Elizabethtown church of christ

PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1572-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-vale-chapter-112/
PROMPTS: George does not care about you, whatsoever.
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
📷
A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.

No shit right? Wrong. Also I'm an atheist so view what I say through that lens.
Anytime a militant atheist neckbeard screeches because there is a Bible in the school library, it's all about public education and religion should be separated. I don't necessarily disagree but they often forget a crucial component to this separation.
Anytime a Christian fundie tries pushing their theocratic bullshit on everyone else, lefties come out the woodwork with the separation of church and state argument. Again, don't necessarily disagree but both the pro democracy and pro theocracy folks are still missing a crucial component. It goes both ways.
This separation exists to protect the state AND the church. Militant Christians are always trying to pretend that the government is trying to silence them. (Like when the covid lock downs happened and they were screeching about how its a deep state plot to keep people from worshiping god). Despite all this, the Christians are more than happy to try to put their values that ultimately stem from their religious beliefs, into government policy. But doing this can and will become a self fulfilling prophecy.
The government doesn't care what God you worship, (unless your Mormon but that's another issue). If Christian theocrats keep trying to destroy the separation than they are going to see their religion corrupted by the government. Nobody talks about this part though on either side.
Do these people really want the government and the church linked? They think they do because they believe the church will have the power but thats not how it works. You cant meld two institutions together and expect one not to influence the other.
I just think people on both sides should consider the possiilbility that pushing a theocratic agenda hurts the church too.
TLDR ; Theocracy is bad for the church too

My ruling desire!
(James Smith, "Christ Exalted, Saints Comforted, and Sinners Directed" 1855
My ruling desire is to be wholly given up to the Lord and to His work, and to show forth His praises from day to day. But when I aim at this most--I am baffled, opposed, and always hindered! I see what is wrong, but cannot avoid it. I see what is right, but cannot attain unto it. I know what I wish, but I cannot enjoy it. I read what God commands, but I cannot perform it.
In the midst of all, I bless God . . . for Jesus Christ, for free grace, for a full salvation, for abiding comfort, for a good hope, for sweet views of Jesus, for a glorious inheritance, for an assurance of victory, and for the promise of eternal triumph!
Nothing can . . . separate me from Jesus, turn the current of His love from me, or change the purposes of His grace for me.
His love is astonishing!
His ways are marvelous!
I change; He remains the same. I sin; He pardons. I cry; He hears and answers. I ask for favors; and He kindly bestows them. I fear; and He promises. I wander; and He says, "Return." I lament my folly; He whispers peace. I feel poor and impoverished; He says, "All things are yours!" I imagine that I am alone; He says, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." I expect that He will abandon me; He asks, "How can I give you up?"
I cry, "Unworthy, unworthy!" He says, "You are My dear son, My pleasant child."
I fear I shall be overcome. He says, "No weapon formed against you shall prosper."
I fear I shall lie down in darkness. He says, "The Lord shall be a light unto you."
I say, "I can do nothing!" He says, "I will work all your works in you."
I say, "I am barren!" He says, "From Me is your fruit found."
I cry, "I am thirsty!" He says, "I will open rivers in high places, and fountains in the midst of the valleys--to give drink to My people, My chosen ones."
I complain, "I am weary!" He says, "Come unto Me--I will give you rest."
I feel dry and parched. He says, "I will be as the dew unto Israel."
I say, "I need food!" He says, "My flesh is food indeed, and my blood is drink indeed."
I fear I shall die. He says, "He who eats Me, even he shall live by Me."
I say at times, "All these things are against me!" He says, "All things shall work together for your good!"
I say, "I shall surely be overcome!" He says, "Nothing shall by any means hurt you."
I say, "I am often left alone!" He says, "Lo, I am with you always."
I say, "I am all deformity!" He says, "You are all beautiful, My love--there is no spot in you!"
I say, "I shall see Him no more!" He says, "I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice."
I say, "Surely the Lord cannot love such a wretch!" He says, "I have loved you with an everlasting love."
I say, He cannot have chosen one so vile and base. He says, "I have chosen you, and will never cast you away!"
I say, "I am desolate and forsaken!" He says, "Your Maker is your husband, the Lord Almighty is His name, and your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel."
I say, "I shall be left to myself at last!" He says, "I am a friend who sticks closer than a brother."
I say, "Set me as a seal upon Your arm, as a seal upon Your heart!" He says, "I will make you like a signet ring on My finger, for I have chosen you."
I cry, "Remember me, O Lord my God, for good!" He says, "You shall be a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of your God."
I cry, "Do not be terribly angry with me, O Lord!" He says, "I swear that I will never again be angry and punish you."
I say, "I beseech You, show me Your glory!" He says, "Behold, I come quickly!"
I cry, "Remember me with the favor which You bear unto Your people!" He says, "As one whom his mother comforts, so will I comfort you--and you shall be comforted."
I cry, "Tell me where You graze Your flock." And He says, "Follow the footsteps of My flock."
I cry, "O that it was with me as in days that are past!" He says, "Arise, My darling, My beautiful one, and come with Me."
I cry, "My soul is among lions!" He says, "Come down with Me, from where the lions have their dens and leopards live among the hills."
I say, "O that I was sure that Jesus loved me!" He says, "You have ravished my heart, My sister, My spouse!''
I say, "I moaned like a mourning dove!" He says, "Your lips, O My spouse, drop as the honeycomb, honey and milk are under your tongue."
I say, "I am exposed, and lie open to the attacks of enemies on every side!" He says, "You are My private garden, My treasure, My bride, a secluded spring, a hidden fountain."
I say, "Do not look upon me, because I am black!" He says, "You are all beautiful, O My love!"
I say, "How miserable I am! Not a cluster of grapes or a single early fig can be found to satisfy my hunger." He says, "At our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old--which I have laid up for you, O My beloved."
I say, "I fear that my numerous sins and powerful corruptions will cool the love of Jesus for me!" He says, "Many waters cannot quench My love, neither can the floods drown it."
I sigh, "I am feeble and sorely broken!" He says, "I will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax."
I say, at times, "He afflicts, and counts me for His enemy!" He says, "As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten! I deal with you as My son."
I say, "I am totally unfit to be the bride of Jesus!" He says, "Oh, how beautiful you are! How pleasing, My love--how full of delights!"

