➊ With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis
Often when Examples Of Greed And Love In The Great Gatsby went his rounds I clung to his What Was The Causes Of World War 1 Essay tails while he collected and punched the With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis. Score: 7. With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis haven't seen a case where I can prove that Crusader procced off a With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis of Justice proc. Then in simpler words than these, which at that time With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis could not have understood, she explained: "You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. On mornings when I did not care for the ride, my teacher and I would start after breakfast for a ramble in the woods, and allow ourselves to get lost amid the trees and With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis, and with no road to follow except the With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis made by cows and With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis. But you only keep it till you have Dal'rend MH. I Universal Declaration Of Human Rights if this sorrow had come to me when I was older, it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. You will go in vain to the metaphysician or to the logician; for neither of these knows how to handle a spiritual weapon.
Every Mortal Kombat Character Ever
Characteristically, this Wiccan "virtue" is balanced by its partner virtue. Kant 's view of humility has been defined as "that meta-attitude that constitutes the moral agent's proper perspective on himself as a dependent and corrupt but capable and dignified rational agent". Mahatma Gandhi is attributed as suggesting that attempting to sustain truth without humility is doomed to become an "arrogant caricature" of truth.
While many religions and philosophers view humility as a virtue, some have been critical of it, seeing it as opposed to individualism. Nietzsche views humility as a strategy used by the weak to avoid being destroyed by the strong. In Twilight of the Idols he writes: "When stepped on, a worm doubles up. That is clever. In that way he lessens the probability of being stepped on again.
In the language of morality: humility. Recent research suggests that humility is a quality of certain types of leaders. For example, Jim Collins and his colleagues found that a certain type of leader, whom they term "level 5", possesses humility and fierce resolve. The research suggests that humility is multi-dimensional and includes self-understanding and awareness, openness, and perspective taking. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Quality of being humble. For the medieval saint, see Saint Humility.
For the passenger on the Mayflower , see Humility Cooper. For the Gorillaz song, see Humility song. See also: Anatta. Make contentment your ear-rings, humility your begging bowl, and meditation the ashes you apply to your body. Listening and believing with love and humility in your mind. In the realm of humility, the Word is Beauty. Modesty, humility and intuitive understanding are my mother-in-law and father-in-law. Proceedings at the Tenth Anniversary Festival Held Harvard University. Snyder; Shane J. Lopez Handbook of Positive Psychology. Oxford University Press. ISBN Character strengths and virtues a handbook and classification. Worthington Jr. Handbook of Forgiveness. Personality, human development, and culture : international perspectives on psychological science.
Hove: Psychology. Koole; Tom Pyszczynski Handbook of Experimental Existential Psychology. Guilford Publications. British Deer Society. Archived from the original PDF on Retrieved Emotions and Violence: shame and rage in destructive conflicts. Lewis 6 February Mere Christianity. Hoon Journal of Christian Philosophy. Catholic Encyclopedia. McIver Art and music in the early modern period. A history of ideas and images in Italian art. Iconography of Christian Art. Renaissance Art: A Topical Dictionary. Painting in Florence and Siena after the Black Death. The ethics of Buddhism.
Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press. ISBN X. London: Pali Text Society. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers. In Buswell, Robert E. Encyclopedia of Buddhism. New York [u. English-Sanskrit Dictionary in Sanskrit. Monier-Williams Sanskrit-English Dictionary. See transliteration, and two commentaries. Sundararajan; Bithika Mukerji, eds. Hindu spirituality: Postclassical and modern. Journal of Religious Ethics. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. Epistemology and Ontology of Indian Psychology. Spirituality and Indian Psychology. New York: Springer. The Bhagavad Gita. Hall The Complete Works of the Swami Vivekananda. Contemporary Indian Philosophy. London: Allen 7 Sons. Paths to The Divine: Ancient and Indian: I learned how the sun and the rain make to grow out of the ground every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, how birds build their nests and live and thrive from land to land, how the squirrel, the deer, the lion and every other creature finds food and shelter.
