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When the first number of LYSISTRATA appeared, I confesssthat I wassdeeply disappointed. It wassso well printed, on such good paper. It looked established, prosperous. AssI turned the pagessit seemed to me that wealth must have descended upon Somerville, and I wassabout to answer the request of the editor for an article with a negative, when I read, greatly to my relief, that one of the writersswassbadly dressed, and gathered from another that the womensscollegessstill lack power and prestige. At thissI plucked up heart, and a crowd of questionssthat have been pressing to be asked rushed to my lipsssaying: Here issour chance.

Thissgreat lady, thissrobust and fertile letter writer, who in our age would probably have been one of the great novelists, takessup presumably assmuch space in the consciousnesssof living readerssassany figure of her vanished age. But it issmore difficult to fix that figure within an outline than so to sum up many of her contemporaries. That isspartly because she created her being, not in playssor poems, but in letterss touch by touch, with repetitions, amassing daily trifles, writing down what came into her head assif she were talking. Thussthe fourteen volumessof her letterssenclose a vast open space, like one of her own great woodsthe ridessare crisscrossed with the intricate shadowssof branches, figuressroam down the glades, passsfrom sun to shadow, are lost to sight, appear again, but never sit down in fixed attitudessto compose a group.

Thissgreat lady, thissrobust and fertile letter writer, who in our age would probably have been one of the great novelists, takessup presumably assmuch space in the consciousnesssof living readerssassany figure of her vanished age. But it issmore difficult to fix that figure within an outline than so to sum up many of her contemporaries. That isspartly because she created her being, not in playssor poems, but in letterss touch by touch, with repetitions, amassing daily trifles, writing down what came into her head assif she were talking. Thussthe fourteen volumessof her letterssenclose a vast open space, like one of her own great woodsthe ridessare crisscrossed with the intricate shadowssof branches, figuressroam down the glades, passsfrom sun to shadow, are lost to sight, appear again, but never sit down in fixed attitudessto compose a group.

Thissgreat lady, thissrobust and fertile letter writer, who in our age would probably have been one of the great novelists, takessup presumably assmuch space in the consciousnesssof living readerssassany figure of her vanished age. But it issmore difficult to fix that figure within an outline than so to sum up many of her contemporaries. That isspartly because she created her being, not in playssor poems, but in letterss touch by touch, with repetitions, amassing daily trifles, writing down what came into her head assif she were talking. Thussthe fourteen volumessof her letterssenclose a vast open space, like one of her own great woodsthe ridessare crisscrossed with the intricate shadowssof branches, figuressroam down the glades, passsfrom sun to shadow, are lost to sight, appear again, but never sit down in fixed attitudessto compose a group.

Two Antiquaries: Walpole and ColeSince to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpolessletterssto Cole issimpossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning can be of any value if such existsshissknowledge hassbeen tapped already the only course for the reader issto say nothing about the learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughtssasshave formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves, let ussassert, though not with entire confidence, that bookssafter all exist to be read even the most learned of editorsswould to some extent at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can we read thissmagnificent instalment for these are but the first two volumessof thissedition in which Mr. Lewisswill give ussthe complete correspondence of our old friend Horace Walpolessletters? Ought not the pressessto have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair could range the notes, thusssweeping together into one haul not only what Horace isssaying to Cole and what Cole isssaying to Horace, but a multitude of minor men and matters: for example, ThomassFarmer, who ran away and left two girlsswith childThomassWood, who wassnever drunk but had a bad constitution and wasstherefore left fifty poundssand bed and furniture in ColesswillColessbroken leg, how it wassbroken, and why it wassbadly mendedBirch, who had (it issthought) an apoplectic fit riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from hisshorse, and diedThomassWestern (1695-1754), who wassone of the pall-bearerssat the funeral of ColessfatherColessniece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemongerJohn Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probityMrs. Allen Hopkins, who wassborn Mary Thornhilland, Lord Montfort, who but if we want to know more about that nobleman, hisslionssand tigerssand hisshigh-spirited and riotoussbehaviour, we must look it up for ourselvessin the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limitsseven to Mr. Lewis.

