...To a blemisht or a deluded eye (and such a one is a mortall eye) my age may be something; a something of some few dimensions, a span-long, and yet this is but a tanquam nihil, a tanquam nihil, unto man, too; as nothing before him: but to thee; to thy eyes (which are brighter then those beames, which dazzle mine) those eyes, substantia mea, purè nihil; no tanquam, there; mine age is nothing; purely nothing, there. Nothing? why? universa vanitas omnis homo, every man is vanity; such a vanity as is stol’n-by; or els, now going; as, yesterday; or, as a watch in the night. And, these have their tanquam nihil, too; are as nothing before thee; so truly nothing, that they make not up an Age, or, a day, but some few houres; enough to make vp the watch of a night; no more.

tanquam nihil : as if nothing

      The truth is, I extreamly admire them both, though I honour them not at all: The one made as rare a something, of nothing, as ever I heard. The other for his skill in Sophistry, is (I confess) a Non-such. Both may be rare Preachers for ought I know; but as he said of one little learned, and lesse modest; who usurped all discourse at the Table: I never heard learning make such a noise: So I never heard a solid Preacher, deliver so many words, for so little matter; so much Oratory, for so little Divinity.
      Well may these plashes of water, be held by some deep Divines: but I presume you may gage their Divinity with one of your fingers. As for their Sermons, (for so men call them; though no otherwise then the Heathen Images are called gods: Nor are they more like Sermons, than Michaels image of goats hair was like David.) I may fitly liken them to a plume of feathers, for which some will give any thing, others just nothing. Or, if I compare them to a Nightingale tongue pye, (as being far more elaborate and costly, than profitable or nourishing;) it is a great Hyperbole.
      Indeed as a Reverend Divine speaks; if I had no other Mistresse then Nature, I would with no other Master then such a Seneca, Cicero, or Demosthenes: but being a Christian, I go not to hear the rarities of human Eloquence, but the eternal Word of God; and more to profit my soul, than to please my senses. A wise man should (yea, a good Christian will) propound to himself some end, some good end of his going to hear: (for he that in his actions, proposeth no mark, or main end to himself; is like a Ship that aimeth at no Harbour; and no wind makes for him, that hath no intended Port to sail unto, neither can he expect any Voyage of advantage.)

from The People’s Impartial, and Compassionate Monitor; about hearing of Sermons, or, The Worlds Preachers and Proselites lively painted out, for a person of quality, upon occasion of hearing two famous Divines, whose transcendent Wit, oratorie, and Elegancy, made many at their wits end with admiration! Being a rare discovery to Undeceive the Deceived. By R. Younge of Roxwell in Essex. (London, 1653).
contained in

      Nox & amor, vinumque, nihil moderabile suadent,
            Illa pudore vacat, Liber amorque metu. Ovid. Am. 1. 1. El.6.
      Night, Love, and Wine, no moderation bear,
      Night knows no shame, and Wine and Love no fear.

Often in our Love to her, our Love to God is swallowed and postposited. For indeed, Man loves Woman as he ought to love God: With all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his strength. Whether it be from the secret sweetness that gratifie and indulciate all his Spirits at once in his Conversation with her; whether it be from the sense of the fruition and possession of so excellent, and so rational a Creature without himself; or whether it be from the Honour he receives from her by her help of Propagation, whereby even his body weak and corruptible by lengthned successions, draws out toward Immortality; or whether it be from the parity of Natural Union, the being formed at first of the Rib of Man, wherein the Schools observe, there was both Bone, and Flesh, and blood, and Nerves; so that if she be not Idem, she is at least aliquid ipsius, a something of that [324] that very same, tho not the same it self.

Surprizing Art! but Art’s too mean a Name,
’t must be a Something of superior Frame.
Art may Decays of Nature much restore,
But to make Nature, must be something more;
For Art’s ty’d down to Method, and to Rules,
By Nature works, as Blacksmiths work by Tools :
Nor is’t inspir’d, for then ’twould be compleat,
And all the Organick Hindrances defeat:
The Soul would talk, scorn the reluctant Ear,
And by internal Operations hear.
 
And yet ’tis done, the Supernat’ral’s found,
They’re taught to form the Words, who know no Sound ;
They’re taught to speak, who, tho’ they may believe
They form a Voice, cannot of Voice conceive.
Strange Power of Art, which thus supplies the Ear,
And imitates the Sound it cannot hear!

O TEMPORA! O mores! O! the profligacy the luxury, the venality of this age! cried the unvenal Misanthes, who sold out declamations on virtue, honour, and patriotism, for bread and cheese; and he wrote, and wrote, and wrote, till he had persuaded himself that all the rants of his abusive and injurious pen were precepts of equal authority with those of the twelve tables; he dealt about him, he thundered like a little God of this nether world, and all in the cause of greatness of soul. Nay, I would not swear that there were not certain moments of enthusiastic rapture, when he really mistook the elevated situation of his garret, for a station superior to that of the vile nobility whom he so particularly honoured with his distinctions. Then there was a certain house, a certain rendezvous, near the palace which even raised his humorous contempt. O! the wretches that haunt it are one and all infamous scoundrels thinks Misanthes, and gives them a sneer, a something of a witty stroke of contempt. It happened that a certain very profligate frequenter of that certain house, a great man, had some business with Misanthes, and appointed him to attend on the morrow at his hotel. At the very moment of appointment, he appeared at the noble’s study door. And behold Misanthes!...

MOMENTAˊNEOUS or MOˊMENTARY (A.) something of very short duration, or that lasts a very small time.

      “You really think then, passing her arm through his, with a smile of intire approbation, that he has not done me justice? on some occasions, I do not know any body that can distinguish better than yourself, and I confess you have corrected my first hasty opinion, for I now think it might have admitted of some alteration, and if Sir Joshua had made my arms a little fuller, my eyes rather more open, my skin whiter, with a something of additional colour in my cheeks, and the vermillion of my lips a little heightened, it would have been still more masterly, and the likeness better preserved.”
• This critique being decisively established, without a further reference to the judgment of her husband, they returned to her Ladyship’s dressing-room, she convinced that there might have been a more advantageous likeness, and he, that there was no likeness at all....

He who has studied the philosophy of mind, and been accustomed to view objects through another medium than the magic colourings of passion and of fancy, readily perceives a something of absurdity in ascribing such wisdom to plants and animals.

The last letter Mary received, was from Milan; Lord Auberry had then been absent fix months, — it breathed the same tenderness, the same ardency of passion as usual; yet there was a something of constraint and confusion in many passages, that did not escape my observation, though I made it in silence, because I would not be the first to sow the envenomed seeds of suspicion in a bosom where tranquillity and confidence had taken up their abode.

But even these uses of running water, confined as they are to a few situations *, are ill adapted to public roads
* With respect to the idea held out, that every soil and situation affords “a something,” of which running water will make a road, it is much too wild to give chace to...

But, we are aware of a magnitude in whatever concerns India, which does not admit of a sudden opinion : inferences hastily drawn, are exceedingly dangerous; and, indeed, we presume, that both these writers are aware of a something of the same nature, since they have thought proper to publish their sentiments, at a considerable distance of time before the expiration of the present agreement between the India Company and the nation.

...are already the property of the poet; and may be mingled, with little impropriety, in new series of invention. Yet a something of consistency with received fable is even here desirable : the desperate lion-hearted theme, the idol of an age of chivalry, was at no period of his live such a lover as Reginald de Brune...

These volumes are an honour and an ornament to British literature: a something of diffuseness and protraction may be forgiven, for information so complete, and instruction so sound.-(A. R.)

      “The perturbation of my mind caused my sudden and impolite departure from this house, and I hastened to my hotel, plunged in a labyrinth of thought.
      “I recollected Charlton as the faithful attendant of Olivia: could I trace her out, she must be the most likely person to give me a chief part of the information I so earnestly desired to collect.
      “A faint idea struck me, that she was actually the person I had seen at Barnet with the young lady who had so greatly interested me. There certainly was a something of the air and figure; but a lapse of years had made a great difference, as is naturally to be expected.”

She was a little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort of fault which he already observed and of which she was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was.

      He then dutifully congratulates Hanover on the restoration of its old illustrious line — speaks a word of comfort to the injured Hollanders — and ends with an anticipation of restoration and peace.
      [In all this there appears to us not only a good deal of party bitterness, but also a something of personal malice. It is unworthy of both parties. Why, says Dugald Stewart, do not men of superior talents learn, for the honour of the arts which they love, to conceal their ignoble enmities from the malignity of those whom mortified pride and conscious incapacity have leagued together as the covenanted foes of worth and genius From the Eclectic Review, a very unequal work, but occasionally displaying much ability, we have extracted the following article, which, while it is marked by good sense and taste, breathes a spirit of candour not to be found in the Edinburgh oriticism.]

Perchance she died in youth: it may be...
 
Perchance she died in age — surviving all,
Chars, kindred, children — with the silver grey
On her long tresses, which might yet recal,
It may be, still a something of the day
When they were braided, and her proud array
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed
By Rome — But wither would Conjecture stray?
Thus much alone we know — Metella died...

An Appendix contains Letters on Sumatra, which are nine in number; and some tables of the thermometer and barometer, as observed in different parts of Hindostan.
      This handsome work is illustrated by maps, by coloured plates, and by various views of the objects described. If it is more replete with instruction than with amusement, consults more the useful than the agreeable, and aspires to be serviceable rather than to supply entertainment, we hope that these considerations will operate as additional motives with purchasers to patronize so meritorious an effort. The portions of the volume were composed progressively at distant times and places; and they are not arranged in strict chronological order, nor grouped according to their contents: so that a something of wholeness and connection seems wanting. All its parts, however, display a completeness of information, and a soundness of judgment, which place the author high among the writers of travels., Still, we think that the old method, of putting down observations when and where they occur, is more conducive to a lively interest, than this subsequent classification and condensation of them into distinct dissertations. We have here a box of pearls, but the string seems wanting which should give them cohesion, and unite them in one conspicuous ornament. The traveller should not lose that character. in the duties of the geographer, and commix the notices of others with his own: his local details delight as steps of a progress in which the reader is become interested for its own sake: but, as parts of a statistical survey, they are often insufficiently important.

Harriet expressed herself very much, as might be supposed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill usage; and yet Emma fancied there as a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the desireableness of their being separate. — It might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.

In your reception at a western Pennsylvania tavern, there is a something of hospitality combined with the mercantile feelings of your host.

      “Not ask his name!” repeated Cornelia, looking down upon the deathly face on her lap; “what has he done to be ashamed of it?”
      Louis turned almost of the same ashy hue: “do men never seek concealment but from infamy?”
      “I would not think so ill of any man you could love;” replied she, “and certainly not of this;” her eye again falling on the finely composed features before her; “for here the finger of heaven seems to have written true nobleness.”
      “Cornelia;” returned he, “when we obey the commands of Him who told of the Samaritan binding up the wounds of the stranger, and bade us do likewise; he did not say, inquire of his virtues first; but behold his misery, and relieve it!”
      There was an air of reproof in this remark; a something of asperity, that Cornelia could not understand; and instead of its raising doubts in her mind relative to the character of the stranger, she cast down her eyes in silence, to conjecture what she had done to merit such unusual harshness from the unerring candour of her beloved cousin. The features her meditating gaze dwelt on, were to her an unimpeachable witness of good within. But what would she have felt, could she have been told at that moment, that the object of Louis’s distracted thoughts, and her own then unqualified pity and admiration, was the delusive, treacherous, and out-lawed Duke Wharton!

A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be past over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension.

There are two new singers here, Miss TREE from Bath, and Mr. PHILIPPS who has returned from America, Miss TREE is an acquisition to the theatre. If she is not of the first class of singers, she is one of the very first of the second rate; and we suspect that in a room, her vocal powers would show themselves in a still higher and plea santer shape, to those who prefer feeling and execution. This will shew our readers wirat kind of a singer we think her. What she wants as a stage singer is power, both of execution and voice. In the former she is uneasy and forced; and the latter she does not seem able to throw out to any great distance. It is not to be thought however what is generally understood as a weak voice. She cannot pour it forth in a continued stream till it fills a large theatre, nor dart it out in that triumphant manner like lightning, as CATALANI used to do. But it is not thin and feeble in itself. If it is no great traveller, it is an excellent solid homester. The lower tones sometimes strike one as too rich, but the middle ones are to our ears perfect, natural, and delicious; and she seems quite at home in songs that hold a middle place between the ballad and the scientific. Miss Stephens manages both these extremes better; but Miss Tree would be a most valuable fellow-performer with her, taking the instance the parts which though somewhat inferior in singing, are superior in rank of character, — as that of a lady, where the other might act the country girl: for besides being a genteel singer in the best sense of the word, she has a greater air of polite life in her manners. — People will differ about her looks, in respect to handsomeness. Those who think the late Miss RAY (Mrs. HORN) beautiful, will perhaps think Miss TREE so. The expression of her face when quiescent does not appear to us handsome. There is a something of distrust and overniceness in it; but this may wear off, with the uneasiness of a first appearance. When her features are in motion, there is a very different look in them, mixed up of a languour in the eyes and good-natured vivacity about the mouth. She is also a graceful figure, slender but not thin.
      We wish we could speak as well of Mr. Phillips...

2. By religion do you mean a mere outward obedience to certain rules and regulations of an ecclesiastical nature? Do you mean a something of a political kind? Do you mean a sort of inward light? Or, do you mean the practice of virtue? Do you mean an influence, which prevents men from committing extortionate, cruel, and tyrannical acts; that will not suffer them to oppress the poor, to imprison or or kill men on false charges, or under false pretences?

      Lady Courteney, who was a woman of grave composed manners, of austere morals, and of strict religious principles, possessed no relish for this gay and bustling scene; she would much rather have held with those holy men of her creed, who promulgate and explain the Gospels, social conversation, which oscillating between the upper and nether world, would alternately take into consideration the conversion of the unbelievers here on earth and the bliss of the elect in heaven. But such as these sought not nor found admission in such tumultuary scenes; occasionally employed therefore on the contemplation of her own pious thoughts, to which she made, in defiance of the gay crowd, faithful and frequent recurrence, she sat in the temple where the refreshments were spread, and which overlooked the sprightly scene, a tranquil but indifferent spectator. Yet strange to tell, the natural apathy of her character seemed for an instant to abandon her, as she beheld major Blandford lead Miss Courteney to join the dancers at the commencement of the third set; and a something of interest gave a new-born expression of animation to her cold features, while she inquired of a lady who sat next her concerning the gentleman’s character and expectations. Whatever might have been the information which lady Courteney received on this occasion, it had, after some minutes of deep meditation, a most happy effect in relaxing into a kind of smiling complaisance her usually grave countenance. She appeared to observe with pleasure the major’s polite attention to her daughter, and when on a summons to supper, the company withdrew from the gardens into the house, she committed, with an affable and frank confidence, the young lady to his protection.
      Geraldine, disciplined for the last eight years in the severe school of rigorous self-denial, could no otherwise account for this extraordinary condescension in her frigid mamma towards major Blandford, but by supposing that gentleman endued with superlative perfections.

over the whole surface of his composition a something of

And withal, there was diffused over the whole surface of his composition a something of opulent and luxurious and stately, which was well calculated to inspire lofty hopes, and to lend even to visible defects the appearance of so many pledges of future excellence.

In his whole deportment, however, there was visible a certain dignity of mind; and a something of conscious superiority, which could not at all times be suppressed or wholly withdrawn from observation.

. . . For these reasons, not even a short strain, consisting of the same sound, can be melodious. I consider, then, more than a single sound in succession to be essential to melody. I have, it is true, in all the instances I have yet brought, adduced examples connected with words, and consequently with definite ideas. If we take passages of repeated single sounds — such as are to be found in Haydn’s symphonies for instance — we shall perceive they are agreeable principally as they tend to rouse expectation. They are made interesting, as it were, by the anticipation of what they announce. In themselves, as melody, they are nothing. The simple question then to be solved is, whether melody can be made of one single sound, and it appears to me that it cannot. Etymology sometimes helps us out of a difficulty of this kind. The Greek word μέλος is translated carmen modulatum — modulated song; which word modulated, I apprehend, implies variety of inflexion, and if so, sets all doubt at rest.
      Let us now proceed to consider the effect of more than one interval. As the least removed from a single sound, I shall instance the chromatic opening of the symphony to the recitative, “For behold darkness shall cover the earth,” in Handel’s Messiah. This passage is constructed chiefly upon two sounds. If it cannot be said to be absolutely pleasing, it rouses and prepares and interests the mind, which anticipates in these sounds a something of moment to come. Here, however, the effect of rhythm is palpable.

It must, however, be admitted, that originality of thought, grandeur of design, and the inculcation of moral feeling, are but seldom discoverable in the productions of modern genius; and that a something of deception resembling the juggler, who while he waves the box in the air, is endeavouring to take advantage of the senses and pockets of his audience, is substituted in their stead.

The testimonies of a first cause of all beings, namely God, from the light of nature.
      First, — The existence of all beings in their respective kinds, denote that there must be a being who produced them into existence; for all evidencies [sic] of the most minute sort declare, that nothing must produce nothing; hence, without a something of a certain kind, nothing of that kind can remain: there can be no branch without a stock or stem; no fruit without a tree; no stream without a fountain; no effect without a cause.

“There are cold hearted beings in the world, who, could they see my manner of expressing myself, would think it overwrought: you are not among the number. I do not trouble myself while I write with what others may think, but with what I think myself: it is this which guides my pen. I express my feelings; they may be strong, but I trust I shall never be ashamed of them.”
      Eliza dwelt upon these expressions with much pleasure. The liveliness of Miss Rochford’s feelings could not fail in a heart such as Eliza’s to excite a similarity of sentiment. She was very grateful for this lavish fondness, yet if the truth must be owned, she was somewhat overpowered by its energy. Towards Mrs. De Lisle her feelings assumed a something of more tenderness : it might be the ill health of Mrs. De Lisle that softened her heart, but the language of those few short letters which she received was more in unison with the state of her own mind. Or was it that Mrs. De Lisle was the cousin of Major Douglas, and that her friendship seemed a remnant of the past? However it might be, there was more congeniality between them.

      I reside in the county of Longford, and in the discharge of my duties, and in the discharge of the duties of the inferior clergy who are under my direction, I consider it right to cooperate with the magistrates of the country in endeavouring to maintain the tranquillity of the country, and to secure obedience to the laws, and I have always been tolerably successful in having it so; I always believed it a matter of the utmost necessity; and whenever I have found in the diocese committed to my care, that there was not that kind of harmony between the magistrates and the Roman Catholic clergy, I think, in the same proportion, in general that neighbourhood was not tranquil. And in the discharge of that portion of my duty, I have always met with the active and zealous co-operation of the magistrates of the country. I have met with it in the county of Fermanagh, where I was first placed, in the county of Leitrim, and in the county of Longford, and no part of the country I was ever placed in, was disturbed. I was fortunate in that respect, for it is scarcely possible to describe the effect it produces on the public mind, when they see men of both religions, in public situations, go hand in hand with each other. And I have no doubt, that the magistracy of the county of Longford attribute the tranquillity of the county, in a very considerable degree, to the cordial co-operation which exists between the Justices of the peace and the Roman Catholic clergy. I do believe it is a general feeling. I think I get more credit myself perhaps than I deserve, but it is a general feeling; much credit is due to Lord Forbes. Generally speaking, there is no open hos- [282] tility between the two sects, in the county of Longford; but there is a something of a heat of mind, or an irritation, but nothing of a violent nature, which I attribute to party feelings of Orangemen and Ribbonmen, and the question of Catholic Emancipation, with the feelings of hope on one side, accompanied with some fear perhaps, and apprehesion on the other side; there are two parties, and they are kept at that kind of distance, arising from a variety of causes, that I am not able to describe.
      Having alluded to Catholic Emancipation, I would also add, that a strong feeling of anxiety upon that subject, exists amongst the bulk of the peasantry. I know if they were asked what emancipation meant, they perhaps would not be able to define it; but they have a feeling that they are belonging to an excluded cast, and that they are not treated like other subjects; that there is something wrong with them, and they are very anxious to be relieved from this kind of slavery, which they are not able to explain; and I think a great deal of the misfortunes of Ireland arise from the disrespect of the lower orders to the laws. They are of opinion, that the laws were not made for their protection; they know no parts of them, except the penal and punishing parts; and I can easily conceive that in their little meetings on winter nights, they have amongst themseves many traditionary stories regarding the sufferings of their ancestors...

The ladies there were allowed occasionally to mix more in the world, under the care of their friends, than at Whitelands. This gave the ladies at Alsop House more of that ease which, when wanting, the brightest accomplishments are lost, and never appear to that advantage, as when blended with a certain softness, a something of easy satisfaction, which is so natural to those who possess it.
      Miss Agassiz had been established there under the special patronage of the Duchess of Gordon, and her talents and morals did honour to her patroness. Almost all the ladies there, were of that family, or some relatives or friends of theirs. The number was nine, and therefore, was capable of embracing every advantage with comfort and ease. I had been about three months in this abode, and I felt happy in the society of my friends, when an attachment commenced between myself and some of the eldest and most particular young ladies there, of a durable nature.       During that time, Mr. A—, whom I sometimes met at Mrs. Shafford’s, used to visit us in his elegant curricle. He introduced his sisters shortly after to me, and his calls became frequent, and his attentions too pointed to be mistaken. They were great, also, to Miss Agassiz, and being a man of high character and elegant manners, Miss Agassiz consulted Mr. Monk upon the propriety of allowing his calls. Mr. Monk, however, would not controul me, as I intended to make Mr. A— my banker...