If you look at Mark 14:61-62:
Again the high priest asked him, “Are you the Christ? Are you the Son of the Blessed One?” “I am,” said Jesus. “And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One. You will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven.”
He was answering two questions was he not?
1) He was saying that he was the one called Christ
2) He also was stating “No, the son of god is sitting on his right side in heaven”.
Jesus Christ literally says in this passage he wasn’t the Son of God doesn’t he?
I’m quite confused is all why nobody talks about this

Prayer based on Revelation 3:14-22
Jesus, the faithful and true witness, speaks truth to the Church in Laodicea.
Father we praise You for Your kindness and Your patience with us. You desire to give us a glorious life in You, and we say no thanks because we are foolishly content with so much less.
John writes down the words of Jesus, who has every right to critique His wayward Church, and sends them to His Church in Laodicea. The Church foolishly believes they are self-sufficient, prosperous and need nothing. Jesus tells him they are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked. They need to be clothed in white garments to cover their shame. They were famous for a black fabric they produced. They need a salve to anoint their eyes so that they may see. They sold an ointment known for its healing properties. Jesus calls them to repent and be zealous for the good works He has prepared in advance for them to do. (Ephesians 2:10) Jesus desires to have his rightful reign over them. Jesus tells them if they submit to Him, they will be conquerors, and He will grant them to sit down with Him on His throne! He who has ears, let him hear and accept this glorious offer.
Father, forgive us for our blind and foolish ways. May we turn to You and live. Amen.
Questions for reflection and meditation: 1. Can you see a gap between the abundant life Jesus has for you and the life you are living? What is needed to close this gap? 2. How can you discover your blind and foolish ways? 3. How have you experienced godly sorrow and repentance this past week? (2 Corinthians 7:10

