conversation on exalted
themes. The burden of her philosophy was Quietismthe
a olute submi ion of the human soul to the will
of God. Give up all, lay aside all striving, all reaching
out, all unrest, cease penance and lie low in the Lord's
hand. He doeth all things well. Make life one continual
prayer for holine mdash;wholene mdash;harmony; and thus all
good will come to u mdash;we attract the good; we attract
GodHe is our friendHis irit dwells with us. She
taught of power through repose, and told that you can
never gain peace by striving for it like fury.
This philosophy, stretching out in limitle ramificatio ,
bearing on every phase and condition of life,
touched everywhere with mysticism, afforded endle o ortunity for thought.
It is the same philosophy that is being expre ed by
thousands of prominent men and women today. It
embraced all that is vital and best in our so-called
advanced thought" for in good sooth none of our
new liberal sect quot; has anything that has not been
taught before in olden time.
But Madame Guyon's succe was too great. The
guardia of a dogmatic religion are ever on the scent
for heresy. They are jealous, and fearful, and full of
alarm lest their i titutio quot; shall to le. Quietism
was making head, and throughout France the name of
Madame Guyon was becoming known. She went from
town to town, and from city to city, and gave courses
of lectures. Women flocked to hear her, they organized
clu . Preachers sometimes a eared and argued with
her, but by the high fervor of her eech she quickly
silenced them. Then they took revenge by thundering
sermo agai t her after she had gone. As she traveled
she left in her wake a pyrotechnic di lay of elocutionary
denunciation. They dared her to come back and
fight it out. The air was full of challenges. One prelate
was good enough to say, This woman may teach
primitive Christianity&mdash ut if people find God everywhere,
what's to become of us!
And although the theme is as great as Fate and as
serious as Death, one can not su re a smile to think
how the fear of losing their jo has ever caused men to
run violently to and fro and up and down in the earth,
crying peace, peace, when there is no peace.
Now, it was the denunciation and wild demo tration
of her fearing foes that advertised the labors of Madame
Guyon. For strong people are not so much advertised
by their loving friends as by their rabid enemies.
This ha ened quite a while ago; but as mankind moves
in a circle (and not always a iral, either) it might have
ha ened yesterday. Make the scene Ohio: slip Bo uet
out and Doctor Buckley i conde e the virtues of Mi Frances E. Willard and Mi Susan B. Anthony into
one, and let this one stand for Madame Guyo call it
New Tra cendentalism, dub the Madame a New
Woman, and there you have it!
But with this difference: petitio to the President of
the United States to arrest this female offender and
shut her up in the Chicago jail, indefinitely, after a mock
trial, would avail not. Yet persecution has its compe ation,
and the treatment that Madame Guyon received
emphasized the truths she taught and sent them ringing
through the schools and salo and wherever thinking
people gathered themselves together. Yes, persecution
has its compe ation. In its state of persecution a religion
is pure, if ever; its decline begi when its pro erity
commences. Pro erous men are never wise and seldom
good. Woe unto you when all men shall eak well of you!
Surely, persecution has its compe ation! When
Madame Guyon was sick and in prison, was she not
visited by Fenelon? Ah, 'twas worth the cost. Sympathy
is the first attribute of love as well as its last.
And I am not sure but that sympathy is love's own
self, vitalized mayhap by some divine actinic ray. Only
a thorn-crowned, bleeding Christ could win the adoration
of the world. Only the souls who have suffered are
well loved. Thus does Golgotha find its recompe e.
Hark ye and take courage, ye who are in bonds! Gracious irits, seen or u een, will minister to you now,
where otherwise they would have pa ed without a sign!
But from the day Fenelon met Madame Guyon his
fortune began to decline. People looked at him askance.
By a grim chance he was made one of a committee of
three to investigate the charges brought agai t the
woman. The court took a year for its task. Fenelon
read everything that Madame Guyon had published,
conversed much with her, inquired into her history and
when asked for his verdict said, I find no fault in her.
He talked with Madame de Maintenon, and Madame
de Maintenon talked with the King, and the offender
was released.
