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Updated: June 7, 2025
And, once more, if we must have a formula, it would be best to say that the philosophy of the century was the product, first of scepticism applied to old beliefs which were no longer easily tenable, and then of scepticism, extended to old institutions that were no longer practically habitable. See Lange's Geschichte des Materialismus, i. 298.
Froebel slept in Liebenstein, and Middendorff at the foot of the Kirschberg in Keilhau. They sowed and reaped not; and yet to possess the privilege of sowing, was it not equivalent in itself to reaping a very great reward? A few words on Middendorff, culled from Lange's account, may be serviceable. Middendorff was to Froebel as Aaron was to Moses.
In respectability she could not earn what was barest necessity for her what she was now getting at Lange's decent shelter, passable food.
Lange filled his shelves with a quantity of excellent classics that he had purchased during a tour in Italy. Hermann Busch, the great critic, was taught in this school, and he used to say in after life that he often dreamed of Lange's house, and saw an altar of the Muses surrounded by the shadowy figures of ancient poets and orators.
I will be a passive and willing prisoner if you, on the other hand, will effect Mademoiselle Lange's release." "H'm!" mused Chauvelin again, "it sounds feasible." "It does! it does!" rejoined Armand, whose excitement was at fever-pitch.
A week later Captain Lange's snapshot of the war-correspondent was paraded in the New York Herald as the dramatic close of Singley's journalistic career. In his way he, too, had been a hero. He died in the hospital at Salubria. He could claim the credit of having made the war plain to those at home. Or was that not the war after all?
It was not only that Noufflard was very well and widely informed about the artistic treasures of Italy and the places where they were to be found, but his opinions enriched my mind, inasmuch as they spurred me on to contradiction or surprised me and won my adherence. Fresh as Julius Lange's artistic sense had been, there was nevertheless something doctrinaire and academic about it.
It was after the battle of Solferino that Mademoiselle Brun had come into Denise Lange's life, taking her from her convent school to live in a dull little apartment in the Rue des Saints Peres, educating her, dressing her, caring for her with a grim affection which never wasted itself in words.
The place was nearly in the same state as in Dampier's time, the Dutch having there a fort and storehouses; and by Lange's account we might there have been supplied with every necessary that we expected to procure at Batavia, salt provisions and arrack not excepted. But the Portuguese were still in possession of several towns on the north side of the island, particularly Laphao and Sesial.
Her words came out all the while in short jerky sentences, and from time to time she stole swift shy glances at Armand's sister. "You will forgive me, mademoiselle," said Marguerite, whose simple and calm manner quickly tended to soothe Jeanne Lange's confusion; "but I was so anxious about my brother I do not know where to find him." "And so you came to me, madame?" "Was I wrong?" "Oh, no!
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