1
The Colonel readily saw what they were, and addressed them accordingly. The one was a Levantine, a common vender of Turkey rhubarb; a Christian he told us, though hooted after in some places; shunned and fled from in others, for a Turk. The other was an old itinerant merchant of that happy lowly class, who have homes and families on the beauteous shores of the Lake of Como. I remember, now, how animatedly they replied, and how all their features sparkled up as the Colonel, with a winning art, peculiarly his own, conversed with them for many minutes in Italian, concerning their countries, [13] and their wanderings: the questions and replies were laughingly interpreted to me. They were all trifling, but not inconsequent, that is, not inconsequent to me; and, as we rode back, the Colonel unconsciously added fuel to the fire which the sight of these strangers, acting on an idle mind, had kindled in my youthful bosom. He was in a frank communicative mood; I, eager and inquiring. With thirsty ears I drank in all that fell from a lip carelessly yet naturally eloquent. Past scenes and days seemed rising before him, as he spoke of the delight with which in early life he had traversed Italy, the isles of Greece, the Levant, the silent forsaken plains of Troy; and of the unrivalled glorious grandeur of the site of Constantinople: saying of this last, I well remember, that it were worth the trouble and confinement of a voyage, to pass one day, from rise to set of sun, merely gazing on it from a vessel’s deck. After dismounting, he led me to his study, took down a large portfolio of valuable engravings, which I had never before seen, and pointed out to me several very striking and picturesque [14] scenes from nature, and many others, in which massive and majestic ruins were shadowed forth in so bold a manner, that the gazer at once felt a something of that awe, which the gray monuments themselves might be supposed to inspire. The subjects were all Italian; and I thought Italy, from these specimens, a land, or rather a paradise, of wonders. He continued to dwell on the subject of his travels with a cheerfulness of tone, and brightness of the eye, unusual in him. I could have looked at these prints, and listened to him for hours; but we accidentally alighted on one, which, as it met his glance, caused him with a sudden shuddering to close the case, and, with a strong pressure of the hand, silently to dismiss me.
      The print which had so moved him was a celebrated storm-piece; the helpless vessel in her last struggle with the fury of a gale.
14

2
I felt my mind almost giving way. I had been long among the mad, and had listened to their ravings when terrors all ideal menaced them; here, there was a something of a reality, such as I had never dreamed of; it took me by surprise; feeble, exhausted in mind and body, I thought I was to be the victim of some horrible incantation, and the sweat stood profuse upon my forehead.
230

      The reader, who might attach to the station and rank of governor a something of dignity and freedom, will learn, with a smile, that the dowlah of Mocha is a black Abyssinian slave, not at all striking in his figure or appearance, or in any way remarkable; but, we were told, quiet, and civil to the Europeans, and not oppressive to the people. He has not the power of life and death, or of entering on hostilities without applying to the imaum of Senna, in whose family he was a slave, and whose authority he represents.
29

      On entering St. Peter’s I felt, at first, a something of that disappointment which all have spoken of... but there is no filling St. Peter’s, as you soon discover.
320

...In the statue of the heathen [342] god there is a something of the disturbance of disdain; there is the attitude, and there has been the effort of destruction. In the figure of the angel, there is only the airy tread of power resistless, and his looks are bright, refulgent; no mortal passion mars their calm beauty; it is as the glory of the arrowy lightning; eyes gaze on it admiringly, yet does it carry death; but feels no wrath, and in the smiling infant would inspire no terror.
      But I am forgetting my prudent resolve.
342

Ministers have, in fact, sheltered themselves under a very dexterous kind of doctrine — a something of a special plea, by thus thrusting forward the charter of the Bank; and I do not feel at all surprised that the Bank, however unwilling they may be to carry such a measure into execution, have granted their consent, rather than see, living as they do in the middle of the city, all their own friends and connexions mouldering to pieces around them, for want of that aid which the Government alone should have afforded them...

This “plan of business,” it should seem, was not found sufficiently determinate and precise to confine the speculations of the members within due bounds. We perceive accordingly, that at a meeting holden in the course of the same year, the “Academy having taken into consideration the inconveniencies resulting from the want of general principles, which might be taken for granted in all physical inquiries, and from the free and unrestrained introduction of metaphysical points, on which the members, either from the strength of speculative or practical habits, or the abstract nature of the subjects themselves, can never come to an agreement, judged it expedient to adopt the following principles, reserving to themselves the power of altering or modifying them as experience shall dictate :
“1.   Mind exists — a something, of the essence of which we know nothing, but the existence of which we must suppose, on account of the effect which it produces; that is, the modification of which we are conscious.
“2.   Matter exists — a something, of the essence of which we are entirely ignorant, but the existence of which we necessarily believe, in consequence of the effects which it produces; that is, the sensations and perceptions which we receive by means of the organs of sense...”

In instances like this, then, — and something like it is constantly occurring, — we are compelled to give up the doctrine of excitement, or stimulation, and adopt, in a sort of empirical or confused way, the conclusions of those men who talked about the humours of the body, or who conceived that in the blood and fluids was to be found the essence of disease, as well as the principle of life, and that curative agency is resolvable into a something of change brought about in them.
      But that the humoral doctrines of medicine are themselves also fallible, may be proved by a variety of examples. Who shall say what is added to, or abstracted from, any of the body’s fluids, when in a moment mere mental impulse shall so change the whole man, that from a healthy or sane, he plunges at once into a diseased or insane state; his thoughts and his feelings, and his actions and his countenance, being at complete variance with his former self; and withal, having some of the secretions of his body, which before were without any offensive odour, now offensive in the extreme?

The sight of an execution is not always terrible to other criminals, because to brave death is not rarer than to fear it. But this sight has, for its certain and infallible consequence, either to diminish the hatred of murder, by teaching men to look calmly at violent death, inflicted in cold blood, and taking something from the infamy of the criminal, by inspiring pity for his sufferings. It even gives, to the last moments of the culprit, a something of solemnity, which, while he is exposed, almost changes public feeling, and gives him, like a martyr, a title to admiration.

However variously the dominion of gifted minds over the faculty of imagination may be exercised, one grand two-fold division will embrace the operation of the whole. The first and the most important of these departments, comprises that plastic species of intellect, which may be termed the assumptive, or more properly still, the assimilative. Like the dervise in the Persian tale, it can make excursions at will, and almost instinctively animate any assignable modification of humanity, or even of conceivable existence. The second not unfrequently includes an equal portion of mental vigour, but being more deeply tinged with thought, and imbued with the feelings and convictions of the individual, may not inaptly take the name of the self-emanative or reflective. Proceeding a little further in the way of analysis, the former seems to imply a tendency to deal with perceptions chiefly as materiel for conceptions, and the latter, to indicate a proneness to ponder over them, with a view to conclusions, or opinions. A little consideration of these habitudes might lead à priori to a conviction, that the creative or combinative principle, at least as to an able dealing with sensible images and impressions, must be much more active in the one class of mind, than the other, the possessors of which almost involuntarily fall into prevalent trains of idea, so as gradually to become slaves to them. Such indeed is felt to be the fact as regards works of imagination in general, but particularly those of the dramatist and novelist, and public approbation has for a long time past been awarded accordingly.
      The foregoing remarks have been rendered prefatory to a brief notice of another novel by the author of Pelham, partly because as a writer of considerable power, feeling, and literary aptitude, he stands among the foremost of the prose fictionists of the hour, and partly because he forms a conspicuous example of the truth of the specified theory. For instance, while possessed of most of the secondary attributes in an eminent degree, he is anything but spontaneously or felicitously inventive. A choice of subject singularly adapted to the writer’s taste, associations, and experience, might, so far as regards Pelham, have inspired a doubt of this fact; but even in that very happy production, a something of this truth was discernible, and the “Disowned” and “Devereux,” have put the real state of the case beyond question.

      Beyond this growing village [Little Falls], you enter the far famed settlement of the German Flats, so noted for their fertility, and their place in the history of the Canadian and Indian wars, and so finely sketched by Mrs. Grant and others. Herkimer is a considerable village in this alluvial tract. But the country, rich and delightful as it is, wants the Connecticut river villages, wants the neatness and taste of Yankee establishments, wants what is much easier to feel, than describe, a something of order and the result of cultivated perceptions, certainly found in higher perfection in New-England, than in any other portion of our country. But the eye traces, in new villages, neat houses, and establishments strongly contrasting with the old outre ‘residenter’ buildings, that New-England is gradually making its way among the Dutch villages in this direction. Canals, like turnpikes, taking directions from convenience and locality, are not often seen passing through the villages, and showing most habitancy and cultivation. This accounts for less show of villages and houses: along the canal, than might otherwise be expected. Thirty years hence, the banks of the canal will be a continued village.

      “Read, my child, the lines upon the lid of the iron casket, which contained the pearl of God’s word. Methinks, the writer knew a something of its value. None, dear, can we call blessed on earth, who have not the blessing of this vocation; and with this in possession by promise, and in prospect by that hope which maketh not ashamed, how light is all our momentary affliction !”
      “May I — dare I think myself called ?”

Pondered the subjects of four tragedies to be written (life and circumstances permitting), to wit [Sardanapalus, Cain, Francesca of Rimini, Tiberius]... I think that I could extract a something, of my tragic, at least, out of the gloomy sequestration and old age of the tyrant — and even out of his sojourn at Caprea — by softening the details, and exhibiting the despair which must have led to those very vicious pleasures. For none but a powerful and gloomy mind overthrown would have had recourse to such solitary horrors, — being also, at the same time, old, and the master of the world.
Memoranda.
What is Poetry? — The feeling of a Former world and Future.
Thought Second.
Why, at the very height of desire and human pleasure, — wordly, social, amorous, ambitious, or even avaricious, does there mingle a certain sense of doubt and sorrow — a fear of what is to come — a doubt of what is — a retrospect to the past, leading to a prognostication of the future.

It includes much useful information, and many valuable precepts; but there is a something of obscurity in the arrangement, which, it is likely, will render it in some measure a sealed book to those who have not the advantage of a teacher.

The blind would give something a something to see,
A deaf man give something to come and hear me;
The lame would give something to run, but in vain,
The old would give something to grow young again;
The lawyer wants something, that something’s a fee,
And gives something — advice — but advice take from me,
For the something you give, you a something will get,
That something will be empty pockets to let.
                  That something we love, &c.
 
The soldier wants something who gloriously bled,
But the something he next wants may chance be his head;
The king wants by something his people to ease,
The something he wishes is plenty and peace.
The people want something their trade to renew,
That something’s a ministry upright and true;
For something we need when our commerce relaxes,
A something of care, and a something less taxes.
                  This something we love, &c.
 
Take nothing from nothing there’s nothing remain,
Take something from something and something you gain...

“Lovers may, and, indeed, generally are enemies, but they never can be friends; because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of self in all their speculations.
      “Indeed, I rather look upon love altogether as a sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to make or to break matches, and keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.”

Far from adopting this idea, space, like time, to me appears actually to be in itself a something positive, a something created, a something of which the being or the not being makes a prodigious difference, independent of that of the attributes more late and partial again made to appear within it: a something of which, as of time, in a dreamless sleep, we may have no perception, while when awake and receiving sensations, we may of it have a positive consciousness, even though we actually have not yet a consciousness of any thing else more definite and distinct contained in it; since of space as of time we may perceive portions different from and larger or smaller than others, and since whatever may be compared with something else, and have of a peculiar condition a greater or a less quantity, must in so far needs exist and be perceptible.

There is, in a British tar, a something of light heart, which keeps him above water in the storm, and exhilarates his spirits in the calm, more especially when enjoying the comforts of dry land, and indulging in the delights of home and native shore.

And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh’d,
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles nature spoke!

      The gentlemen themselves arrived at length-they came on horseback, retired immediately into their apartments to dress, and in due time made their appearance in the drawing-room, where Mr. Hamilton, surrounded by his family, waited to receive them. Colonel Vavasour entered first. Compared with the common society at Newtown Hamilton, he might be termed an Apollo of Belvedere for beauty, and his manners were worthy of the court of Louis XIV. but judging by a more ordinary standard, the world at large — he was a plain, unaffected, gentleman-like looking man, somewhat set off by a military dress, and a less artificial cause, a military carriage. He paid his compliments to the whole party with grave politeness, and with a something of displeasure lurking in his countenance; as if the gain of good quarters was a poor compensation for the sacrifice of the ease and independence of the mess or an inn. Not so his companion: Major Stuart was, without the possibility of its being questioned, a handsome man — added to which, his very perfect features were animated by a most intelligent countenance; and his manners were not only good, but of that kind which bear the stamp of the world and of the best society; he could be agreeable as well as polished; and Geraldine also knew that beauty, intelligence, and pleasing manners, were not his only recommendations; and that within his noble exterior, was that which passeth show —a benevolent heart; for in Major Stuart she beheld the benefactor of Malony; one glance showed that their former interview was remembered, and that she needed not the introduction her father made between them.
      Minutes in Ireland to Geraldine’s mind moved like hours, and a Newtown Hamilton evening was an age of ennui and melancholy. What a transformation did one man produce!

      — but even while she spurned his prayer,
There was a troubled pleasure in her air;
A something of regret, that left him scope
To cherish secret, though forbidden, hope.

...It is on account of these merits that we have thought it most worthy to be extracted, not as a specimen, — for that would be to raise too sanguine expectations concerning its excellence, — but as the master-piece of the supernatural in the “Pilgrims of the Rhine.”

...For the power of that shape could vanquish even them. It was the form of a female, with golden hair, crowned with a chaplet of withered leaves; her bosoms, of an exceeding beauty, lay bare to the wind, and an infant was clasped between them, hushed into a sleep so still, that neither the roar of the thunder, nor the livid lightning flashing from cloud to cloud, could even ruffle, much less arouse, the slumberer. And the face of the female was so unutterably calm and sweet (though with a something of severe); there was no line or wrinkled, in her hueless brow; care never wrote its defacing characters upon that everlasting beauty...

With the single exception of the incomparable Scott, no writer of the present age has occupied the public mind for so long a period, or met so large a measure of applause, as Maria Edgeworth. It is true that, within a few years, two different schools have arisen, both perhaps of a higher order than that, which has received much of its lustre from the subject of the present article; the historical... and the imaginative... Both these schools are of a higher order than that in which Miss Edgeworth has been so admirably happy. There is, indeed, in the historical romance, a something of epic majesty; success in this department must rely, not only on shrewdness, knowledge of human nature, quick tact, and fluent language; but on details of antiquarian lore, on the comprehensive grasp of history, deep research into the chronicles of by-gone ages, and on the rare and glorious power of embodying all these in living characters, and, with a painter’s skill, of depicting events as though they were actually passing before the reader’s eye...
      It is there our opinion that we do Miss Edgeworth no dishonor in assigning to her a station at the very head of that branch of literature which she has undertaken to adorn, even when we place that branch somewhat lower down the stem of the great tree of learning than those of her male competitors.
      Of the familiar novel Miss Edgeworth is indeed the Queen...

                                                From the Saturday Evening Post.
Mark Lee’s Narrative.
                                                “Toward Heaven's descent had sloped
                                                “His waftening wheel.”
                                                            Milton in Lycidas
      An amiable youth, like thousands of others as young, as amiable, and as poor, was not many months since on the point of setting out for the Hesperia of the United States, or in plain English, “The Western Country.” This young man a few days before his departure, brought his Album to me, requesting the insertion of a piece as a remembrancer to a friend. I put the Album in the drawer of my desk, and in the silence and quiet of the evening, drew it forth and spread it open on my table.
      The circumstances roused all my own recollections. There was a something of more than common interest, of even awful in the very sound of “The West” which signed to my heart in whispers of days, months and years, gone into the past. In the very first settlement of Western Pennsylvania, amongst the emigrants were several families, from the banks of Swatara, in the neighborhood of Hummelstown. Many of these were the intimate and cherished friends of my parents, who naturally sighed after their associates. Then, fifty-two years ago, “The Western” was not what it is now, a smiling and widening garden. Even ideas of distance were then very different from what they are now. It is a fact which may well excite a smile, that in my native neighbourhood, “Illinois” was used as a term to express in the simple minds of a primitive people, the utmost limit, the Neplus Ultra...

      As soon as comprehension was completely restored, her attendants remarked a restlessness, an anxiety, a nervous agitation, distinct from bodily suffering, for which they could not [27] account: they remarked also that, a paper having been left near her by accident, she took it up with unusual eagerness, running her eye hastily over its contents; and they fancied that she looked for it the next day. From that time, it was always placed within her reach; but, as the same nervous excitement continued, they ceased to watch the effect the paper produced.
      She was better, and, at her own request, was placed in an arm-chair and wheeled to the window. It was as bright a day as that on which she had returned, and the sun was then, as before, shining on her native woods; but the shock of the first sight was over, and she looked out on her favourite flower-garden beneath with the brightest smile that had wreathed her lip since her return. The clear, rich notes of the thrush rose on her ear, and the painted butterfly sported before her window. Her spirit caught a something of the glow around her: it seemed to her imaginative mind like an omen of happier days: and the eye looked out with a softened lustre, and a faint tint of rose relieved the pallid hue of sickness.

There was also a greater sympathy between them since her misfortunes: a something of bitterness felt and expressed, formed a part of her character now; whereas, when he had first been of her intimacy, prosperity alone for her had gilt the wheels of Time; she was then too far above him; her brightness dazzled, but he dared not assimilate himself to her.

What, therefore, should hinder me, likewise, while I am reading the works of Lucilius, from inquiring whether it is his genius, or the difficult nature of his subject, that will not suffer his verses to be more finished, and to run more smoothly, than if any one, thinking it sufficient (attending to this only) to conclude a something of six feet, be fond of writing two hundred verses before he eats, and as many after supper!

Military services in the East rarely obtain that notice to which they are justly entitled. The scene in which they are acted is remote; and the laurels of our brave men from India have always lost a something of their freshness before we gaze on them at home. Moreover, it is an effort of the imagination to realize the aspect of Asiatic warfare, and to many readers such efforts are at once painful and vain.
      They content themselves with considering that the enemies in India are black. They draw some distinction, indeed, between the black of Africa and of Asia; but, so far as bodily power and personal prowess are concerned, it is in favor of the former. The Asiatic is thought an effeminate and silken slave, whose nerves tremble at the report of a cannon, and whose prancing horses are only used for security or flight. This is no fancy picture; Englishmen accounted intelligent thus spoke of India fifty short years ago; and to this hour, except among those interested in Indian affairs by the course of their studies, by connexion with the services or commerce of that country, or by that large and active spirit of inquiry which an attachment to the cause of schools and missions has awakened, a like ignorance obtains, and a like apathy in the concerns of India is always manifest.

In reference to my change of sentiments, I would just, for the satisfaction of some, and perhaps it may be for the improvement of others, give a very concise epitome of the process through which my mind has passed. As far back as I can recollect, since I began to exercise my intellect, and to think for myself, I have been inclined to read the books or become acquainted with the opinions of those who may differ from me; believing that truth is not confined to any sect in particular, and that with every portion of error there is mixed a something of truth. During my collegiate course, therefore, I adopted a system of reading, which embraced the sentiments and opinions of those who might differ from me on many material points; and the first work on the Unitarian side of the question which struck my attention, and gave me a more favourable opinion of that system of faith, [63] was some of the sermons of Dr. Channing; and I must now express myself, as I have done before, deeply obliged for the views of rational and scriptural piety, with those sermons develope...

Thus, nothing can be nobler or more characteristic than the figure of the prophet Jeremiah. It is not abstracted, but symbolical of the history and functions of the individual. The whole figure bends and droops, under a weight of woe, like a large willow tree surcharged with showers. Yet there is no peculiar expression of grief in one part more than another; the head hangs down despondingly indeed, but so do the hands, the clothes, and every other part seems to labor under and be [301] involved in a complication of distress. Again, the prophet Ezra is represented reading, in a striking attitude of attention, and with the book held. close to him as if to lose no part of its contents in empty space: — all this is finely imagined and designed, but then the book reflects back none of its pregnant, hieroglyphic meaning on the face, which, though large and stately, is an ordinary unimpassioned, and even unideal one. Daniel, again, is meant for a face of inward thought and musing, but it might seem as if the compression of the features were produced by external force as much as by involuntary perplexity. I might extend these remarks to this artist’s other works; for instance, to the Moses, of which the form and attitude express the utmost dignity and energy of purpose, but the face wants a something of the intelligence and expansive views of the Hebrew legislator. It is cut from the same block, and by the same bold sweeping hand, as the sandals or the drapery.

...It was not till he was gone, and she could contrive to be, quite alone, that she allowed a free course to her solitary tears, and to her feeling that she was very miserable; not perhaps the less miserable that her hushand seemed to make so light of their separation.
      The truth was, — but a truth of too ungracious a nature to disclose to Marian — that the regret he experienced in parting from his kind-hearted and loving little wife, was almost counterbalanced by his satisfaction at any pretext for prolonging her separation from the Robsey tribe, and the Jackishness of her father’s establishment. He fancied, too, that thus left alone with his family, they would insensibly amalgamate; that Marian would learn to respect his mother and love his sister, as he himself loved and respected them; while Marian’s better qualities could not fail to secure their affections in return. Perhaps, too, the occupation afforded by his new duties and a something of attraction in the prospect of one more bachelor spring at a London hotel tended to facilitate the sacrifice of Marian’s society.
      He did not consider, and even Marian herself was at first scarcely aware, how wearily and slowly pass the days, every hour of which is devoted to an especial and distant object.

The third lady present at this secret council was the Princess Waldberg, a beautiful little creature of very illustrious birth, and even royally allied, whose right to take her place among the very first in any circle in Europe could not be questioned, any more than her consciousness of such right. But neither her dignity, nor her value for it, could rob her regular and most delicate features of their feminine softness or their youthful charm; and though her round lip would have been curled in very pretty scorn, had any want of etiquette led her to suspect that her rank was forgotten, the natural sweetness of her nature made her sparkle without dazzling, and would have given to the ermine, had she worn it, all the softened grace of dignity without its stiffness or its weight. That this lady should have been elected of the conclave of “La Crême,” was a proof of very judicious ambition in the electors; and her having (together with one or two others, whose claims to distinction were likewise unquestionable,) consented to enrol herself among them, gave a something of reality to their pretensions, which softened if it could not altogether remove the ridicule attached to the clique.

XXVI.
Amid the gay revellers, the first of the throng,
The rovers are mingling in dance and in song,
As lightsome as fire-flies, when evening awakes
Their living effulgence on mountains and brakes.
The brilliant attire, and the sparkling black eyes,
And the manly cheeks glowing with sun and with skies,
Leave their image in many a fair maiden's breast,
When she flies to her couch as a dove to her nest;
There to fit through her dreams, and revive in her there
With a something of joy and a something of care:
Of joy, as she thinks of the flattering train, —
Of care, that she knows they shall meet not again.

Case.
      It is that of an officer of artillery in the British service who, during the peninsular war, was attached to a portion of that corps which was engaged, almost every day in succession, with the enemy, for a considerable period. He was close to the guns during the firing, which generally lasted, with but short intermissions, for the whole day. The noise was extremely shrill and sharp, and of a ringing description, such as is well known to those who have been habituated to the firing of brass guns. The result was, that he became nearly completely deaf on one side, and very dull of hearing on the other. He so remained for a long time, without the cause being discovered, when a sort of itching, at times very disagreeable and almost insufferable, took place. On examining the ear in which this feeling was most troublesome, a something of a darkish appearance presented itself, and, by means of a forceps, was at last drawn out through the external opening. The effect he described as like a clap of thunder, with a loud reverberating noise, which soon died away, when the deafness was found to be no way relieved; for a time no secretion appeared, the deafness still continued; and then he was advised to use a syringe, and have the part frequently syringed with a solution of soap in warm water, and a few drops of a thin emulsion of almond oil, with liquor potassæ, was dropped in. In less than a week the hearing was completely restored, and has remained perfect ever since.
      Now, if we examine this case attentively,

Publication was fenced around with forms, licences, and delays. The argus eye of censors, who wielded the fatal shears, watched the escape of truth, and checked the least expression of a searching spirit of philosophical inquiry; — hence the tenuity of thought, the molenism of Spanish literature. In this thanklessness, hazard, and difficulty of publication, thought, and the desire of recording thought, of leaving behind a something of the undying mind, the ‘κακοήθεια scribendi,’ the ‘non omnis moriar,’ which flickered in hall and convent, found a vent in the private composition of works which were never destined to see the day. The libraries of Spain teem with these still-born manuscripts, cast by their authors like bread upon the waters.