Soon Fenelon began to utter in his sermo the truths
he had learned from Madame Guyon. And he gave her
due credit. He explained that she was a good Catholicthat
she loved the Churchthat she lived up to all the
Church taught, and besides knowing all that Churchmen
knew she knew many things beside.
Have a care, Archbishop of Cambrai! Enemies are upon
thy track. Defend not defe ele womanhood: knowest
thou not what they have said of her? Speak what thou
art taught and keep thy inmost thoughts for thyself
alone. Have a care, Fenelon! thy bishopric hangs by a ider's thread.
The years kept sli ing past as the years will. Twelve
summers had come, and twelve times had autumn
leaves known their time to fall. Madame Guyon was
again in prison. A stranger was Archbishop of Cambrai:
Fenelon no longer a cou elor of king mdash;a tutor of
royalty. His voice was silenced, his pen chained. He was
allowed to retire to a rural parish. There he lived with
the peasant mdash;revered, beloved. The country where he
dwelt was battle-scarred and bleeding; the smoke of
devastation still hung over it. Not a family but had
been ro ed of its best. Death had stalked rampant.
Fenelon shared the poverty of the people, their lowline ,
their sorrows. All the tragedy of their life was hi he said to them, I know, I know!
Twelve years of Madame Guyon's life were ent in
prison. Toward the last she was allowed to live in
nominal freedom. But de otism, with savage leer and
stealthy step, saw that Fenelon was kept far away. In
those declining days, when the shadows were lengthening
toward the east, her time and talents were given to
teaching the simple rudiments of knowledge to the
peasantry, to alleviating their material wants and to
ministering to the sick. It was a forced retirement, and
yet it was a retirement that was in every way in accord
with her desires. But in ite of the persecution that
followed her, and the obloquy heaped upon her name,
and the bribe of pardon if she would but recant, she
never retracted nor wavered in her inward or outward
faith, even in the estimation of a hair. The firm reticence
as to the supreme secrets of her life, and her steadfast
loyalty to that which she honestly believed was truth,
must ever command the affectionate admiration of all
those who prize integrity of mind and purity of purpose,
who hold fast to the divinity of love, and who believe
in the things u een which are eternal.
The town of Montargis is one day's bicycle
journey from Paris. As for the road, though
one be a wayfaring man and from the States
he could not err therein. You simply follow
the Seine as if you were intent on discovering its source,
keeping to the beautiful highway that follows the
winding stream. And what a beautiful, clear, clean bit
of water it is! In Paris, your washerwoman takes your
linen to the river, just as they did in the days of Pharaoh,
and the bundle comes back sweet as the breath of June.
Imagine the result of such reckle e in Chicago!
But as I rode out of Paris that bright May day it
seemed Monday all along the way; for dames with
baskets balanced on their heads were making their way
to the waterside, followed by troo of barefoot or
sabot-shod children. There was one fine young woman
with a baby in her arms, and the i ocent firstborn was
busily taking its breakfast as the mother walked calmly
along, bearing on her well-poised head the family wash.
And a mile farther on, as if she had seen her rival and
gone her one better, was another woman with a two-year-old
cherub perched secure on top of the gently
swaying basket, proud as a cardinal about to be co ecrated.
It was a study in balancing that I have never
seen before nor since; and I only ask those to believe it
who know things so true that they dare not tell them.
As the day wore on, I saw that the wash was being
completed, for the garments were read out on the
greenest of green gra , or on the bushes that lined the
way. By ten o'clock I was nearing Fontainebleau, and
the clothes were nearly ready to take i mdash ut not quite.
For while waiting for the warm sun and the gentle
breeze to dry them, the thrifty dames, who were
French and make soup out of everything, put in the
time by laundering the children. It seemed like that
economic stroke of good housewives who use the soapy
wash-water for scru ing the kitchen-floor. There they
were, doze of hopefuls on whom the fate of the nation
restedcreepers to ten-year-old mdash eing scru ed and
di ed, or playing parlez-vous tag in lieu of towel, as
i ocent of clothes as Carlyle's imaginary House of
And so I pa ed off from the road that traced the Seine
to a road that kept company with the canal. I followed
the towpath, even in ite of warnings that 't was
'gai t the law. It was a one-horse canal, for many of
the gaily painted boats were drawn only by a single,
shaggy-limbed Percheron. The boats were sharp-prowed
and narrow; and on some were bareheaded
women knitting, and men carving curious things out of
blocks of wood, as they journeyed. And I said to myself,
if it is the pace that kills, these people are making a
strong bid for immortality. I hailed the lazily moving
craft, waving my hat, and the slow-going tourists called
back cheerily.