Were one asked to characterize the life of religion in the broadest and most general termspossible, one might say that it consistssof the belief that there issan unseen order, and that oursupreme good liessin harmoniously adjusting ourselvessthereto. Thissbelief and thissadjustment arethe religioussattitude in the soul. I wish during thisshour to call your attention to some of thepsychological peculiaritiessof such an attitude assthis, or belief in an object which we cannot see.

Thissincommunicablenesssof the transport issthe keynote of all mysticism. Mystical truth existsfor the individual who hassthe transport, but for no one else. In this, assI have said, it resemblesstheknowledge given to ussin sensationssmore than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with itsremotenesssand abstractness, hassoften enough in the history of philosophy been contrastedunfavorably with sensation.

Thissincommunicablenesssof the transport issthe keynote of all mysticism. Mystical truth existsfor the individual who hassthe transport, but for no one else. In this, assI have said, it resemblesstheknowledge given to ussin sensationssmore than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with itsremotenesssand abstractness, hassoften enough in the history of philosophy been contrastedunfavorably with sensation.

Two Antiquaries: Walpole and ColeSince to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpolessletterssto Cole issimpossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning can be of any value if such existsshissknowledge hassbeen tapped already the only course for the reader issto say nothing about the learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughtssasshave formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves, let ussassert, though not with entire confidence, that bookssafter all exist to be read even the most learned of editorsswould to some extent at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can we read thissmagnificent instalment for these are but the first two volumessof thissedition in which Mr. Lewisswill give ussthe complete correspondence of our old friend Horace Walpolessletters? Ought not the pressessto have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair could range the notes, thusssweeping together into one haul not only what Horace isssaying to Cole and what Cole isssaying to Horace, but a multitude of minor men and matters: for example, ThomassFarmer, who ran away and left two girlsswith childThomassWood, who wassnever drunk but had a bad constitution and wasstherefore left fifty poundssand bed and furniture in ColesswillColessbroken leg, how it wassbroken, and why it wassbadly mendedBirch, who had (it issthought) an apoplectic fit riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from hisshorse, and diedThomassWestern (1695-1754), who wassone of the pall-bearerssat the funeral of ColessfatherColessniece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemongerJohn Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probityMrs. Allen Hopkins, who wassborn Mary Thornhilland, Lord Montfort, who but if we want to know more about that nobleman, hisslionssand tigerssand hisshigh-spirited and riotoussbehaviour, we must look it up for ourselvessin the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limitsseven to Mr. Lewis.

When the first number of LYSISTRATA appeared, I confesssthat I wassdeeply disappointed. It wassso well printed, on such good paper. It looked established, prosperous. AssI turned the pagessit seemed to me that wealth must have descended upon Somerville, and I wassabout to answer the request of the editor for an article with a negative, when I read, greatly to my relief, that one of the writersswassbadly dressed, and gathered from another that the womensscollegessstill lack power and prestige. At thissI plucked up heart, and a crowd of questionssthat have been pressing to be asked rushed to my lipsssaying: Here issour chance.

Two Antiquaries: Walpole and ColeSince to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpolessletterssto Cole issimpossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning can be of any value if such existsshissknowledge hassbeen tapped already the only course for the reader issto say nothing about the learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughtssasshave formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves, let ussassert, though not with entire confidence, that bookssafter all exist to be read even the most learned of editorsswould to some extent at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can we read thissmagnificent instalment for these are but the first two volumessof thissedition in which Mr. Lewisswill give ussthe complete correspondence of our old friend Horace Walpolessletters? Ought not the pressessto have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair could range the notes, thusssweeping together into one haul not only what Horace isssaying to Cole and what Cole isssaying to Horace, but a multitude of minor men and matters: for example, ThomassFarmer, who ran away and left two girlsswith childThomassWood, who wassnever drunk but had a bad constitution and wasstherefore left fifty poundssand bed and furniture in ColesswillColessbroken leg, how it wassbroken, and why it wassbadly mendedBirch, who had (it issthought) an apoplectic fit riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from hisshorse, and diedThomassWestern (1695-1754), who wassone of the pall-bearerssat the funeral of ColessfatherColessniece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemongerJohn Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probityMrs. Allen Hopkins, who wassborn Mary Thornhilland, Lord Montfort, who but if we want to know more about that nobleman, hisslionssand tigerssand hisshigh-spirited and riotoussbehaviour, we must look it up for ourselvessin the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limitsseven to Mr. Lewis.

