As I left the place of my birth and long abiding and took the road to that far country where I thought my fortune lay, the sun already had a countenance. It was shining on the chestnut trees; on the tall white walls of the house of justice at the corner of the square; on the worthy priest who was sprinkling holy water on the steps of the monastery of the Bleeding Heart to suppress the dust, to keep away the flies, and to consecrate the building; and especially on the only bailiff that our town could boast, whose salary fluctuated with the thieves he captured. He, honest fellow, had driven so poor a trade of late that he crept along in his winter coat, seeking the shade of trees and houses. Even at this time some portion of philosophy had gone to the increase of my mind, a habit which sprang, I think, from my mother’s family—her brother Nicolas was a clerk of Salamanca and wore a purple gown. So when it fell to consider two such matters as the dearth of rogues and the sun’s majestic clemency it found a pleasant argument. I had yet to adventure half a league into the world, but unless my eyes were false, the place I had vowed to win was fair and full of virtue. Having such thoughts I rejoiced exceedingly. Thus I checked my horse a moment and, lifting up my eyes to heaven, was fain to salute the morning. However, as I made to pursue my way, glowing with the generosity of my youth, my gaze was diverted by a thing of pity. It was an old poor woman sitting beside a door. She was thin and feeble. Her cheeks were hollow, there was no lustre in her glance, her mouth had not a tooth; but her face was such that I felt unable to pass her by. My father had an adage pertinent to her case. “Be kind to the poor,” said the first of mankind, “and if you are not the happiest man in Spain, it is a conspiracy of Fortune’s.” As I approached this aged creature I saw she had an eye which seemed to ask an alms yet did disdain it; and this war of pride and necessity in a poor beggar woman, halt and lean, led me to consider that she was not of the common sort, but had had a birth perhaps, and upon a day had known the cushions of prosperity. And this fancy moved my heart indeed, for in my view there is no more pitiful sight in nature than a blood Arab so broken in his wind and circumstances as to be condemned to base employments. There were only ten crowns in my purse, but its strings were untied before I could consider of my private need. Bowing to her as solemnly as if she had been the daughter of a marquis—and who shall say that she was not?—I begged her to accept a tenth part of my inheritance. She received this invitation with those shy eyes that so much enhance her sex; while such confusion overcame the gentle soul that a minute passed before her faltering hand could draw a coin from the bag I held before her. I went on my way with no more than nine crowns in my possession. Now, it is no light thing, believe me, reader, for a youth of one-and-twenty to adventure into an unknown country, upon a quest of fortune on a mountain horse, in the company of a sword of an ancient pattern, a leather jerkin laced with steel, a hat without a feather, and the sum of nine crowns, neither more nor less, for the whole of his estate.
Betty Collis and Jef Moonen present a series of proven and practical guidelines, based on their balanced experience of using technology in education. Together, these give readers an overview of how technological applications in education can be developed and harnessed.
Drawing on recent scholarship on the history of Western esotericism and religious studies on the importance of millenarian thought in Early Modern Europe, this study provides an innovative re-examination of Peter the Great’s Court in early eighteenth-century Russia.
This volume integrates research findings from three multinational studies conducted to examine the impact of children's use of computers in school. Conclusions are drawn from in-depth analyses of trends in more than 20 nations. Its seven authors from four nations were key researchers on these projects. Both a study and a product of the information age, this work is of prime importance to teachers, teacher educators, and school administrators. This work is unique in three important ways: * it presents data gathered in many regions of the world; * many of the authors are well-known and respected for their previous work in educational studies; and * the chapters are designed in such a way that the majority of the book is easily accessible to professionals such as classroom teachers who are interested primarily in findings, results, and outcomes rather than the methodology of the research.