By and by I came to a great, wide plain that stretched
away like a tidele summer sea. The wheat and lentils
and pulse were planted in long stri . In one place I
thought I could trace the good old American flag (that
you never really love unle you are on a foreign shore)
made with alternate stri of millet and peas, with a
goodly patch of ca ages in the corner for stars. But
po ibly this was imagination, for I had been thinking
that in a week it would be the Fourth of July and I was
far from homein a land where firecrackers are
unknown.
Coming to a little rise of ground, I could see, lying calm
and quiet amid the world of rich, growing grain, the
town of Montargis. Acro on the blue hillside was
Montargis Castle, framed in a ma of foliage. I sto ed
to view the scene, and the echo of ve er-bells came
pealing gently over the miles, as the nodding po ies at
my feet bowed reverently in the breeze.
Villages in France viewed from a distance seem so
restful and idyllic. There is no sound of strife, no trace
of rivalry, no vain pride; only white house mdash;the homes
of good men and gentle women, and cherub childre and all the church-steeples truly point to God. Yet on
closer view&mdash ut what of that!
When I reached the town, the church whose ire I had
seen from the distance beckoned me first. I turned off
from the wide thoroughfare, intending just to get a
glance at the outside of the building as I pa ed. But
the great iron gates thrown invitingly open, and a rusty,
dusty dog of Flanders lying in the entry waiting for his
master, told me that there was service within. So I
entered, pa ing through the noisele , swinging door,
and into the dim twilight of the house of prayer. A score
of people were there, and standing in the aisle was a
white-robed priest. He was eaking, and his voice
came so gently, so sure withal, so exquisitely modulated,
that I paused and, leaning agai t a pillar, listened. I
think it was the first time I ever heard a preacher eaking in a large church who did not eak so loud
that an echo chased his sentences round and round the
vaulted dome and strangled the se e. The tone was
conversational and the ma er so free from canting
conventionality that I moved up closer to get a view
of the face.
It was too dark to see well, but I came under the ell
of the man's earnest eloquence. The sacred stillne , the
falling night, the odor from ince e and banks of flowers
piled about the feet of an image of the Holy Virgi mdash;evidently
brought by the peasantry, having nothing
else to givemade a combination of melting conditio that would have subdued a heart of stone.
The preacher ceased to eak, and as he raised his hands
in benediction, I, involuntarily, with the other worshipers,
knelt on the stone floor and bowed my head in
silent reverie.
Suddenly, I was aroused by a crashing noise at my
elbow, and glancing round saw that an old man near me
had merely dro ed his cane. A heavy cudgel it was
that falling on the stone flagging sent a thundering
reverberation through the vaulted chambers.
The worshipers were sli ing out, one by one, and soon
no one was left but the old man of the cudgel and myself.
He wore wooden shoes, and was holding the cordwood
fast between his knees, rolling his hat nervously in his
big hands. He's a stranger, too, I said to myself;
he is the man who ow the rusty dog of Flanders,
and he is waiting to give the priest some me age!
I leaned over towards my neighbor and asked, The
priestwhat is his name?
Father Francis, Mo ieur! and the old man swayed
back and forward in his seat as if moved by some inward
emotion, still fingering his hat.
Just then the priest came out from behind the altar,
wearing a black robe i tead of the white one. He moved
down with a sort of quiet majesty straight towards us.
We arose as one ma it was as though some one had
pre ed a button.
Father Francis walked by me, bowing slightly, and
shook hands with my old neighbor. They stood talking
in an undertone.
A last struggling ray of light from the dying sun came in
over the chancel and flooded the great room for an
i tant. It allowed me to get a good look at the face
of the priest. As I stood there staring at him I heard
him say to the old man as he bade him good-by, Yes,
tell her I'll be there in the morning.