That we must deny ourselves, if we would benefit others.

It is a most certain truth, that if people wish to save souls, they must endeavour to win hearts. The example of St. Paul in this respect, is very forcible, but it is alas much forgotten! We should learn from him to study to meet the prejudices, and consult the feelings of others, to the utmost extent we can possibly go with a safe conscience towards God. But how commonly do men follow a line of conduct the very opposite to this. The unessential peculiarities of party feeling are too often just the very things most warmly contended for, and matters of the smallest importance are made the grounds of angry contention to the great and evident hindrance of the Gospel. The cause of this must be found in St. Paul’s melancholy declaration, “All seek their own, not the things which are Jesus Christ’s.” (Phil. ii. 21.) It is a something of personal feeling, a standing up each for his own honour, which causes party zeal. St. Paul on the contrary consulted, not what was most for his own honour, but what was best for the saving of souls. He was willing even to be thought weak, that he might save the weak. But alas! who will follow him to such lengths? Who can thus hold cheap the opinions of this world?

“What ails thee now ?” cried the Baron bold.
“Mark, Baron, me!” said a voice so cold,
So cold and calm, that the Baron thought
      ’Twas the Knight of Wildern’s voice he heard.
Then the lowering fog was together brought,
And into a something of shape was wrought;
[112]       Till a high and shadowy form appear’d,
Till the billows of clouds took a likeness dim —
But no! it surely could not be HIM ! . . .

...Ugly little brute! what was he good for but Homer and corduroys?
      At college, he obtained still further advantages over me. He was beginning, indeed, to have the best of it everywhere. From the date of the abrogation of my curls, I was out of favor, even in the boudoir. Sir Lionel Dashwood had been unable to repress an ejaculation of “little horror!” on seeing me again; and by the time John was entered at college, a something of a paralytic attack seemed to remind my sweet mamma that the Right Honorable Lord Ormington was to survive in her elder son, when her noble spouse took up his rest in the family vault, instead of on the benches of St. Stephen’s.
      Neither he, nor I, nor Dashwood, nor even Dash, were now admitted into the dressing-room. Matters were growing too serious there.

      Oh, what a face and figure were there exhibited! If Louis had been struck by the improved appearance and beauty of Josephine, what must he have felt while looking on the noble Pauline? Josephine was symmetry; but there was a majesty about the person of the eldest, that seemed to display the fine proportions of the form in a far more imposing manner: and then the face! how could the painter have caught its highly intellectual expression? Her complexion was fine, the mouth and all the features perfect, as in the first blush of womanhood; but there was in the expression of the dark blue eyes, a something of care and anxiety never observed before, an expression of deep and intense feeling, that, although it did not detract from, but rather heightened the beauty of one of the finest faces ever exhibited on canvass, yet at once excited the sympathy of the gazer. Tears, unbidden, ran down the cheeks of Louis and Madam, while gazing on this portrait. The mother and sister had not seen her now for several years.

Black eyes are not a thousandth part so pretty as blue in a woman (in my mind); but Fanny Wilding’s eyes, for black ones, were not disagreeable; there was a something of expression which she gave to them that added to their lustre, and caught the fancies of those men who no farther than a feature for happiness, and fancy delight to be centred in personal charms.
      She was what the world calls an Animated girl : — she would pun, throw in a jest wherever she could, affect opinions different from all the world, talk upon abstruse subjects, quote Homer to an officer of the Guards, and talk of perpetual motion to an effeminate man of fashion.
      Self-opinionated, with complete self-possession, a sarcastic sneer, and a bewitching smile, a good person, and many accomplishments, this young woman was known as a genius. She was a connoisseur in painting, an amateur in music, a perfect dancer, an exquisite performer on the piano, and a Billington in singing. She wrote tales and poems, published on wove paper and broad margins in Bond Street, made designs for furniture, dressed in the most outré costume to set fashions, and, in short, was a fine, dashing, animated girl — and a more horrible thing is there not upon earth! Modesty and diffidence are the attributes of woman: their silence is eloquence, and their timidity conquest.
      Miss Wilding did not think so...

      To where the mountains merge into the plain,
      He journeyed on ’mid many a stirring scene,
      Such as one loves to recognize again.
      Though years have perished, and the times between
      The first and second meeting may have been
      Spent in long toil and labour, still they show
      A something of resemblance as when seen
      For the first moment, and awake a glow
Of rapture or regret o’er Time’s relentless flow.

In one of his papers on Milton’s prose, he is so carried away by the magic of novelty as to proclaim Milton’s poetry a very inferior species of manufacture. But he is somewhat cooled when he says to Southey a few weeks later :
      “A. Aikin sent me the new edition of Milton’s Prose Works. Instead of meddling with Symmonds's biography, which was almost my whole duty, I have reviewed Milton's pamphlets one by one, as if they were new publications. It is pleasant to get out of the modern shrubberies in perpetual flower, into the stately yew-hedge walks, and vased and statued terraces, and fruitful walls and marble fountains, of the old school of oratory. Such things are not made without a greater expense of study and of brains than modern method requires; and yet there is a something of stiffness and inutility to censure there, and a something of aptness, grace, and convenience to applaud here.”

      So little impression, meanwhile, had the amusements of the evening made upon Basil, that his first impulse, on returning home, was to take from his pocket the unsightly letter of A. 0., in order to ascertain, with greater accuracy, the name of the street to which he was to repair on the morrow. He searched first in one waistcoat-pocket, then in the other, and finally in those of his coat and great-coat, and all with the same infructuous result ! In his impatience, he flung down on the table his handkerchief and gloves, his opera-glass, and a small gold pencil-case he carried in his waistcoat-pocket. But this eagerness did not enable him to recover the lost treasure. Not a vestige of his letter !
      Though certain of having received it in the hall, and thrust it into his pocket preparatory to leaving the house, he now in the perplexity of vexation, began to open his desk and dressing-box, in the hope of finding it there; though aware that he had not returned into his sitting-room after the arrival of the post. Still, the result was the same; and he was forced to end with the conclusion which had first presented itself, that his pocket had been picked in coming out of the theatre, and this document, valueless to any but himself, mistaken for higher game.
      How irritating ! — This trivial occurrence might be the means of deferring the promised interview for four-and-twenty-hours ! Nay, A. 0. might, perhaps, fancy himself hoaxed by a second application ; or, at all events, resent having his time thrown away by waiting at home for one who had no scruple in disappointing him, and refuse a second rendezvous ! — He had been told, only too often, that A. 0. was not a person to be trifled with ! —
      He began, accordingly, to ransack his brain for reminiscences of the address contained in the letter. St. Agnes le Clare, Old Street Road, he perfectly remembered; for there was a novelish sound in the first name, a something of Miss Owenson or Mrs. Opie, — singularly discordant with the second: — and, by a memoria-technical process, the impression remained with him. But what was the name of the street? It was that of some noble family. It was not Howard, or Percy, or Paget. It was something connected with Wiltshire — he remembered it had brought Wiltshire into his mind. He would examine the Court Guide, and see whether any streets in the neighbourhood of Old Street Road, appeared to bear reference to Wiltshire.
      But alas! the Court Guide disdained all mention of St. Agnes le Clare! — The Court Guide rejected A. 0. and all his parish; and poor Basil was launched once more upon his sea of troubles.
      Of one thing he was certain. The interview was appointed at noon the following day; and the latest effort of his determination before he committed his head to a restless pillow, was to repair to Old Street Road, at an early hour next morning, and try whether, by exploring the neighbourhood, he might not accidentally touch the silent chord of memory.
      It is not, however, a pleasant thing for a denizen of the West End, to arise from a warm bed at nine o’clock on a misty November morning, and after seeing the opposite shops opened by yawning shopboys, or damsels in curl-papers, and swallowing a hasty comfortless breakfast, for which the baker had not brought the rolls, or the newspaper boy the Morning Post, jumble off in a hackney coach towards the far East to be deposited, in a degree of bewilderment worthy of Robinson Crusoe, upon the Pavement of Finsbury.
      It was the first time Basil Annesley had visited that terra incognita.

      “Confound the fellow!” exclaimed Richard, having once again gone through the part, and the very next day being that fixed for the [422] dressed rehearsal. “He swore by all the gods that a carpenter could invoke that his confounded skip-jack should be here this morning.” These words were scarcely uttered when the only servant permitted to approach the theatrical premises, knocked at the door, and announced the arrival of the anxiously expected mechanist. He was ordered to appear, and did so instantly, bearing in his hand a something of very mysterious ugliness of form, which by the judicious use of a little cobler’s wax could be made to spring to a very considerable height. The first performance of the little monster was hailed with a perfect shriek of admiration and delight; and then the guilty Richard laid himself once more upon his restless couch, and bade the tormentor do his worst. Again the cobler’s wax was judiciously applied, and again the hideous little figure sprang into the air; but instead of perching on the breast of the conscience-stricken Richard, it bounded pretty nearly in the opposite direction.
      “That won’t do, my good fellow!” cried the sleeper, starting up, “you could not have set it in the right direction.”

      Edward Hope’s heart was sensible of a few very curious sensations, symptomatic of he did not know what. He had not the least idea that there could be any pleasure in them, because he assured himself that he was very much distressed at perceiving that Diana really had a something of a sort of a preference for himself which was making her very unhappy ; — but, let people tell themselves what falsehoods they please, everybody has an especial satisfaction in seeing another miserable-when they themselves are the cause.
      So Edward Hope drew up his features into an expression of respectable commiseration, which anybody else would have mistaken for self-gratulation; and, feeling that Diana was now more to be pitied than blamed, and that her violence was not half so objectionable as he had thought it, he began, though really without knowing it, to consider it as something of a merit.
      Old Hope was sitting in his library.

      It is a most animated, and to a stranger, most amusing sight; but with all this bustling and noise, there is no confusion, and I saw no disorderly persons about. Who are those gaily-dressed men sitting astride upon cottonbales, and looking so composed, while discussing some serious question with each other? You can judge nothing from their countenances; they are so well schooled and tutored, that no one would imagine an important mercantile negotiation was in progress. That gentleman mounted on a molasses-cask, whistling, cutting up a stick, as if for the bare life, but in reality to prevent his countenance from betraying his feelings, is doing business with the man who is balancing himself on an empty barrel near him. The latter, with the eternal quid in the corner of his mouth, is clearly looking out “for the giraffe,”* and, after a while, he rises with great sang froid, with “Well, Sir, I calculate there’s a something of a string-halt in the bargain; it’s a horrid sight of money, Sir, you’re asking, and as I’m in a tarnation hurry to liquor, I’ll just put it off till next fall.” I need hardly say that this shrewd gentleman was recalled, and a bargain concluded. The process of liquoring is gone through several times before a bargain is struck.
      This, the first specimen I saw of Americans, in their own country, struck me forcibly. It shewed me that those who, in dress, appearance, &c., are decidedly the gentlemen of the land, are so devoted to money making, as evidently to have neither time, nor many ideas to waste on other subjects. It convinced me, that though the contemplation of America as a nation, and at a distance, may, and indeed must be interesting, yet the investigation and survey of the people who compose that nation, must soon become wearying and monotonous. One may be amused for a time at the shrewdness with which they make their bargains, at the acuteness of their remarks, and the originality of their expressions; but once convinced, as I speedily became, that their every action proceeds from a love of amassing wealth, and you cease to become interested in individuals, whose conduct and whose pleasures are swayed by such an ignoble cause.
      The Americans are accounted, and I believe justly so, a moral people, but even this merit is, I think, not so great a one in their case, as it is among other nations. Their love of wealth being all-powerful, and being to be gratified only by the strictest attention to business, it follows, necessarily, that the habits of their lives generally become quiet and restrained.

*Anglicè, taking care he is not taken in.

      And then the view!
      What a lordly expanse ! — like a picture of Claude’s, like a description of Milton’s —

      “Russet lawns and fallows gray,
      Where the nibbing flocks do stray;
      Mountains on whose barren breast
      The hovering clouds do often rest;
      Meadows trim with daisies pied,
      Shallow brooks and rivers wide,
      Towers and battlements it sees
      Bosom’d high in tufted trees.”

      Milton, one should have thought, must have almost painted from the scene before us; to add to the beauty of which as if to leave nothing incomplete — massive woods were seen sweeping down from the nearer hills, reflected by a very large mere, or small lake, which lay sleeping in this day’s clear sunshine, at the foot of the ascent. There stood the mansion, with its extent of deepest groves, possessing a something of almost ostentatious grandeur.
      It was very large, that house, built in a sort of corrupt half-eastern, half-mediaeval style of architecture — where forms were strangely jumbled together, and great offenses no doubt committed against correct taste; but it looked so rich — such a confusion and profusion of ornament was lavished upon it — there was so great an extent, such an endless succession of roofs and towers, and pinnacles, and oriel windows, and lancet windows — such a grand porch leading into such a noble hall, that the effect altogether was magnificent.
      Then the stables, and the gardens, and the farm buildings, and all and every thing were upon such a scale!
      An almost royal scale! And every thing kept with a precision and neatness which showed that this was no display of unreal wealththat this mighty flow of expense was maintained by a spring of proportional force.
      But, to return to the shrubbery walks, the flowers, the birds, the lovely views, the birds singing as if in rivalry of each other, the cuckoo shouting, the sun shining, and the world of flowers of every hue around us.
      Is this garden of Eden desolate, that no one appears to enjoy it?
      Are its inhabitants all gone away to London at this loveliest season of the year, the two first weeks in May — and have they left this scene of beauty to be enjoyed by half a score of gardeners, and half a dozen household servants? — as is one part of the inexplicable arrangements of people belonging to the great world.
      No, one should imagine not, for here come two figures along the walk that, as a kind of terrace, crowns the brow of the hill, winding amid the purple and crimson rhododendron, the waxen almias, the yellow and white azalias, the purple clusters of the lilacs and the streaming gold of the laburnums.

      The kiss which, in my turn, I bestowed upon the babe, was inspired, however, by feelings, in which Mrs. Stanley had little share. I traced, or fancied I could trace in its tiny features some vestige of the Brookes countenance — a something of Harriet, which searched into the very depths of my heart.
      “I feel so ashamed now,” faltered the happy mother, fancying she could perceive by this tender embrace of her child that my friendship towards her was unchanged, “I feel so ashamed now of all I said to you a few weeks ago of my disgust and weariness of life. I had not then heard the cry of this little creature! — I did not then know what it was to have something belonging to one, something of one’s own, that one can clasp to one’s heart, without fear of coldness, or mockery, or ingratitude! — Oh, I know better now, than to say I am sick of life!”

The room was not filled, for the night was tempestuous, but a fair number of decent-looking persons sat with crossed legs on the semi-circular dais, around the brightly burning fire.
      At one end of this dais, sat two elderly men, stout, grey-haired, grave-looking, and, in other respects, very much resembling each other. They both wore white neck-cloths, black shorts, and grey worsted stockings — both were exceedingly taciturn — seldom spoke to each other, and yet they were inseparable companions. They walked together during the day, each with his staff held with both hands behind him, occasionally a short sentence with a monosyllable in reply would pass between them, but seldom anything more. Every evening at eight o’clock, they met again at this tavern, smoked for hours, and drank with their usual taciturnity, left the house in company, and parted at a certain part of the town, with a civil good night to each other, which many times was, may be, as much as they had said to each other previously all that day; and yet these two old men were unhappy when apart, and when the one was ill the other sat by his bedside, but, as usual, they said hardly anything to each other even then. Both were bachelors and retired men of business, the one had been a dry-salter, and the other a dealer in wool. The old men were popularly known in Drumleigh, by the sobriquet of “the babes in the wood.”
      Next to “the babes” sat a tall, elderly man in a long, faded, blue surtout, with standing collar and yellow buttons, with [193] something of a device upon them, that made them look like kind of naval uniform. He also seemed very taciturn — a thing not to be wondered at, seeing that he had spent thirty years of his life in the top of a lighthouse, on one of the remotest of the Hebrides; the island being uninhabited except by himself and a highland assistant, who, in addition to his ignorance of English, had an impediment in his speech.

Prevented from coming to the true God by the slowness of their spiritual apprehension, men cannot fail to wander in vanities of their own; and it is the knowledge of the true God which dispels these, as the sun disperses the darkness. All have naturally a something of religion born with them,ⁱ but owing to the blindness and stupidity, as well as the weakness of our minds, the apprehension which we conceive of God is immediately depraved. Religion is thus the beginning of all superstitions, not in its own nature, but through the darkness which has settled down upon the minds of men, and which prevents them from distinguishing between idols and the true God.

ⁱ “Les hommes ont naturellement quelque religion,” &c. — Fr.

And then came the great and important change in her own opinions, or, to speak more correctly, in her own feelings. There was a something, of solemnity and holiness, connected with the religion of her father, which mixed with all her earliest recollections concerning him; and the total absence of all such feelings on the part of her mother, and the almost ostentatious display of this, far from weakening the reverential feelings of her daughter, had very decidedly tended to increase them.

      At the annual meeting of the Manchester Geological Society, the following beautiful address was delivered by the Rev. Robert Vaughan, LL. D., Principal of the Lancashire Independent College, on his health being given by the Chairman, James Heywood, Esq., F. R. S. We are indebted for this excellent report to the Manchester Guardian.

      “It is no more than we are accustomed to expect from science, that it should have disposed men to cultivate what are termed the courtesies of life; for science ought to give refinement, and to awaken in man a new feeling in the intelligent intercourse he may hold with his fellow-men. I feel that I owe my place with you to-day to the feeling which science has generated. It has brought me into the midst of a company of gentlemen to whom I am unknown; but I am here purely upon the assumption that the subjects which are interesting to your party are not uninteresting to me; and that though hitherto unknown to each other, here we may meet and recognize a tie of brotherhood. (Applause.) With respect to the science of geology, in common perhaps with some others, in particular connection with whom I stand, there have been seasons in my history when I was disposed to look upon it with considerable misgivings. I am free, however, to confess, and indeed very happy to confess, that the longer I live, the more I feel interested in it, because of what it is, and because of what it tends to. Even in the little smattering of knowledge I possess in respect to it, I must confess that I have found new sources of interest opened to me, in the contemplation of nature, of which I was before unconscious, and that even the very stone that I see a man breaking on the road, to give a pass to cartwheels, has a something of poetry in it when looked at geologically — (hear), — a look of vast antiquity, that element of the sublime inseparable from the thought of long duration; for it is older than the present generation; older than the present race, or probably than all the past races on our globe. (Hear.) There is a vastness of antiquity in that very pebble, that gives to it an interest which otherwise it could not possess...”

Already was the poor girl happy. She was young, and youth wants little else to conjure happiness towards it. Nothing but sin can banish happiness, and she had made expiation. She was happy again; no thought of woe to come, of future pain, of death, — even the death of the dying man on whose breast her head rested, disturbed her bosom now. At this moment there was a sharp glitter above her head, and her husband strove, as she thought, to disengage himself from her. Ere she could look up, — a something of pain, a thick and swelling sigh, fraught with a soul, — and she lay dead in her husband's arms.
      The cry was his; but who had heard it ? None. He was not himself conscious of it. Hush! -nought but the blackbird still singing in the hawthorn.

MARHAM.
      No doubt, men’s lives do live on in their descendants.
AUBIN.
      In their flesh and blood, their beating hearts and pliant limbs; but so they do in other ways, and in other men. For every good deed of ours, the world will be the better always. And perhaps no day does a man walk down a street cheerfully, and like a child of God, without some passenger’s being brightened by his face, and, unknowingly to himself, catching from its look a something of religion, and sometimes, not impossibly, what just saves him from some wrong action.
MARHAM.
      The stream of society is such, that often a pebble falling into it has altered its course. Many times, words lightly spoken have been carried against thrones, and been their upsetting. And many a little event has had in it what in its unfolding filled towns and countries, and men’s minds and ages. I say, that, under Providence, it has done this.
AUBIN.
      An ark of bulrushes fetched from among the flags of the Nile was the saving of Moses, and the deliverance of the Israelites, and an event through which the Saviour of the world was born where he was.

“This is my little daughter, Ethel, Mr. Oglevie. You did not know I had a daughter, did you?”
      “No indeed. I never before had the pleasure of seeing the young lady, or of hearing of her. I should think she must be very tall for her age.”
      This was a very clumsy, and particularly mal-à-propos remark, and the only excuse for the speaker was, that there was a something of incongruity between the dress and appearance of Ethel Codrington which completely puzzled him, and threw him, as it were, off the balance by means of which he in general contrived to retain a tolerably graceful position in conversation, even if he did not completely comprehend it.
      But the unluckiness of this remark was two-fold; for in the first place Ethel Codrington was rather short for her age, though wonderfully grown within the last six months; and in the next, anything, and everything, that referred in any way to the age of Ethel, was extremely disagreeable to her mamma.
      She was in fact, as the reader, if blessed with a retentive memory, must be aware, considerably more at this time than sixteen years old; and though slightly made, and certainly shorter than most girls of her age, she was by no means of a stature to wear with propriety the trousers and short frock assigned to her; and, moreover, there was unluckily an expression of so much intellect, and of awakened intellect too, in her countenance, that the childish dress, and the childish epithets, bestowed upon her, were worse than ridiculous.
      Her face was one which even the unphilosophical eye of Augustus Oglevie must have looked at with interest at least, if not with admiration, had he felt himself at liberty to examine it — but he did not; and the only impression that her form and features left upon him was, that she had something strange and unaccountable in her look; and if obliged to give a more definite judgment, he would have been quite as likely to declare that he thought her ugly as handsome.
      And yet her face was one that no artist could look at once, without feeling almost passionately desirous of looking at it again.