Prayer based on Revelation 3:14-22
Jesus, the faithful and true witness, speaks truth to the Church in Laodicea.
Father we praise You for Your kindness and Your patience with us. You desire to give us a glorious life in You, and we say no thanks because we are foolishly content with so much less.
John writes down the words of Jesus, who has every right to critique His wayward Church, and sends them to His Church in Laodicea. The Church foolishly believes they are self-sufficient, prosperous and need nothing. Jesus tells him they are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked. They need to be clothed in white garments to cover their shame. They were famous for a black fabric they produced. They need a salve to anoint their eyes so that they may see. They sold an ointment known for its healing properties. Jesus calls them to repent and be zealous for the good works He has prepared in advance for them to do. (Ephesians 2:10) Jesus desires to have his rightful reign over them. Jesus tells them if they submit to Him, they will be conquerors, and He will grant them to sit down with Him on His throne! He who has ears, let him hear and accept this glorious offer.
Father, forgive us for our blind and foolish ways. May we turn to You and live. Amen.
Questions for reflection and meditation: 1. Can you see a gap between the abundant life Jesus has for you and the life you are living? What is needed to close this gap? 2. How can you discover your blind and foolish ways? 3. How have you experienced godly sorrow and repentance this past week? (2 Corinthians 7:10

Prayer based on Revelation 3:14-22
Jesus, the faithful and true witness, speaks truth to the Church in Laodicea.
Father we praise You for Your kindness and Your patience with us. You desire to give us a glorious life in You, and we say no thanks because we are foolishly content with so much less.
John writes down the words of Jesus, who has every right to critique His wayward Church, and sends them to His Church in Laodicea. The Church foolishly believes they are self-sufficient, prosperous and need nothing. Jesus tells him they are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked. They need to be clothed in white garments to cover their shame. They were famous for a black fabric they produced. They need a salve to anoint their eyes so that they may see. They sold an ointment known for its healing properties. Jesus calls them to repent and be zealous for the good works He has prepared in advance for them to do. (Ephesians 2:10) Jesus desires to have his rightful reign over them. Jesus tells them if they submit to Him, they will be conquerors, and He will grant them to sit down with Him on His throne! He who has ears, let him hear and accept this glorious offer.
Father, forgive us for our blind and foolish ways. May we turn to You and live. Amen.
Questions for reflection and meditation: 1. Can you see a gap between the abundant life Jesus has for you and the life you are living? What is needed to close this gap? 2. How can you discover your blind and foolish ways? 3. How have you experienced godly sorrow and repentance this past week? (2 Corinthians 7:10

Am I the jerk for ending a friendship with someone who refused to communicate her plans or communicate in general, she said she wanted to try a relationship again somewhat and see what came of it yet everytime I messaged or called it would be days before she even replied to me, then I go to a weekend thing for my church and I begin to form a close friendship with someone and she acts all hurt about it when I tell her that I got close and started forming a close friendship with another female. She then pulls the medical excuse saying things happened with her and I just tell her that I didn’t care anymore and she had no right to b hurt when 1 she lied to me in the past and 2 she didn’t communicate for days or sometimes weeks on end. So am i the jerk here?

Based on story leaks and by her cameo in Valhalla, we know that at some point during mirage, Roshan will have a falling out with Basim, that will lead her to desert/be expelled from the Hidden ones' brotherhood of Baghdad. In addition we also know that she survives mirage and lives all the way to Valhalla, when she meets with Eivor, though we don't know much about what she did during that time.
A hypothesis i had about her though is that when we meet her in Valhalla she is not only no longer a member of the Hidden ones' brotherhood, but neither a believer of the Hidden ones'creed.
Infact, based on the fact that we don't really know on what specific date or year the Valhalla cameo takes place (we know its definitely some point after the raven clan arrives in Britain meaning 872 and before Eivor leaves for Vinland to learn the whole truth about the past from Oðinn meaning 888) i think its highly possible that when we meet roshan in Valhalla she could be working secretly with Ælfred to establish the new templar order by, to quote her; "planting a seed in Jerusalem", which could mean a lot of things, but considering that historically, of the two main factions, it was the templars and not the assassins that originated in the city of Jerusalem, it would be safe to assume that she likely experienced a form of disillusionment that led to her abandoning the creed, although while continuing to fight the order, until she learned that there was a certain renegade grand Maegester of a branch of the of the order, in a far away misty island in the north sea that was once ruled by the great roman empire, who seeked to destroy the heretical ways of the order of the ancients and form a new one from its ashes.
This would likely attract her to meet with this grand Maegester, as she would be seeking a new way of life and belief going forward in her life, and it could be highly possible she would find common footing with Ælfred before joining up with "the poor fellow soldiers of Christ".
Also the answer as to why she would go all the way to Jerusalem to plant the document which she refers to as "a seed", the answer is simple.
To quote Ælfred Rex on his idealized version of the Templar order; "A universal and Divine order, Inspired by god for the betterment of man"
Ælfred seemed to have intended to make the templars a more pious version of the order of ancients, and more moral one as well, even though we know that his plan would eventually backfire down the line, but as far as he was concerned, the best way to set the foundations of a holy order, would not be in a pagan infested Britain, but in the birthplace of the Christian religion. Jerusalem. And who would be more suited to plant those foundations in the holy land if not someone like Roshan who had likely traveled there in the past and was familiar with the area?