As my knowledge of things grew I felt more and more the delight of the world I was in. Long before I learned to do a sum in arithmetic or describe the shape of the earth, Miss Sullivan had taught me to find beauty in the fragrant woods, in every blade of grass, and in the curves and dimples of my baby sister's hand. She linked my earliest thoughts with nature, and made me feel that "birds and flowers and I were happy peers. But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is not always kind. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long ramble. The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped to rest under a tree by the wayside. Our last halt was under a wild cherry tree a short distance from the house.
The shade was grateful, and the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was able to scramble to a seat in the branches. It was so cool up in the tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there. I promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it. Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light to me, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the earth. I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone, cut off from my friends and the firm earth.
The immense, the unknown, enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted to get down from that tree. There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree. The branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled up till it reached the limb I sat on.
It worked my suspense up to the highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I should fall together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had learned a new lesson—that nature "wages open war against her children, and under softest touch hides treacherous claws. After this experience it was a long time before I climbed another tree.
The mere thought filled me with terror. It was the sweet allurement of the mimosa tree in full bloom that finally overcame my fears. One beautiful spring morning when I was alone in the summer-house, reading, I became aware of a wonderful subtle fragrance in the air. I started up and instinctively stretched out my hands. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had passed through the summer-house. I felt my way to the end of the garden, knowing that the mimosa tree was near the fence, at the turn of the path.
Yes, there it was, all quivering in the warm sunshine, its blossom-laden branches almost touching the long grass. Was there ever anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world before! Its delicate blossoms shrank from the slightest earthly touch; it seemed as if a tree of paradise had been transplanted to earth. I made my way through a shower of petals to the great trunk and for one minute stood irresolute; then, putting my foot in the broad space between the forked branches, I pulled myself up into the tree. I had some difficulty in holding on, for the branches were very large and the bark hurt my hands.
But I had a delicious sense that I was doing something unusual and wonderful, so I kept on climbing higher and higher, until I reached a little seat which somebody had built there so long ago that it had grown part of the tree itself. I sat there for a long, long time, feeling like a fairy on a rosy cloud. After that I spent many happy hours in my tree of paradise, thinking fair thoughts and dreaming bright dreams.
I HAD now the key to all language, and I was eager to learn to use it. Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow and often painful process. But whatever the process, the result is wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance step by step until we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare. At first, when my teacher told me about a new thing I asked very few questions.
My ideas were vague, and my vocabulary was inadequate; but as my knowledge of things grew, and I learned more and more words, my field of inquiry broadened, and I would return again and again to the same subject, eager for further information. Sometimes a new word revived an image that some earlier experience had engraved on my brain. I remember the morning that I first asked the meaning of the word, "love. I had found a few early violets in the garden and brought them to my teacher.
She tried to kiss me: but at that time I did not like to have any one kiss me except my mother. Miss Sullivan put her arm gently round me and spelled into my hand, "I love Helen. She drew me closer to her and said, "It is here," pointing to my heart, whose beats I was conscious of for the first time. Her words puzzled me very much because I did not then understand anything unless I touched it. I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs, a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers?
It seemed to me that there could be nothing more beautiful than the sun, whose warmth makes all things grow. But Miss Sullivan shook her head, and I was greatly puzzled and disappointed. I thought it strange that my teacher could not show me love. A day or two afterward I was stringing beads of different sizes in symmetrical groups—two large beads, three small ones, and so on. I had made many mistakes, and Miss Sullivan had pointed them out again and again with gentle patience. Finally I noticed a very obvious error in the sequence and for an instant I concentrated my attention on the lesson and tried to think how I should have arranged the beads.
Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and spelled with decided emphasis, "Think. In a flash I knew that the word was the name of the process that was going on in my head. This was my first conscious perception of an abstract idea. For a long time I was still—I was not thinking of the beads in my lap, but trying to find a meaning for "love" in the light of this new idea. The sun had been under a cloud all day, and there had been brief showers; but suddenly the sun broke forth in all its southern splendour. Then in simpler words than these, which at that time I could not have understood, she explained: "You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day.