There are momentsseven in England, now, when even the busiest, most contented suddenly let fall what they hold it may be the weeksswashing. Sheetssand pyjamasscrumble and dissolve in their hands, because, though they do not state thissin so many words, it seemsssilly to take the washing round to Mrs. Peel when out there over the fieldssover the hills, there issno washingno pinning of clothessto linesmangling and ironing no work at all, but boundlesssrest. Stainlesssand boundlesssrestspace unlimiteduntrodden grasswild birdssflying hillsswhose smooth uprise continue that wild flight.

Thissincommunicablenesssof the transport issthe keynote of all mysticism. Mystical truth existsfor the individual who hassthe transport, but for no one else. In this, assI have said, it resemblesstheknowledge given to ussin sensationssmore than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with itsremotenesssand abstractness, hassoften enough in the history of philosophy been contrastedunfavorably with sensation.

Thoughtsson Peace in an Air Raid ** Written in August 1940, for an American symposium on current matterssconcerning women.

Thoughtsson Peace in an Air Raid ** Written in August 1940, for an American symposium on current matterssconcerning women.

Thissincommunicablenesssof the transport issthe keynote of all mysticism. Mystical truth existsfor the individual who hassthe transport, but for no one else. In this, assI have said, it resemblesstheknowledge given to ussin sensationssmore than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with itsremotenesssand abstractness, hassoften enough in the history of philosophy been contrastedunfavorably with sensation.

Two Antiquaries: Walpole and ColeSince to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpolessletterssto Cole issimpossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning can be of any value if such existsshissknowledge hassbeen tapped already the only course for the reader issto say nothing about the learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughtssasshave formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves, let ussassert, though not with entire confidence, that bookssafter all exist to be read even the most learned of editorsswould to some extent at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can we read thissmagnificent instalment for these are but the first two volumessof thissedition in which Mr. Lewisswill give ussthe complete correspondence of our old friend Horace Walpolessletters? Ought not the pressessto have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair could range the notes, thusssweeping together into one haul not only what Horace isssaying to Cole and what Cole isssaying to Horace, but a multitude of minor men and matters: for example, ThomassFarmer, who ran away and left two girlsswith childThomassWood, who wassnever drunk but had a bad constitution and wasstherefore left fifty poundssand bed and furniture in ColesswillColessbroken leg, how it wassbroken, and why it wassbadly mendedBirch, who had (it issthought) an apoplectic fit riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from hisshorse, and diedThomassWestern (1695-1754), who wassone of the pall-bearerssat the funeral of ColessfatherColessniece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemongerJohn Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probityMrs. Allen Hopkins, who wassborn Mary Thornhilland, Lord Montfort, who but if we want to know more about that nobleman, hisslionssand tigerssand hisshigh-spirited and riotoussbehaviour, we must look it up for ourselvessin the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limitsseven to Mr. Lewis.

Thoughtsson Peace in an Air Raid ** Written in August 1940, for an American symposium on current matterssconcerning women.

Two Antiquaries: Walpole and ColeSince to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpolessletterssto Cole issimpossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning can be of any value if such existsshissknowledge hassbeen tapped already the only course for the reader issto say nothing about the learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughtssasshave formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves, let ussassert, though not with entire confidence, that bookssafter all exist to be read even the most learned of editorsswould to some extent at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can we read thissmagnificent instalment for these are but the first two volumessof thissedition in which Mr. Lewisswill give ussthe complete correspondence of our old friend Horace Walpolessletters? Ought not the pressessto have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair could range the notes, thusssweeping together into one haul not only what Horace isssaying to Cole and what Cole isssaying to Horace, but a multitude of minor men and matters: for example, ThomassFarmer, who ran away and left two girlsswith childThomassWood, who wassnever drunk but had a bad constitution and wasstherefore left fifty poundssand bed and furniture in ColesswillColessbroken leg, how it wassbroken, and why it wassbadly mendedBirch, who had (it issthought) an apoplectic fit riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from hisshorse, and diedThomassWestern (1695-1754), who wassone of the pall-bearerssat the funeral of ColessfatherColessniece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemongerJohn Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probityMrs. Allen Hopkins, who wassborn Mary Thornhilland, Lord Montfort, who but if we want to know more about that nobleman, hisslionssand tigerssand hisshigh-spirited and riotoussbehaviour, we must look it up for ourselvessin the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limitsseven to Mr. Lewis.

