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Article THE SIGNS OF ENGLAND. Page 1 of 4 →
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The Signs Of England.
THE SIGNS OE ENGLAND .
BY OKE WHO HAS PAINTED MANY , THE TIKST SIGKNV Ik ancient times , amongst the philosophers , a grand dispute went on as to whether , after all , this world were a sham or a reality .
Honest , plain-thinking men were told that they ought to doubt whether a post was really a post . Archelaus was argued with until he saw that he was Antipater ; and Phormio was brought to believe that he had , all his life , been making a great mistake about himself , and that he , in reality , was Harpax .
Now the philosophers were right , and , to speak in Cervantes' vein , the men were not wrong . To grave wits , the point simplified itself into the question whether this thing , which we call world , were really objective or subjective ; in other words , whether it was something without or within—something in or out of our head .
Start not , reader !—there is truth in these things , insane enough as you may deem us in propounding them ; propounding them to one who so unmistakably sees that two and two are four , and one that distinguishes the difference between his right hand and his left .
Now , I confess that I am no philosopher ; at least , not much of a philosopher . Shall I tell you why ?—It makes my head ache . In my youth I ran my head against some hard things , which the University doctors told me were philosophical problems ; and as there are no literary hospitals , I was obliged to betake myself to my own poor house to plaster myself as I could .
From the fact that , if I retain no marks , I still possess the ache , and all this resulting from an ill-considered collision with ugly outside things , I entertain a most particular and thorough horror—an indescribable creeping , which if only a few more minutes prolonged , I feel would make me seek for flannel—at unusually wise propositions . Of all nuts for critical teeth that are already not more than half-cracked , I go in hourly fear for my life . And so would you , reader , if you had suffered as much by them as I have .
Now , my friend , you will say that this is dreadful ; — that it indicates a mentally bruised condition . Ton will set me down as a literary Lazarus , full—to speak the uncomfortable fact mildly—of excoriated places ; in other words , of sores . The ship , you will urge , tight and strong enough , perhaps , originally , has , during some
queer metaphysical voyage in the region of philosophic cloud-landlike the pot of clay against the pot of brass—lighted upon some hardbound , bluff-bowed wanderer of the ocean that has had no pity . You show , in your own person , the effects of the blow , you will say . Your head should have been something harder than an egg-shell , and contained something sounder than sawdust .
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
The Signs Of England.
THE SIGNS OE ENGLAND .
BY OKE WHO HAS PAINTED MANY , THE TIKST SIGKNV Ik ancient times , amongst the philosophers , a grand dispute went on as to whether , after all , this world were a sham or a reality .
Honest , plain-thinking men were told that they ought to doubt whether a post was really a post . Archelaus was argued with until he saw that he was Antipater ; and Phormio was brought to believe that he had , all his life , been making a great mistake about himself , and that he , in reality , was Harpax .
Now the philosophers were right , and , to speak in Cervantes' vein , the men were not wrong . To grave wits , the point simplified itself into the question whether this thing , which we call world , were really objective or subjective ; in other words , whether it was something without or within—something in or out of our head .
Start not , reader !—there is truth in these things , insane enough as you may deem us in propounding them ; propounding them to one who so unmistakably sees that two and two are four , and one that distinguishes the difference between his right hand and his left .
Now , I confess that I am no philosopher ; at least , not much of a philosopher . Shall I tell you why ?—It makes my head ache . In my youth I ran my head against some hard things , which the University doctors told me were philosophical problems ; and as there are no literary hospitals , I was obliged to betake myself to my own poor house to plaster myself as I could .
From the fact that , if I retain no marks , I still possess the ache , and all this resulting from an ill-considered collision with ugly outside things , I entertain a most particular and thorough horror—an indescribable creeping , which if only a few more minutes prolonged , I feel would make me seek for flannel—at unusually wise propositions . Of all nuts for critical teeth that are already not more than half-cracked , I go in hourly fear for my life . And so would you , reader , if you had suffered as much by them as I have .
Now , my friend , you will say that this is dreadful ; — that it indicates a mentally bruised condition . Ton will set me down as a literary Lazarus , full—to speak the uncomfortable fact mildly—of excoriated places ; in other words , of sores . The ship , you will urge , tight and strong enough , perhaps , originally , has , during some
queer metaphysical voyage in the region of philosophic cloud-landlike the pot of clay against the pot of brass—lighted upon some hardbound , bluff-bowed wanderer of the ocean that has had no pity . You show , in your own person , the effects of the blow , you will say . Your head should have been something harder than an egg-shell , and contained something sounder than sawdust .