You cannot touch love either; but you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything. Without love you would not be happy or want to play. The beautiful truth burst upon my mind—I felt that there were invisible lines stretched between my spirit and the spirits of others. From the beginning of my education Miss Sullivan made it a practice to speak to me as she would to any hearing child; the only difference was that she spelled the sentences into my hand instead of speaking them.
If I did not know the words and idioms necessary to express my thoughts she supplied them, even suggesting conversation when I was unable to keep up my end of the dialogue. This process was continued for several years; for the deaf child does not learn in a month, or even in two or three years, the numberless idioms and expressions used in the simplest daily intercourse. The little hearing child learns these from constant repetition and imitation.
The conversation he hears in his home stimulates his mind and suggests topics and calls forth the spontaneous expression of his own thoughts. This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child. My teacher, realizing this, determined to supply the kinds of stimulus I lacked. This she did by repeating to me as far as possible, verbatim what she heard, and by showing me how I could take part in the conversation. But it was a long time before I ventured to take the initiative, and still longer before I could find something appropriate to say at the right time.
The deaf and the blind find it very difficult to acquire the amenities of conversation. How much more this difficulty must be augmented in the case of those who are both deaf and blind! They cannot distinguish the tone of the voice or, without assistance, go up and down the gamut of tones that give significance to words; nor can they watch the expression of the speaker's face, and a look is often the very soul of what one says. As soon as I could spell a few words my teacher gave me slips of cardboard on which were printed words in raised letters. I quickly learned that each printed word stood for an object, an act, or a quality. I had a frame in which I could arrange the words in little sentences; but before I ever put sentences in the frame I used to make them in objects.
I found the slips of paper which represented, for example, "doll," "is," "on," "bed" and placed each name on its object; then I put my doll on the bed with the words is, on, bed arranged beside the doll, thus making a sentence out of the words, and at the same time carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves. One day, Miss Sullivan tells me, I pinned the word girl on my pinafore and stood in the wardrobe. On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in, wardrobe. Nothing delighted me so much as this game. My teacher and I played it for hours at a time. Often everything in the room was arranged in object sentences.
From the printed slip it was but a step to the printed book. I took my "Reader for Beginners" and hunted for the words I knew; when I found them my joy was like that of a game of hide-and-seek. Thus I began to read. Of the time when I began to read connected stories I shall speak later. For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most earnestly it seemed more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem. Whenever anything delighted or interested me she talked it over with me just as if she were a little girl herself. What many children think of with dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder definitions, is to-day one of my most precious memories.
I cannot explain the peculiar sympathy Miss Sullivan had with my pleasures and desires. Perhaps it was the result of long association with the blind. Added to this she had a wonderful faculty for description. She went quickly over uninteresting details, and never nagged me with questions to see if I remembered the day-before-yesterday's lesson. She introduced dry technicalities of science little by little, making every subject so real that I could not help remembering what she taught. We read and studied out of doors, preferring the sunlit woods to the house. All my early lessons have in them the breath of the woods—the fine, resinous odour of pine needles, blended with the perfume of wild grapes. Seated in the gracious shade of a wild tulip tree, I learned to think that everything has a lesson and a suggestion.
I felt the bursting cotton-bolls and fingered their soft fiber and fuzzy seeds; I felt the low soughing of the wind through the cornstalks, the silky rustling of the long leaves, and the indignant snort of my pony, as we caught him in the pasture and put the bit in his mouth—ah me! Sometimes I rose at dawn and stole into the garden while the heavy dew lay on the grass and flowers. Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings rubbed together in a sudden terror, as the little creature became aware of a pressure from without.
Another favourite haunt of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened early in July. The large, downy peaches would reach themselves into my hand, and as the joyous breezes flew about the trees the apples tumbled at my feet. Oh, the delight with which I gathered up the fruit in my pinafore, pressed my face against the smooth cheeks of the apples, still warm from the sun, and skipped back to the house! Our favourite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old tumble-down lumber-wharf on the Tennessee River, used during the Civil War to land soldiers.
There we spent many happy hours and played at learning geography. I built dams of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug river-beds, all for fun, and never dreamed that I was learning a lesson. I listened with increasing wonder to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the great round world with its burning mountains, buried cities, moving rivers of ice, and many other things as strange. She made raised maps in clay, so that I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys, and follow with my fingers the devious course of rivers.