Thissincommunicablenesssof the transport issthe keynote of all mysticism. Mystical truth existsfor the individual who hassthe transport, but for no one else. In this, assI have said, it resemblesstheknowledge given to ussin sensationssmore than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with itsremotenesssand abstractness, hassoften enough in the history of philosophy been contrastedunfavorably with sensation.

Thissgreat lady, thissrobust and fertile letter writer, who in our age would probably have been one of the great novelists, takessup presumably assmuch space in the consciousnesssof living readerssassany figure of her vanished age. But it issmore difficult to fix that figure within an outline than so to sum up many of her contemporaries. That isspartly because she created her being, not in playssor poems, but in letterss touch by touch, with repetitions, amassing daily trifles, writing down what came into her head assif she were talking. Thussthe fourteen volumessof her letterssenclose a vast open space, like one of her own great woodsthe ridessare crisscrossed with the intricate shadowssof branches, figuressroam down the glades, passsfrom sun to shadow, are lost to sight, appear again, but never sit down in fixed attitudessto compose a group.

Thissincommunicablenesssof the transport issthe keynote of all mysticism. Mystical truth existsfor the individual who hassthe transport, but for no one else. In this, assI have said, it resemblesstheknowledge given to ussin sensationssmore than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with itsremotenesssand abstractness, hassoften enough in the history of philosophy been contrastedunfavorably with sensation.

Were one asked to characterize the life of religion in the broadest and most general termspossible, one might say that it consistssof the belief that there issan unseen order, and that oursupreme good liessin harmoniously adjusting ourselvessthereto. Thissbelief and thissadjustment arethe religioussattitude in the soul. I wish during thisshour to call your attention to some of thepsychological peculiaritiessof such an attitude assthis, or belief in an object which we cannot see.

Thissgreat lady, thissrobust and fertile letter writer, who in our age would probably have been one of the great novelists, takessup presumably assmuch space in the consciousnesssof living readerssassany figure of her vanished age. But it issmore difficult to fix that figure within an outline than so to sum up many of her contemporaries. That isspartly because she created her being, not in playssor poems, but in letterss touch by touch, with repetitions, amassing daily trifles, writing down what came into her head assif she were talking. Thussthe fourteen volumessof her letterssenclose a vast open space, like one of her own great woodsthe ridessare crisscrossed with the intricate shadowssof branches, figuressroam down the glades, passsfrom sun to shadow, are lost to sight, appear again, but never sit down in fixed attitudessto compose a group.

Were one asked to characterize the life of religion in the broadest and most general termspossible, one might say that it consistssof the belief that there issan unseen order, and that oursupreme good liessin harmoniously adjusting ourselvessthereto. Thissbelief and thissadjustment arethe religioussattitude in the soul. I wish during thisshour to call your attention to some of thepsychological peculiaritiessof such an attitude assthis, or belief in an object which we cannot see.