It had been raining all day in London. The beating of water, cold, monotonous and heavy upon the streets, had now acquired mystery from the darkness of a November night. The vague forms floating here and there through the haze of the lamps, which a few hours ago were easy to define, were full of strangeness, while the noise of the water as it gurgled into the sewers, and slopped from the spouts over the dark fronts of the shops had a remote significance. Now and again odd shapes would emerge from the curtain of the shadows: a wet policeman, a dog, a bedraggled walker of the streets, a sullen cabman, a lame horse. Over and above, round and about these phantasmal appearances, was the sound of continual water falling upon the great roar of London. In one of the narrow purlieus leading from the City to the eastern wilderness, night had erased the actual like a wet cloth drawn across writing in chalk upon a board. Two rows of sopping shuttered walls were only able to emit an occasional smear of lamplight, by which the pageant of the individual consciousness could embody itself. Here and there a signboard would be half-disclosed over some deserted shop; and in the middle of a long and very dismal thoroughfare was one that seemed to take a quality from the fact that a faint gleam of light was stealing through a chink in the shutters of a door. Above this door, in faded letters which the film of shadows rendered barely visible, was the legend, “Second-hand Bookseller.” It seemed to be centuries old. The light, however, frail as it was, somehow appeared to make it memorable. Yet the source of this talisman was not the shop itself, but a little room that lay behind. This small shop in which a thousand and one volumes huddled, like corpses in a chasm, seemed almost to form an intermediary between the real on the one hand, and the chimerical on the other. On its shelves, in a limbo of darkness and neglect, lay the dead, the dying, and the imperishable. Buried in dust and decay, in covers that could hardly hold together, were pregnant annotations upon the human comedy. On the upper shelves were tomes whose destiny it had been to hold back the hands of time, and had duly fulfilled it. Below these were a thousand formulas which had proved disconcerting to man. Still, however, as in the sodden and shadow-fraught chimera beyond the shutters, even here darkness did not reign inviolate. There were tiny lamps on this shelf and that: like those in the street without the power to offer more than a flicker of light, yet able to suggest that the blackest night is susceptible of challenge. A candle shone here and there in the gloom, faint yet invincible, like a will-o’-the-wisp that hops about the mounds in a cemetery. Opening out of the shop was a little inner room. It was from this that the thread of light proceeded. This tiny chamber, some twelve feet by sixteen, had little furniture. In the centre was a quaint old table. A curious tome of yellow parchments was spread open upon it. Built into the outer wall was a cupboard. Its heavy oak door was studded with nails and strongly secured. In the grate the fire was bright; the bare floor and walls were spotless; and from the low ceiling depended a lamp in the form of a censer whose light was soft yet clear.
The United Kingdom had never seen anything like it, as two rock'n'roll legends rampaged around the country on Britain's first-ever rock tour. Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran lived the rock'n'roll lifestyle to the full, bringing to an end the monochrome 1950s and ushering in the swinging 60s. John Collis has traced the story of the UK tour that was a defining moment in British popular culture to its tragic climax with the death of Eddie Cochran. He looks back on the contrasting backgrounds of the two stars, follows the tale onwards to Gene Vincent's death from alcohol and drug abuse, and examines the lasting legacy of their music.
AN old lady who lived in Hill Street was making arrangements to enter upon her seventy-fourth year. It was a quarter to nine in the morning by the ormolu clock on the chimney-piece; and the old lady, somewhat shriveled, very wide-awake, and in the absence of her toupee from the position it was accustomed to grace—at present it was in the center of the dressing-table—looking remarkably like a macaw, was sitting up in bed. Cushions supported her venerable form, and an Indian shawl, the gift of her Sovereign, covered her aged shoulders. There were people who did not hesitate to describe her as a very worldly-minded, not to say very wicked, old lady. The former of these epithets there is none to dispute; in regard to the latter, let our silence honor the truth. It is far from our intention to asperse the character of one who has always passed as a Christian; nor do we ascribe to human frailty the sinister significance that some people do. But as far as this old lady is concerned it is a point upon which we have no bigotry. If sheer worldliness of mind is akin to wickedness, the old woman who lived in Hill Street must have come perilously near to that state. Her views upon all matters relating to this world were extremely robust, and years and experience had confirmed her in them. In regard to the next world she seldom expressed an opinion. In this she was doubtless wise. Sitting very upright in her bed, with those glittering eyes and hawklike features the unmistakable mistress of all they surveyed, she was enough to strike the boldest heart with awe. Not that temerity was the long suit of Miss Burden, a gentlewoman of a certain age whose sole mission in life it was to do her good-will and pleasure in return for board and residence, and forty pounds per annum paid quarterly. Duly fortified with a slice of dry toast and a cup of very strong tea, the old lady said in such a clear and incisive tone that she must have studied the art of elocution in the days of her youth— “Burden, cover my head.” The gentlewoman obeyed the command with delicacy and with dexterity. Yet it must not be thought that the elaborate mechanism which adorned the venerable poll fourteen hours out of the twenty-four was taken from the center of the dressing-table. It was not. Various ceremonies had to be performed before the moment arrived for its reception. In its place a temporary, but none the less marvelous, erection of fine needlework and point lace was produced by Miss Burden, and arranged like a veritable canopy about the brow of Minerva.