I liked this, too; but the division of the earth into zones and poles confused and teased my mind. The illustrative strings and the orange stick representing the poles seemed so real that even to this day the mere mention of temperate zone suggests a series of twine circles; and I believe that if any one should set about it he could convince me that white bears actually climb the North Pole. Arithmetic seems to have been the only study I did not like. From the first I was not interested in the science of numbers.
Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by arranging kindergarten straws I learned to add and subtract. I never had patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. When I had accomplished this my conscience was at rest for the day, and I went out quickly to find my playmates. Once a gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, sent me a collection of fossils—tiny mollusk shells beautifully marked, and bits of sandstone with the print of birds' claws, and a lovely fern in bas-relief. These were the keys which unlocked the treasures of the antediluvian world for me. With trembling fingers I listened to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the terrible beasts, with uncouth, unpronounceable names, which once went tramping through the primeval forests, tearing down the branches of gigantic trees for food, and died in the dismal swamps of an unknown age.
For a long time these strange creatures haunted my dreams, and this gloomy period formed a somber background to the joyous Now, filled with sunshine and roses and echoing with the gentle beat of my pony's hoof. Another time a beautiful shell was given me, and with a child's surprise and delight I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the lustrous coil for his dwelling place, and how on still nights, when there is no breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl. Just as the wonder-working mantle of the Nautilus changes the material it absorbs from the water and makes it a part of itself, so the bits of knowledge one gathers undergo a similar change and become pearls of thought.
Again, it was the growth of a plant that furnished the text for a lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Very soon the green, pointed buds showed signs of opening. The slender, fingerlike leaves on the outside opened slowly, reluctant, I thought, to reveal the loveliness they hid; once having made a start, however, the opening process went on rapidly, but in order and systematically. There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the rest, which pushed her outer covering back with more pomp, as if the beauty in soft, silky robes knew that she was the lily-queen by right divine, while her more timid sisters doffed their green hoods shyly, until the whole plant was one nodding bough of loveliness and fragrance.
Once there were eleven tadpoles in a glass globe set in a window full of plants. I remember the eagerness with which I made discoveries about them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the tadpoles frisk about, and to let them slip and slide between my fingers. One day a more ambitious fellow leaped beyond the edge of the bowl and fell on the floor, where I found him to all appearance more dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggling of his tail.
But no sooner had he returned to his element than he darted to the bottom, swimming round and round in joyous activity. He had made his leap, he had seen the great world, and was content to stay in his pretty glass house under the big fuchsia tree until he attained the dignity of froghood. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the garden, where he made the summer nights musical with his quaint love-song. Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities.
It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and was full of meaning. She has never since let pass an opportunity to point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful. It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower.
Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks. My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers.
All the best of me belongs to her—there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch. Every one in the family prepared surprises for me, but what pleased me most, Miss Sullivan and I prepared surprises for everybody else. The mystery that surrounded the gifts was my greatest delight and amusement. My friends did all they could to excite my curiosity by hints and half-spelled sentences which they pretended to break off in the nick of time. Miss Sullivan and I kept up a game of guessing which taught me more about the use of language than any set of lessons could have done.
Every evening, seated round a glowing wood fire, we played our guessing game, which grew more and more exciting as Christmas approached. On Christmas Eve the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their tree, to which they invited me. In the centre of the schoolroom stood a beautiful tree ablaze and shimmering in the soft light, its branches loaded with strange, wonderful fruit. It was a moment of supreme happiness. I danced and capered around the tree in an ecstasy. When I learned that there was a gift for each child, I was delighted, and the kind people who had prepared the tree permitted me to hand the presents to the children.
In the pleasure of doing this, I did not stop to look at my own gifts; but when I was ready for them, my impatience for the real Christmas to begin almost got beyond control. I knew the gifts I already had were not those of which friends had thrown out such tantalizing hints, and my teacher said the presents I was to have would be even nicer than these. I was persuaded, however, to content myself with the gifts from the tree and leave the others until morning. That night, after I had hung my stocking, I lay awake a long time, pretending to be asleep and keeping alert to see what Santa Claus would do when he came.
