bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025_split huggingface dataset:
Assisi Speaks
Authors: Chadwick M. G. 
Published: July 2007

The luminous hills of Umbria, the absolute sun, the grey climbing town, the rows of thick green cypresses—who has not heard of these and of the little sanctuary that is Assisi? Some, too, perhaps, have come to guess at a whole world made up of prayer and of a real Presence enshrined in no less a sanctuary than man’s soul; to guess, to wonder, even to realize so far as the wayfaring man may. But are there many who have given thought to the mind of modern Assisi, to consider how the townsfolk of St. Francis speak and think to-day of their greatest citizen? How many of the thronging pilgrims were able to read the Italian placards, the ‘affisioni,’ that were everywhere, half-covering the walls of the little sunny town?Now, in Italy, the powers that be speak to their subjects through the placard : upon any morning you may find lavish messages on all the walls. Does a Queen go to death or a Minister escape it, a calamity befall, a festa loom in the coming week, instantly proclamations from the Mayor, the committee, the parish Church or what not are set where he who runs may read. The newspaper catches a few thousand eyes and possibly a few hundred intelligences, but the prolific, eloquent walls catch us all. Almost might history be written by means of placards alone. Let, then, the walls of Assisi speak:-‘The Commune and people of Assisi,’ we read, ‘are custodians of a good, destined to be shared by the whole world, for their town is like a heart sending its life-blood beyond the limits of space and time.
Anarchy and Age
Authors: Jarret Bde 
Published: July 2007

The younger generation is having an immense amount of attention paid it by the novelists of today. School stories abound, foot the jolly old-fashioned school stories, with their idealist friendships, their thrilling game contests, and their appeal to the boy reader, but problem school stories, full of desperate purpose, critical, ‘contributions to the literature of the subject,’ as the commercial jacket grimly records. They afford psychological material for Freud, Jung, and their more unpleasant followers. They are not books for boys, but about boys written for the purpose of improving the education of youth.Then there are the young-man books, not the old-fashioned type even of Father Benson—who died in 1914, and whose characters are, therefore, pre-war and out of fashion—but the newer type, full of complexes and inhibitions with enormous elaboration of unnecessary detail, due to a pelmanistic capacity for observation, searching out and remembering the irrelevant. We notice in them the sex-impulse as a substitute for careful writing, the decay of life thus providing a rather more effortless way of book-making than painting ‘a true and perfect image of life indeed.’ The young-women problem books are, of course, even nastier. That is to be expected. A good young woman is apparently a most uninteresting subject, more uninteresting than a good young man—and that in the view of the novelists is saying a very great deal.It is not quite that our authors wish us to believe the world is worse than it was, but only that now it doesn’t mind anyone knowing how bad it is.
Gilbert Linklater
Authors: Eden Helen Parry 
Published: July 2007

In an ancient south country city with a great past behind it, and nothing whatever in front of it, there exist cheek by jowl a vast Norman cathedral and a small Catholic church. The church, oddly enough, is of the eighteenth century, and it is not known how the St. Lull Catholics of that era found the means to build it, still less what spirit of effrontery prompted them to rear it so close to their lost cathedral. There it is, off a bye-street of Georgian hou'ses and spiked garden-walls, its whereabouts indicated by a furtive notice at the incidence of an alley. Pursue this alley in the spirit of faith, and you come abruptly up to a dwarfish stucco building submerged in the morning shadow of the cathedral, its graveyard, planted with classical trees of the family of the willow in a mourning ring, terminated by the west transept of the fane itself.The stucco interior is anything but architecturally impressive, and so damp that flourishing outcrops of fungus uproot the tiles in untrodden parts of the floor. But there is a clear fairway to the altar, and a frequented one. You seldom find Our Lord without one or two kneeling adorers if you look in at any time between sunrise and” sunset, and I have looked in myself at all hours of the day. I have a liking for the church, apart from my ardour for its Lord; and my liking extends to the quiet graveyard in its rear.I was winding up a summer holiday in St. Lull: staying on at my rooms there, after my children had gone back to their convents, to meet an American friend before returning to my husband in Italy. It was the first week in October, and the friend, a greyhaired priest on leave for literary work, had come down to visit the cathedral and me.
Catholic England in 1837
Authors: Curd T. W. C. 
Published: July 2007

