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Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. 1st World Library-Literary Society is a non-profit educational organization. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - Mrs Warren's Profession has been performed at last, after a delay of only eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the triumphant amusement of startling all but the strongest-headed of the London theatre critics clean out of the practice of their profession. No author who has ever known the exultation of sending the Press into an hysterical tumult of protest, of moral panic, of involuntary and frantic confession of sin, of a horror of conscience in which the power of distinguishing between the work of art on the stage and the real life of the spectator is confused and overwhelmed, will ever care for the stereotyped compliments which every successful farce or melodrama elicits from the newspapers. Give me that critic who rushed from my play to declare furiously that Sir George Crofts ought to be kicked. What a triumph for the actor, thus to reduce a jaded London journalist to the condition of the simple sailor in the Wapping gallery, who shouts execrations at Iago and warnings to Othello not to believe him But dearer still than such simplicity is that sense of the sudden earthquake shock to the foundations of morality which sends a pallid crowd of critics into the street shrieking that the pillars of society are cracking and the ruin of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen champions of ten years ago remonstrate with me just as the veterans of those brave days remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast who first launched my plays on the stage alongside Ghosts and The Wild Duck, exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his ideals What would Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer himself disowns me because I "cannot touch pitch without wallowing in it." Truly my play must be more needed than I knew; and yet I thought I knew how little the others know.
The Principles of Teaching represents what I have learned about the art of teaching over the course of my thirty year career. The principles I include in the book are meant to be both a practical guide and an inspiration to teachers who are just entering the profession. I also believe teachers at any stage of their career may find this book useful.
In this accomplished book, Mary Kay Rummel spins words into mysticism and magic. "Not to be ordinary," she was drawn into the convent where she was forbidden to read fiction because the Superior didn't like it. In "Patterns of Obedience," she writes that she was able to leave when "words whispered in that wind/telling her to go forth and read, to never ask again." Set free, she read and wrote and traveled, visiting early Irish history and myth. Throughout her book, bells chime in celebration as her words become exquisite lyric poems. -Jill Breckenridge, Poet, The Gravity of Flesh If you delight in plunging into an environment's sensual and emotional landscape; if you thrill to poetry that seduces and resonates; if you crave fresh language, intelligence, revelation and uncompromising risk, then What's Left Is The Singing-this miraculous confessional, this collection with its complexity of conflict and resolution, this sound-feast-will satisfy to the bone. Rummel's work allows us to feel how. . . light slips/through fingers into every fold of sky. -Ellen Reich, Poet, The Gynecic Papers When one reads the poems of Mary Kay Rummel, one expects a certain precision of language, a vigilant detail, a concentrated lyric whisper that elevates the ordinary life's ordinary aspirations. On these counts, What's Left Is The Singing does not disappoint. But these poems are also transformative. Here we find beauty that resists adoration, caution that armors raised fists, and belief that survives religion. Here we find metaphors for life's passion in the scapes of sand and tides and endless stars that shine through us. And if we don't find distraction from our ignorance, we do find elegant language touched with music and some blessings and a few reasons to go on. This is exactly what we ask from our poetry. -David Oliveira, Poet, A Little Travel Story; Editor, Mille Grazie Press
Parentage of Peter-His father's double marriage-Death of his father-The princesses-Their places of seclusion-Theodore and John-Sophia uneasy in the convent-Her request-Her probable motives-Her success-Increase of her influence-Jealousies-Parties formed-The imperial guards-Their character and influence-Dangers-Sophia and the soldiers-Sophia's continued success-Death of Theodore-Peter proclaimed-Plots formed by Sophia-Revolution-Means of exciting the people-Poisoning-Effect of the stories that were circulating-Peter and his mother-The Monastery of the Trinity-Natalia's flight-Narrow escape of Peter-Commotion in the city-Sophia is unsuccessful-Couvansky's schemes-Sophia's attempt to appease the soldiers-No effect produced-Couvansky's views-His plan of a marriage for his son-Indignation of Sophia-A stratagem-Couvansky falls into the snare-Excitement produced by his death-Galitzin-Measures adopted by him-They are successful
Nancy Clark's life was transformed forever by a near-death and a near-death-like experience that resulted in her passion to show us that humans can experience the reality of their true, authentic self - the self that is rooted in the divine and brimming with love for all humanity. She has been researching spiritually transformative experiences for thirty years and now in this groundbreaking book, she has compiled diverse spiritually transformative experiences happening to ordinary people today. The experiences are varied and include near-death and near-death-like experiences, out-of-body experiences, after-death communications, spiritual awakenings, religious conversion experiences, meditative and prayerful experiences, and mystical experiences. Learn how these individuals awakened to a new understanding of their deepest assumptions about the eternal questions: Why am I here? Where am I going? What is the purpose of life? Learn how their inner wisdom can assist all of us in understanding that we are more than biological beings; we are spirits of consciousness that are gifted with a love born of our divine nature.