At last I fell asleep with a new doll and a white bear in my arms. Next morning it was I who waked the whole family with my first "Merry Christmas! But when my teacher presented me with a canary, my cup of happiness overflowed. Little Tim was so tame that he would hop on my finger and eat candied cherries out of my hand. Miss Sullivan taught me to take all the care of my new pet. Every morning after breakfast I prepared his bath, made his cage clean and sweet, filled his cups with fresh seed and water from the well-house, and hung a spray of chickweed in his swing. One morning I left the cage on the window-seat while I went to fetch water for his bath.
When I returned I felt a big cat brush past me as I opened the door. At first I did not realize what had happened; but when I put my hand in the cage and Tim's pretty wings did not meet my touch or his small pointed claws take hold of my finger, I knew that I should never see my sweet little singer again. THE next important event in my life was my visit to Boston, in May, As if it were yesterday I remember the preparations, the departure with my teacher and my mother, the journey, and finally the arrival in Boston.
How different this journey was from the one I had made to Baltimore two years before! I was no longer a restless, excitable little creature, requiring the attention of everybody on the train to keep me amused. I sat quietly beside Miss Sullivan, taking in with eager interest all that she told me about what she saw out of the car window: the beautiful Tennessee River, the great cotton-fields, the hills and woods, and the crowds of laughing negroes at the stations, who waved to the people on the train and brought delicious candy and popcorn balls through the car.
On the seat opposite me sat my big rag doll, Nancy, in a new gingham dress and a beruffled sunbonnet, looking at me out of two bead eyes. Sometimes, when I was not absorbed in Miss Sullivan's descriptions, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her up in my arms, but I generally calmed my conscience by making myself believe that she was asleep. As I shall not have occasion to refer to Nancy again, I wish to tell here a sad experience she had soon after our arrival in Boston. She was covered with dirt—the remains of mud pies I had compelled her to eat, although she had never shown any special liking for them. The laundress at the Perkins Institution secretly carried her off to give her a bath.
This was too much for poor Nancy. When I next saw her she was a formless heap of cotton, which I should not have recognized at all except for the two bead eyes which looked out at me reproachfully. When the train at last pulled into the station at Boston it was as if a beautiful fairy tale had come true. The "once upon a time" was now; the "far-away country" was here. We had scarcely arrived at the Perkins Institution for the Blind when I began to make friends with the little blind children.
It delighted me inexpressibly to find that they knew the manual alphabet. What joy to talk with other children in my own language! Until then I had been like a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. In the school where Laura Bridgman was taught I was in my own country. It took me some time to appreciate the fact that my new friends were blind. I knew I could not see; but it did not seem possible that all the eager, loving children who gathered round me and joined heartily in my frolics were also blind.
I remember the surprise and the pain I felt as I noticed that they placed their hands over mine when I talked to them and that they read books with their fingers. Although I had been told this before, and although I understood my own deprivations, yet I had thought vaguely that since they could hear, they must have a sort of "second sight," and I was not prepared to find one child and another and yet another deprived of the same precious gift. But they were so happy and contented that I lost all sense of pain in the pleasure of their companionship. One day spent with the blind children made me feel thoroughly at home in my new environment, and I looked eagerly from one pleasant experience to another as the days flew swiftly by.
I could not quite convince myself that there was much world left, for I regarded Boston as the beginning and the end of creation. While we were in Boston we visited Bunker Hill, and there I had my first lesson in history. The story of the brave men who had fought on the spot where we stood excited me greatly. I climbed the monument, counting the steps, and wondering as I went higher and yet higher if the soldiers had climbed this great stairway and shot at the enemy on the ground below. The next day we went to Plymouth by water. This was my first trip on the ocean and my first voyage in a steamboat. How full of life and motion it was! But the rumble of the machinery made me think it was thundering, and I began to cry, because I feared if it rained we should not be able to have our picnic out of doors.