      With respect to learning, “the Curriculum,” as Mr. Veal loved to call it, was of prodigious extent and the young gentlemen in Hart-street might learn a something of every known science. The Rev. Mr. Veal had an orrery, an electrifying machine, a turning lathe, a theater (in the wash-house), a chemical apparatus, and, what he called a select library of all the works of the best authors of ancient and modern times and languages. He took the boys to the British Museum, and descanted upon the antiquities and the specimens of natural history there, so that audiences would gather round him as he spoke, and all Bloomsbury highly admired him as a prodigiously well informed man. And whenever he spoke (which he did almost always), he took care to produce the very finest and longest words of which the vocabulary gave him the use; rightly judging, that it was as cheap to employ a handsome, large, and sonorous epithet, as to use a little stingy one.
      Thus he would say to George in school, “I observed, on my return home from taking the indulgence of an evening’s scientific conversation with my excellent friend Doctor Bulders a true archaeologian, gentlemen, a true archaeologian — that the windows of your venerated grandfather’s almost princely mansion in Russell-square were illuminated as if for the purposes of festivity. Am I right in my conjecture, that Mr. Osborne entertained a society of chosen spirits round his sumptuous board last night?”
      Little Georgy, who had considerable humor, and used to mimic Mr. Veal to his face with great spirit and dexterity, would reply, that Mr. V. was quite correct in his surmise.
      “Then those friends who had the honor of partaking of Mr. Osborne’s hospitality, gentlemen, had no reason, I will lay any wager, to complain of their repast. I myself have been more than once so favored. (By the way, Master Osborne, you came a little late this morning, and have been a defaulter in this respect more than once.) I myself, I say, gentlemen, humble as I am, humble as I am, have not been found unworthy to share Mr. Osborn'e elegant hospitality. And though I hae feasted with the great and noble of the world — for I presume that I may call my excellent friend and patron, the Right Honorable George Earl of Bareacres, as one of the number — yet I assure you that the board of the British merchant was to the full as richly served, and his reception as gratifying and noble. ‘Mr. Bluck, sir, we will resume, if you please, the passage of Eutropius, which was interrupted by the late arrival of Master Osborne.’”
      To this great man George’s education was for some time intrusted. Amelia was bewildered by his phrases, but thought him a prodigy of learning. That poor widow made friends with Mrs. Veal, for reasons of her own. She liked to be in the house, and see Georgy coming to school there. She liked to be asked to Mrs. Veal’s conversazioni, which took place once a month (as you were informed on pink cards, with ΑΘΗNH engraved on them), and where the professor welcomed his pupils and their friends to weak tea and scientific conversation...

      Brown had not left Lady Malfort when I returned to her room, so I had time to ponder on what I had heard. It seemed to unfold to me a something of the purpose and aim of life, of which I had been till then ignorant. Miss Malfort was going to be forced by her mother into the world, to be a great lady — I had a mother, who should also think of my interests. She did not think of them — should I, therefore, stupidly remain indifferent to them myself? I was tormenting myself with this question, when Brown came back from her lady.
      I immediately told her the piece of news communicated by Miss Malfort. She replied quietly that Lady Malfort had informed her of the marriage a week ago.

      When Lucia, timidly, and yet with inconceivable tenderness, took the master’s hand, she was startled by the earnestness of his look. It spoke a sudden awakening to the power of her beauty, a something of reverence for the woman, mingled with affection towards the child.

...He loved, says his biographer, the Episcopal form of government, but did not regard it as indispensable to the existence of a Church.
      But the apostles, one and all, did certainly so regard it and who is Mr. Dykes that his regards should be cared for, when the apostles themselves, eighteen hundred years since, decided the question, and left, they must have thought, no room for cavil — no cause for doubt — no ground for controversy? They considered Episcopacy to be so essential to the existence of a Church that they left no Church that they had founded exempt from the superintendence and controul of a bishop. But it has been ever the custom of those of the clergy who associate much with Dissenters to speak doubtfully or slightingly of Episcopacy as a something of very secondary moment; and grievous it is, at all times, to see especially ordained clergymen throwing aside their peculiar marks and privileges, and ranging themselves on platforms on a seeming equality, in all spiritual functions and gifts, with those whose self-styled ordination is by hands that never had other than man’s authority to ordain at all.

leaves on which time writes his oracles, are by a // something of what has been, or they must be // sort of necessity, scattered like those of the Sybil. // noodles and nobodies. And it would seem to be // Files of old newspapers, which at their current // accepting for ourselves the terms ...

      Of such elements a something approaching to hatred is sometimes, alas! engendered. Despair of exciting the sentiments they so wish to inspire drives some men to a kind of frenzied attempt to excite emotion, be it of any sort; and, powerless to bestow happiness, they take refuge in the infliction of pain.
      The anger Mr. Langford at this moment felt against his son was in proportion to the secret extravagance of his affection, and his desire for revenge to the anguish he felt. There must be a something of love mingling with both, to produce either of these feelings in their present intense degree.

      “Why, dearest — don’t be angry with me,” returned Mrs. Maybrow, “but sometimes you have seemed to me as though there was a weight upon your mind; — you do not know it, I am sure, but often, when I’ve spoken to you, you have not seemed to hear your own wife’s voice; and sometimes, when our little ones have nestled to your side, you have not noticed them, so deeply were you otherwise engaged in thought; so a dark veil appeared to rise between yourself and us, as though a something of the past seemed fully to engage your mind, and thus to make us think that we were shut out from your memory for the time. If this be true, my husband, can I not help you? whatever it may be, certain I am that it would be less burdensome if you would let me share the weight — so, do not be angry with me, dearest, think that it is your wife that speaks, and love for you dictates the words.” And Mrs. Maybrow threw herself upon her husband’s neck, trembling at what might be the consequence, yet strengthened by her conscious sense of right.

“This is the lady’s flower-garden,” said he, to change the subject. “I hope, next spring often to see you busy here.”
      “Good Heavens ! Cecil, don’t you keep a gardener ?” exclaimed she, with an accent something between terror and surprise.
      “Of course, my love, about a dozen,” replied he, smiling.
      “Then why, in the name of all that is wonderful, am I to soil my fingers by digging?” inquired she.
      “Not digging, dear, but superintending, and pruning, and all the light work suited to a lady. The terrace-garden has always been under the charge of the lady of the mansion,” said he, with a something of tender retrospection in his tone.
      “Very suitable, no doubt, for your countrybred women, who are accustomed to such occupations,” said she, scornfully; “but I received a London education, and learnt different lessons.”
      “There is nothing unlady-like in gardening, dear Laura. Women of the highest rank and most refined education take pleasure in it.”

...At the door of his own tent sat she on whom, in this his latter day, he had bestowed the better part of all his feelings; whom he loved, at once, with the tenderness of a father and the tenderness of a husband-a union of feelings that never yet produced aught but sorrow, for it never can be returned in the fulness of its own intensity.
      She was looking lovelier, too, than ever he had seen her; and though, Heaven knows, her beauty owed but little to richness of dress, yet there was a something of taste and elegance in her attire, rude as it was in quality, that pleased the eye of one who had acquired a knowledge of what constitutes beauty in other times and circumstances. She had twined a bright red handkerchief through the profuse masses of her jetty black hair, and had brought a single fold partly across her broad clear forehead. Her full round arms were bare up to the shoulders; and, as if in sport, she cast her red mantle round her, like the plaid of a Scottish shepherd, contrasting strongly, but finely, with the drapery of a blue gown beneath. Her head was bent like the beautiful head of Hagar, by Correggio; and her dark eyes, their long lashes resting on her sunny cheek, were cast down, well-pleased, upon one of the children of the tribe, who, leaning on her knees, was playing with the silver ring that circled one of the taper fingers of her small brown hand.

Martin May sat in the minister’s pew, with Mrs. Lingard. And when he left the chapel, he carried away the conclusion of the sermon, not in his memory only, but also in some hasty notes which he took.
      “We walk by the help of the same law of gravitation which the moon moves by. And when it is night, we see our way by the light of other worlds, the hosts of heaven. And our spiritual life is just as wonderful. We are living by mysterious ways, which we hardly think of; and we are aided by remoter helps than we always know. We are devout with the devoutness of ancient Psalms, — with the remorse, the repentance, the prayers, the trust, the hope, — with the heart of an old Hebrew king. And we are believers in the Father through words of eighteen hundred years ago. There is on us an impulse from what Moses was in Egypt, and Leonidas at Thermopyle. There is with us as our delight a poet whose person has been Stratford dust these two hundred years and more. And every day paradise is sung of, within our hearing, by the sweet voice of one who has himself vanished from sight long ago. There is on our souls, too, a something of beauty that is from ancient Greece, and a something of solemnity from the long, long past. When we speak, the words of our mouth are what they are from what the old Germans were in their forests, and from the manner in which the ancient Romans talked. And our own lives, from day to day, are the wiser and the calmer for the instruction which has come to us from hearts that are now beneath the turf.
      “We are strangely related. Our souls are mysteriously connected. We are akin to the past, the ages of the past; and so we may well believe ourselves heirs of the future, — as indeed we are, — heirs to futurity and other worlds.”

...The Cricket is the thirstiest of all thirsty creatures. He is not therefore
                        “the blither for the drouth,”
for where no ampler supply of liquid is at hand, he is said (heed it, ye careful house-wives!) to gnaw holes in wet woollen stockings or flannel, hung by the fire to dry. Therein, also, (though in more harmless fashion), we would make him our representative, as, thirsting after knowledge of our subject, we strive to extract from it, even when seemingly most arid, a something of refreshing moisture.
      Lastly, in all his doings, our Cricket is, confessedly, a pilferer...

No-unscathed by time, unchanged by circumstance, the devotion of her heart rested his felicity as the anchor of her hopes. She gloried secretly in his success-in privacy poured forth her sorrows when it was checked or darkened by the inevitable troubles of life, and felt that Ogilvie would ever be to her the all-in-all of earth-her fondest dream, the hope of meeting him in Heaven! The moral power of a love like this was so exalted-it led to such an unbending and heroic forgetfulness of self-that Edith O’Moore, so far from feeling jealous of the sister of her heart, was animated by a pure spirit of affection, which enabled her to rise above all the baser propensities of our nature. In creating for herself the blissful hope of happiness for Eva and Ogilvie in their future union, she was almost indemnified for the ruin of her own human visions, the memories of which she hived within her soul uncommunicated to the world's cold ear, and treasured with a something of the feeling which leads us to hang garlands on the tomb. Her resolutions were in accordance with the loftiness of her character. She continued, therefore, to forth the devotion of her feelings upon poor Eva, while sharing all her youthful hopes and fears. In exercising the treasures of her own exalted mind by turning that of her innocent rival to the cultivation of those tastes and pursuits which her unerring judg ment indicated as most likely to contribute to the respective happiness of Eva and Lord Ogilvie, Edith O’Moore also found supremest consolation.
      Thus the two superior beings who, unconsciously, had doomed her to drain the cup of unrequited love even to its bitterest dregs, became the objects of her tenderest solicitude, most constant care, and deepest comfort.

      Religion and Poetry, in harmonious communion, travel together. They cannot be separated ; — useless, futile, vain, would be all the attempts to destroy them — for, to destroy them, all that is beautiful, which excites admiration — all that is sublime, which gives birth to awe — all that is wonderful, which bespeaks incomprehensible causation, must be destroyed — for Religion and Poetry exist in all these, like angel seraphs winning us by their smiles from giving permanent and soul-engrossing attention to the commonalities, although necessities, of commercial speculation, to feel a something of their influence, which will tend to make us transcendantly more happy than all our competitive scrambles can ever make us, and to create within us a counteracting influence of a softening and humanising tendency, to so act upon our feelings as to prevent our sinking into mere machines of flesh and blood, only to be worked in the production of gold, the attainment of which, by unlimited competition without the influence of moral restraint, would set mankind in a chaos of confusion.
      Having glanced somewhat briefly at a few of the innumerable instancse that produce what I have described as the Poetry of Feeling, I shall now endeavour to illustrate what I mean by the Poetry of Diction...

      “I think it must be a fortunate thing for Mr. Leigh that he has a friend like you,” Clare said, with perfect simplicity, and with a something of regret in her voice, as if another thought was in her mind.
      “I think it is,” Ralph as simply replied; “I have none of Edward’s brains, but I have a cool head, and that is always at his service. I sometimes wish that I was wiser, that I might advise him better — and more stubborn, that I might hold my opinions, when they are good ones, more stoutly against his — but what can’t be done must be let alone, and what I can do I do.”
      Clare liked this devotion to his friend : that she did might be read on her countenance. Ralph saw it, and answered it.

      “I wonder,” began the poor invalid, after a very long silence on the part of the Father, who had been engaged very busily in writing, “that we have not heard from Woodfield — it is so unlike Lucy, leaving me so long without a line.”
      “I did not wish,” returned the Priest, “to agitate you, my dear son; you must forgive my little concealment; I had, a few days since, a letter for you, enclosed in one to me, from your respected mother; you have been too suffering for me to give it to you; but as you appear so anxious for news, I will not keep it any longer from you; — here it is,” and Father Giacomo handed him a letter, which Cecil eagerly seized.
      “You will observe,” continued the Priest, "that your mother has been ill," whilst he watched the anxious countenance of his pupil during the perusal of the letter; “Miss Craven is from home.”
      For some moments Cecil was silent; but he handed the letter back, and, taking up a book, appeared to read; his thoughts, however, were far, far away; they were at home with his mother and Lucy — the gentle companion of his youth — the one of all others that held the most prominent place in his heart. Poor young man! the near prospect of death which would force itself upon him, in spite of all Father Giacomo’s assurances, that, as summer drew on, he would be better, a feeling of inward disquiet, which he could not distinctly analyse, now took possession of his mind. What if, really, his days were passing away? if he should shortly die? on what were his hopes for eternity founded? He had, until his arrival in Rome, constantly attended Mass, and lived a strict Roman Catholic. He was truly attached to his tutor — the wily Priest; yet there were moments of late, when a something of doubt would arise, as to the power and sufficiency of the religion he professed to save his soul. And these thoughts would press very seriously upon his lonely hours. At first he repressed, as blasphemous, this temptation-which he considered it to be-but latterly, the conversation he had had, on leaving Woodfield, with his sister, as well as the recollection of many previous ones, dwelt vividly upon his mind; her earnest request, too, that he would “Search the Scriptures” for the truth, all forcibly presented itself, and Cecil, on the day we are here speaking of, took from its hiding-place (for he had never allowed Father Giacomo to know of his sister’s gift) his little Bible. And now, whenever an opportunity occurred, and that he was alone, the Sacred Volume became his companion.

Syntax of Articles.
Rule 4. Position and Agreement.
      The Articles may stand immediately before, and agree with the nouns to which they belong; as,

Eia ke kumu mua, here is the first reason.
He keiki kana, he had a child.
Ka hoomaau, the persecution.
Kekahi moku haole, a certain foreign ship.
Ka moku, he wahi kiakahi, the vessel, a something of one mast.
Kuu wahi kino mai, my something of a sick body.
Loaa ia’u kahi pauku wahie, I found a stick of firewood.
I hookahi malama, $5. (dala.)
For one month $5, i.e. $5 per month.

      He was an intelligent-looking man, of about fifty-five; but with a dark and sunburnt complexion. The expression of his eyes bespoke a kindliness of heart; his manner gave him a certain patriarchal air, dignified, yet simple. He wore a vestment, which was neither a coat nor a jacket; kneebreeches; shoes and stockings of a rough manufacture; a something of blue which girded his waist, and might have been a twisted apron; and finally, a long-pointed red cap, the extremity of which hung downwards to his shoulders. His dress differed little from that of the peasantry around him, which is not very dissimilar to the dress of the inhabitants of High Catalonia.
      This was the Syndie, whose knowledge of sheep was much more profound than his skill in legislation, and whose acquaintance with European politics was just so much as that he knew there was a war between Russia and France, but was ignorant that England was engaged in it. It may be readily conjectured that this simple shepherd-king had not much taste for political disquisitions.

      ... As we write, it is exactly at the quiet “thought-hour,” at that Abenddaemmerung of the Germans, which “twilight” is far from translating — since the idea is that of “evening-dimmer-ing” — a something of light growing darker peculiar in its force. However, the time reminds us of some verses by a lady contributor to Graham, which will come in appropriately enough to our feelings, at least.

      But the half-weaver and half-shoemaker indicated no sorrow of heart. His hand was quick to get the bedstead corded up, the straw ticking on, the washtub (with a few tea things and crockery wares in it) pushed into the old cupboard which was already occupied by such natives as rats, mice, and spiders. The children were not less industrious. They helped to unload the wagon, and prepare the reception room for the best arrangement of our limited stock. But my mother looked sad and weary. Her eye was filled with an expression of insight. There was a something of distance in the air of abstraction which pervaded her. I record this fact, because, although she may have appeared thus interior a thousand times before, this is the first time when my attention became arrested and fixed by it. Her mind seemed far from the immediate scene.
      Nothing of importance transpired worth recording for several weeks.

      The broken sentences he had heard her murmur in her delirium, strung themselves together in his mind, as he hurried away towards Emery Street: "No rest, no peace !" the words she so often used, floated back to his memory; and then remembering the petition she had so urged upon him, her earnest and continuous prayer for life, he marvelled if the boon had been granted to her only as a punishment for her importunity. He had never felt so strong an interest for any one as for Judith Mazingford; [170] there was a something of romance, of energy, of eccentricity about her which piqued his curiosity, and kept his feelings always up to fever pitch when in her presence.
      She was more like a man in many ways than a woman; it seemed almost as though the weaknesses and foibles of her sex had been burned out of her, in the scorching fire of trouble she had passed through.

...And though the expression of his large mouth was vulpine, yet with the ferocity was a something of that resolution and firmness which are such great elements of courage.
      The waistcoat to which he owed his nickname of Stunning Steenie, and which had served him so well in so many capacities (until he was fitted out at Her Majesty’s expense in good sailor toggery), had found its way, after many vicissitudes, to Rag Fair, where, though in the sere and yellow leaf, it was admired of all beholders, and was ultimately purchased as a wedding waistcoat by old Blarney, the dog-stealer, when at seventy he took to himself a third wife of twenty (lucky for her), blind, and not quite right in the head.

      By the time the latter entered the apartment adjoining the garden, Lawrence had so placed himself that, unperceived by her, he could scrutinize her features closely. Her face was very pale, and she seemed laboring under considerable excitement, though she made an effort to appear very gay and unconcerned. She was tall, had a good figure, and by many was considered handsome — more especially as she was supposed to be an heiress to great wealth, and always dressed elegantly, a la mode Her features were regular; but there was something in the expression of her small, light blue eyes, and about her mouth — a something of fickleness, duplicity, and voluptuousness — that would not please a physiognomist...
      “At eighteen, and so depraved !” said Lawrence, mentally, as he stood regarding Anna. “So young ! so beautiful ! and so lost in vice !...”

There is another version at Inverary, repeated to me by a stable boy who was then employed at the ferry of St. Katharines, and who repeated it in Gaelic while rowing the boat to Inverary...
... So he looked, and found a bit of stone, threw it, and it became a mountain. The giant came, looked for his big hammer and his little hammer, and smashed his way through the hill, and she felt his breath again. Then he sought in the ear, and found a (something) of water, and threw it, and it became a loch of fresh water...
... The stable boy said that he had learned this from a very old man, now living near Lochgilphead, who could tell it much better than he could...

      Giuliani was standing behind a sofa in the farthest part of the room, opposite to the door, when she entered. Their eyes met for an instant, then glanced away from each other. Lill seated herself between two ladies she did not know, all her wishes limited at that moment to a desire of keeping clear of Mr. Giuliani. No sooner had she warranted him by appearing where she did to claim her before all the world, than she wanted to avoid him. Absent he had much more power over her than present. Absent she pictured him as lonely, poor, sorrowful. Present his firm countenance, a something of authority [232] in his look and manner, occasionally a dash of humour in what he said, made her, she could not tell why, half resentful, and inclined to be haughty to him. His voice, always peculiarly pleasant, and perhaps so because it had in it so much of his prevailing moral qualities, sincerity and decision (he never mouthed, nor gabbled, nor hesitated, nor minced his words) — even his voice, which had at first attracted her attention at Mrs. Caledon’s, this evening displeased her.

      A small, meek-looking, white-faced young man, with very gentlemanly manners, entered the room in a few moments.
      “You wanted to see the Earl of Whitcombe, sir?” he said, addressing Captain Heron.
      “Yes.”
      “The Earl regrets, exceedingly, that he has not the honour of recollecting you!”
      “He will recollect me, when he sees me!”
      “Nor is your title at all familiar to him, as that of any one accredited here from any European Court.”
      “I am afraid not, sir; but if you will be so good as to say that I have private business of great importance with his lordship, you will much oblige me!”
      “I am afraid that his lordship is too busy, and will continue too busy, to see any one whom he does not know.”
      “But suppose, sir, that some one whom his lordship does not know should happen to have a something of the greatest consequence to communicate of consequence, not so much to himself as to the Earl ?”
      “Then, Baron, I fancy the communication would have to be made through me.”
      Captain Heron shook his head.
      “Or in writing.”
      Captain Heron shook his head again.
      “No, sir! — no! It may not be! Let me think a moment! Yes, yes!”
      “Sir!”
      “That will do!”
      Captain Heron said these words with so much sharpness and precision, that they seemed to affect the nerves of the polite young secretary almost as much as if a pistol-shot had suddenly gone past his eyes.
      “What will do, sir? I warn you!”
      “Warn me? Of what?”
      “We have always assistance at hand!”
      “It is not required, sir!”
      Captain Heron took from his pocket the packet of letters he had procured from his Excellency the Spanish Ambassador, and tore a triangular piece off one of them, which was in the handwriting of the Earl of Whitcombe.
      Folding, then, that triangular piece of paper many times, until it occupied a very small compass, he said to the secretary, as he handed it to him, "Sir, I trust to your honour not to open this paper, but to deliver it, just as it is, to the Earl of Whitcombe, and say that the gentleman with the remainder of that letter wishes to see him at once.”

...You further say you would “appeal to the Volunteers with good-will and confidence as men who had shown a something of life and spirit.” I cannot follow you here. No one, probably, has a much higher respect than I have for a man arming himself when his country is wrongfully assailed, and all her ordinary means of defense are insufficient, but my own experience in this matter leads me to conclusions very different from yours...

      Few gentlemen, be it understood, for with the ladies it was, of course, different, — at least, with the ladies of Ormiston: they had views concerning the unmarried Mr. Bradel, which the ruder sex could not share, and naturally considered him accordingly. In their eyes, not only his appearance, but the endowments of his mind, the qualities of his disposition, deserved fullest commendation; — not only was he handsome, but far better than handsome. The virtues usually possessed by pretenders to ample estates were decreed to him largely. Indeed, a something of less perfection might have increased his popularity with them; for as he actually stood, without a drawback to his list of advantages, he seemed rather placed too high for the most aspiring to attain. It seemed almost unwarrantable presumption in any girl seriously to hope for such a prize. He was to be dreamt of, not hoped for, and many a foolish dream had been about him: because of such dreams many an eligible offer had been declined, — an offer which perhaps offered no more, and was secretly wept over at the bitter waking.

The next — our home they fill full —
      Like the most pert of boys,
Is still an urchin wilful,
      And fills our days with noise;
Yet, darling of his mother,
      He loves so well to kiss,
We’d have him just no other
      Than all to us he is;
Though plain this one we see is
      A something of a gnome,
Dear as the others he is,
      This fairy of our home.
Another, somewhat bigger,
      Has bent to mortal rule,
Can read, and seems to figure,
      A boy, ’mongst boys at school;
He, mortal sports unheeding,
      Will pore, of thought bereft
 
For all things else, still reading
      Of Elf-land he has left.

