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    1. Camp Starts In: 228 Days Awfully good, dont you think? I said.


      This website template has been designed by Free Website Templates for you, for free. You can replace all this text with your own text. Yes, said he, with naïve satisfaction, it is. I sat to Madox Brown for the great Duke. The portrait is immortal.

      • Vivamus at justo ut urna porta pulvinar He told us about everything, I added, after a slight pause. What you tell him he tells us. But why dont you come and tell us yourself, Houghton? We never see you at the Swan Club nowadays. It must not be said of you that you desert old friends, that success has made you careless of those you once liked.

      • Pellentesque nunasidp adipiscing sollicitudin dolor id sagittis. In the meantime, Mullings has arrived and I am longing to meet him again, for I know very well he will be still fat and jolly, that he will still allow me to play accompaniments for him on any old piano that is handy, and that we shall talk excitedly of Bantock and Julius Harrison, of the Manchester Musical Society and Phyllis Lett, of Colonel Anderton and Ernest Newman, and of everything and everybody that made those far-off days so full of interest and so sweet to remember.

      • Donec sit amet felis a nibh ornare malesuada. To this assembly of earnest, pale men and spectacled women Harris was to lecture, and I looked from them to Harris and from Harris to them with joyful expectations. From the very first sentence he was fiery and provocative, throwing out daring theories, anathematising all forms of respectability, upholding with unparalleled fierceness a wonderful ideal of chivalry and nobility and condemning, en bloc, the whole human race, and particularly that portion of it seated before him. Ladies rustled; men stirred 34uneasily. Then, having delivered himself of a passage of hot eloquence, he paused. A clock ticked. He looked defiantly at us and still paused. A fat lady in the front row, palpably embarrassed by the long silence and, no doubt, feeling that she had reached one of the most dramatic moments of her existence, banged her plump hands together and ejaculated: Bravo! A few other ladies of both sexes joined her, but Harris was not to be placated. Thrusting out his chin, he began again. And this time he attacked the Mancunian literary idol, Professor C. H. Herford, a great scholar, but a more than suitable object for Harriss ridicule. Herford is a man who has not lived fully: a semi-invalid, asthmatic, bloodless and spectacled; a man of books and rather dusty books; in effect, a professor. He had recently reviewed Harriss book, The Man Shakespeare, in The Manchester Guardian, and had called it a disgrace to British scholarship. Why this should have annoyed the author I cannot tell, but Harris is at times a little unreasonable. Indeed, annoyance but feebly describes the feeling that spent itself in scalding invective and the most terrible irony. Each sentence he spoke appeared to be the last word in bitterness; but each succeeding sentence leaped above and beyond its predecessor, until at length the speaker had lashed himself into a state of feeling to express which words were useless. He stopped magnificently, and this time the room rang with applause. It is probable that not half-a-dozen people present believed his attack on Professor Herford was justified; indeed, it is probable that not half-a-dozen were qualified to form any opinion of value on the matter. Nevertheless, they applauded him with enthusiasm, and they did so because they had been deeply stirred by eloquence that can only be described as superb and by anger that was lava hot in its sincerity. Briefly, the lecture was an overwhelming success.

      • Etiam et tellus mi, et semper lectus. Seriously?

      • Quisque in purus nec purus feugiat consectetur. A desultory correspondence and a few casual visits followed during the next three or four years, and when I was in my very early twenties I persuaded Messrs Greening & Company to invite me to write a book on Hall Caine for a popular series (English Writers of To-day, it was called) they were at that time issuing. Mr Caine, upon being approached by me, put no hindrance in my way, but, on the contrary, consented to give me some assistance in the way of providing me with information and a few letters received by him from eminent men. I spent several week-ends at Greeba Castle and found in Mrs Caine, always charming and ideally gifted with tact, a delightful hostess. My book was quickly written. It was a feeble, bombastic and ridiculous performance. A friend of mine (I thought he was an enemy) called it a prolonged diarrhœa of the emotions. In this book Hall Caine took a very kindly interest, and he provided me with autograph letters written by Ruskin, Blackmore, T. E. Brown and 120Gladstone to insert in my book. But I was, of course, the sole author of the work, and Mr Caine had nothing to do with it save to put me right on matters of fact and to tone down some of my exuberant and sentimental praise. The silly volume, because of its subject, attracted a good deal of attention, both in this country and in America, though it was not published in the States. The Philadelphia Daily Eagle, for example, on the day the book was published, printed a eulogistic cablegram review of it from London. But, for the most part, my monograph was mercilessly slated. Hall Caine, in addition, was abused for consenting to be the subject of it, and I was abused for having chosen him for my subject. One paper headed its review Raising Caine.

      • Fusce et ipsum dolor lorem ante, at sollicitudin libero. Mr S. Wanley. Thank you so much. I felt that he could not be read by the right people.

      • Etiam et tellus mi, et semper lectus. PREFATORY NOTE

      • Vivamus at justo ut urna porta pulvinar. Oh, do go on! I urged her.

      • 11/10/2011

        This is just a place holder, so you can see what the site would look like. Ah! You noticed that? he said, seemingly well pleased.

      • 11/19/2011

        Praesent quis nisl in velit imper diet suscipit a id quam. But though my friends tell me that I am brutal, and I know I am ill-mannered, I could not find it in my heart to speak those words.

      • 11/19/2011

        Nullam vulputate elementum consequat. Fusce leo felis, bibendum. 193Of love, in which she may be stabbed and torn

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