There is assuredly no country whose women are more interesting than those of Central Africa. Certainly there can be no place on the habitable globe where women are so continuously industrious. Amongst African women there are no unemployed and no unemployables.
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The night I spent at Goslar something very remarkable occurred. Terror seizes me even now as I think back. I am not timid by nature, but I have a mortal terror of ghosts.
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One trait that I find in every great man I have met is something that might be called egotism, and yet it is not egotism. It is a certain unshakable belief in self, a feeling that one’s self is in some way linked with the processes of fate, a sense of the inevitableness of one’s life.
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Many summers ago I was on one of David MacBrayne’s steamers on the way to a Scotch island. Among the few passengers was an interesting man with whom I fell into conversation.
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There was nothing remarkable about his babyhood except his red hair and the great quantity of soothing syrup necessary to keep him toned down.
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For many years I had sought him, and at last I found him in a club. I had been told that he was everywhere; but I had almost begun to think that he was nowhere. I had been assured that there were millions of him; but before my late discovery I inclined to think that there were none of him. After my late discovery I am sure that there is one; and I incline to think that there are several, say, a few hundreds; but unfortunately most of them occupying important positions. When I say “him,” I mean the entire idiot.
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Frau Rothschild lived to be eighty-nine years old, and, to the last, she retained not only her faculties, but also her much-dreaded wit. In her last illness she whispered to her physician: “Dear Doctor, do try to do something for me.”
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Amongst the most warlike savages on the face of the earth must be counted the natives of the coast of Borneo.
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“Rather a cold day, isn’t it?” I said as I entered the club.
The man I addressed popped his head out from behind a newspaper and I saw it was old Mr. Apricot. So I was sorry that I had spoken.
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There are few subjects which have been more written upon and less understood than that of Friendship: to follow the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of being the assuager of pain, becomes the source of every inconvenience. Such speculatists, by expecting too much from friendship, dissolve the connection, and by drawing the bonds too closely, at length break them.
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There was no lack of food at Montmédy. The canteens were provided with everything; prices were high, however. Montmédy is a third-class French fortress and is situated like Ehrenbreitstein on a height which is very steep on one side; the town is situated at the foot of the hill.
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He was dead—the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate whose irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France. Advocates, young counsellors, judges had greeted him at sight of his large, thin, pale face lighted up by two sparkling deep-set eyes, bowing low in token of respect.
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From the book “Stirring Scenes In Savage Lands” by James Greenwood, published in 1865.
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The little theatrical company I write my plays for had come to a west of Ireland town and was to give a performance in an old ball-room, for there was no other room big enough. I went there from a neighbouring country house and arriving a little before the players, tried to open a window.
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On the 12th and 13th of April, 1854, there was heard in the upper part of the city, towards the southwest, a hollow, subterranean, rumbling noise, which recurred at short intervals and continued for several minutes, appearing to come from the mountains which form a kind of large semi-circle at the foot of the volcano, but there was no shock whatever.
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The Diplomat: “Oh, let us form an everlasting alliance.”
The Soldier: “You gave my heart an incurable wound; or ‘you came; I saw; you conquered.’”
The Doctor: “Only you can cure my suffering heart.”
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The great comprehensive truths, written in letters of living light on every page of our history,—the language addressed by every past age of New England to all future ages, is this: Human happiness has no perfect security but freedom; freedom, none but virtue; virtue, none but knowledge; and neither freedom, nor virtue, nor knowledge, has any vigor or immortal hope, except in the principles of the Christian faith, and in the sanctions of the Christian religion.
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Some little time ago I stood among immemorial English trees that seemed to take hold upon the stars like a brood of Ygdrasils. As I walked among these living pillars I became gradually aware that the rustics who lived and died in their shadow adopted a very curious conversational tone. They seemed to be constantly apologizing for the trees, as if they were a very poor show.
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Can’t believe I’m doing this right now. Bloody hell. I’m in a fucking mosque! Me! Milo Yiannopoulos! Oh, if they only knew about my black cock addiction…
What if…
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When the morning of the sixteenth day broke out from the gray battlements to the east’ard, only two live men remained on the raft which more than two weeks before had left the splintered side of the barkentine; besides, there was one dead man, and his body counted three out of a dozen who had clung to the raft until ten starved to death because they could not live on red apples and brine.
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“How are you, Podge?” I said, as I sat down in a leather armchair beside him.
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Now, this is a subject on which I flatter myself I really am au fait. The gentleman who, when I was young, bathed me at wisdom’s font for nine guineas a term—no extras—used to say he never knew a boy who could do less work in more time; and I remember my poor grandmother once incidentally observing, in the course of an instruction upon the use of the Prayer-book, that it was highly improbable that I should ever do much that I ought not to do, but that she felt convinced beyond a doubt that I should leave undone pretty well everything that I ought to do.
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Law, as we understand the term, with all its paradoxes and refinements, is utterly unknown to the Chinese, and it was absolutely necessary to invent an equivalent for the word “barrister,” simply because no such expression was to be found ready-made in the language.
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The editor of the local paper was unable to secure advertising from one of the businessmen of the town, who asserted stoutly that he himself never read ads, and didn’t believe anyone else did.
“Will you advertise if I can convince you that folks read the ads?” the editor asked.
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”The AI future is for everyone”, proclaimed Mark Zuckerberg in a Wall Street Journal op-ed a few weeks ago.
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I wondered why Rumble is aggressively promoting so much live content, so I asked Google Gemini and I got this answer:
Rumble’s heavy push into live content is a deliberate, multi-pronged business strategy designed to help the platform compete with tech giants like YouTube and Twitch.
Well, this strategy has failed based on the most important metric: viewership.
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Two sailors were winding up a rope, and did not finish as quickly as they expected.
“Where in the world,” cried one of them impatiently, “is that end?”
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Is there one you can talk to?
If so, you are fortunate. For one of the most important discoveries a man or woman makes, on the little trip from the cradle to the grave, is the intelligent, likable, appreciative, stimulative companion in talk.
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The prisoner in this case, whose name was Dickey Swivel, alias “Stove Pipe Pete,” was placed at the bar, and questioned by the Judge to the following effect:
Judge: Bring the prisoner into court.
Pete: Here I am, bound to blaze, as the spirits of turpentine said, when he was all a fire.
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