      “You are too severe, Miss Gilchrist. How can you say such shocking things?”
      “Shocking! it is quite natural. He prefers a small field to none, and exercises such capabilities as have been given him on things weak enough to own such influences.”
      Not even rude jesting this, but sharp earnestspoken with eye and cheek aflame and bitter tone! Miss Creighton shrank and exclaimed weakly, and all Gérard's face lightened with some emotion that was gone on the instant; while Meave sat in that strange hush that comes at such times, her own words ringing mercilessly in her ears. At last way of escape came. Gérard found even that for her, and she stole away as miserable a thing as ever went down a garden-path. She was ashamed to look at Vivia, she had so very much the feeling of having stabbed that good little thing, who quite adored her brother: and to think that since she must insult him, of all malicious, vapid gossips she could choose no other witness than Miss Creighton! He must hate her, and despise her, too, and that thought was intolerable, because she deserved it. She would at least have tried to raise herself above his contempt by making such reparation as was possible; but if he chose that she should feel a something of distance and division between them that she could by no means pass, what remained but to sit down quietly with this tangled skein of her own spinning? Nothing, for a weaker will and courage; but she, chancing to find him one day on the beach, put tremors and heart-beating on one side, and coming up to him said, resolutely,
      “Mr. Baracole, I have something to say to you.”
      He looked down at her curiously. There was such an odd mixture of shamefacedness and daring about her.
      “I am sorry that I spoke to you a I did before Miss Creighton,” went on Meave, hurriedly, for she felt her courage going.
      “And I, that you should have troubled yourself with an apology. It needed none.”
      Meave put that aside with a peremptory weave of the hand.
      “That is conventional. Please don’t. I am going to be sincere.”

...The first song, I felt assured, would either mar or make the position I was placed in; it was that wild and almost unearthly drinking song, ‘Life is darkened o’er with woe.’ I had been given to understand that in Germany it was customary for Caspar to make a few uncouth steps, a sort of dancing, to the symphonies of the song, but this was so imperfectly conveyed to me, that I scarcely understood it; a something of the subject gleamed across me, and a study of the situation caused me to imagine that a man placed as I was, inducing a fellow-huntsman to use the magic bullet to save, if not myself, most certainly my head partner from perdition, would naturally have recourse to the most desperate means to accomplish his purpose on the instant; then there flashed across me a memory of some American Indians I had seen the season before exhibited at the Lyceum, in a melodrama written for them, in which they went through their war dance in the most excited and determined manner imaginable. I resolved to carry out the idea in the action of my song, but disguised my intention till the first evening of the performance, fearful lest the manager might object, if he observed it at rehearsal.
      The house on that eventful night was thronged with Germans; the overture encored, the curtain rose, and all proceeded quietly and well, till it came to my drinking song.

We have no wish to be hyper-critical, and we have therefore little to say respecting the performers. We missed in Signor Mattei’s pianoforte playing refinement as well as feeling; while in Mr. Wells’s flute-playing mildness of style perhaps preponderated over execution. Now we do not expect at a conversazione of a young society to find M. Hallé, Mr. Pratten, or the pick of the opera singers; but we do expect, when we receive a card of invitation from a society of young gentlemen who, in the intensity of their art aspirations, have separated themselves from the recognised and chartered architectural body as a something of the past, and as quite behind the advancing art talent and art feeling of the present day — when we are perpetually reminded by these young gentlemen of the necessity of cultivating art in its every phase, and of educating and refining the imaginative powers; when we are lectured and abused for our love of looking-glasses and French polish, and told that we must be muscular men, and approach the study of art with manly earnestness, and not with the nimini-pimini sentimentality of bread and butter misses — when all this is done and said, we surely have a right to expect something a little more exhilarating than “The Last Rose of Summer” and “Jenny Jones.”

      What however gives to the houses of Hasa their most decided superiority over those of Central Arabia, is the employment of the arch, without which indeed there may be building, but hardly construction. The Ḥaşa arch, whether large or small, contracted to a window or spanning the entire abode, is, I believe, never the segment of one circle, but of two; it is half-way between the form peculiar to Tudor Gothic, and the “lancet” of the Plantagenets. Neither did I witness here the horseshoe curve characteristic of what is called Moresco architecture; it is a simple, broad, but pointed arch, within which an equilateral, sometimes an obtuse, but never an acute triangle, could be inscribed. The arch brings other improvements with it; the entire house becomes here much more regular, its apartments wider, its arrangement more symmetrical, light and air circulate with greater abundance and facility; while the roof, instead of remaining a mere mass of heavy woodwork, supported midway on clumsy pillars, assumes a something of lightness and spring, very refreshing to the eye of a traveller just arrived from Riad.
      Under these roofs, by these firesides, while coffee went round, and poetical recitations or tales of the land, interspersed with many a good joke and hearty laugh, hurried on the too-rapid hours of night, we had ample occasion to see what is sometimes called “the reverse of the medal,” and what I might perhaps, in common with the Arabs, entitle even more expressively “the underside of the carpet.” For every Nejdean blessing on Feysul, here were ten curses; for every good wish there bestowed on the “Muslims,” here were bitter imprecations.

But the great trainer estimated all these condescensions at their true value. He never concealed from himself the motives that caused these people to be so civil to him; and perhaps he had seen too much of the turfite aristocracy to be flattered by their attentions, even had they been disinterested. But Walter Lisgard’s greeting was different from those which he was wont to receive from his great patrons; there was not only a cordial frankness about it, but a something of sympathy, conveyed with marvellous tact, in his air and manner; which seemed to say: “I unfeignedly regret that anything like friendship should be impossible between us, for I am your social superior; and yet, how ridiculous a thing it is that this should be so. I, but the younger brother of a man himself of no great position, and you, at the head of that profession in which the noblest in the land take so great and personal an interest.” If Mr. Chifney did not read all this, it is certain that so acute an observer could not fail to read some of it. He was as far from being moved by any considerations not strictly practical as any man connected with horseflesh; his calling, too, rendered him as suspicious of his fellow-creatures as a police detective; but Master Walter’s sort of flattery was too subtle for him.

      “Anton Trendellsohn — a Jew,” she said, at last.
      “Yes, aunt; Anton Trendellsohn, the Jew. I am engaged to him as his wife.”
      There was a something of doubtful futurity in the word engaged, which gave a slight feeling of relief to Madame Zamenoy, and taught her to entertain a hope that there might be yet room for escape. “Marry a Jew, Nina,” she said; “it cannot be possible!”

It was indeed a relief. Her brother-in-law dead, and he also who had so lately been her suitor! These two men whom she had so lately seen in lusty health, — proud with all the pride of outward life, — had both, by a stroke of the winds, been turned into nothing. A terrible retribution had fallen upon her enemy, — for as her enemy she had ever regarded Hugh Clavering since her husband’s death. She took no joy in this retribution. There was no feeling of triumph at her heart in that he had perished. She did not tell herself that she was glad, — either for her own sake or for her sister’s. But mingled with the awe she felt there was a something of unexpressed and inexpressible relief. Her present life was very grievous to her, and now had occurred that which would open to her new hopes and a new mode of living.

There was a something of Alice Craven in every feature (The Heiress of Haughton : 106)
a something of obstinancy and versatility mingled in his character, that rendered it one of the most difficult of all to be beneficially guided... Thus time slipped away. (The Heiress of Haughton : 107)
but I never heard sweet Moggie speak — for there was a something of the Moggie left in her still — and chattering away... (The Heiress of Haughton : 116)
might be met by a something of a similar nature as regarded Miss Vernor (Ravenscliffe : 46)
that gave a something of the same sad and solemn tranquility to the feelings of Eleanor (Ravenscliffe : 64)

A conundrum here, a problematic volume that contains four novels, the first being Mrs. Eiloart, her The Curate’s Discipline (New York, 1867). And yet “a something of” appears not in that book, but in two of the three others — all by Anne Marsh-Caldwell — bound with it :
The Heiress of Haughton, or, The Mother’s Secret (1855)
Mordaunt Hall, or, A September Night (1849)
Ravenscliffe (1851)
(years are for first publication).

      Florence was now just entering entering her eighteenth year. She was a tall girl, rather thin, with dark hair and eyes, a long neck and pale complexion, and of a somewhat masculine looking countenance. Though her parents considered Florence beautiful and charming in her appearance, perhaps few strangers would have subscribed to that opinion. There was a something of sternness too about her manner, which, though difficult to define in words, was felt to be rather chilling by those who were accustomed to [93] meet Florence, even now as a girl. Her mode of greeting was stiff and formal, especially towards those who were not quite on the same social footing; and altogether there was that about her which did not accord with our general ideas of feminine character.
      Perhaps much of the peculiarity of Florence's disposition was attributable to the accidental circumstances in which she had been placed. Without brothers or sisters, she was left a good deal to herself, for Blackmore and its neighbourhood afforded little society.

The February morning was fine and sunshiny a touch of spring in the air, like a promise of summer, yet enough of winter to remind them of hard weather. Turning sharp to the right, they went gaily along — Vere full of inquiry, Ferrars willingly doing the cicerone. There was a something of Emma about the young fellow, that lost nothing by its manly expression.

...To trace the evolution of the powers of the mind in response to matter, is easy. Such a hypothesis may be as true as it is specious. It is quite consistent with a reasonable idealism, if the impressions conveyed by matter be treated as occasions rather than causes. But if traced backwards, there is a point at which the action of matter is no longer conceivable. Positivism may say that at this point our experience comes to an end, and what is beyond experience is an empty space, which can be bridged only by the unsubstantial creations of the imagination. Experience goes no further than the first material impression. But reason, instructed [9] by experience, makes known to us that there can be no impression without something impressed; and, further, that the response to a given impression differs according to the thing upon which the impression is made. Thus, experience implies an antecedent something, and a something of some special nature, to be, not only the point from which it has its beginning, but also to contribute to its results. There is, then, a primitive element of mind, as well as a primitive element of matter. Again, the mutual action of these elements must commence with one or the other of them.

...And then he was himself so utterly unassuming, so entirely unaware that he in his own person owned, or was likely ever to own, gifts that the rich heiress of Gillingham could covet, that, as I said before, he was at the beginning almost more puzzled than gratified by her notice.
      That this state of things should have occasioned at first a something of distance in the relations between the cousins is not surprising, nor need it afford subject for wonder that that very distance lent a piquancy to their intercourse which was not, to the petted heiress at least, without its charm. Lady Millicent had been so beset by flatterers, and so cloyed by adulation, that the silence, the fits of absence, and the almost brusqueries of her cousin Cecil were greeted by her as a very agreeable variety. She was sick to death of oversweet confections, of butter and honey she had been positively surfeited, so that the honest brown-bread diet, dry and husky though it was, which was all that she appeared likely to obtain from Cecil Vavasour, tasted fresh and wholesome to her fevered palate.
      But there was, as I before said, another cause — the cause, in fact — for Lady Millicent’s obvious appreciation of her cousin, and that motive power was her cousin’s future rank; for Mr. Vavasour, simple as he stood before her, quiet, unpretending, noticeable for his carelessness of outward advantages, his simple manners, and his unfashionable dress, could nevertheless, failing some very abnormal event, be the means of obtaining for her in a mitigated degree the fulfilment of her long-cherished desirethe hope of her heart, the insatiable craving, known only to herself, to wear, while retaining the noble name of Vavasour, the coronet of a British peeress on her brow.

“Yes. I will tell her.”
      The silence between them, which these surface-words did not seem to break for some strange reason, seemed full of meaning to Miss Dundas — her color, her ordinary strength and vigor left her: it was as though she saw a warning presence which held them apart; the ghost, the shadow of a something of which the reality was never to live, never to be known to them. She tried to thrust it aside with any sound of words, without caring for their meaning:
      “I will never see her again. I never have been outside of these hills. Friends who go away are lost to me for ever. But you will see her? She is going back to Manasquan, and you have lived there. You can go back again to see the mists come up over the marshes, and the sea break on the beach: Lizzy has told me of it. It is good to be a man, to come and go where you will. There is nothing to keep a man from his friend unless death part them.”
      “No, I can never go back to Manasquan.”

A magnitude estimated numerically in reference to a magnitude of the same kind as unit is called a QUANTITY.
      The numerical representative of the ratio of a magnitude to a magnitude of the same kind being the very same as the numerical expression of the former magnitude in reference to the latter as unit is called a NUMERICAL QUANTITY. A numerical quantity then can only be said to be either a number or a something akin to a number from which there are numbers that differ by less than any assignable number. A numerical quantity is called COMMENSURABLE if a number and INCOMMENSURABLE if not.

      There was no escape from this. The question was tersely and succinctly put, and Ruby could no longer, even if she had wished it, play the game of “off and on” with her two lovers. One, at least, she felt would not be trifled with, so she braced herself — it was not a pleasant girding of her loins — to the duty that lay before her.
      “I have been very wrong — very wicked,” (she began, and Lucius knew as soon as those halfdozen words had left her lips, that his doom was sealed. “I ought not to have let it come to this, Captain Forrester!” and she laid her little ungloved hand, lightly and timidly on his arm. “Will you — can you forgive me?”
      “I do not understand,” he said, in a voice, low, and to Ruby's thinking, strangely altered. “What [192] have I to forgive? Let me know quickly, Miss Raynor. It is an old-world axiom, that few things are less endurable than suspense.”
      The tone in which these words were uttered — a something of hardness — the result (but how was Ruby to guess that?) of the man’s stern endeavour to be calm, rendered it more than ever difficult for her to act the part of a confessing penitent. She could not, almost literally she could not, frankly own the truth that she was Herbert Pryor’s promised wife. Even had it not been that every loving faculty of her being was asserting itself in favour of his rival, she could not so humiliate herself, so torture him, as say the words which duty, in its stern, low whisper, told her, should then and there be uttered.
      But there was a middle course (ah! how often has that “middle course” been grasped at, as the straw to save a drowning man, by the weak and by the erring!) — there was a middle course which might, and would for a moment, ward off discomfort to both the lady and her lover — a middle course which would save some blushes to the cheek of self-accusing Ruby, and might send poor Lucius to his bed a happier man, than (if the girl he loved had possessed the courage to be true) he could have hoped to be that night.

      It is good to have been, once in a life, such “little fool” as Regina was that night. All happiness has to be paid for; but it is much to have had the happiness — so many lives pass without it — pass in a dull, gray indifference. Paul’s mother, for instance, had never known a similar feeling to that now experienced by her intended daughter-in-law. Poor Madame Latour! not one wish or project of hers but had been realized in the way most painful to her.
      Nor had Madame Saincère any conception of the hymn of joy now being sung in Regina’s bosom. Madame Saincère’s nature had never been fully developed. Some fibres had never vibrated. Happiness is as necessary to the complete development of our faculties as grief; and Madame Saincère had never known the supremest earthly good — that of loving and being loved. It was this shortcoming which gave a something of hardness to her character. When, in wishing Regina good-night, she had added, “You will see Paul to-morrow,” had Regina spoken as she felt, and said “Not so soon,” Madame Saincère would have wondered. She had never felt as Regina was feeling, that craving of the soul for [255] space and solitude to understand, to measure, to embrace its sudden wonderful happiness.
      And Paul! Well, it is not to be expected that he should be in a similar frame of mind. No man of his age or character renounces all his past without regret — nay, more without dread.

      The dearest, the holiest affection we know on earth has still a something of earth, a something of selfishness, adhering to it, from which we need a constant effort, an unceasing watchfulness, to free ourselves. ‘Ceux que j’aime le plus, j’ ai si mal aimé,’ is Mme. Gasparin’s complaint; but in Heaven we shall be ‘as the angels,’ and if while on earth we have striven to
                        ‘Hallow Love, as knowing surely
                        It returneth whence it came,’
hereafter that love will
                        ‘Find its own immortal level
                        In the Charity of Christ.’
      ‘There is a River the streams whereof shall make glad the City of God.’ Again, as with everything else that is good, this thought brings us back to the roots of our ‘yggdrasil,’ the tree of life which grows on either side of the River.

      “Which is Colonel Falconbridge?” was the first inquiry of her reviving faculties.
      In a group of gentlemen near she soon distinguished, she felt persuaded, the object of her search. That one must be military: the air, the whole bearing, was that of habitual command. A lofty stature, fine cast of features; a man, in short, who, judged according to Flaxman’s theory that the noblest souls are lodged in the noblest frames, might rank among the master-spirits of the age. The expression of countenance was less prepossessing. There was, she thought, a something of hauteur; yet it might be no more than what is honoured as “true dignity of mind.” From these observations she was diverted very agreeably by being joined by Mrs. Falconbridge. There was no mistaking at any time the language of that face, and it was now that of lively joy. In answer to Catherine’s praise of her singing, she said, most unaffectedly, “Oh, that was nothing! You should have come sooner: we had a solo from the young lady now at the piano that was really exquisite. She is also, as you may perceive, uncommonly pretty. Her name, I understand, is Lisle.”
      Catherine commanded her countenance perfectly well as she received this information, with the addition, “She is here under charge of an aunt, and appears to be an especial favourite with the Duchess.”
      Another brilliant display of Sophia’s musical powers interrupted the discourse; but it was hardly ended when Mrs. Falconbridge exclaimed, “You have not yet seen my husband, Catherine.”

      It was because she had expected something entirely different that Madame de Beaupré was disappointed in Raymond’s appearance. If not critically handsome, he had one of those faces which are a letter of recommendation. Impossible to imagine that envy, malice, or uncharitableness could lurk behind those frank, open eyes! Ah! Madame de Beaupré, wait till you have seen the sous-lieutenant smile, and till you have heard him laugh. Only a man with a good honest genial nature could have such a pleasant cheery laugh.
      The impression Madame de Beaupré made on Raymond was quite other from that he had produced on her. He had expected to find a pretty woman, such as one meets every day; coquettish, well-dressed, with the undefinable grace which belongs to Frenchwomen as a rule. Instead of this, he found himself examining a face, with pretty features certainly, but which attract by a something enigmatical, a something of a disagreement, or of a double character in the expression.
      Most people saw nothing more in Madame de Beaupré than a pretty capricious woman, just as there are people who can hear nothing but confusion in a symphony of Beethoven.
      Raymond Savoisy, born with a richness of imagination which might have made him distinguished in the career of art, at once perceived the contradiction, the character of duality in the face of his hostess...

      It is fortunate, indeed, that there are other inducements to virtue than those that result from the consideration of its utility, as estimated by the ‘metretik art.’ ‘The greatest happiness of the greatest number’ sounds at first as if it denoted a something of great tangibility. In reality it is the name of a gigantic abstraction, far too shadowy and far too removed from realisation to exercise any perceptible influence upon our conduct.

and that the cause of their formation must be a something // of life. A speck only 1/32 of an inch in diameter has, at ten // which is kept away by gauze. But the cause will not keep // inches from the eye, the same apparent size as an object // away aeriform bodies or fluids. // This something must

      Mr. Merton, after reflection, decided on writing a letter of sympathy to Miss Gray’s niece. Doctor Jennings had attended his mother in her last hours spent on earth, and in gratitude to that memory it was his duty to write to his widow, and in order to recall her to earlier days, to a long-ceased connexion with himself he would with one little touch say a something of “dear Miss Gray, of happy days spent in Broughton Place, Flat No. 3, which he could never forget, notwithstanding the after cloud which obscured their brightness.”
      Such a letter as is sketched above Mr. Merton wrote, and Annie now read, and read with the feelings he desired. The well remembered precise [76] characters she gazed at, and letting the letter lie before her, she sank into a reverie over past days induced by its contents. How dear Aunt Jane used to treasure every scrap of that formal hand, and place them in the secret recesses of her Davenport.

It is during youth that there is most sensibility to outward things. The character has not yet been, as it were, stereotyped, and is especially likely to be influenced by those persons and things by which it is surrounded. Oftentimes in childhood is struck the key-note to which all the rest of the life is attuned. Many is the professional man — many the man of business — whom few would suspect of anything approaching to sentiment, who yet owes what there is of softness and geniality in his character to the subtle influences of a far off childhood; while, on the other hand, they who have no memories of the kind to recall, who have been cast forth upon the world to fare as best they could, with nothing but cruelty or neglect to look back upon — these have in almost all cases, excepting only the very highest and noblest minds, a something of hardness and scepticism, or, it may be, of sadness, in their disposition, that has its rise from this cause.
      Having, then, endeavoured to appreciate duly the various external influences, we come to a more difficult part of our study — the analysis of the character upon which these influences are at work.

      “Are you suffering much pain, darling?” said her mother, leaning over her.
      “Oh, yes, mamma; pain of mind as well as body.”
      Mrs. Norton asked no further questions; but she felt sure that a something of wrong was implied in this remark. She turned to Edith, and placing her arm round her, she said, “God will bless you, my dear girl, for your loving care of my Eleanor.”
      “It was He who gave me presence of mind and sent me to the room in time to save her,” said Edith, softly.

The first reflection that I will base on the facts on which we have dwelt is, that if we allow our minds a sufficient verge, and survey the exiles of the Popes in their entirety, it will follow that we shall in no wise allow our affliction at the present state of Rome to take the form of surprise and consternation. Bismarck and his German Empire, Napoleon III. and his “accomplished facts,” Cavour and his sturdy king, dispossessed kings, eternal republics, one and indivisible, empires and kingdoms a little but not much more eternal, constitutions written and sworn to and forgotten before the ink is dry, unalterable laws which no one will obey, small tyrants at Bâle and Geneva, or greater ones at Berlin; plebiscites, petroleum, modus vivendi, and the star of the Napoleonic dynasty — all these things will have their little day and do their little worst, and go their way to join the long phantasmagoria of human things, washing about with the rest at the foot of the rock of Peter in ceaseless flux till time shall end. He has lived through far louder storms, and looked forth upon many a darker horizon than those of to-day. It is only the necessary egotism of our brief personal span of time which makes us ever think otherwise — a something of sense analogous to the difficulty we find in realizing in winter that it will ever be warm again, and vice versâ. The main second cause of all the exiles of the Popes has always been the greed of power and of conquest, and the rogues of this hour are mere pettifogging thieves compared with many of their predecessors, from Alaric and Genseric down to Napoleon I.
      Next, I would say, and as a consequence of what I have just read, let us not dream of any compromise.

      And so this Compton, their immediate successor, must endure a life-long torture; for he was a man as little like to attain to the stoicism of a philosopher as to the sublime indifference of a Christian.
      Though never an expression of feeling escaped, we believe, through twenty years, our poor Squire viewed the kennel with disgust, and turned with a something of shame from the costly range of stabling, because, forsooth, the kennel lacked the priceless pack of yore; the stables, though they had their tenants, had not such as once had graced them. Where were the rivals of the four faultless animals which had borne his mother along the road so nobly? No relic of such state was left, save her huge yellow coach, which, locked into its carriage-house, had mouldered to decay, as she herself in the side aisle of St. Catherine.