There are some Catholics who claim that the Church is not making the progress that it should in this country; they point to the scarcity of churches in some places, the shortage of schools in others, the slow growth of our numbers, the lack of Catholic influence in matters of public importance, and other signs from which they draw doleful conclusions.Whilst our progress is never so rapid as we should wish, and while there still exist disabilities and other circumstances which we may deplore, a rapid survey of some of the changes that have come over Catholic England since the year Queen Victoria came to the throne will show what truly remarkable progress we have made in a period which may seem a long time but which is actually within the lifetime of many still living.In 1837 there were several counties in England and Wales with no Catholic church or chapel of any kind, and eleven with only one chapel for the spiritual needs of a parish which sometimes extended far beyond the county boundary. In Scotland, of course, the position was far worse; eleven chapels had to serve the needs of twenty-four counties, thirteen being entirely devoid of any place wherein Mass could be said. Think what this means, you who have only to step across the road to a fine church in which you can hear two or three Masses every day of the week if you are so inclined.In London there were twenty-five ‘chapels’ ; churches, and, of course, cathedrals, were unknown. In the whole of England there were 433 chapels; Lancashire, Yorkshire, Staffordshire and Middlesex accounting for nearly half.
The Ministrel and the Don
Authors: Reeves Jhon Baptist 
Published: July 2007

Friendship, according to the philosophers, is founded on resemblance. The more two persons have in common, the easier for them to be friends.‘Pares cum paribus facillime congregantur.’ In the absence of books and a reliable memory I venture to think that this is Cicero expounding the foundation of friendship with Laelius for mouthpiece.St. Thomas I am happily able to quote. He is emphatic and explicit.‘Is likeness a cause of love? It seems not. Potters, says Aristotle, quarrel with one another. A man, says Augustine, loves in another what he would not be himself : he loves an actor, but would not himself be one. Sick men love health and poor men riches. We all love those who give us money and health; and those who continue friends of their dead. So likeness cannot, it seems, be a cause of love.‘On the other hand, however, it is written in tEccle-siasticus : Every beast loveth his like.’ My own answer is that likeness, properly speaking, is a cause of love. But there are two kinds of likeness. Actual presence of the same quality in two things make them alike. Thus two white things are alike. But presence and absence of the same quality in two things can also make them alike, when the thing that lacks the quality tends to it. Thus a body at rest and a body in motion are alike in respect of rest and motion, which are the same fundamentally, since related as act to potency.‘The first kind of likeness begets the love of friendship ; the second, the love of concupiscence, or friendship based on usefulness or pleasure.
The Fiddler
Authors: Richings R. 
Published: July 2007

We were on Isola Pescatore. The heat of the day had iessened. It was six o’clock. Odours of garlic, fish and unwashed drains, drifted after us as we made our way through crazy alleys. Houses lolled towards each other; steps rose to join erratic arches, or give access to crooked balconies. The cobbled way played tricks with one’s step.We reached the limit of the island and were about to turn back, when we discovered a wooden stall, set out with peasant’s ware.There were mementoes displayed of every kind: little vases of Venetian glass; pots made of local marble; boxes of olive wood, and trays garnished with coloured inlaid designs; bronzes and beads. From the cross-bar supporting the white canvas awning hung rosaries of nuts gathered in the woods and dried in the sun.Everything was attractive, though much would look tawdry enough away from its setting. I admired a number of trinkets, but saw no gift that would please my friends.I was moving on, when I heard music and saw the Fiddler. He stood on a rough block of wood, the large black, worn-out boot on his right foot nosing round to the left. His trousers, coarse and biscuit-brown, creased voluminously about his legs, and were secured round his waist by a thin scarlet belt. His coat, blue, a little shrunken, a little faded, was unbuttoned, and revealed his white shirt, open at the neck; his cuffs were rolled back from bis brown wrists.
The Resurrection of Adam
Authors: Reeves John - Baptist 
Published: July 2007

