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Updated: May 8, 2025
LECTOR. What is all this? AUCTOR. It is a parenthesis. LECTOR. It is good to know the names of the strange things one meets with on one's travels. AUCTOR. So I return to where I branched off, and tell you that the river Po is here crossed by a bridge of boats. It is a very large stream.
LECTOR. Why, if I were you I would put the matter shortly and simply, for it is the business of one describing a pilgrimage or any other matter not to puff himself up with vain conceit, nor to be always picking about for picturesque situations, but to set down plainly and shortly what he has seen and heard, describing the whole matter.
I wonder what the people are paid for it? If I knew I would earn a mint of money, for I believe I have a talent for it. Look at this There. That seems to me worth a good deal more money than all the modern 'delineation of character', and 'folk' nonsense ever written. What verve! What terseness! And yet how clear! LECTOR. Let us be getting on.
LECTOR. But tell me, Scriptor, of this sad experience, which even now it moves you to name; or is the memory too sad to recall? SCRIPTOR. Sad enough, Lector, but beautiful for all that, beautiful as winter. It was winter when she of whom I am thinking died a winter that seemed to make death itself whiter and colder on her marble forehead.
Had I my way they should take twelve, and an extra day on leap years. LECTOR. Pray, pray return to the woman at the inn. She put food before me and wine. The wine was good, but in the food was some fearful herb or other I had never tasted before a pure spice or scent, and a nasty one. One could taste nothing else, and it was revolting; but I ate it for her sake.
We all know that there was a Roman town at Lucca, because it was called Luca, and if there had been no Roman town the modern town would not be spelt with two c's. All Roman towns had milestones beyond them. But why did this tenth milestone from this Roman town keep its name? LECTOR. I am indifferent. AUCTOR. I will tell you.
Of course we wish it, wish it with a pathetic urgency which is too poignant to bear, and which the wise man bravely stifles. It would all be different if we knew. LECTOR. But does not science even, of late, hold out the promise of its probability? and the greatest poets and thinkers have always been convinced of its truth. SCRIPTOR. The promise of a probability!
John Sebastian Cammermeyer Welhaven was born in Bergen in 1807, entered the university in 1825, became a Lector in 1840, and afterward Professor of Philosophy. "His refined esthetic nature," says Fr.
It is the tinker that makes a great noise over a little work, but, at the pace these men are eating, there is no time for babbling. So, gentle lector, there is now no leisure for bandying compliments, 'tis your small eater alone who chatters o'er his meals; your true-born sportsman is ever a silent and, consequently, an assiduous grubber.
I know the images of death that please you, Lector such as that great one of Arnold's, about 'the sounding labour-house vast of being. But, Lector, you who love work so well have you never heard tell of a thing called Rest?
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