Many hours had not elapsed when Dr. Graham, guided by the wheeling in the air of some ravens, whose rising upwards and sinking downwards suddenly into a field had attracted him, stood side by side with his dead friend.
      I have stood face to face with death — I have witnessed death’s carnival during the Franco-Prussian war — have seen thousands gasping for breath, with blood-stained uniforms, ghastly wounds, shattered limbs, and moaning voice of agony; but I think that the aspect of a murdered form has a something of indescribable horror all its own. I have stood and gazed upon a murdered one found by the constabulary, lying, a dread spectacle, by the road-side; and I can well understand Dr. Graham’s horror as he bent over his old friend and marked the shocking wounds which had terminated his earthly existence. He had evidently struggled hard, and was now lying under a blooming golden furze hedge, the body half-immersed in the stagnant water, and his hands grasping still the grass in their deathgrip of agony.
      “He died hard, your honour,” said a hoarse, harsh voice close by the rector, who involuntarily started.

So Mr. Behringbright thought as he slowly made his way, pausing at various obstructions which he chiefly found for himself, towards the company, keeping the figure always, nevertheless, in his eye. At least, so far as re- [123] lated to physical considerations. He was very far indeed from giving Madeleine Graham credit for the capacities of exalted mischief she possessed, and perhaps could scarcely have conceived them, not having himself a particle of the perfervidum ingenium, either of Scot or Hibernian, in his own calm Dutch and Saxon compounded nature. He also thought she was very much improved from her exceedingly girlish appearance when he had first seen her, under circumstances so inauspicious to favourable consideration, but in which she had stamped her image so ineffaceably on his memory. There was even a something of passionate sentiment and physical exaltation in her general expression, which, while it puzzled conjecture, had a singular species of fascination and attraction for Mr. Behringbright, who, without knowing it, had been all his life sighing for sentiment and enthusiasm in his relations with the fair sex. Alas! the fairest gave him no opportunity to enjoy those exquisite alternations of hope and fear which make up the lover’s irrational delight, and keep alive the kindled fire! Every body was so ready to have him; he had only to glance to see difficulties vanish, like darkness before the flash of a lamp!
      It was different in this case...

...Even the tact which each possessed in an exquisite degree was not the same in each; in one it was the self-graduating power of a clever machine, — in the other, the delicateness of the sensitive-plant. Mrs. Carleton herself was not without some sense of this distinction; she confessed, secretly, that there was something in Fleda out of the reach of her discernment, and consequently beyond the walk of her skill; and felt, rather uneasily, that more delicate hands were needed to guide so delicate a nature. Mrs. Evelyn came nearer the point. She was very pleasant, and she knew how to do things in a charming way; and there were times, frequently, when Fleda thought she was everything lovely. But yet, now and then a mere word, or look, would contradict this fair promise, a something of hardness which Fleda could not reconcile with the soft gentleness of other times; and on the whole Mrs. Evelyn was unsure ground to her; she could not adventure her confidence there.
      With Mr. Carleton alone Fleda felt at home. He only, she knew, completely understood and appreciated her. Yet she saw also that with others he was not the same as with her. Whether grave or gay there was about him an air of cool indifference, very often reserved and not seldom haughty ; and the eye which could melt and glow when turned upon her, was sometimes as bright and cold as a winter sky. Fleda felt sure, however, that she might trust him entirely so far as she herself was concerned; of the rest she stood in doubt. She was quite right in both cases. Whatever else there might be in that blue eye, there was truth in it when it met hers; she gave that truth her full confidence and was willing to honour every draught made upon her charity for the other parts of his character.

Lord Rewe drew his breath hard and stood still a moment. What was this that had suddenly come between him and his wife? Or was it not rather that a something of which they were both conscious, and that had lain concealed, suddenly reared itself up and appeared before them? — as an apparently dead dry stick in Eastern lands before the astonished eyes of a traveller suddenly writhes, turns a bright quick eye, protrudes a forked and rapid tongue, and exhibits to him the unexpected deadly horror, and his danger. Many circumstances rose before Lord Rewe’s memory that he had remarked at the time they occurred, and had either forgotten or explained away afterwards. Had he been in fault? What had he done or neglected? The generous mind always seeks in itself first the cause of evil. In intention he knew he was not to blame, what had he ever done but love her? he might have been careless and neglectful —

      I must not trouble the reader with the tedious tale of the pains and the labour which accompany the accouchement of such an Expedition. All practicals know that to organize a movement of sixty men is not less troublesome — indeed, rather more so — than if it numbered six hundred or six thousand. The Viceroy had wisely determined that we should not only carry out the work of discovery by tracing the precious metals to their source; but, also, that we should bring back specimens weighing tons enough for assay and analysis, quantitive and qualitive, in London and Paris. Consequently, miners and mining apparatus were wanted, with all the materials for quarrying and blasting: my spirit sighed for dynamite, but experiments at Trieste had shown it to be too dangerous. The party was to consist of an escort numbering twenty-five Súdán soldiers of the Line, negroes liberated some two years ago; a few Ma’danjiyyah (“mine-men”), and thirty Haggárah (“stone-men” or quarrymen).
      The Government magazines of Cairo contain everything, but the difficulty is to find where the dispersed articles are stored: there is a something of red-tapeism; but all is plain sailing, compared with what it would be in Europe. The express orders of his Highness Husayn Kamil Pasha, Minister of Finance and Acting Minister of War, at once threw open every door. Had this young prince not taken in the affair a personal interest of the liveliest and most intelligent nature, we might have spent the winter at Cairo. And here I cannot refrain from mentioning, amongst other names, that of Mr. Alfred E. Garwood, C. E., locomotive superintendent; who, in the short space of four months, has introduced order and efficiency into the chaos known as the Bulák magazines. With his friendly cooperation, and under his vigorous arm, difficulties melted away like hail in a tropical sun. General Stone (Pasha), the Chief of Staff, also rendered me some assistance, by lending the instruments which stood in his own cabinet de travail.
      Poor Cairo had spent a seedy autumn...

... and Maud and Frank were left to their own devices.
      ‘Would you’ —— Frank began, and stopped there.
      ‘Would I’ —— said Maud, hinting a continuation.
      ‘I wanted to suggest a stroll in the gardens. It’s dreadfully hot here.’
      ‘Shall I rouse Mr Hartley?’ Maud asked.
      ‘Nonsense, Maud! Do you care to walk? looks so peaceful and calm outside that it seems almost a sin to stay indoors.’
      ‘It does indeed,’ Maud answered, and for a moment disappeared. When she returned, she had thrown over her head a something of dark lace, the edges whereof fell to her waist — the merest pretence of preparation for out-of-doors. She and Frank were on very close and confidential terms of friendship, and were perhaps nervously inclined to parade this to themselves, because they both knew very well that there was something more than friendship behind its pleasant mask. They chose a shady walk which led through well-laid gardens to the Park. At the Park gate they stopped. The silence had grown a little embarrassing, for neither had spoken since they had left the house.
      Frank broke the bonds of quiet with an effort : ‘I go back to town in a day or two.’
      ‘Indeed!’ Maud said. ‘So soon?’

      Applying this to “Space,” we can have no Conception whatever without we imagine something “Material.” Some portion of what we call “Matter” — or some quality of it. This imagination may have two forms.
      1st. We may conceive, say, such an extension of a gaseous fluid of a sky blue colour, or, as the utmost abstraction I can myself make, a surface of white light, and endeavour to abstract our mind from any circumference, and from all other matter.
      2nd. We may conceive two portions of “Matter,” each as far as we can, the one on our left, and the other on our right, and as far distant from us as we can, and endeavour to abstract from our mind the conception of intervening matter gaseous or otherwise, or any intervening quality of matter. Similarly, we may start with ourself here, and abstracting from our mind all other matter, and its qualities endeavour to find a point of Matter, or a something of Nothing, as far in a direct line from us here as we can.

“I wonder what there’s about me,” considered Mr. McCullagh modestly, the while he wended his way homeward, “that makes everybody so fain for my company? Beside a man like Pousnett, now, I’m not so much to look at, and I’ve never laid myself out to have high ways or grand talk, or tried to be seductive in my manners. I am, as I’ve always said I was, just plain auld Rab, with a something of sense in my head, and a pound or two laid by, and no flattering on my tongue or falsehood in my heart; and yet only to consider how I am run after! To make no mention of old friends, who are aye wanting to know when I’ll [163] come round and take a bite of dinner and have a glass of toddy — familiars as I ca’ them — strangers, as one may say, seem greedy for my society. There’s Mr. Pousnett, he could do no more for his brother than go about with him, travelling backwards and forwards. And then there’s Janey — a weary Janey she is, too — can’t content herself without me, though she has all the pomps and vanities of this world about her. Look, too, at Kenneth’s wife, a daft sort o’ body no doubt; but still she makes more of her father-in-law than of her own father. There’s Snow, also, always dropping in and out, and ‘What’s your opinion, Mr. McCullagh? I was passing, and couldn’t resist coming in to have a word with you;’ and his friend Alty is keener still for knowing me. And Janet would have liked well if I’d made her Mistress McCullagh No. 2; and it seems to me if I’d time I might go on with the list till to-morrow,” finished Mr. McCullagh, prudently ending his self-gratulations, when he found the tale of those who delighted in his conversation drawing to a conclusion.

There is no period in woman’s life that so completely changes her whole existence as marriage, and for that very reason she is apt to be more superstitious and fanciful at that time than at any other, and while superstitions are fast becoming a something of the past...
      But enough of these absurdities.
How we raised the wind

the finding of this significance is not ] a something of shame, while we behold / mere play upon the surface of things; the great spiritual realities which under- / it everywhere recognizes the inner band, lie our common speech, the marvelous / which ought to connect, and in a world ...

      Then Mr. Whittler found “a card,” or “a photograph,” or “a something” of Mrs. Hazelton — the “beautiful Mrs. Hazelton,” whose beauty, bonnets, and bad manners, every woman, who aspired to be noticed at all, copied this year. Before he could give it to Miss Ray, Mrs. Hazelton had been annexed by some one on whom fortune smiled for the minute, and Jenifer asked, holding the card away from her:
      “Why ‘must’ I go? I don’t like her a bit, and her offer of sending a carriage for me was mere impertinence.”
      “You must never call anything ‘mere impertinence’ when you want to get it, young lady,” Mr. Whittler counselled, and Jenifer, waxing wroth, said:
      “But I don’t want to get it; nothing will induce me to go. I am going to be a public-singer, not a singing-machine to be set going at the insolent will of any one.”
      “What is this?” Mrs. Jervoise asked, coming up with Captain Edgecumb at the moment, and Jenifer told them incisively. “Really, you are very difficult," Mrs. Jervoise said coldly. “I have launched you, Mrs. Hazleton could sail you splendidly if you pleased her. Not to go to her to-morrow will be to condemn yourself.”
      “Ah,” Madame Voglio cried, bustling up at this juncture, “they are all wrong, all wrong in assailing you now to go here, there, and everywhere, my child. Come away from it, and hear me. Wait, till they have to implore you to come to them, till they are ready to pay down the handsome sum of money for the gratification of their wishes — —”
      “I think, as Mrs. Hazelton is kind enough to say she will send a carriage for Miss Ray to-morrow night, it will be well for Miss Ray to go,” Captain Edgecumb interposed eagerly, but Madame Voglio snuffed him out with a —
      “Young man, you know nothing at all about it;” and then convoyed Jenifer off to a safe corner to give her a word of advice.

With patience being the works of a remarkable says a thing of beauty is a joy for- and perseverance she may accomplish genius, but also for their faithful porever’. Now it is obvious that art is a something of more moment than any- traiture of French society, in all its thing of beauty, being so it must ac- thing in this book. One of the most strata, as it existed in the lifetime of cording to Keats be a joy forever; pleasing characteristics of her work is the writer. His facility in composition hence art is a joy fo

She read the sonnet with a pain
Which, banished, would be felt again;
And though her answer had been traced
With shades of sadness all erased,
She rose her slow walk to renew
In thoughtful mood which ever grew
More and more troubled, and a doubt
She could not understand nor name
Sternly within her soul flashed out,
A something of contempt and blame.
Was it but selfishness controlled
The motives held as purest gold?
Had she dared mar the life of one
To her as to the heavens the sun
By the poor vanity forever
At height to seal the truth of love and lover?
Or, now did madness seize her thought,
Some folly steal the mind which ought
One fixed calm purpose to pursue
Life’s given work to firmly do?

We visited the summits of the Dame, Echo, Bannock and Joseph peaks, Quadrant Mountain. Antler Peak and many lesser points. As a rule the weather was fine and the air quite clear. On August 2, while on top of one of the mountains we were favored with a hail storm and a snow storm which lasted about an hour, leaving the tops of the peaks white with snow a little over half an inch deep. It was a something of a change to come from the heated valleys in the morning to be in a snow storm at four o’clock and walking through new snow and over fields of old snow twenty feet deep, to camp where ice made that night a quarter of an inch thick in our kettles, and to see in the morning daffodils and hundreds of other spring flowers. We could but think of the people suffering with heat in the cities while we required two pair of blankets over us to keep us comfortable.
      The scenery from some of the rocks was too grand for description — mountain ranges and peaks in all directions, deep cañon and valley, the whole National Park at our feet, the Yellowstone Lake under us like a blue valley, Mt. Washburn so much below us that it looked like a foothill, hundreds of little lakes, dark green and blue, all kinds of beautiful mountain flowers in great abundance, immense snow drifts with ice-cold streams running from them, cool rivers and freedom from insects.

He had, ever since the conversation between Miss Vidal and the Major which he had happened to overhear, been determined to obtain, if possible, for Lady Gregorie, the restitution of her letters on the day following the famous dinner-party he had called at Royalty Square, and had seen, or at least imagined that he had done so, a something of renewed brightness in the expression of his hostess’s face, which led him to believe that the cause of her uneasiness was removed.

Correspondence.
An Inquiry about the Infinitude of Space.
      In your article of January 5th, entitled “The Unknowable,” you dispose so easily of problems that I had always felt to be perplexing, that it awakens in me the hope that you will give us further word on this subject, dealing more specifically with the questions involved.
      Your article also prompts me to ask you one or two questions, which I trust you will excuse, and, if intelligibly presented, will answer.
      You say of matter “it is a chiffre or symbol,” a “generalization” — Yes, I see no objection to that — -matter is but a generalization of all forms of matter, and as such "no mystery about it.” The word is, as you say, “a symbol for economizing thought” So also in regard to all words expressing abstract ideas. It is but a mental process whereby we gather to a unit all concrete cases. There is no sin outside of sinners sinning, no love outside of lovers loving, but does this class of thinking serve our purpose also with the word infinite?...
      We may say the word space is but a generalization of all extension; but if we say “space is without limit,” we affirm a fact about it which is not a generalization. We say of this affirmation, it is true, not because we comprehend it, but because, while realizing that we do not comprehend it, we yet feel that it must be, for every alternative thought on the subject, in its last analysis, throws us back on this one.
      If you should ask for proof, I admit it is wanting; but certainly this is the thought the word infinite implies — not a generalization or symbol, but a something of which we have no proof, yet feel must be.
Yours truly, L. T. Ives.

and read the deflection a of the galvanometer... a deflection a, something between 20º and 50º

      The other episode is that of Mavra ; —

      He began to peer about under the table, poked about everywhere, and finally screamed, “Mavra! hey, Mavra!” At his call a woman made her appearance, carrying a plate, upon which lay the sugar with which the reader is already acquainted; and a long discussion took place between them.
      “What have you done with the paper, you thief?”
      “By Heavens, master, I have seen nothing except the scrap with which you covered the wineglass!”
      “Why, I can see by your eyes that you have made away with it.”
      “But why should I have made away with it? It’s of no use to me; I don’t know how to read or write.”
      “You lie! you have carried it to the sacristan; he has a something of knowledge, as I know, and you have carried it off to him.”
      “The sacristan can get paper for himself if he wants it. He has never laid eyes on your scrap.”
      “Just wait; the fiends will toast you on a gridiron for this on the day of judgment! You’ll see how they will roast you.”
      “But what will they roast me for, when I have not even taken your paper in my hands? I may have other weaknesses; but no one ever accused me of thieving before.”
      “Oh, won’t the devils roast you, though? They will say, ‘Take that, you wretched creature, for deceiving your master!’ Yes, they will roast you on red hot bars!”
      “And I shall say, ‘There’s no reason for it!-by Heaven, there's none! I did not take it.’ Why, there it lies on the table. You are always accusing us wrongfully!”
      Indeed, Pliushkin now perceived the bit of paper, and paused for an instant, chewing, as it were, until he finally ejaculated, “Well, what did you flare up so for? Hey, what a touchy creature she is! Say but one word to her, and she’ll answer you back with ten. Go and fetch a taper to seal a letter. But, hold! don’t bring a tallow candle: tallow melts easily; it burns out, and is a dead loss — fetch me a pine-knot.”

      Ridiculous as this scene is, especially on the part of poor Mavra, who, like a vehement arguer as she is, accepts her adversary’s assertion that she is to be roasted, and declares what she will do on the occasion — little as a great deal that the two disputants say may be to the credit of either party; nevertheless, the close of the argument is a curious testimony, as far as it goes, in favour of the old relations between slaves and slave-owners in Russia.

      “Well, there was, anyhow,” said Miss Phyllis. “And I and two other girls went to a course of lectures at the Town Hall on literature or something of that kind. We used to have shilling given us for our tickets.”

...Here are the photographs five, not for nought had they borne
Many a summer’s heat, now faded and shrivelled and torn.
This was his own, said the trooper; the inspector takes up a card,
Another of his, but altered; between them his life had been hard.
 
First was a man of the English type, stalwart and fair and young,
Telling in all its lines of one from ancestry sprung,
Pleasant in mouth and eye, graceful in contour and line,
Steady of gaze, but frank — an athlete, strong and yet fine.
 
Years older the other seemed, with a countenance bearded and spare ;
Under a broad-leafed hat the eyes had a moody stare.
Yet there was sadness, too, a something of shame and of pride,
Ashamed to confess what the handsome face might not hide.
 
Who does not know it? Who has not seen it? — the change
That takes a man, and produces what subtly and ever estrange;
The new chum breaking apart from his English tradition, his caste,
And mad with the new wild life, makes progress, too fast to last...

‘Cousin Ned’ is pleasantly and, in a way, cleverly written. There is a good deal of observation and understanding displayed, and some quiet humour besides. The characters are well individualized and carefully sustained, and the author contrives to avoid the least appearance of exaggeration or caricature. This is specially noticeable in his treatment of the heroine; she is not the most interesting of the group, and yet she is not by any means unlifelike. Every now and again there is a touch that recalls — and no more — a something of Miss Austen’s manner. Ramsay Revivalists are in their way excellent, and so is Mr. Hamilton, who, with a very few touches, is made to give the impression of a real person. The story becomes a little too wire-drawn, and rather flags in interest, towards the end especially.

Happy are they who have no history! Then, floating leisurely beneath a summer sky does not conduce to the making of history. Incident, quotha? The tiniest ripple in the water is an incident to the bargee. One day our Bargee taught us to tell ‘what’s o’clock’ by the sun. But I do not think our telling was quite so correct as his. One day the Cadet rode Dob, and Dob kicked up his heels, objecting to being ridden, for he waxed fat and ate beans in the new order of things. Already we began to contemplate a time when he would sit in the shade and leave us to trail the barge. One day he stood still on the bank, and the Bargee, indicating all the meadows in a large-minded way, observed, ‘This be Rugby, sir.’ We looked for Rugby, and presently, beyond a tangled vista of green lanes, perceived it on a hill, bestuck with all its spires a wholesome, workaday spot, that turns towards the future rather than back to the past.
      A town that drives by in its broughams and paces stately on its sidewalks, and is careful for many to-morrows. Rugby is full of good sense and inestimable morals and solid level worth, with a great deal of human charity — once it is indubitably certain that the blind tinker in the road is by no possibility a fraudulent mendicant. Except that I cannot imagine a fraudulent beggar in Rugby! They’d have him in an almshouse before he had been there a day. The almshouses creep up to the lych gate, and the sun lingers on the windows, in the shadow of the church, and town-hall and markets and spires crowd jostling about them in an orderly, tidied confusion. But, in spite of the long wide streets and the sonsy air of the place, a something of immutable reserve pervades these modern white walls, a curious diction of the atmosphere that is only given out of the great persistency of an academic centre or a cathedral town.

A secret breathes from this man when he faces you in the pulpit. It is a something of race, character, training and influences answered to. It is at once piquant and strong, kindly and acute, a blend of faculties that are often quite apart. To begin with, you know him as a close reasoner, a professor of apologetics who justifies his office by the force and information of his attack upon modern atheism, his knowledge of modern questions. A well-equipped logician and careful student; that is how you know him. Yet it is by no means the first of the impressions made by the preacher. It will come out after a while...
... As a preacher he engages himself less in delving underneath things than in clearing away rubbish : that work being ours as much as his...

Cic. Verr. ii.: iii. 84. 195 quum tibi senatus ex aerario pecuniam prompsisset et singulos tibi denarios adnumerasset, quos tu pro singulis modiis aratoribus solveres, quid facere debuisti? si quod L. Piso ille Frugi, qui legem de pecuniis repetundis primus tulit, quum emisses, quanti esset, quod superaret pecuniae, rettulisses: si, ut ambitiosi homines aut benigni, quum pluris senatus aestumasset, quain quanti esset annona, ex senatus aestumatione, non ex annonae ratione solvisses: sin, ut plerique faciunt, in quo etiam erat aliquis quaestus, sed is honestus et concessus, frumentum, quoniam vilius erat ne emisses: sumpsisses id nummorum, quod tibi senatus, cellae nomine, concesserat = “seeing that the senate had taken money for you out of the Treasury and counted out to you so many coins for you to pay to the farmers in return for so many bushels of corn, what was it your duty to do? Well; if what L. Piso Frugi, of good renown, did, he who was the first to carry the law for the repayment of moneys, after having bought, for whatsoever price it was, you would | have paid back to the Treasury the surplus money: if, as men currying favour or really kindhearted do, seeing that the senate had estimated the price of the corn as higher than it really was, you would | have paid for it at the senate’s estimate rather than at the quotation for it in the market: but if, as most people do — a course of proceeding too in which lay a something of gain, but at the same time a gain honorable and permitted — even granting that you had not bought the corn, it being somewhat poor stuff, you would have kept for yourself that sum of money, which the senate had given to you, as for the stocking of your own granary.”

