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Many great names are associated with the attempt to write a history of Dublin. The work in all ages was laborious; there were no printed books to consult, and the records of Ireland, as Hooker complains three hundred years ago, “were verie slenderlie and disorderlie kept.” Whitelaw’s work, though it employed two editors ten hours a day for ten years, yet goes no farther than a description of the public buildings; but the object of Mr. Gilbert’s history is distinct from all that precedes it. It is from the decaying streets and houses that he disentombs great memories, great fragments of past life. It is not a mere record of Ionic pillars, Corinthian capitals, or Doric pediments he gives us. Whitelaw has supplied whole catalogues of these; but records of the human life, that has throbbed through the ancient dwellings of our city century after century; of the vicissitudes of families, to be read in their ruined mansions; of the vast political events which in some room, in some house, on some particular night, branded the stigmata deeper on the country; or the tragedies of great hopes crushed, young blood shed, victims hopelessly sacrificed, which have made some street, some house, some chamber, for ever sacred.
“‘“Minstrels,” said Sir Ralph Cavendish, “the invention of sweet and gentle poesy is dead among you. Every churl in the Peak can chant us these beautiful but common ditties. Have you nothing new for the honor of the sacred calling of verse and the beauty of Dora Vernon? Fellow,——harper,——what’s your name?——you with the long hair and the green mantle,” said the knight, beckoning to a young minstrel who sat with his harp held before him, and his face half buried in his mantle’s fold; “come, touch your strings and sing; I’ll wager my gold-hilted sword against that pheasant feather in thy cap, that thou hast a new and a gallant strain; for I have seen thee measure more than once the form of fair Dora Vernon with a ballad-maker’s eye. Sing, man, sing.”
She laughed shakily, without answering. The creatures seemed to be waiting for something, McCray thought; if indeed they were creatures and not machines or—or whatever one might expect to find, in the impossible event of being cast away on an improbable planet of an unexplored sun. He touched the woman's helmet reassuringly and walked toward the aliens, raising his arms.
And when Amos saw the steady stream of men in khaki being carried to the operating tables he stared hard at each and every one as though really afraid deep down in his brotherly heart he was fated to find Frank there, a mangled wreck, and utterly beyond the task of going back home to say good-bye to the father who yearned to receive his forgiveness.
“It pains you to witness the victory of this Lycomedes?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.
"But the steam from the teakettle—and two hundred miles a day? Did I hear aright?" asked Marian.
The fall of 1814 Maria won, over the same course, club purse of 5, two mile heats, beating Tam O’Shanter, William Lytle’s Royalist, and two or three others.
TWO: The Coming of Lad
The words which the Pres-i-dent said were few, but they will nev-er die. While Lin-coln’s “Get-tys-burg Speech” will ev-er be praised, far more must these last words dwell in the hearts of men, for they show the de-vo-tion and ten-der love of that great soul, poured out to bless his chil-dren ere he lay down to die.
To my surprise, Alstrop met my glance with an eye neither puzzled nor resentful. A shadow seemed to be lifted from his honest face.
"I will indeed! If you only knew----"详情 ➢
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