I was more interested, I think, in the great rock on which the Pilgrims landed than in anything else in Plymouth. I could touch it, and perhaps that made the coming of the Pilgrims and their toils and great deeds seem more real to me. I have often held in my hand a little model of the Plymouth Rock which a kind gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the split in the centre and the embossed figures "," and turned over in my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims. How my childish imagination glowed with the splendour of their enterprise! I idealized them as the bravest and most generous men that ever sought a home in a strange land. I thought they desired the freedom of their fellow men as well as their own.
I was keenly surprised and disappointed years later to learn of their acts of persecution that make us tingle with shame, even while we glory in the courage and energy that gave us our "Country Beautiful. Among the many friends I made in Boston were Mr. William Endicott and his daughter. Their kindness to me was the seed from which many pleasant memories have since grown. One day we visited their beautiful home at Beverly Farms.
I remember with delight how I went through their rose-garden, how their dogs, big Leo and little curly-haired Fritz with long ears, came to meet me, and how Nimrod, the swiftest of the horses, poked his nose into my hands for a pat and a lump of sugar. I also remember the beach, where for the first time I played in the sand. It was hard, smooth sand, very different from the loose, sharp sand, mingled with kelp and shells, at Brewster. Endicott told me about the great ships that came sailing by from Boston, bound for Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he was always a good friend to me; indeed, I was thinking of him when I called Boston "The City of Kind Hearts. I was delighted, for my mind was full of the prospective joys and of the wonderful stories I had heard about the sea.
My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean. I had always lived far inland, and had never had so much as a whiff of salt air; but I had read in a big book called "Our World" a description of the ocean which filled me with wonder and an intense longing to touch the mighty sea and feel it roar. So my little heart leaped with eager excitement when I knew that my wish was at last to be realized. No sooner had I been helped into my bathing-suit than I sprang out upon the warm sand and without thought of fear plunged into the cool water.
I felt the great billows rock and sink. The buoyant motion of the water filled me with an exquisite, quivering joy. Suddenly my ecstasy gave place to terror; for my foot struck against a rock and the next instant there was a rush of water over my head. I thrust out my hands to grab some support, I clutched at the water and at the seaweed which the waves tossed in my face. But all my frantic efforts were in vain. The waves seemed to be playing a game with me, and tossed me from one to another in their wild frolic. It was fearful!
The good, firm earth had slipped from my feet, and everything seemed shut out from this strange, all-enveloping element—life, air, warmth, and love. At last, however, the sea, as if weary of its new toy, threw me back on the shore, and in another instant I was clasped in my teacher's arms. Oh, the comfort of the long, tender embrace! As soon as I had recovered from my panic sufficiently to say anything, I demanded: "Who put salt in the water? After I had recovered from my first experience in the water, I thought it great fun to sit on a big rock in my bathing-suit and feel wave after wave dash against the rock, sending up a shower of spray which quite covered me.
I felt the pebbles rattling as the waves threw their ponderous weight against the shore; the whole beach seemed racked by their terrific onset, and the air throbbed with their pulsations. The breakers would swoop back to gather themselves for a mightier leap, and I clung to the rock, tense, fascinated, as I felt the dash and roar of the rushing sea! I could never stay long enough on the shore. The tang of the untainted, fresh and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought, and the shells and pebbles and the seaweed with tiny living creatures attached to it never lost their fascination for me. One day, Miss Sullivan attracted my attention to a strange object which she had captured basking in the chilly water.
It was a great horseshoe crab—the first one I had ever seen. I felt of him and thought it strange that he should carry his house on his back. It suddenly occurred to me that he might make a delightful pet; so I seized him by the tail with both hands and carried him home. This feat pleased me highly, as his body was very heavy, and it took all my strength to drag him half a mile. I would not leave Miss Sullivan in peace until she had put the crab in a trough near the well where I was confident he would be secure.
But the next morning I went to the trough, and lo, he had disappeared! Nobody knew where he had gone, or how he had escaped. My disappointment was bitter at the time; but little by little I came to realize that it was not kind or wise to force this poor dumb creature out of his element, and after awhile I felt happy in the thought that perhaps he had returned to the sea. IN the Autumn I returned to my Southern home with a heart full of joyous memories. As I recall that visit North I am filled with wonder at the richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it.