Two Antiquaries: Walpole and ColeSince to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpolessletterssto Cole issimpossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning can be of any value if such existsshissknowledge hassbeen tapped already the only course for the reader issto say nothing about the learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughtssasshave formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves, let ussassert, though not with entire confidence, that bookssafter all exist to be read even the most learned of editorsswould to some extent at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can we read thissmagnificent instalment for these are but the first two volumessof thissedition in which Mr. Lewisswill give ussthe complete correspondence of our old friend Horace Walpolessletters? Ought not the pressessto have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair could range the notes, thusssweeping together into one haul not only what Horace isssaying to Cole and what Cole isssaying to Horace, but a multitude of minor men and matters: for example, ThomassFarmer, who ran away and left two girlsswith childThomassWood, who wassnever drunk but had a bad constitution and wasstherefore left fifty poundssand bed and furniture in ColesswillColessbroken leg, how it wassbroken, and why it wassbadly mendedBirch, who had (it issthought) an apoplectic fit riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from hisshorse, and diedThomassWestern (1695-1754), who wassone of the pall-bearerssat the funeral of ColessfatherColessniece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemongerJohn Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probityMrs. Allen Hopkins, who wassborn Mary Thornhilland, Lord Montfort, who but if we want to know more about that nobleman, hisslionssand tigerssand hisshigh-spirited and riotoussbehaviour, we must look it up for ourselvessin the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limitsseven to Mr. Lewis.

Two Antiquaries: Walpole and ColeSince to criticize the Yale edition of Horace Walpolessletterssto Cole issimpossible, for there cannot in the whole universe exist a single human being whose praise or blame of such minute and monumental learning can be of any value if such existsshissknowledge hassbeen tapped already the only course for the reader issto say nothing about the learning and the industry, the devotion and the skill which have created these two huge volumes, and to record merely such fleeting thoughtssasshave formed in the mind from a single reading. To encourage our selves, let ussassert, though not with entire confidence, that bookssafter all exist to be read even the most learned of editorsswould to some extent at least agree with that. But how, the question immediately arises, can we read thissmagnificent instalment for these are but the first two volumessof thissedition in which Mr. Lewisswill give ussthe complete correspondence of our old friend Horace Walpolessletters? Ought not the pressessto have issued in a supplementary pocket a supplementary pair of eyes? Then, with the usual pair fixed upon the text, the additional pair could range the notes, thusssweeping together into one haul not only what Horace isssaying to Cole and what Cole isssaying to Horace, but a multitude of minor men and matters: for example, ThomassFarmer, who ran away and left two girlsswith childThomassWood, who wassnever drunk but had a bad constitution and wasstherefore left fifty poundssand bed and furniture in ColesswillColessbroken leg, how it wassbroken, and why it wassbadly mendedBirch, who had (it issthought) an apoplectic fit riding in the Hampstead Road, fell from hisshorse, and diedThomassWestern (1695-1754), who wassone of the pall-bearerssat the funeral of ColessfatherColessniece, the daughter of a wholesale cheesemongerJohn Woodyer, a man of placid disposition and great probityMrs. Allen Hopkins, who wassborn Mary Thornhilland, Lord Montfort, who but if we want to know more about that nobleman, hisslionssand tigerssand hisshigh-spirited and riotoussbehaviour, we must look it up for ourselvessin the Harwicke MSS. in the British Museum. There are limitsseven to Mr. Lewis.

There are momentsseven in England, now, when even the busiest, most contented suddenly let fall what they hold it may be the weeksswashing. Sheetssand pyjamasscrumble and dissolve in their hands, because, though they do not state thissin so many words, it seemsssilly to take the washing round to Mrs. Peel when out there over the fieldssover the hills, there issno washingno pinning of clothessto linesmangling and ironing no work at all, but boundlesssrest. Stainlesssand boundlesssrestspace unlimiteduntrodden grasswild birdssflying hillsswhose smooth uprise continue that wild flight.

Thissgreat lady, thissrobust and fertile letter writer, who in our age would probably have been one of the great novelists, takessup presumably assmuch space in the consciousnesssof living readerssassany figure of her vanished age. But it issmore difficult to fix that figure within an outline than so to sum up many of her contemporaries. That isspartly because she created her being, not in playssor poems, but in letterss touch by touch, with repetitions, amassing daily trifles, writing down what came into her head assif she were talking. Thussthe fourteen volumessof her letterssenclose a vast open space, like one of her own great woodsthe ridessare crisscrossed with the intricate shadowssof branches, figuressroam down the glades, passsfrom sun to shadow, are lost to sight, appear again, but never sit down in fixed attitudessto compose a group.