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Updated: June 7, 2025
I think accidental conflagration is the cause. December 12. Hogg came to breakfast this morning, having taken and brought for his companion the Galashiels bard, David Thomson, as to a meeting of "huzz Tividale poets." The honest grunter opines with a delightful naïveté that Moore's verses are far owre sweet answered by Thomson that Moore's ear or notes, I forget which, were finely strung.
Instead of modifying or transforming his theory into accordance with the facts, he rushes off with it into the cloud-land of faith. There let him remain as he has a perfect right to. Our objection is neither to reason nor to faith, but to a mischievous playing fast and loose with both. Mr. Brown opines that Christ will reign until all his enemies are under his feet. And who are these enemies?
The Lord Abbot immediately issued his mandate to the Refectioner: "Hie thee to the kitchen, Brother Hilarius, and there make inquiry of our brother the Kitchener, within what time he opines that our collation may be prepared, since sin and sorrow it were, considering the hardships of this noble and gallant knight, no whit mentioning or weighing those we ourselves have endured, if we were now either to advance or retard the hour of refection beyond the time when the viands are fit to be set before us."
For any quality on the ground of which 'Agni' may be etymologically explained to denote ordinary fire as when e.g. we explain 'agni' as he who 'agre nayati' may also, in its highest non-conditioned degree, be ascribed to the supreme Self. Another difficulty remains. How is this possible? On account of definiteness; thus Asmarathya opines.
He exhausts the range of history to show the frightful results which have followed this taste of the fruit of the tree of knowledge; quotes the Encyclopédie, to prove that the woman who knows the alphabet has already lost a portion of her innocence; cites the opinion of Molière, that any female who has unhappily learned anything in this line should affect ignorance, when possible; asserts that knowledge rarely makes men attractive, and females never; opines that women have no occasion to peruse Ovid's "Art of Love," since they know it all in advance; remarks that three-quarters of female authors are no better than they should be; maintains that Madame Guion would have been far more useful, had she been merely pretty and an ignoramus, such as Nature made her, that Ruth and Naomi could not read, and Boaz probably would never have married into the family, had they possessed that accomplishment, that the Spartan women did not know the alphabet, nor the Amazons, nor Penelope, nor Andromache, nor Lucretia, nor Joan of Arc, nor Petrarch's Laura, nor the daughters of Charlemagne, nor the three hundred and sixty-five wives of Mohammed; but that Sappho and Madame de Maintenon could read altogether too well, while the case of Saint Brigitta, who brought forth twelve children and twelve books, was clearly exceptional, and afforded no safe precedent.
Talk of not being qualified to be miscellaneous! By rights you OUGHT to be, Mr Wegg. Silas looks as hard at his one leg as he can in the dim light, and after a pause sulkily opines 'that it must be the fault of the other people. Or how do you mean to say it comes about? he demands impatiently. 'I don't know how it comes about. Stand up a minute.
It is a massive, almost windowless, semicircular body, its bare walls unsupported by buttresses, and every inch of it like the corner-tower of a castle wall, crenelated and flat-topped. The same author opines that the transept, a handsome, broad, and airy ogival nave, dates from the fourteenth century, whereas the western front of the church is of a much more recent date.
They achieve no more, however, than to belittle those who penned them; for, even as they are true, the marvel is that the admirable matter in these truths appears to have escaped those authors. What else Gregorovius opines that Cesare was no Messiah of United Italy is true enough. Cesare was the Messiah of Cesare.
He is too positive; he seldom opines; he asserts with finality the things that only God can know; occasionally his knowledge, transcending the possible, quits the realm of the historian for that of the romancer, as for instance to cite one amid a thousand when he actually tells us what passes in Cesare Borgia's mind at the coronation of the King of Naples.
He may have been growing old and indolent when he speaks of the game as a "task of stupid drudgery" and opines that instead of a sport it might "with propriety of language" be described as "running hard labor." Other eye-witnesses, however, vaunt the great beauty and grace of the game.
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