It seems to have been the beginning of everything. The treasures of a new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never still a moment; my life was as full of motion as those little insects which crowd a whole existence into one brief day. I had met many people who talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous symphony leaped up to meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought! The barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the rose.
I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry, because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned. Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the rocks tried to bar their way. The opening was filled with ferns which completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams. The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, the odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood—an illusive, fragrant something that made the heart glad.
In places, the wild muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that came up from the earth at the close of day. Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of the mountain among oaks and pines.
The small rooms were arranged on each side of a long open hall. Round the house was a wide piazza, where the mountain winds blew, sweet with all wood-scents. We lived on the piazza most of the time—there we worked, ate and played. At the back door there was a great butternut tree, round which the steps had been built, and in front the trees stood so close that I could touch them and feel the wind shake their branches, or the leaves twirl downward in the autumn blast. Many visitors came to Fern Quarry. These are initial perceptions, and it will take parsing a lot more logs to be confident that these are fact, rather than initial observations: The order of attacks shown in the combat log seems to not be a good way to determine which attack caused and which attack resulted in the Hand of Justice proc.
I made some assumptions that turned out to be wrong when I just used JoChatTimestamp and watched the combat log in game. If you duel wield, offhand attacks seem to cause mainhand procs most of the time. I'm going to need to go through some more logs to see if this initial result is accurate; my sample size is way too low to be sure right now. Initially, though, this is good news for duel wielders, since a fast offhand weapon can be used to trigger more powerful mainhand procs. In my first test, I had one and only one case I could guarantee the Hand of Justice proc applied the Instant Poison on my mainhand.
I would have expected it to happen a couple of more times than that, but, again, my sample size is pretty low. I haven't seen a case where I can prove that Crusader procced off a Hand of Justice proc. I'm expecting this to be true, but with the stuff Blizzard screws around with behind the scenes in each patch, I'm going to have to see it to believe it. It shouldn't take too long to find out, though, since I just need it to proc off a mainhand proc caused by an offhand attack since my offhand isn't enchanted with Crusader. I'll come back and edit this with any further findings. Comment by Thottbot This has been a blessing in disguise.
I went on two runs the other day and both times the Hand dropped. I don't know if that's a testiment to the increased drop rate or the luck of our group, but I see it as nearly impossible happening before the patch. An easy way to get to the Emp is such: Go through the Garrisons and drop out the window onto the platform below the Shadowforge gate. If you don't use the key you can go out the first window and wait for the mob to path, otherwise jump out the second and try not to take a lava bath.
Kill Incendious bonus. Take a leap SW off his platform into the lava. Run along that wall until you get near the first big island. Head over to it and skirt the sides to avoid the Lava mobs. Take another swim to the wall West of the island and skirt it until you can't. Now you have the long swim to the 4 lava mob island. Get to it, skirt or fight the mobs there and then head to the ramp to the MC bridge. After that just run West and turn right and you're at the Lyceum. Mobs are non-elite and insanely easy. Work your way up one side. Light torch, across to the other, open door, clear room, kill Emp and claim HoJ. About 20 minutes flat with good group. Comment by Thottbot In the subject you said a fast way to emp, but at the end of your comment you said to kill Angerforge.
So are you saying that general angerforge and emp are the same thing? I'm starting to check my combat log alot more but I didn't check it before, so I have nothing to compare, so I can't tell if its better or worse or the same. If anyone knows, thanks in advance. Comment by Thottbot Is it just more or do any of u notice this doesnt proc nearly as much as it did prior to 2. Comment by Thottbot Proc rate is diminished at 70, swings, 1 proc. Also: I got it in 1 run when I got it at Comment by Thottbot at 70 you gotta be better off with an hourglass, abacus, or other dps trinket than this.
Tested this using a combination of ProcWatch to count procs and CombatStats to get accurate counts for attacks that could trigger a HoJ proc. Comment by Thottbot It was fun while it lasted So will any other weapons that have extra attack procs. WF will not proc off itself that is the only limiting factor. Keep in mind that WF has a 3 second cool down so you will not get multiple WF procs within that time frame. Also WF will not trigger extra attack procs from weapons or gear. WIndfurry, Ironfoe, and this, holy crap u cant escape!