Hi guys! There’s a guy who goes to our church who will have RCIC over the next school year, and receive all the sacraments of initiation at the next Easter Vigil. He’s 14, so he can’t really do the kid stuff, and he can’t really do the adult stuff. He lives with a guardian, and he’s the only one in his family who’s doing this.
Please pray for him, that he feels welcomed in the church and that he doesn’t feel alone.
Thxs :)

Hello. I have been working on a world building project on and off for several years now. It is mostly used for TTRPG campaigns I run. My nerdy high school self loving stuff like Tolkien, Baldur's Gate, & Elder Scrolls meant that world started out as generic. However as time has gone on I have go through multiple rounds of resetting the world and rebuilding. Since I study things like comparative politics, public policy, international relations, political economics, and religious history in college I tend to do these restarts whenever I finished a major semester or year. Right now I am in the middle of another round of rebuilding and had some questions . Sorry for the long setup, I tend to be overly verbose when it comes to stuff that I can care about like worldbuilding.
So the setting I am working on is right now called Mundis. Over time I have shrunken the "known world" down. Decided that it was not really worth adding in all these more outside cultures into a setting for vague ideas of diversity if I wasn't going to be able to give these other cultures their due justice. On of these shrinking efforts resulted in me making it so their were no other ancestries other than humans. After all if I am basing a culture on the Minoan Greeks it kinda feels weird to then make them all nonhuman elves or whatever. Plus other ancestries tend to result in different life spans which makes a historic timeline of the setting more annoying to make or you have to start asking questions about who can breed with who. All and all it is a real headache.
However, I do still like some aesthetic elements associated with ancestries. So I have thought about adding aspects back in, but still making them just minor differences in what are humans. For example have thought about making it so the ancient Celtic like people of my world had elf like ears (again don't know why just always liked that look). Nowadays such a trait is usually only found among the people of the Island Kingdom of Caliden (the primary setting for most of my campaigns). I also wanted to make it so more wolf like peoples live in the northern highlands of Caliden. Cause in the past I made it so the ancient culture of the land thought werewolves were a sacred blessing from Cernun the Slayer & God of the Hunt. Thus in the highlands, where people are more resistant to the missionary efforts of the Church of Magna Matrona, there is still a practice of clan chiefs and their close kin purposely becoming werewolves. Such traditions have made it so the peoples of the highlands clans commonly are more hairy and have sharper teeth. However, they are still normal humans at the end of the day and if it wasn't for people going out of their way to be werewolves then have kids then these traits would go away after a few generations. Then in the north I wanted to give my Finno-Ugric inspired peoples tusk-like teeth, don't have a fully fleshed out reason why, but I already had them using saber tooth tigers as mounts and hunting mammoths, so have some ideas about connecting this to some religious or cultural rites (perhaps some kind of magic blood baptism. That using these more toothy animals blood affects people in way that makes them take on that aspect of these beasts.) Then the last one I thought of was having an cultural group in my ancient Greek inspired island region called the Men-of-Taros. These would be a more traditional, militant, and Minoan inspired people who are also known for having horns on their head. Again don't have a fully fleshed out reason for this.
When it comes to this stuff I am not worried so much if these ideas are bad. I am just worried I am trying to have my cake and eat it too when it comes to having an all human world but keeping aspects of many traditional fantasy ancestries. Not to mention I don't want to seem like I am trying to purposely paint one culture as more "savage" (my goal would be to portrayed something like werewolves in a nuanced way to try to avoid that.) So do you all think I am trying to have it both ways too much and should just bite the bullet, go all normal humans or go back to having some fantasy ancestries again. Again sorry if I my over writing is an annoyance. Also re-posted this since I messed up the title of the last version of this post.

