It is no idle boast to say that the Irish were the teachers of Europe from the seventh to the tenth century in art and religion. Mr. Westwood has visited all the great libraries of England and the Continent and found abundant evidence that Irish art, or Hiberno-Saxon art, was diffused over Europe during that period. The Greek and Latin manuscripts are not illuminated, but are adorned with intercalated pictures; Irish art differs from them in many respects—amongst others, in having the figures and rich ornamentations printed on the leaves and borders of the book itself. He has given facsimiles from Irish manuscripts now existing in the libraries of Oxford, Cambridge, Durham, Lichfield, Salisbury, Lambeth, the British Museum, and other places; and, passing to the Continent, has laid under contribution the great libraries of Paris, Rouen, Boulogne, St. Gall, Milan, Rome, Munich, Darmstadt, Stockholm, Copenhagen, and even St. Petersburg, and thus proved the excellence to which Irish artists, or Saxon artists educated in Irish schools, attained more than a thousand years ago. Nor is it strange that Ireland should have been the teacher, considering its early Christianity, which had made some progress amongst the people even in St. Jerome’s time; a little later amongst the Britons; but at the end of the sixth century Augustine and his monks found the stolid Anglo-Saxons292 still in the bonds of their ancient paganism and Wodenism. The Celtic race received the Christian faith gladly as early as the fourth century, but it was a difficult matter to bring light to the Saxon soul. It has at all times proved itself rather opaque in nature. The Saxon tribes of Germany did not renounce their idols till forced to it by the strong coercive power and keen sword of Charlemagne, in the latter half of the eighth century.


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Miss Marsh handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it, nodding to himself.

Berkeleys are that kind, though I must say that when Virginia had her own way she was as amiable as anybody I ever saw, and if Miles Corbin had treated her right she would have made him a good wife. But she was one that couldn't stand whip and spur. It happened, though, that Jack Thornton one night, coming home from court, found one of Corbin's servants lying at the lane gate of Corbin Hall with a broken leg. So although he had sworn he'd never darken Miles Corbin's doors, yet he had to take the fellow up in his gig and drive up to Corbin Hall. It was about eleven o'clock at night, and the negroes had all gone to bed, but there was a light in the house and a commotion going on. The dogs started too, but Jack soon stopped them—I never saw a dog in my life that wouldn't fawn on handsome Jack—when, as he told me afterward, the hall door flew open, and Virginia Corbin rushed out and almost into Jack Thornton's arms. Miles Corbin was right after her with his fist doubled up. Jack says he was so dumbfounded his head reeled, but he heard Miles order her to come back into the house. Then Virginia straightened herself up and said, "I'll come back, because I'm not afraid of you; but I want to tell you now that if ever you raise your hand against me I'll kill you as surely as I live. You've never driven me to much—I've submitted and waited and hated—but a very little more will drive me to murder." Then from somewhere in her dress she pulled out a pistol. "Do you see this? Well, I got it for just such an emergency as may

It was the most rankling encounter he had ever had with her. Either he was losing tolerance for her or she was indeed becoming more noisy and ferocious. She haunted his thoughts for a long time, and his thoughts of her, so intricate is our human composition, were all mixed up with sympathy and remorse for the petty cash troubles in which he had left her....

that out of some thoughtless flirtation with another man there might arise a primal passion that would wreck his life again and hers. To-night the memory of Rafella, and the dreadful moment of their parting, was so uncannily insistent that he felt as though he stood on the brink of another crisis--one that would be infinitely worse for him. He loved Trixie as he had never loved his former wife--a mature, strong love that held far less of self, combining almost a paternal feeling with the deep devotion of a husband. And now it was poisoned with a helpless, jealous sense of danger that he could not combat. It came between him and his desire to behave wisely, warily, with tact towards her. His innate horror of gossip and scandal, his latent distrust of her friendship with young Greaves, added to the lingering influence of his alarm that some accident had befallen her to keep her out so late, held him harping on the question that she had not answered.



I broke the seals and was glancing through the letters when I heard an exclamation at my back.

“There were to be three heats. An Indiana man rode Mack, and an Ohio man rode the other horse. Down the lane they came on the first heat, and all of us strained our necks to see who led. In forty yards of the wire, so to speak, Mack lost his head, concluded he was born for running and not for pacing, broke out and ran away from his man. The judges gave the heat to the other horse. This made Mack’s friends mad, and after a good deal of palavering the heat was declared off and everything started over. In this heat Mack got down to business and beat the other horse by the nose. But in the next heat the other horse turned the tables on Mack and beat him a good length. I’ve seen a good many harness races in my day since then,” continued the old soldier, “but I never saw one that interested me as much as that. Everything was excitement, and the boys were betting everything they had, from hardtacks to dollars. When they turned up the road to come down for the third heat, we could easily see them from where we were, as the beginning of the track was slightly elevated. They turned ’round to come, when all at once I saw both horses stop, their riders looking intently toward the camp, which was behind us and could be seen by them from their slight elevation. In another instant they started, but not our way. They gave one wild shout, bolted the fence on the side of the road and lit out across the fields, according to our notion, like two fools. Before we had time to imagine what was up, we heard some shouts and shots in camp, some wild galloping and yells our way, and we turned ’round only to rush into the arms of a detachment, some five-hundred strong, of Forrest’s Cavalry. If there ever were a cheap set, we were the boys. We made no bones of surrendering, for we hadn’t a dog’s show and were glad to get off with our clothes.

influence on posterity, of works written three hundred or even one hundred years ago.

"I expect you'll think it perfectly rotten of me to ask," he said in a low confidential voice; "but—you don't think there is any chance of his breaking up, do you?"


1.  碰巧读了《华尔街日报》的2月3日刊登的来论《中国是真正的亚洲病夫》,作者是耶鲁大学的国际政治学教授沃尔特·米德(Walter Russell Mead)。当时就觉得文不对题,文章基本是美国右翼学者批评中国的老调重弹,只不过借疫情加个引子,但这个标题却弥漫着十足的“标题党”的怪味。不禁让人唏嘘,百年大报也沦落至此。

2."The new cutter has come, sir, and is about to be taken aboard."



Ladice looked up and smiled faintly through her tears as she said, “Asia, I believe I do!”


If you take a cab at Trafalgar Square, however, and ride eastward down the Strand through Fleet Street, where all the principal newspapers of London are published, past the Bank of England, St. Paul's Cathedral, and the interesting sights and scenes of the older part of the city, you come, all of a sudden, into a very


In relation to all these most intimate aspects of life, Socialism, and Socialism alone, supplies the hope and suggestions of clean and practicable solutions. So far, Socialists have either been silent or vague, or—let us say—tactful, in relation to this central tangle of life. To begin to speak plainly among the silences and suppressions, the “find out for yourself” of the current time, would be, I think, to grip the middle-class woman and the middle-class youth of both sexes with an extraordinary new interest, to irradiate the dissensions of every bored couple and every squabbling family with broad conceptions,


. . .