The Yoga Sutra is the great text on Yoga, cognized in ancient India by Maharishi Patanjali. Yoga means "union," and the Yoga Sutra describes the experience of unity, the complete settling of the activity of the mind. In 195 short sutras, this text illuminates the teaching of yoga and meditation, and gives a profound understanding of life in transcendence.
BENITA: prey for him is the true story of bright, vivacious Benita Kane and the Catholic priest who lured her from childhood into a disastrous, twenty-year entanglement that changed the course of her life. What happened to this fatherless girl in the hierarchical, patriarchal world of Dubuque, Iowa during the 40's, 50's and 60's is not simply one more tale of clerical sexual abuse, but rather an astounding, maddening, compelling account of what it was like to grow up in a family, community and culture so dominated by the Catholic church that no one could recognize the ominous events developing around them. As Benita's friend and classmate from second-grade through college, Virginia Tranel writes from the unique stance of both participant and observer.
The Yoga Sutra is the great text on Yoga, cognized in ancient India by Maharishi Patanjali. Yoga means "union," and the Yoga Sutra describes the experience of unity, the complete settling of the activity of the mind. In 195 short sutras, this text illuminates the teaching of yoga and meditation, and gives a profound understanding of life in transcendence.
Steven Schneider is an extraordinary poet. Each of the poems in this collection is crafted with inspiration, dedication and a skill that exemplifies the best of contemporary poetry. Unexpected Guests is a powerful and beautifully written book that explores the meaning of faith, remembrance and creativity. -Marjorie Agosin, author of Dear Anne Frank and Always from Somewhere Else Is it any coincidence that in Unexpected Guests Steven Schneider-whose surname means "tailor"-dresses his poems to fit a variety of roles: husband, father, historian, traveler, spiritual seeker, aesthete, lover of the natural world? Wherever he wanders-be it Nebraska prairie, Texas-Mexico border, or Biblical times-he relates his desire to be rooted, truly at home, employing a voice that's plain-spoken and calm, a welcoming voice that gets out of the way of its subjects, so as to ease our way into them. -Thomas Centolella, author of Terra Firma and Lights and Mysteries Steven Schneider's poetry is deeply informed by Jewish philosophy, history and art and is also deeply multicultural as his speaker interacts and learns from a wide range of representatives from other cultures. Through the cultural cross-currents and Biblical resonances, he writes poetry that encompasses ancient and modern history and culture in a deeply personal idiom. In one poem, the author has a chance meeting on the prairie with a group of Hasidic Jews. In another, he whimsically connects his experience of Nebraska to ultra-urbane stylings of Frank O'Hara. It is an outstanding collection of poetry, one that readers will both learn from and enjoy. -Daniel Morris, author of Bryce Passage and Remarkable Modernisms Unexpected Guests is a collection of poems notable for the quiet intensity of its language as well as its sweeping engagement with place and history. I am deeply engaged by the voice throughout this collection, at once playful and serious, attuned to the world and its occasions of wonder and loss, as well as to Schneider's desire for something more enduring than the world's ephemera. Unexpected Guests is full of clear, urgent poems, sensitive to the threats of violence and terror that characterize our times as well as an abiding sense of wonder at the ordinary miracles in the natural world. -Daniel Tobin, author of The Narrows and Where the World Is Made