There is a something of moment distressing our shirt manufacturers. It is not what the results of 1895 may be, nor yet the volume of business in sight for 1896. They are both favorable foregone conclusions. The element of hazard does not lie in either scale, except in so far as the matter of profit may be affected when new business calculations come forward next spring. The sharp advance in the prices of lining and body muslins and cambrics, and all plain and printed cotton fabrics used in the shirt-making industry, is a cause of concern to all who are not covered by longrunning contracts. And every manufacturer so covered knows that he will have to pay 20 per cent. advance when his present arrangements run out, — 20 per cent. at least, with the chances in favor of a higher rate.
      This matter of advance is inevitable. All the cotton looms are employed until next March, and when new engagements are sought for it is quite likely that the mills will have everything in their favor. The hardship now falls upon small manufacturers and those who neglected the warnings that filled the air months ago. When it is taken into consideration that the plane of values of two years ago is not met by the advanced prices now demanded between 15 and 20 per cent. — it will readily be seen that the latter figure will not meet what is coming.
      What will our shirtmakers do when the time comes to add to their own costs?

Mrs. Stephen Winborne could see, in the red dusk, that Rhoda’s profile wore its usual calm steadiness, a something of the engraved look, which Amelia and Stephen knew as her “peculiarity;” they did not mean physical peculiarity, for she had a stately appearance and Well, you will see directly that her sister-in-law gave her every credit for good looks. The oddity was not there.
      “After all, you have your own life to live, you know,” said Mrs. Stephen, with quiet conviction. If Rhoda would only see it!
      “I am living my own life; the very one I want to live,” said a voice full in tone and capable of varied expressiveness, though just now it gave the light note of a string lying gently upon a violin.
54

Nature keeps this Quaker charm of the early months to herself; she cannot bestow it upon our cities; there the February afternoon is “muggy” with a decided tendency to fog.
      It was so that day. The web which the toiling Titan never ceases to spin wrapt its head and trunk in stifling folds, dimmed its eyes so that the flaring gas-lights seemed no more than pin-points, dulled its ears to all but its own confused roar, and pressing into its throat made it wheeze and pant for breath. Spreading itself between sea and marsh, from Kentish to northern slope, the huge, manylimbed monster, world-begotten, world-enriched, world-heavy, lay swathed in rank cloud of its own breathing, deafened with its own hoarse protest and tumultuous moan.
      A long track ran out from the centre into a north-eastern region where masses of people of various nationalities existed in a manner entirely mysterious to the mere casual observer and pretty much of a miracle to themselves, if they ever thought about it. The miracle of them and their effort was not charming; the long road had no loveliness that one should desire it. Stupid three-story houses, in which women tramped up and down all day; shop-fronts big and little, in which middle-men did their battle with each other, poor Dane-gelt of these latter days; fore-courts that used to be gardens and have broken now into queer growths of bedsteads, carpets, hardware goods, even mortuary stones and slabs; gas-lamps burning with a coarse dullness; everlasting wheels, everlasting feet going through the gloom, and street cries, street “music” mingling with all; the Wagner of life played his overture through the February day, and who knew what he meant?
      The girl in the doctor’s house stood at her window waiting, and for her the overture, at this hour, was full of weird fascination. It presented the whole play — a great, dim, jostling drama, with the strangest turmoil, in which the personal lost itself and became an Impersonal, a Something which laboured and hoped, had pains and joys, laughed and cried and talked, and in all made itself interesting — a Something of which one rarely tired.
      The overture played itself, the multitude of performers filled and refilled the stage; the doctor’s daughter had her private box for an hour and her evening dream as the play went by. No one to conduct, no one over the whole to prompt or rebuke, to arrange the multitude and set the scenes — yet all went on and on; once a week they rested, then they began again; the wheels, the feet, the anxious flitting faces, the jangling sounds, kept a rude, strong time which they seemed to know of; the Something never came to an end.

A. something of my exer- // bound in fetters, and carried to Baby- // go forward to the mourner’s bench, // him that I cared for such things. // cises of mind. It was the first I had // lon, where he prayed, was heard, // and would urge me to go ...

Didier (not hearing him).
      A woman is a faithless, flighty creature! as stormy, as inconstant and as fathomless as ocean. Alas! I spread my sails upon that In all my heaven I had but the one star. I made the venture, and was wrecked, and now the grave is opening before me. Yet I was born for better things; my visions of the future were rose-colored, I had perhaps a something of celestial inspiration in my heart! O wretched woman! didst thou not shudder when thou didst forswear thyself to me, to me who left my very soul at thy discretion?
Saverny.
      ’T is Marion again! Your mind seems fixed upon her.

      In answer to my letter asking his consent Mr. Montagu replied as follows:
                        “Kettlestone, Fakenham,
                                    “November 22, 1895.
      “Dear Sir, — I have a great many small things to attend to, soon get tired, & as in a kind of sleep forget, & so I have not thanked you for your very kind letter. My humility is quite scared by your proposition to send my little facts to your Butlerian deposit in the British Museum. Well, I do think some of those memories should not die ‘quia vate sacro, &c.’   ₁
      “As one gets older one seems to come again into actual sight & hearing of the early past...
      “I think that there was in the school, and has a good deal remained with us, a something of character that belonged to the school — a great independency of thought — ‘nullius jurare in verba magistri’ ₂ — freedom from party, and while self-reliant not self opinionative, but allowing all others to think differently and liking their independence. I may not describe it well, but I have always asserted it...”

If the room be spacious enough you may even harbour an ear-chair for comfort, an [?] ou will; but this, although permissible, is not to be greatly desired, unless the bowed claw-and-ball legs, or their severer substitutes, are of the first elegance. In all cases the colour of the walls is to be delicate and yet not sickly, pale, and still with a something of mellowness. There is a combination of soft salmon pink, “picked out,” to use the common phrase, with dim willow-green, that is very comely and reviving; while certain tones of amber and of apricot are not without their charm.
      As for tapestry, most romantic of all hangings, the poetry, as it were, or mural decoration, at its best you could hardly over praise it...

caption : An eared armchair, by Hopplewhite

“An’ old wives have more wisdom nor young ones; and worlds more wisdom nor twenty generations of pit lads, if they were all packed into one to make up the outside show of a man.”
      “It belongs to far-back times does that granny gabble about witching and goblining. I’ve read it so.”
      “And the far backer it is, lad, the more likesome to be true — the nearer Creation, you ninny! Couldn’t your papers and books print that into you?" Refixing some black-cock plumes in an old jug, she said, "I’m surprised at you, Ark. Young as you are, I thought you had more wit-what-and-why into every-day things. You’d deny yesterday’s shadows next. Aye. Then you’ll come to denying this day’s sunshine. And then the very sun. And then the solid earth itsen! And what next? What next, I wonder!” she repeated, dusting a big brownbacked Bible, which was only read on Good-Fridays. “Next you’ll be making it out as we’re nought but a something of nothing. Next you’ll be making God’s somewhere out of the devil’s nowhere. Lift your head up, and look through those father’s eyes o’ thine; yes, and with all his senses, and with your own eyes and senses as well, and see if yon is a twinkling beam of the sun or not; see if it’s slipping slant out of nowhere — as ye’d think — straight into the cradle, and showing up my poor criss-cross, pitchity-patchity little quilt of years ago. Is it a sunbeam, now? Maybe it’s a solid white rolling-pin to you? Now is it? Say!”

She did not faint, she did not even cry out with her pain when at last the earl took her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers in their last parting. In only three short weeks they were to have been all the world to each other, one heart, one soul, inseparably united in the golden bonds which only death, — not even death where the love was as deep as theirs, could temporarily break. And now he had left her! She flung herself in his chair, her whole frame quivering with tearless moans. And when she heard the street door close, the rattle of the wheels of his carriage, and realized that he was really gone, a something within her seemed to snap. It was not her heart, for it went on throbbing in its anguish, not her mind, she could recall every incident of her life since she had known Paul, as if it were standing out in bold outline before her; not her faith, she was trying to accept bravely the chalice pressed to her lips; but a something of herself had given way and she knew that she would never be quite the same again.

Vasishtha Continued...

6.       The vacuous Intellect dwelling in the vacuity of the intellect, as fluidity resides in water; shows itself in the form of the world, as the fluid water displays itself in the form of waves upon its surface. So the world is the self-same Brahma, as the wave is the very water. (But the world is intellectual display and not material in the wave)...
 
7.       The mirror of the intellect perceives the pageant of the world, in the same manner, as the mind sees the sights of things in dream. Hence what is termed the world, is but void and vacuity. (A something of nothing).

...So, when the collapse came, they had something to offer their American cousins — viz., a short-legged, thick, easy-feeding sort, lacking in style and also in that attractive thoroughbred appearance so catching to the eye, so fetching, but which is of such little value to the feeder or butcher. But there was a something of more solid worth attached to them which gradually pushed them to the front. Their often vulgar ends might not find favour with the old-time connoisseur, but the butchers and feeders wanted them, hence their well earned popularity.

Passing over the suggestion in reply that it is equally inequitable as to both the above classes that a certain other creditor gets the 100 per cent he has innocently collected during the same period, the real answer is found in the suggestions that, historically considered, fraud has always had a something of wrong in it, even the conventional fraud which men have called a preference, and that, while, as Judge McKenna observes, “the true object of a bankruptcy act, so far as creditors are concerned, is to secure equality of distribution,” [misplaced quotation mark corrected] he omitted to add that this distribution must be made as of a certain day and only of property vested either in law or in equity in the bankrupt on that day. Apply this principle to the arguments of the preferentialists and the fallacy of their position will appear. However, more of this later.

...We teach languages, dead as well as live, not by mere constructions, but by showing how the Greek, Roman, or German used his own terms and sounds to convey just such human ideas as we exchange every day how Cicero, for instance, could and did say: “What’s the news?” in just as easy and offhand a fashion as we can. What I would have is in itself easy, natural, and plain and need not cost much, which is always a consideration. Money and trouble are expended liberally to teach something (often, alas! no more than a something!) of music, freehand drawing, hygiene, and physiology. Is it not worth while to take pains and pay something toward laying the lasting foundations for the good voices and the good use of them, by which chiefly are right knowledge and right thought to be communicated and inculcated?

A correspondent writes: “For some weeks past the present writer has been making his abode in a Lincolnshire farmhouse that may fairly be called remote, since of the three railway stations in its neighbourhood the nearest is seven miles away across the wolds. It has been an interesting stay, because of its bringing one into close touch with those engaged on the soil. At the house of a great landowner one can never get quite the same thing. Between the most genial squire and his tenants there must be and is a something of distance that applies to his guests also. Here a bookish individual is regarded as a harmless nonentity; before him all sorts of questions may be debated with the utmost freedom. And it has been very pleasant to enter into the farmer’s wholesome and kindly atmosphere, and to some extent to think his thoughts, or, at any rate, to share his food and enter into his way of living.[”]

Q. And you wanted to stop these complaints? — A. Something of that sort.
Q. On behalf of the C.P.R.? — A. Something of that sort.

      I rang the bell. Some uniform looked at me. I boldly said:
      “I’m the representative of the Wanderer.”
      It was six months before I got near enough to earth to call myself a reporter. The lackey’s automatic finger on his automatic arm pointed to an open door. I entered. The room was half filled with exclusively exclusive women, of assorted ages and sizes. To be a Dame, one must have descended from Something, I forget what, but I’m sure it was from Something, and that this Particular Something must have been a Something of Some Particular Sort. At any rate, there were only 566 Genuine Dames; all others were spurious, and didn’t have in ’em the Something which Somebody put there unknown centuries ago.
      Miss Annis Amquaint presided. She lived on a farm in shrubbery section of snobby Brookline, and there, with a neighbor a half a mile to the right of her, another a quarter of a mile to the left of her, two a mile in front of her, and three others three quarters of a mile behind her, she fed upon pedigreed meat and home-cured pork.

7   Pāra ast (m.c.) “It’s torn.”
8   “A kulāh like a Turkoman cap.”
9   Chīz-ī “a something of that sort.”
10   Hālā khāb shud “Now it’s easy.”

Luisa knitted as she talked, her needles clicking continually, but her seeming calm and good spirits did not entirely conceal her inward excitement, which had begun on the previous day, had become more intense during a sleepless night, and was now steadily increasing as the moment for setting out drew nearer. Even in the playful tone of her voice an unusual chord seemed to be vibrating. About her hair, which was always most carefully dressed, there was a something of disorder, like the touch of a light breath brushing gently across her brow.
      Ester arrived at a quarter to two , and explained that she had come a little earlier because she had heard it thunder. Thunder?

      “On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.”
      Thus it was that the change had come. Once given a strong hold on him, the passion of self-interest, for self-aggrandizement, had grown with amazing speed; it grew without his realizing its growth. He saw less of [113] other things as greed came closer to his eyes, until the time came when there was little of the world in his vision besides the gathering riches that meant multiplying power in his masterful hands.
      His manner was smooth, passive, and gentle. This had been his from early training, and touched by a quality of his wife’s nature, had made him admired and not unliked. But when her touch had gone, the quality of human sympathy vanished. The smooth, passive, gentle manner had a something of hardness that made the experienced cautious, and inspired the innocent with instinctive dread.
      Yet a modifying influence began to stir in Fenn’s breast when he noticed with startled eyes that the child that had been left to him as the pledge of his wedded happiness was growing into the womanly image of her dead mother.

...The something that caused it was not only not attached to the soil, but was moving and dissipating as it moved. Only one class of bodies known to us can account for these metamorphoses and that is: cloud.
      But what kind of cloud are we to conceive it to be ? Our ordinary vapor clouds are whitish and this would be still more their color could they be looked at from above. The Martian cloud was not white but tawny, of the tint exhibited by a cloud of dust. Nor could this color have very well been lent it by its sunrise position, for other places equally situated to be tinged by the hues of that time of day, Baltia to wit, showed distinctly white. So that we must suppose it to be what it looked, a something of the soil, not beholden to atmospheric tinting for its hue; a vast dust-cloud [107] traveling slowly over the desert and settling slowly again to the ground.

a Something of language study may be begun early. The words that have in older days a meaning different from the one they have now — these words seem not uninteresting to pupils, if read with the context. That you allow this opinion ...

A something of which the sense can in no way assist the mind to form a conception of. — Daily Telegraph.

      Attention should be called to Mr. Justice Malden’s address, to Trinity College Classical Society, on the early history of classical learning in Ireland (Longmans, 1908). This subject still awaits its explorer; but enough is said to disclose an unexpected state of things. It may have been known that in the early centuries of our era Ireland kept the light of learning alight, and in particular that Greek was studied in her universities; but it is a surprise to learn how good were the Irish schools under the native chieftains, before wars destroyed the whole system. Yet even in the seventeenth century (about 1689) Sir Richard Cox says: ‘In the present day, very few of the Irish aim at any more than a little Latin, which every cowboy pretends to, and a something of logic.’ In the sixteenth century Latin was the common medium of intercourse with strangers.

      When Israel was overthrown by Assyria, it was left at once to its fate, and the conquered district was filled with strangers. But Nebuchadrezzar tried to save Judah to a better fate, by appointing one of their own number — not as king any more, of course, but as governor — over the remnant of the remnant, and by trying to restore law and order in the unhappy land. The appointment of GEDALIAH to this office was a fortunate choice. He was a Judean of noble family and of no less noble character. He was the very man who had saved Jeremiah when the fanatic princes had sought his life. Had he been made king in place of the unstable Zedekiah, the calamity might not have occurred. He was gentle, though firm, and when we have said that he had been a pupil of Jeremiah, we have said everything. He inspired such confidence that at his request the lawless bands that were ravaging the country after the war was over settled down to orderly life again. Gradually, under his wise guidance, a something of order grew out of the chaos. Some of those who had fled to the surrounding lands of Moab, Edom, and Ammon, seeing how quietly and peacefully things were progressing, and how even some of the ruins were being restored under the new governor, stole back to the old home. Gedaliah made Mizpeh, in Benjamin, a sort of capital of the new government, for Jerusalem was in ruins. Of course, a Chaldean garrison was stationed there to prevent fresh insurrection.

In a city far famous, whose temples
      Were beleaguered by Northmen the while,
Was a house near the James, where his rimples
      Encircle the Beautiful Isle.
 
And here, on one eve, were assembled
      Companions whose features were gay,
With a something of care, which resembled
      A cloud on a bright summer-day.
 
And they laughed in despite of their reason,
      In despite of the war and its scath —
For the heart of the young in its season,
      Is sublimer than danger or death.
 
Now it chanced, and I know not how either,
      When Meridienne entered this hall,
She became, in the lieu of the weather,
      The theme of discussion for all...

...strike, or a shock, a something of character, may also be intended or
cases it ht resulting in shock and not 50 resulting . We need , ho back to the idea that it is shoc a fact and howsoever caused Dething of importance . Art of Wilful Tort Causing Sle es ...

      It was the faint chiming of the stable-clock at Mickleham Court that brought her to her feet in some affright.
      “Oh, sir, I must go,” she said. “Uncle will be in to tea at half-past four, and aunt said I must on no account be late for fear of vexing him.”
      “Oh, very well, I’ll walk with you to the edge of the wood,” [comma, sic]
      He rose to his feet, a tall, lithe figure, sombrely handsome, full of strength, as different from poor weedy Amos — had Jenny compared them — as if they had been creatures of a different race and world.
      But she was looking toward the Temple. It was the last time she herself ever visited it, and she was always to remember it as she saw it then-a rude, grey pile, instinct with mystery, forlorn with the association of forgotten rites. As she realized, poor thing, that she had not saved him, that he was still as far off, apparently, from a state of grace as from that ideal of Amos Ryder’s — who had pictured him black-coated, Bible in hand, thumping the sandbags with which ladies, tender-hearted for the knuckles of unwary preachers, had covered the edges of the Mickleham Chapel pulpit — it seemed to the preacher-woman she was leaving there a something of herself, a something of unaccomplished effort, of failure that would mingle with the melancholy of the place and hang for ever in the vapours of the cave.

“Is it advisable?” asks a young writer the worth of whose work is beginning to be understood by editors, “to sign an agreement to contribute exclusively to one magazine. I haven’t been asked to do this, but I notice The Cosmopolitan makes much of its exclusive contracts with Gouverneur Morris, Robert W. Chambers, Rex Beach and other writers.” Such agreements are good neither for the author nor the magazine. The magazine finds in such a contract something to “blurb” about, but a something of doubtful value as a sound advertising factor, something that displeases an appreciable number of thoughtful readers. The author is assured of a certain sum for each story he produces; that a story is not worthy of his talent often will escape the observation of a man tied to a money-producing contract. Unless the conditions are abnormal, a writer should not sign a contract to contribute to only one magazine, or to submit his books first to a certain publisher, or to allow one agent the exclusive right to dispose of his work. The wise writer keeps himself free from the possibility of dwarfing his ability by business considerations.

      Through his interpretation, therefore, is a writer crowned as original or scoffed at as ordinary.
      No landscape painter has ever put on canvas objects other than the world has given him, of mountains, trees, and open plains. Yet into these he has put a something of himself, the vision of a seer. He has laid bare for us a hidden beauty that we might never with our coarser minds have seen.
      So it is with a writer

      “But the old wild goose,” he said, “if he lost his wife when he was only six or seven years old he’d be faithful to her memory in thought and deed till the day of his death. Often they live to be a hundred.”
      Somehow there came into Manners’s mind a vision of wild wintry hills, and of an old gray goose flying high through the clear, piercing cold with the piled-up anguish of eighty years of grief tearing at his wild and faithful heart. In such a love as that there was a something of chaos and infinity, he felt; a something not of this world. The starkness and loneliness of such loving appalled him. Where did the dumb bird find the will to go on living through the long generations? Surely, he thought, he must want to end it all and die. And perhaps there’s just the terrible part of it. He wants death. Every waking moment for eighty years he has wanted nothing but death, and he doesn’t know how to die. He doesn’t know how to kill himself.

“Mirror Gazing” by Mildred Kennedy

There was once upon a time a little girl who lived in a great city house. In this house there was a large living room, on the walls of which hung several heavy plate-glass mirrors. It was the delight of this child to tiptoe down from her attic nursery to the living room in order to play with the little girl who lived in this great room. The child would dance, curtsy, laugh, and frolic with the child in the mirror, quite unconscious that it was the reflection of her own self; she loved the grace, beauty, color, charm, and animation of this playmate, and tried herself to become as dainty and graceful as the child with whom she played. This went on for weeks; and it was the “grownups” who at last made her realize the reflection was none other than herself, and through the realization she lost one of her best friends and playmates and gained instead the human attribute of self-consciousness.
      The ability to concentrate may, perhaps, be classed as one of the chief assets of a good speech-reader. Among students, especially beginners, want of this quality always means slow progress. There is a certain expression in a pupil’s face, a certain “wandering” look in the eye, that a teacher of speech-reading recognizes at once as the outward manifestation of a lack in this ability.
      Followers of many of the eastern cults prescribe to their students certain “exercises” to increase the power of concentration — steadily gazing at a given object, a spot on the floor or wall, a globe or other definite point upon which the attention can be focused and held. The last few words of that sentence seem to embody the essence of what makes a successful speech-reader — the attention must be focused and held on a definite point, that point being the lips of the speaker.
      During the course of one twenty-four hours, those of us who have the will can find many ways to take advantage of a few moments practise if we are alive to the need of our own ability to become speech-readers and eager to watch the lips of speakers here, there, and everywhere. This policy is good, very good, but in its very nature it cannot be systematic; it cannot be well ordered and arranged, for the speech of the average person is like time and tide, waiting “for no man,” and we would-be speech-readers must realize this and be constantly on the alert to catch whatever we can of the passing waves or ripples of speech. The speech-reader who catches a bit of conversation in any public place, such as a street-car, hall, or any assembly, should have much the same quality of joy that a child feels who tiptoes out into the waves with hope and expectation and then runs up the beach, keeping ahead of the incoming wave. We must, in the eager spirit of a child, try to run up the beach, keeping ahead of the waves of speech that roll in from the great ocean of human life upon whose shores we live.
      But it is of concentration this article would deal. We need a fixed point upon which to concentrate and develop our latent powers; perhaps there is no better object to turn to than a mirror, which will reflect for us moving, animated, speaking lips at any moment we command. In doing this to advantage we must become selfless, repeating phrases and sentences, not thinking of what we are saying, but of how it is said, how it looks while being said. If we can forget self in this practise and think only of the principle involved, we are advancing along a road that will lead us to the ability to master far more than the art of speechreading.
      If we will we can surely find a few minutes each day to devote to this study, and there is much to be gained if it is done regularly and at a definite, appointed time, under ideal conditions — that is when the student can be sure of no interruptions and can lose self in the interest and fascination of speech-making and speech-taking. Fifteen minutes a day set aside for this concentration exercise will bring vital rewards; but beside this practise we might also learn to play, as the little city girl played with her friend in the mirror, and during those moments when it is necessary for our fellow-beings that we indulge in mirror gazing, let us make it a profit to ourself as well as others, and repeat a few words or phrases to ourself in the spirit of speech-reading practise. By this means we may gain a “something” of as vital value to us, through mirror gazing, as the earnest student of the occult gains through crystal gazing.