Then he turned to me, and I was still staring. And as I stared I
was repeating to myself the words the people said when
Dante used to pa , There is the man who has been
to Hell!
You are an Englishman? said Father Francis to
me pleasantly as he held out his hand.
Yes, I said; I am an Englishma mdash;that is, noan
American!
I was wondering if he had really heard me make that
Dante remark; and anyway, I had been rudely staring
at him and listening with both ears to his conversation
with the old man. I tried to roll my hat, and had I a
cudgel I would surely have dro ed it; and with it all I
wondered if the dog of Flanders waiting outside was
not getting impatient for me!
Oh, an American! I'm gladI have very dear friends
in America!
Then I saw that Father Francis did not look so much
like the exiled Florentine as I had thought, for his smile
was wi ing as that of a woman, the corners of his
mouth did not turn down, and the nose had not the
Roman curve. Dante was an exile: this man was at
homeand would have been, anywhere.
He was tall, slender and straight; he must have been
sixty years old, but the face in ite of its furrows was
singularly handsome. Grave, yet not depre ed, it
showed such feminine delicacy of feeling, such grace,
such high intellect, that I stood and gazed as I might
at a statue in bronze. But plain to see, he was a man
of sorrow and acquainted with grief. The face ake
of one to whom might have come a great tribulation,
and who by accepting it had purchased redemption
for all time from all the petty troubles of earth.
You must stay here as long as you wish, and you
will come to our old church again, I hope! said the
Father. He smiled, nodded his head and started to
leave me alone.
Yes, yes, I'll come agai mdash;I'll come in the morning,
for I want to talk with you about Madame Guyo mdash he
was married in this church they told meis that
true? I clutched a little. Here was a man I could not
afford to loseone of the elect!
Oh, ye that was a long time ago, though. Are you
interested in Madame Guyon? I am glad&mdash ot to
know Fenelon seems a misfortune. He used to preach
from that very pulpit, and Madame was baptized at
that font and confirmed here. I have pictures of them
both; and I have their book mdash;one of the books is a
first edition. Do you care for such things?
When I was broke in London, in the Fall of Eighty-nine!
Do I care for such things? I can not recall what
I said, but I remembered that this brown-ski ed
priest with his liquid, black eyes, and the look of
sorrow on his handsome face, stood out before me like
the picture of a saint.
I made an engagement to meet him the next morning,
when he bethought him of his promise to the old man
of the cudgel and wooden shoes.
Come now, the mdash;come with me now. My house is
just next door!
And so we walked up the main aisle of the old church,
around the altar where Madame Guyon used to kneel,
and by a crooked, little pa ageway entered a house
fully as old as the church. A woman who might have
been as old as the house was setting the table in a
little dining-room. She looked up at me through bra -rimmed ectacles, and without orders or any one
saying a word she whisked off the tablecloth, replaced it
with a owy, clean one, and put on two plates i tead
of one. Then she brought in toasted brown bread and
tea, and a steaming dish of lentils, and fresh-picked
berries in a basket all lined with green leaves.
It was not a very sumptuous repast, but 't was enough.
Afterward I learned that Father Francis was a vegetarian.
He did not tell me so, neither did he apologize
for a ence of fermented drink, nor for his failure to
su ly tobacco and pipes.
Now, I have heard that there be priests who hold in
their cowled heads choice recipes for iced wines, and
who carry hidden away in their hearts all the mysteries
of the chafing-dish; but Father Francis was not one
of these. His form was thin, but the bronze of his face
was the bronze that comes from red corpuscles, and
the strongly corded neck and calloused, bony hands
told of manly a tinence and exercise in the open air,
and sleep that follows peaceful thoughts, knowing no
chloral.
After the meal, Father Francis led the way to his little
study u tairs. He showed me his books and read to
me from his one solitary First Edition. Then he
unlocked a little drawer in an old chiffonier and brought
out a package all wra ed in chamois. This parcel
held two miniature portraits, one of Fenelon and one
of Madame Guyon.
That picture of Fenelon belonged to Madame Guyon.
He had it painted for her and sent it to her while she
was in prison