He awoke in the dark. His awakening was simple, easy, without movement save for the eyes that opened and made him aware of darkness. Unlike most, who must feel and grope and listen to, and contact with, the world about them, he knew himself on the moment of awakening, instantly identifying himself in time and place and personality. After the lapsed hours of sleep he took up, without effort, the interrupted tale of his days. He knew himself to be Dick Forrest, the master of broad acres, who had fallen asleep hours before after drowsily putting a match between the pages of "Road Town" and pressing off the electric reading lamp. Near at hand there was the ripple and gurgle of some sleepy fountain. From far off, so faint and far that only a keen ear could catch, he heard a sound that made him smile with pleasure. He knew it for the distant, throaty bawl of King Polo-King Polo, his champion Short Horn bull, thrice Grand Champion also of all bulls at Sacramento at the California State Fairs. The smile was slow in easing from Dick Forrest's face, for he dwelt a moment on the new triumphs he had destined that year for King Polo on the Eastern livestock circuits.
I was riding along one autumn day through a certain wooded portion of New York State, when I came suddenly upon an old stone house in which the marks of age were in such startling contrast to its unfinished condition that I involun-tarily stopped my horse and took a long survey of the lonesome structure. Embowered in a forest which had so grown in thickness and height since the erection of this building that the boughs of some of the tallest trees almost met across its decayed roof, it presented even at first view an appearance of picturesque solitude almost approaching to desolation. But when my eye had time to note that the moss was clinging to eaves from under which the scaffolding had never been taken, and that of the ten large windows in the blackened front of the house only two had ever been furnished with frames, the awe of some tragic mystery began to creep over me, and I sat and wondered at the sight till my increasing interest compelled me to alight and take a nearer view of the place.
How long have you been wrestling with your weight? How many diets have you tried? How many times have you condemned yourself for being a failure because you think you're overweight? Are you ready to stop struggling, enjoy eating, and still lose weight? Freedom from Food presents a revolutionary program designed by Patricia Bisch, who discovered the secret to regaining her power over food without deprivation. Built on the solid foundation of quantum physics, which substantiates how the mind affects the body, it provides practical applications of principles that guide you to making your consciousness strong enough to transform your body. From Patricia's own inspiring story to the techniques for changing your awareness of yourself and food, the book takes you on a journey-an adventure in discovering who you are and how to gain power, step by step, over what has been running you
Even the coming of an autumn dusk could not subdue the color of this land. Shadows here were not gray or black; they were violet and purple. The crumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of crimson peppers, vivid in the torch and lantern light. It had been this way for days, red and yellow, violet-colors he had hardly been aware existed back in the cool green, silver, gray-brown of Kentucky. So this was Tubacca! The rider shifted his weight in the saddle and gazed about him with watchful interest. Back in '59 this had been a flourishing town, well on its way to prominence in the Southwest. The mines in the hills behind producing wealth, the fact that it was a watering place on two cross-country routes-the one from Tucson down into Sonora of Old Mexico, the other into California-had all fed its growth.
The soft summer wind stirs the redwoods, and Wild-Water ripples sweet cadences over its mossy stones. There are butterflies in the sunshine, and from everywhere arises the drowsy hum of bees. It is so quiet and peaceful, and I sit here, and ponder, and am restless. It is the quiet that makes me restless. It seems unreal. All the world is quiet, but it is the quiet before the storm. I strain my ears, and all my senses, for some betrayal of that impending storm. Oh, that it may not be premature That it may not be premature * * The Second Revolt was largely the work of Ernest Everhard, though he cooperated, of course, with the European leaders. The capture and secret execution of Everhard was the great event of the spring of 1932 A.D. Yet so thoroughly had he prepared for the revolt, that his fellow-conspirators were able, with little confusion or delay, to carry out his plans. It was after Everhard's execution that his wife went to Wake Robin Lodge, a small bungalow in the Sonoma Hills of California.