Into the fog and smoke of Chicago the exhibition of the Taos Society of Artists comes with a burst of sunshine and a breath of fresh air, with a message from the eternal hills that out under the blue dome a primitive people still worship God in nature and seek for unity with the Great Spirit through a simple life, close to Nature’s laws.
      The Carson Pirie Scott Galleries have never staged a more interesting show nor one more characteristically American. Here, at any rate, is an indepedent colony of painters who are seeking for novelty, as literary people do, not by upsetting the old established laws of their art but by finding a new field for their application...
      Apparently the Indians are teaching our artists anew to drink at the oldest fountain of true artistic inspiration...
      One message breathes from the exhibition as a whole and is felt in nearly every picture, a feeling of longing to be out-of-doors and a desire for something other than the complexity of modern life, wherein each many is not an entirety but merely a factor. Not only the Indian but the country has no doubt wrought upon the spirits of the artists who, in turn, play upon our sensibilities with the utmost refinement and skill. All native born Americans have in their natures, a something of the soil and to this Taos pictures make a strong appeal...

      I suppose I should make some apology for the subject. It may be a little misleading, but let us see if we cannot get something out of it worthy of our consideration. “The Old Nails in New Kegs” are only figures of speech (camouflage, if you please). I might have said old thoughts with a new meaning, or an old subject in a new light, but what I want to do, if I can, is to present to you an old subject clothed with new thoughts. Therefore, I might have saved all this time had I at once announced the subject of my address as Efficiency, a subject almost worn out, a word terribly misused, spoken of at times by people who have little understood its significance, looked upon as a thing almost unattainable and recognized by most of us as a something of very recent origin, but it is not a new discovery. It is as old as the hills. It might be classed among the things spoken of by one of ancient. time when he said there is nothing new under the sun; there is nothing but what has been.
      It is like appendicitis...

(r) The ی is occasionally added to Arabic phrases, thus — “they set out a something of what was ready in the way of food”...

      ELFIE. It’s a bully day out. [Crossing to bureau, looking in mirror.] I’ve been shopping all morning long; just blew myself until I’m broke, that’s all. My goodness, don’t you ever get dressed? Listen. [Crosses L. of table to C.] Talk about cinches. I copped out a gown, all ready made and fits me like the paper on the wall, for $37.80. Looks like it might have cost $200. Anyway I had them charge $200 on the bill, and I kept the change. There are two or three more down town there, and I want you to go down and look them over. Models, you know, being sold out. I don’t blame you for not getting up earlier. [She sits at the table, not noticing LAURA.] That was some party last night. I know you did n’t drink a great deal, but gee! what an awful tide Will had on. How do you feel? [Looks at her critically.] What’s the matter, are you sick? You look all in. What you want to do is this put on your duds and go out for an hour. It’s a perfectly grand day out. My Gaud! how the sun does shine! Clear and cold. [A pause.] Well, much obliged for the conversation. Don’t I get a “Good-morning,” or a “How-dydo,” or a something of that sort?
      LAURA. I’m tired, Elfie, and blue terribly blue.

      He did not move.
      Silence — then a sudden rush, a something of sound behind me.
      I wheeled and shot; and a man died in the air, even as he left his feet with arms out-thrown to grasp and pin mine to my sides. Some Chinese athlete, I suppose, for though he was not big he was quick, and the boldness of the attempt was what made it almost successful.

      There stood our clerk of the note, though I saw that I had misplaced him, more by reason of his mode of address than owing to any change in his appearance. A steward, I judged him now, of some great man’s household; though at that I found him overly familiar, as indeed did my friend. We stood stiffly facing him; but his smile was ingratiating.
      “Messieurs will be good enough to be seated,” he invited. “While we discuss a small matter of business. To be brief. It is necessary that a — something of very great value, which the Guise would give much to hold, be spirited out of Paris to — a certain town not so far. For this purpose the services of two gentlemen of discretion and skill are needed. There will be perhaps some danger, which, I have had occasion to observe — ” he bowed to us both — “is no deterrent to you. I am empowered, then, to ask whether you will consider the undertaking of this task.”
      As I had suspicioned from the outset the matter was one of the countless factional plottings of the day. It was a prospect alluring enough, yet disquieting by reason of his indefiniteness. It was the coolheaded Trevor who voiced my first thought before I had well conceived it in my own mind.

A Review of Stribling’s “Fombombo”
By Robert Pickett
One of the most interesting things an author can do and one greatly valued by those who like their literature alive rather than worked up within stencilled outlines with only details changed from volume to volume is to present successively to the reading world two books of the same general class which are quite different in char- acter. T. S. Stribling, whose “Birthright” of last year told the story of a Harvard- educated negro attempting to live a satisfying life in the Southern town of his birth, now gives us “Fombombo" (The Century Co., $1.90), a colorful, atmospheric, absorb- ing South American romance of adventure and love, with the additional interest of being an inside picture of Venezuelan conditions, and with a peculiarly delight- ful zest of humor and satire.
      “Fombombo” has more that is completely unusual than its name which is that of a fictitious Venezuelan dictator, General Adriano Fombombo. The outstanding fact about it is that, while it asbolutely maintains, throughout, its character of a romance, and has most poignant love passages and some extraordinarily good and exciting action-narrative writing, it is, in addition (and quite harmoniously, too) a comedy and a satire.
      It is better romance than most romances, far more interesting and convincing in the psychology of its love-affair; as we have said, it has uncommonly fine descriptions of battle, of flight, of surprise, suspense and danger — yet there is something outside of all that, a something of significance, of acute interest; and moreover it is full of satisfactions for one’s sense of the ironic, the satiric, the comic.
      There is a unique and inimitable, yet convincingly typical American drummer of the ordinary middle-class sort, seen against a background of cultivated Spanish-Americans...

      Viola, while she talked easily with her new acquaintance, allowed her imagination to contrast this shabby, chaotic household with the spaced splendours of Morvane. Even during the September parties, when every room was full, when meals were festive banquets and conversation crowded laughter, there had been lacking the good temper and contentment of the one untidy, normal tea-hour she had experienced at Clonsall. And yet, even at the height of her satisfaction with this new domesticity, she told herself that it lacked something, a something of sensibility, a something of significance.
      “May I come and see you again?” she asked suddenly.

...She [my sister Eliza] had a rare instinct always to do the right thing without much reasoning power to know why it was right. In practical matters she would always acquiesce in my sister Julia’s decision, but she could not be said to reflect her nature in her thoughts and feelings; her own distinct personality was never lost. A passive serenity, all her own, added to her beauty as she grew up, had a great charm and attractiveness, especially for elderly people. She was noted in the family for her good luck; she would always win the prize in lotteries — she won Walter Bagehot — a prize indeed! She had that good luck which the ordainers of luck seem often to shower on those who have no showy gifts or special original genius, but a something of unreasoning goodness and understanding which rise above intellectual virtues.
      My sister Julia had a more positive nature, more alert to take the initiative, and, where she saw an advantage to be gained, more often an advantage for others than herself, would take lively action. Her mind was a sparkling, original mind, and she inherited much of my father’s powers in conversation. in conversation. Above all she possessed the rare gift of being able to enter sympathetically into views opposite to hers, while staunchly adhering to her own.

“She has her own instructions.”
      “I go,” said Antony, yet lingered. “Great Master, is she so beautiful?”
      “She has the beauty,” said Caesar with austerity, “which requires a high taste to appreciate it to the full. It is not the sort that has mastered you in Cytheris and a hundred others. It is beauty with a something of the unearthly in it and requires an answering divinity to capture it. Now go. And remember the Queen is a goddess.”

constant play of light and shade. But again there was a something of hardness in the outlines and the contrast of color were very sharp. It had not mellowed so that the deep ground tone sounded richly forth. The contemplative calm to which Brahms had attained did not permeate the music.
      In the andante we felt more of this. To my ear it was the most satisfying of all the symphony. The tone had a a richer body, the different choirs were blended into a more elastic whole and there was a freer play in the rhythms so that the music told its

from preview snippets, concert programs, Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra (ca 1927) : 329

first landing, “snippet view”

... a SOMETHING OF A MYSTERY . A LMOST every user of a spool of film has at one time or another been left with the last portion unexposed -nothing has been found good enough to make the final exposure the film will accommodate . Very often ...

from snippet (only), The Amateur Photographer & Cinematographer Vol. 64 (1927) : 312

snippet view

full text is not quite as snippeted —
The dinner was admirable, and the service not less so, being in the hands of Mr. Friat’s butler-valet, Missenden, without whom his employer absolutely refused to travel. Missenden was a Jew, something of a linguist, rather tall, very slim, of unknown age; he lived in an impregnable moral enclosure of his own, where nobody — except possibly Mr. Friar — had ever been able to get at him ; whether he and Mr. Friar conversed like human beings, when the latter received Missenden in his bedroom before breakfast, and if so what they said to each other, none knew except themselves.

Arnold Bennett, Dream of Destiny, an Unfinished Novel : And Venus Rising from the Sea (1932)

first landing —

... a something of night fell , and shut out the view ; but it was not night - only the frown of Osiris . " It happened the subject of his speech that moment was such as none else than they could think of ; and he arose , and said ...

... a something of night , so may the whole course of your life bellarkīties , And may someone with voice that will not make • my curse a lie read these verses to you on your birthday and on the Kalends of January : © All those ye Gods of ...

...e. g., the conception of res extensa as a something of three (or if you like, of n) dimensions. Is there anything in the concept itself to suggest the notion of the various figures of geometry? Spinoza might have profited by the advice given in the next century by Priestly to a bishop, to read the Parmenides. If you start your metaphysics with a single ‘high abstraction’, you will never extract anything from it except itself. No wonder that Spinoza has to admit...

somewhere (likely, A. E. Taylor, “The Incoherencies in Spinozism (1)”) in Mind Vol. 46 (1937) : 141

a Something of more opportune character presented itself in the case of the proposed extensions of the sewage disposal works. .The Council was recommended to apply to the Government Department concerned for renewal of the sanction ...

OCR misread/confusion, at Municipal Journal 48 (1939) : 2529

pointing to

Q.   Now, Mr. Van Arnam, in the candy industry, what is meant by the term “cops”?
A.   Those are the better quality, better ones.
Q.   What are the ballys?
A.   Something of very little value, as a general rule, but something in each package. When we sell the package to the audience, they may get the bigger ones, and better ones, but there is something in each one, but the value is not very heavy in the bally, and as to that, I want to say one other thing.
      When these cartons of candy come from the manufacturer, the ballys and the cops are put in one box, and the candies are put in another, so that when we take up our trays to go out to sell to the audience, we know which are the good ones and which are the bad.

plant material. Now he is ready to bring his image into concrete realization. In so doing, he experiences a pleasure known only to the one who, having been inspired, is able to make a “something” of his very own.
      In the Gala Performance symbolized in the lovely composition (Plate 24), is expressed all one might feel at seeing a flesh-and-blood ballerina taking her spot-light bow at the close of her...

ex Emma Hodkinson Cyphers (1905-86), Flower Arrangement at the Crossroads (1953) : 105

snippet, first landing

...of a dead and forgotten world flared by him in the dark.
      He saw the man-things in their great shining cities bowing down before a—something—of darkness that spread monstrously across the white-lit heavens ... saw the beginnings of Great Pharol . . . saw the crystal throne in a room of crystal where the sinuous man-formed beings lay face down in worship

The glittering gate
lost fables
a something of the sea
a study in sources and meaning

Let us then consider the line, ‘Afternoon burns upon its wires’ — a line written and then rejected by Spender in the course of composing Seascape... ‘Its’ refers to the ‘the sea’ ... Since seas do not literally have wires (if we exclude submerged cables), the word ‘wires’ must have taken the place of something else...
      Visualizing this, we have a mental model in which the wires are taut, thin lines, are metallic, occur at regular intervals, etc. From this mental model, we have to supply to the something-or-other of the sea a particular reference...
      All this pother about a single line may serve to bring home the fact that the interpretation of a metaphor is a complicated process. It involves linguistic inferences — as to a something-of-the-sea corresponding to the wires of a harp — and, when these have been made, a sorting of our knowledge of sea-structure and our knowledge of harp-structure until we come up with whatever particular aspect of sea best corresponds to harp-wires and best meets all the other specifications given by the utterance we are interpreting—the wires must be wires upon which ‘afternoon’ can be said to ‘burn’. A metaphor is thus a set of linguistic directions for supplying the sense of an un¬written literal term... The directions lead us, not to the term ‘ridges’, not to the term ‘swell’, not to the term ‘humps’, not to the term ‘crests’, but to that which in nature is the common target of all these verbal shots. By not using any of these terms, metaphor allows us to supply an uncontaminated image from our own experience of the physical world.

... a something of trouble and unease in the poet’s mind. The illustrations, as it were black scratches on rough plaster, show us images of death and corruption, skulls, fish, owls, lobsters, serpents, bats, insects, and a fine ...

... ( a ) something of the form ' x has [ idea ] at ť and ( b ) a statement about ideas had at times other than t and , perhaps , about what ideas would have been had at various times if certain conditions had obtained . Where Berkeley errs ...

Jonathan Francis Bennett, Locke, Berkeley, Hume : Central Themes (1971) : 82 and 143

first landing —

second landing —

and

Fifth, the question of whether logic is a model or a replacement of language implies that the third choice should be of the same order — a (something) of language — hence whatever it is, it must be in relation to language.

...In a letter to Stephen Spender Pasternak wrote: ‘From my earliest years I have been struck by the observation that existence was more original and extraordinary and inexplicable than any of its separate astonishing incidents and facts. I was attracted by the unusualness of the usual.’ Realitiy lies, he said, in a letter to another correspondent, ‘in the multiplicity of the universe, in the large number of possibilities . . . in a concidence of impulses and inspirations.’. ‘I would claim,’ he wrote, ‘to have seen nature and universe not as a picture made or fastened on an immovable wall, but as a sort of canvas roof or curtain in the air, incessantly blown and flapped by a something of an immaterial unknown and unknowable wind. The artist’s concern, he suggests, is to unravel this radical mysteriousness at the heart of reality. His art, therefore, becomes an activity of revelation, a naming of the not-yet known.

...This, however, must itself “have its object in turn.”...
...this means a “Something = X, of which we know nothing and, according to the present organization of our understanding, of which we can know nothing at all, but rather which, as just a correlatum of the unity of apperception, can serve only for the unity of the manifold in sensible intuition. By means of this, the understanding unifies them in the concept of an object.”
      The X is a “Something” of which in general we can know nothing at all. But it is not therefore not knowable, because as a being this X lies hidden “behind” a layer of appearances. Rather, it is not knowable because it simply cannot cannot become a possible object of knowing, i.e., the possession of a knowledge of beings. It can never become such because it is a Nothing.

...without substance, comparable to the optical illusion and the dream, a veil enveloping human consciousness, a something of which it is equally false and equally true to say that it is and that it is not. Now Kant not only expressed the same doctrine in an entirely new and original...
81

...representation, a something of which there are modifications in form but in itself stays the same, then Schopenhauer must account for its relationship to will independently of his account of how representations are related to it. The invoking of the “material world”
142

...This shift of emphasis has important ramifications for the concept Novalis relies on to assert the identity of practical and theoretical philosophy (rather than simply bridging the two) — namely, love. In the Allgemeine Brouillon, Novalis follows up his version of the typical Romantic critique of the form of judgment almost immediately with an exposition of the outlines of his marital metaphysics: in a series of fragments that clearly proceed in a sequence, Novalis makes the move that we traced in the previous chapters, from points about predication and (conceptual) copulation in propositions directly to a discussion of erotic love...[110/111] ... Z is thus that all-encompassing substratum (Spinoza’s substance) to which any determination and any one individuation can be applied — or, which is to say the same thing, to which every determination or individuation applies. Lower-case z, by contrast, is a “determined totality.” Z decomposes into any y and x but cannot be said to be individuated until its totality has been systematized into a something of its own (lowercase z), something to which y and x can genuinely be said to relate as parts.
      Novalis’s use of capital and miniscule z’s, his distinction between determinedness and determinability, may seem willfully confusing, but these complexities are owed to the centrality of representation in his system...

      Part Two, “Theology and the Other Lacan,” more explicitly and intensively reworks Lacan in theological terms... In his essay “There Is Something of One (God): Lacan and Political Theology,” Ken Reinhard rereads Lacan’s formulas of sexuation in a political theological context... and suggests that Lacan offers not only a political theology of sovereignty based on a masculine logic of exception, which accords with Schmitt’s political theology, but also a political theology of the neighbor based on a feminine logic of not-all. In the latter case, a “something of One” is the product rather than the agent of discourse. Here the “subject” of political theology is not God but the neighbor.
      From the idea of the One in Lacan, we turn to the question of “Woman and the Number of God...”

And the definitions of success are quite clear: social status and resources, high-profile education, and material accumulation. In order to accomplish, or perhaps accumulate, success in this narrative, these young people are told quite explicitly to go out and be somebody, to become, what a former colleague in higher education call, “a something of something.”
      A something of something is a title and position easily recognized and exuding social status... Usually, being the something of something involves a string of academic letter, and it always involves responsibility for some combination of organizing, communicating, and managing.

And say that this encounter happens — not because the zero is ‘intentionally’ searching for, say, another zero-like playmate or a something of some kind to help pass the time or to help make sense of its multi-dimensional not-nothingness — but because there is some kind of attraction. Now, suppose that this attraction can be denoted in some way. It would not be quite correct to suggest that it would look like another zero or a bunch of zeroes or a satisfied zero that has swallowed up its attraction.

dictionaries

The word hero is synonimous with Demi-God, a something of the mule kind betwixt God and man. It is also used for a person of great valour.

sense 6 for — but more a note on nuance of — the word “stubborn”
In all its uses it commonly implies something of a bad quality, though Locke has catachrestically used it in a sense of praise.

instance 26, under the head “bravery — courage — fortitude,” thus —

His blade is bared; in him there is an air
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair;
A something of indifference, more than then
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men.
                              Byron’s Lara.

Ewigkeit, f. [in poetry pl. -en] 1) time or duration, whose beginning is not remembered, or cannot be traced and ascertained. Von — her, from time immemorial or from time out of mind. Fig. a) something of which there will be no end, a perpetuity...

instances under sense 5 for the word “something,” here with article or demonstrative pronoun, or in plural. —
under “b” : 1848 Thackeray Vanity Fair lvi, The young gentlemen . . might learn a something of every known science; and
under “c” : 1827 Scott Chron. Canongate vi, He . . had enjoyed legacies, and laid by a something of his own, upon which he now enjoys ease with dignity.
6. a. Something or other,...

somethings of melancholy

It was while on a visit in the Highlands that I first met Jane and Agnes Tracey, and dearly did I soon love those high-born and beautiful orphans. Jane was the elder, and her beauty was of the same noble and majestic character as her mind. Never have I seen such eyes, such bright starlike-eyes; and her hair was black as the darkest feathers in the raven. Her betrothed husband, Lord William Graham, was with the sisters; and how fond he used to look on his promised bride! She was, indeed, a glorious creature; and yet I never gazed upon her face without experiencing a thrill of melancholy feeling. Her beautiful but hectic bloom, and those painfully bright eyes, seemed to say to me that Jane Tracey was not long to be a dweller upon earth. But for Agnes — my light-hearted, smiling Agnes — I had no such gloomy fears. How often have I sat and watched her with delight, as she bounded over the heath like a creature of the skies. Never did I look upon such cherub beauty. I seem to see her now before me, with that long golden hair floating on the wind, and those cloudless eyes smiling on me in their innocent gladness. It was in autumn that I parted with the sisters, and in a few weeks the noble Jane was to become a bride.
      The letters of the orphans displayed the same contrast that was visible in their characters and manners. Jane wrote in the lofty and dignified tone that became her queen-like bearing; but Agnes poured forth all the innocent overflowings of her young heart. The letters of Jane, perhaps, improved and schooled the understanding; those of Agnes inspired happiness and joy whenever they arrived. About the time that Jane became a wife, I thought she wrote with even a higher tone of religious feeling than formerly; occasionally I imagined I could perceive a something of melancholy foreboding in her expressions; and then again her mild sad eyes, and her beautiful but hectic bloom, rose upon my mind, and haunted me like spectres. Then she entirely ceased writing to me, and many painful fancies crowded on my thoughts; but from Agnes I regularly heard, and her letters still continued heralds of gladness...

                        Near yonder cave,
      What lonely straggler looks along the wave ?
Byron.

The individual, whose opportune arrival had, as we have noted at the conclusion of the preceding chapter, so successfully aided in disembarrassing Julia and her sister from the presence of her rough intruder, was a young man, who was just entering upon his first career of ambition. His features, without possessing those precise lines, which connoisseurs affirm to be essentially requisite to merit the appellation of handsome, had, nevertheless, by a rare combination, so much spirit and expression, as to be rendered [68] eminently pleasing. There was a something of melancholy, too, on his countenance, which, as we rarely see it on the flushed and animated features of youth, added greatly, and at first sight, to the interest, which you had already taken in his behalf. It was not that melancholy, which is common to the close observer, and which is assumed by various persons, and with various views, but which, nevertheless, is still assumed. It was not the look of sanctity, which the libertine hypocrite can at times so masterly express, when he goes forth, in conscious power, to seduce and to betray. It was not the pale sickly hue, which the man of fashion will frequently put on to invite your curiosity or purchase your sympathy. It was no artificial melancholy — it was an expression, which conveyed a meaning that could not be mal-construed — it was, in him, a passion of the heart. Yet, if there were ornaments, which Nature, in her forgetfulness, had neglected to bestow upon his visage, she had never, probably, formed a nobler figure or fashioned more distinguished graces. Having thus lightly remarked upon a character, which will hold a position somewhat conspicuous in our story, we shall resume our narrative, from which we have briefly but necessarily digressed.

Marco Visconti was about forty-five years of age, and the fire and freshness of youth had long been worn off by the storms of his troubled life; to the expression of joy and confidence, which animated his countenance at the period spoken of in our last chapter, had succeeded a gravity, firm without sternness, a something of melancholy, which betokened the habitual sadness of his thoughts, but mixed with no shade of bitter feeling or abject despondency. His figure was tall, handsome, and powerful; his features well-formed and regular, and, when lighted up by the fire of the spirit within, were singularly prepossessing. But whoever had seen him in his fierce and angry mood-his eyes flashing fire from beneath his bent brows — his forehead furrowed with a heavy frown — his cheek blanched to a deadly paleness — would have been reminded of the calm surface of some lake, suddenly lashed into fierce and threatening waves by the blast of the rushing tempest.

pendings —

a something of vulgarity 1817
a something of energy and dread 1832