Collis Sherman Bell's Sweet Island Breezes presents a collection that spotlights her native homeland, The Bahamas. With her poetry, she hopes to entertain, enlighten, engage, and inspire readers and create a deeper appreciation for the beauty and richness of the islands. Bell's poetry resonates with the challenge to recapture, cherish, or create our own island memories. Sweet Island Breezes includes poems and essays based upon and inspired by her life in the islands. Her verses explore her childhood, family, and friends, with a particular focus on depicting Bimini, the island of her birth. For example, her poem, Sunrise to Sunset, describes a typical day in Bimini in the 1970s. Other poems deal with her faith and offer hope and encouragement to everyone. Bell's commitment to her community is evident in her poems about social issues like education and paying it forward. Sweet Island Breezes offers an inspiring collection of works conjuring lovely memories of her life in The Bahamas and also provides a glimpse into her present life and beliefs.
Northcote sat in his chambers in Shepherd’s Inn. Down below was Fleet Street, in the thrall of a bitter December twilight. A heavy and pervasive thaw pressed its mantle upon the gaslit air; a driving sleet numbed the skin and stung the eyes of all who had to face it. Pools of slush, composed in equal parts of ice, water, and mud, impeded the pavements. They invaded the stoutest boots, submerged those less resolute, and imposed not a little inconvenience upon that section of the population which, unaddicted to the wearing of boots, had dispensed with them altogether. The room in which Northcote kept was no more than a large and draughty garret, which abutted from the northern end of a crazy rectangular building on this curious byway of the world’s affairs. Only a few decrepit tiles, a handful of rotten laths, and a layer of cracked plaster intervened between him and the night. The grate had no fire in it; there was no carpet to the floor. A table and two chairs were the sole furniture, and in a corner could be heard the stealthy drip of icy water as it percolated through the roof. The occupant of the room sat in a threadbare overcoat with the collar turned up to his ears. His hands, encased in a pair of woollen gloves, which were full of holes, were pressed upon his knees; a pipe was between his teeth; and while he sucked at it with the devout patience of one to whom it has to serve for everything that the physical side of his nature craved, he stared into the fireless grate with an intensity which can impart a heat and a life of its own. Now and again after some particularly violent demonstration on the part of the weather he would give a little stoical shudder, fix the pipe in the opposite corner of his mouth, and huddle away involuntarily from the draught that came from under the door. Northcote was a man of thirty who found himself face to face with starvation. He had been six years at the bar. Friendless, without influence, abjectly poor, he had chosen the common law side. Occasionally he had been able to pick up an odd guinea in the police-courts, but at no time had he earned enough to meet his few needs. He was now contemplating the removal of the roof from over his head. Its modest rental was no longer forthcoming; and there was nothing remaining among his worldly possessions which would induce the pawnbroker, the friend of the poor, to advance it. “I wonder how those poor devils get on who live in the gutter,” he muttered, grimly, as he shuddered again. “You will soon be able to find an answer to that question,” he added, as he stamped his frozen toes on the hearthstone and beat his fingers against his knees.
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