The popular game of archaeology is played with bucket and spade. Some things are dug up, and others are buried away out of sight. It is an easy game, for the exhumations and interments proceed simultaneously. The rubbish removed from one spot has to be tipped somewhere else; so that a hole and a mound are engineered in a single process. While you are discovering new wonders in the hole, you are covering up old wonders under the mound. In the hole you find Elephas antiquus, Rhinoceros merckii, Ran gif er tarandus, Ursus spelaeus and other worthies, whose names and dignified bearing invite you to give them a place in or near the middle line of your genealogical tree. Under the mound you bury Parentes protoflasti, Pomum noxiale, Proditor multiformis, Opus salutis, Virgo mater, Agmina coelitum, Apostolorum chorus, Prophetarum numerus, Martyrum exercitus, Sumtna Trias, Verbum incarnatum, Salutaris hostia and every other legendary name that has hitherto made your ancestral stock a laughing stock.Being only a game, archaeology cannot be expected to lead to any profitable end, or to arrive at any natural conclusion. If art is long, sport is longer. The only way of getting to the end of it is to call ‘Time.’ And even time cannot end sport; it merely marks an interval, after which every game begins again. The only end of sport is recreation. A really good game wrecks creation over and over again; and over and over again re-creates creation.No game fulfils that condition so perfectly as archaeology. Over after over Creation is clean bowled out without a stump left standing. And every time up comes a new Creation smiling invincibly.But archaeology is not cricket. We have acknowledged that it is played with a spade.
The Knight of Twickenham and his Daughter
Authors: Bracey Robert 
Published: July 2007

For over one hundred and five years the memoirs of that decidedly acid female, Laetitia Matilda Hawkins, have served as a quarry from which writers on the eighteenth century have dug their best anecdotes and extracted their sourest and most spiteful criticism. But not until this present year of grace did anyone think of reproducing the original book; and even now that reproduction comes to us in an extremely abridged and compressed form, and with a large and much-needed attempt at re-arrangement. For never was there a work more devoid of method and order, or more stuffed and padded with extraneous matter— unless, indeed, it be the ‘official’ Life of Dr. Johnson perpetrated by the fair author’s father, Sir John Hawkins, Knight, that ‘most unclubbable’ of men!Sir John Hawkins, who claimed descent from the famous Elizabethan admiral of the same name, began life as an attorney with literary tastes. A fortunate marriage enabled him to retire by the time he was forty, and to settle down as a wealthy country gentleman at Twickenham, with a town house at Queen Square, Westminster, and to devote his leisure to literature, music, angling, the formation of a fine library, and the duties of a magistrate. He wrote a tedious History of Music in five volumes quarto, and a number of other books which no one nowadays ever reads; he knew in a certain way almost everybody worth knowing; he was an original number of the famous ‘Club’ in Ivy Lane, and he was Dr. Johnson’s executor, and selected by the publishers to edit his works and write his Life. He lies buried in the cloisters of the Abbey, and very few would ever have heard of him had it not been for his rather grudging inclusion in the great ‘Johnsonian Circle.’ Boswell hated him, and Johnson just tolerated him.
Our Lady's Gift to Mexico
Authors: Montgomery F. 
Published: July 2007