It is a great pleasure to write the word; but I am not sure there is not a certain impudence in pretending to add anything to it. Venice has been painted and described many thousands of times, and of all the cities of the world is the easiest to visit without going there. Open the first book and you will find a rhapsody about it; step into the first picture-dealer's and you will find three or four high-coloured "views" of it. There is notoriously nothing more to be said on the subject. Every one has been there, and every one has brought back a collection of photographs. There is as little mystery about the Grand Canal as about our local thorough-fare, and the name of St. Mark is as familiar as the postman's ring. It is not forbidden, however, to speak of familiar things, and I hold that for the true Venice-lover Venice is always in order. There is nothing new to be said about her certainly, but the old is better than any novelty. It would be a sad day indeed when there should be something new to say. I write these lines with the full consciousness of having no infor-mation whatever to offer. I do not pretend to enlighten the reader; I pretend only to give a fillip to his memory; and I hold any writer sufficiently justified who is himself in love with his theme.
The world mends. In my younger days people believed in mahogany; some of my readers will remember it-a heavy, shining substance, having a singularly close resemblance to raw liver, exceedingly heavy to move, and esteemed on one or other count the noblest
He was a very sick white man. He rode pick-a-back on a woolly-headed, black-skinned savage, the lobes of whose ears had been pierced and stretched until one had torn out, while the other carried a circular block of carved wood three inches in diameter. The torn ear had been pierced again, but this time not so ambitiously, for the hole accommodated no more than a short clay pipe. The man-horse was greasy and dirty, and naked save for an exceedingly narrow and dirty loin-cloth; but the white man clung to him closely and desperately. At times, from weakness, his head drooped and rested on the woolly pate. At other times he lifted his head and stared with swimming eyes at the cocoanut palms that reeled and swung in the shimmering heat. He was clad in a thin undershirt and a strip of cotton cloth, that wrapped about his waist and descended to his knees. On his head was a battered Stetson, known to the trade as a Baden-Powell. About his middle was strapped a belt, which carried a large-calibred automatic pistol and several spare clips, loaded and ready for quick work.
San Francisco Bay is so large that often its storms are more disastrous to ocean-going craft than is the ocean itself in its violent moments. The waters of the bay contain all manner of fish, wherefore its surface is ploughed by the keels of all manner of fishing boats manned by all manner of fishermen. To protect the fish from this motley floating population many wise laws have been passed, and there is a fish patrol to see that these laws are enforced. Exciting times are the lot of the fish patrol: in its history more than one dead patrolman has marked defeat, and more often dead fishermen across their illegal nets have marked success.
They ran across the shining sand, the Pacific thundering its long surge at their backs, and when they gained the roadway leaped upon bicycles and dived at faster pace into the green avenues of the park. There were three of them, three boys, in as many bright-colored sweaters, and they "scorched" along the cycle-path as dangerously near the speed-limit as is the custom of boys in bright-colored sweaters to go. They may have exceeded the speed-limit. A mounted park policeman thought so, but was not sure, and contented himself with cautioning them as they flashed by. They acknowledged the warning promptly, and on the next turn of the path as promptly forgot it, which is also a custom of boys in bright-colored sweaters.
There it was The abrupt liberation of sound As he timed it with his watch, Bassett likened it to the trump of an archangel. Walls of cities, he meditated, might well fall down before so vast and compelling a summons. For the thousandth time vainly he tried to analyse the tone-quality of that enormous peal that dominated the land far into the strong-holds of the surrounding tribes. The mountain gorge which was its source rang to the rising tide of it until it brimmed over and flooded earth and sky and air. With the wantonness of a sick man's fancy, he likened it to the mighty cry of some Titan of the Elder World vexed with misery or wrath. Higher and higher it arose, challenging and demanding in such profounds of volume that it seemed intended for ears beyond the narrow confines of the solar system. There was in it, too, the clamour of protest in that there were no ears to hear and comprehend its utterance.