With the exam in 17 days nearly now do you reckon I have covered enough with the Essays:
US: Race Relations Contribution of Harry S. Truman Moon landing + significance From Roosevelt to Reagan
EU: Characteristics of fascist regimes Church state relations France between the wars Stalin domestically + show trials

Ive been reading so many braindead comments on my "the Toga arc is kinda dumb" post and holy shit ive never been so annoyed in my life. There are people who are genuinely using the excuse of "Toga is mentally ill" as a way to justify her 💀 like my brother in christ she has killed HUNDREDS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE AND AIDED IN THE KILLING OF THOUSANDS MORE. SHE DOESNT DESERVE A REDEMPTION SHES A MASS MURDERER AND DESERVES TO DIE.

Hi, I'm a radical catholic that's wanting to convert. But I've been wrestling with God for quite a bit. Because it's hard for me to accept some of holy mother church's teachings without going against my conscience (and I feel the thought that if it goes against my conscience, it goes against God, like it says in Romans 13) I really feel spiritually at home with holy mother church but it's just hard for me to accept it.
What I'm just wondering is: how do I stop wrestling with God about this and be fine with her teachings?

Hello all!
I have quite a few records for sale as I'm downsizing. All records are in a plastic protector sleeve, or a gate fold protector. Most of these records have a poly lined inner that has been replaced from the original. All payments should be made as Paypal G&S. All shipping to US add 5 dollars please ! Thank you!
Macklemore -The Heist - Black - $125 Has marks on records from gator inner sleeves but doesn't affect play. Records now in poly lined inner sleeves.
Britney Spears - Circus- Black - $20 - Has marks on record but doesn't affect play. Plastic sleeve with poly lined inner.
Britney Spears - Blackout- $50 Splatter UO version Plastic sleeve w/Poly inner
Bill and Ted - Face the Music - $25 Black Plastic Sleeve w/Poly lined inner.
50 First Dates Soundtrack - OST- $15 Orange Plastic Sleeve w/Poly lined inner
Eric Church -Mr. Misunderstood- $50 Black Gatefold plastic protector with poly lined inner. Sleeve has some slight damage on bottom right corner.
Coheed and Cambria - Afterman: Ascension - $125 Black no CD Plastic Sleeve w/Poly lined inner.
Coheed and Cambria -Afterman: Descension - $80 Blue version no CD Plastic Sleeve w/Poly lined inner.
Imagine Dragons - Night Visions - $15 Gatefold plastic protector w/Poly lined inner
Pink Floyd - Dark Side of the Moon - $20 Gatefold plastic protector. Has posters and stickers.
Metallica - 72 Seasons - $35 Smokey Grey Store Exclusive. Gatefold plastic protector w/Poly lined inner.
Black Sabbath - Paranoid - $25 Gatefold plastic w/Poly lined inner.
Metallica - Load - $50 Orange Gatefold plastic w/Poly lined inner.
Iggy Azalea - The New Classic - $20 Plastic protector
T-Pain - Epiphany - $30 VMP version. Plastic protector w/Poly lined inners.
Beyonce - Renaissance - $50 Box set played once.
Metallica - Kill em all - $15 Plastic sleeve protector.
Metallica - Master of Puppets - $15 Plastic sleeve protector.
Thin Lizzy - Jailbreak- $35 VMP edition Gatefold protector with poly lined inner.
Jun Chikuma -Bomberman Hero - $50 Gatefold protector with poly lined inner.
A Perfect Circle - Thirteenth Step - $20 Gatefold protector with poly lined inner.

I’ve been trying to get closer to God this year. I’ve read some Bible chapters, have devotional most mornings, pray a lot than usual and been attending church sometime but however I still feel empty to be honest. I still feel like I’m far away from God. I’ve cut off friends that I didn’t want to associate myself with anymore, I still struggle with porn from time to time. Why do I feel so far from God? Why do I feel like empty and tbh sometimes I just ask myself “what’s the point of doing all this if I’m not even getting any changes or responses” then I remind myself to have faith in the lord but then I just get discouraged because I just feel so far from God. My body constantly want to do the wrong things and another part of me doesn’t . Idk

ST. GEORGE, Utah -- An archaeologist from California believes he may have found the two mass grave sites that hold the bodies of men, women and children murdered in the Mountain Meadows Massacre in southwest Utah in 1857. However, the graves aren't on land the Mormon church purchased in order to memorialize the victims in one of the darkest chapters in Utah's pioneer history.
here