The visits of Our Lady to a poor native Mexican in the early years of the Spanish occupation of New Spain, and her gift through him of the miraculous painting, now venerated under the title of ‘Our Lady of Guadalupe,’ have often been recounted, but none of the early traditions, it would seem, bear a greater impress of truth and scrupulous investigation than the account left by the Spanish chronicler Fray Luis Becerra Tanco, Professor of Native Languages in the University of Mexico, and dated in 1666. He says that in the previous year he was invited by the Cathedral Chapter to depose on oath all that he knew on the subject, and he now commits to writing an accurate and circumstantial record of this evidence.In the first place, he says he has a very clear recollection of the incident as related to him in his youth by three Spaniards of note, one of them his uncle, who had known contemporaries of the Bishop Fray Don Juan de Zumarraga and other personages concerned in the event, and were themselves born within a few years of the date of the miracle. Further, his knowledge of the native language and customs—his favourite study—-has enabled him to examine the native records of this happening before they had disappeared, for he says that, under the influence of Spanish education, the natives are losing the art they possessed of transmitting their traditions by pictures and chants. He adds that it cost him many vigils to correlate their reckoning with his own and separate exaggerations from reality: . . . . y a mi me costd mucho desvelo el ajustar su computo a el nuestro y afortar lo supersticioso de lo natural.’
Roxburgh
Authors: Gray John 
Published: July 2007

Fumbling out of the old townI hit the old road;(Tobacco, limbs and tacketty shoon The outfit and the load)By hooks and turns the craziest It reared and pitched and wound A general line on one great crest And far outseeing ground.I saw, the road’s erratic guest,Landscapes swing and bound;The more I pressed my unknown quest Deeper repose I found.Not as an angel understands,The Thrones and Cherubim ;‘I see the work of blessed hands By a light shrouded dim’I seemed to wield a tenuous wand,And with it write in space,With trembling heart and steady hand,A long-remembered phrase ;Shortening it, in fluent air I had the power to trace The unforgettable; and there The outline of a face.
The Expert Judge of the Just Price
Authors: McNabb Vincent 
Published: July 2007

For a long time we have admired Mr. Penty’s subtle argument for the necessity of the Guild of Experts based on the fundamental necessity of the Just Price. As a work of economic craftsmanship, this argument has long seemed to us to have few rivals, and no answer.Yet we were never without our misgivings that somewhere in the subtle-simple ratiocination there was something akin to what the metaphysicians would call ‘a passing from the ideal order to the real.’ An uncomfortable feeling that there was a fly in Mr. Penty's translucent amber left us little or no intellectual rest.We were not concerned to deny the ultimate conclusions drawn by Mr. Penty from his ultimate premisses. Indeed, for a long time, we hesitated to discuss even with ourselves our doubts about his reasoning, lest we should throw doubts upon his conclusions and eventually about his premisses. But in the end our thoughts have taken such definite shape that we cannot withold them from ourselves and even from Mr. Penty himself.Several principles have to be understood before the subtle deflection in Mr. Penty’s argument can be detected or even understood.1. Price is an ambiguous word. It may stand for real wealth, such as bread, butter, beer; or token-wealth, a gold sovereign, a currency note, a cheque, etc.2. If price is taken to be token-wealth, it is clear that, to use the distinction of St. Thomas Aquinas, the . question is not essential but accidental, because only realities are essential, and tokens are accidental.
The Hornberg
Authors: Belloc Elizabeth 
Published: July 2007

Above the col at Saanenmoser there is a mountain called the Hornberg, which the skiers love. The beginners practise all day on its lower fields of snow—’ the nursery slopes they call it, where it is steep straight going and no traps or pitfalls. Higher up there are the dark green fir-forests, and above them again the highest fields slope upwards towards the summit, dazzling white against the blue. On either side below the col the valleys wind away among a sea of mountains, on one side into the heart of Switzerland, on the other towards the Lake of Geneva and the mountains of Savoy.I had often climbed the hard snowy track up the Hornberg in the early afternoon and run down on skis across the wide easy slopes. It was a jolly friendly mountain, its snow alive with skiers, its silence broken by voices, the upward path marked by occasional huts and chalets, the snow crossed and re-crossed all the way up with the tracks of innumerable skis. The skiers have familiarly named certain places: such as ‘Devil’s Gap,’ slippery with ice under the trees, through which the beginners slither and slide, and ‘Major’s Corner,’ the difficult path through the wood which some old Major was supposed to have made famous with his perpetual falls. It seemed to be a mountain entirely dedicated to mankind, too good-natured to resent the invaders, and appearing to achieve a perfect friendliness by sacrificing something of its dignity. The neighbouring peaks were too high for frequent ascents, and kept their terrors and austere secrets apart.
There Blew a Horn in Bethlehem
Authors: Eden Hellen Parry 
Published: July 2007