Comment by Thottbot its unique, you cant have 2. Comment by Allakhazam Does this item proc together with chance on hit: healing yourself? Comment by Allakhazam Been farming it for on average 3 times a day with a mage a healer, misc class, and me for the past few weeks. It's really quick with the shortcut way through the lava but I haven't seen it drop yet. Comment by Allakhazam I have sword spec with Obsidian edged blade and recently picked this up.
Got a plugin for tracking procs and this procs around 2. Comment by Allakhazam I am a 60 shaman and was wondering if it could proc on or with the additional attacks from WF, if it doesnt it still increases my chances of swinging my TUF more than once which i cant deny is a good thing and if on the 3 swings it "can" proc this wouldnt gain the additional Ap but will allow me to atleast pop em for another which i cant deny i would love, jsut wanting thoughts. Comment by Allakhazam Does it proccs with ranged attack too, or onyl meele? Comment by Allakhazam any 70s out there tested the new proc chance on this thing? It would be this: 1 - 0. Comment by Allakhazam i like this for a rogue.
Comment by Allakhazam Hmmm i need this for my fury warrior. Guess it will be BRD week this week ;. Comment by Allakhazam I logged on and a friend msged me to help him do jailbreak What was the cool the party was made up of a priest, 2x mage and 1 lock and me warrior , so I just got it : Good luck to anyone going for it, I had it proc a lot today in AV. Comment by Allakhazam Can anyone confirm, that it still drops from Angerforge? Comment by Allakhazam If general doesn't drop it anymore someone probably uploaded old data of the general dropping it. Comment by Allakhazam I want a quick and short answer DOES the hand of justice still drop from angerforge, yes or no thnaks all. Comment by Allakhazam i've had this for about weeks now, and dosnt work ranged, altough works melee, but dosnt trigger often, thrash blade has about twice as much chance i think, of triggering.
Comment by Allakhazam is it possible to solo this guy? Comment by Allakhazam Almost got this one today, but a Paladin rolled over it. Isn't this more something for a Rogue like me then for a Paladin? Comment by Allakhazam Got it my first try. Love it, goes great with the Counterattack Lodestone. Comment by Allakhazam No, this does not work for ranged attack. Found this out the hard way on my hunter. A few months after I got it i joined a new guild and when the MT found out he almost cried to find out I had it. He's done over runs and never gotten it to drop.
Comment by Allakhazam Only 64x runs needed before one drobbed, im a one happy rogue.. Comment by Allakhazam does this drop from both angerforge and the emperor now, or just the emperor? Comment by Allakhazam Anyone know if this item proccs for druids while shapeshifted, like in cat form? Comment by Allakhazam Yes. After 1. Comment by Allakhazam Just got it off him first kill tonight. Comment by Allakhazam Got this one today, think its a semi rare drop. Comment by Allakhazam Two runs total. Got it my second run. I think I win! Comment by Allakhazam Ok now i want this simple Yes or NO the hand of justice still drop from angerforge Yes or no thats all :P thanks all. Comment by Allakhazam gg, first time i did emperor run today it dropped for me and got it for my warrior.
Comment by Allakhazam this is the best trinket for one handed i think. Comment by Allakhazam This trinket is spectacular. Every melee character in my guild grinds through BRD repeatedly for it since it is not only as good as an epic, it is nearly as rare. My Rogue was blessed with one while aiding some lower levels with another guildmate. It really helps with both attack power and the amazing chance for an extra swing.With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis six months I could pipe out "How d'ye," and one day I attracted every one's Personal Narrative: AP Lang Class by saying "Tea, tea, tea" quite plainly. Guru Fallacies In Sidney Lumets 12 Angry Men described living an "active, creative, and practical life" of "truthfulness, fidelity, self-control and purity" as With A Sword In My Hand Character Analysis higher than a purely contemplative life. I used to repeat ecstatically, "I am not dumb now.