Ken Ward had not been at the big university many days before he realized the miserable lot of a freshman. At first he was sorely puzzled. College was so different from what he had expected. At the high school of his home town, which, being the capita
Introduction to MOHS Cryotomy by Steven Lee is the first Manual written for those individuals interested in becoming Mohs Techs. The manual touches on all areas of a Mohs techs' responsibilities, with charts, diagrams and photographs to aid the beginner to better understand their most important responsibility. This manual covers Quality Control, Specimen Inking and Mapping, Embedding, Cryotomy, The Hematoxylin and Eosin Stain, Coverslipping and Troubleshooting. ~~~~~~~~~~Upon graduating Laboratory Technology training in New York City, Steven Lee moved to Florida where he began his work in Histology. Lee worked for one of the first Mohs Surgeons in Palm Beach County in 1982 and has continued working in that specialty for a number of surgeons in the South Florida region. This past year, Lee created the first employment Staffing Agency that specifically address this specialized area of expertise. www.mohstechstaffing.com is a website designed to place qualified Mohs Techs with Mohs Surgeons. In addition, Mr. Lee also offers individual and group training programs.~~~~~~~~~~~~~1stworldpublishing.com
Between Conniston, of His Majesty's Royal Northwest Mounted Police, and Keith, the outlaw, there was a striking physical and facial resemblance. Both had observed it, of course. It gave them a sort of confidence in each other. Between them it hovered in a subtle and unanalyzed presence that was constantly suggesting to Conniston a line of action that would have made him a traitor to his oath of duty. For nearly a month he had crushed down the whispered temptings of this thing between them. He represented the law. He was the law. For twenty-seven months he had followed Keith, and always there had been in his mind that parting injunction of the splendid service of which he was a part - "Don't come back until you get your man, dead or alive." Otherwise - A racking cough split in upon his thoughts. He sat up on the edge of the cot, and at the gasping cry of pain that came with the red stain of blood on his lips Keith went to him and with a strong arm supported his shoulders. He said nothing, and after a moment Conniston wiped the stain away and laughed softly, even before the shadow of pain had faded from his eyes. One of his hands rested on a wrist that still bore the ring-mark of a handcuff. The sight of it brought him back to grim reality. After all, fate was playing whimsically as well as tragically with their destinies.
The trouble with Harrowby Hall was that it was haunted, and, what was worse, the ghost did not content itself with merely appearing at the bedside of the afflicted person who saw it, but persisted in remaining there for one mortal hour before it would disappear. It never appeared except on Christmas Eve, and then as the clock was striking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in that originality which in these days is a sine qua non of success in spectral life. The owners of Harrowby Hall had done their utmost to rid themselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the best bedroom floor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried stopping the clock, so that the ghost would not know when it was midnight; but she made her appearance just the same, with that fearful miasmatic personality of hers, and there she would stand until everything about her was thoroughly saturated.
If we could only get used to the idea that ghosts are perfectly harmless creatures, who are powerless to affect our well-being unless we assist them by giving way to our fears, we should enjoy the supernatural exceedingly, it seems to me. Coleridge, I think it was, was once asked by a lady if he believed in ghosts, and he replied, "No, madame; I have seen too many of them." Which is my case exactly. I have seen so many horrid visitants from other worlds that they hardly affect me at all, so far as the mere inspiration of terror is concerned. On the other hand, they interest me hugely; and while I must admit that I do experience all the purely physical sensations that come from horrific encounters of this nature, I can truly add in my own behalf that mentally I can rise above the physical impulse to run away, and, invariably standing my ground, I have gained much useful information concerning them. |
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