There blew a horn in Bethlehem, Christ sat on Mary’s knee,And ‘O,’ she said, ‘my Child,’ she said,‘They blow that horn for Thee;For Thou shalt hunt the heart of man,Thy prey, from hole to hole,Till at the last Thy little hands Shall close upon his soul.’Helen Parry Eden.
Daylight I Love
Authors: Croft-Cooke Rupert 
Published: July 2007

Daylight I love, since through its toiling hours God made us, and our little world of flowers.Evenings I love, for with their quiet ends Our Lord would wander, talking with His friends.And the dark night I love, for once it came To shade from dying eyes His peoples shame.Rupert Croft-Cooke.
Empire Restored
Authors: Jarrett Bede 
Published: July 2007

Under this title a small book has been brought out by a new firm of publishers, Messrs. Sheed and Ward. It is a proof of the courage of this new firm that it should have published a book on political economy for the sum of one shilling, for it is notorious that Books on economics have very little sale in England, except text-books for examination purposes, and these have only an adventitious popularity. Indeed, popularity is probably the wrong word. We hope here that the courage of these publishers will receive the counterpart it always merits, namely encouragement, and that the book will be widely read. Certainly the book itself deserves well of the reading public, since it takes the somewhat specialist subject of Imperial Preference and succeeds tn making it not only interesting but inspiring.This is not to be wondered at, for the author, Mr. W. A. S. Hewins, knows his subject thoroughly from within. His influence in England has been considerable, though his name is not so widely known as his work has been. We think that this forgetting of his name and remembering of his work would please Mr. Hewins, for he has never been one to push his personal deserts or claims; it is a cause, an ideal, even a dream that is his real object. So long as that gets established and begins to produce its due effect, he has always been content to let the glory and the reward slip from him as the sacrificial price of its success.
Dulce Desipere
Authors: Reeves John Baptist 
Published: July 2007

It is a rare privilege to have been born an Englishman. But it is a rare misfortune to have nurtured the ambition of one day growing up to be a great Englishman.A friend of mine who did so has just died of a broken heart in a workhouse asylum, aged forty. As a child he showed great promise, and received even greater encouragement. At fourteen he construed Xenophon with such rapidity and intelligence that his masters spoke to him without reserve of their hope that he might become even as themselves one day. He was esteemed and praised as much for his moral as for his intellectual virtues. He had an engaging manner, a quick creative fancy, a keen eye, and neat, clever, untiring hands.His first great shock befell him when he was seventeen. It was on the annual prize day, when he was leaving school. He had been heaped with prizes and congratulations by a Right Reverend Prelate, and cheered to the echo by his hundreds of companions and the whole teaching staff. He sat at his desk modestly concealed behind Lingards History, Jebbs SofHoctes, Morleys English Poets, sundry popular scientific treatises, and a tiny purse of golden sovereigns. He had a minimum of ordinary human vanity, and a maximum of ordinary human gratitude. He was meditating profoundly and with some wonder on the inscription at the head of the prize-listPaltnam Qui Meruit Feratwhen the Right Reverend Prelate rose to sum up the prize-giving with appropriate words.It was customary (he said) on these occasions to congratulate the prize-winners and to condole with those who had gained no prizes.