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    The civilisation, the manners, and the morals of dog-kind are to a great extent subordinated to those of his ancestral master, man. This animal, in many ways so superior, has accepted a position of inferiority, shares the domestic life, and humours the caprices of the tyrant. But the potentate, like the British in India, pays small regard to the character of his willing client, judges him with listless glances, and condemns him in a byword. Listless have been the looks of his admirers, who have exhausted idle terms of praise, and buried the poor soul below exaggerations. And yet more idle and, if possible, more unintelligent has been the attitude of his express detractors; those who are very fond of dogs “but in their proper place”; who say “poo’ fellow, poo’ fellow,” and are themselves far poorer; who whet the knife of the vivisectionist or heat his oven; who are not ashamed to admire “the creature’s instinct”; and flying far beyond folly, have dared to resuscitate the theory of animal machines. The “dog’s instinct” and the “automaton-dog,” in this age of psychology and science, sound like strange anachronisms. An automaton he certainly is; a machine working independently of his control, the heart, like the mill-wheel, keeping all in motion, and the consciousness, like a person shut in the mill garret, enjoying the view out of the window and shaken by the thunder of the stones; an automaton in one corner of which a living spirit is confined: an automaton like man. Instinct again he certainly possesses. Inherited aptitudes are his, inherited frailties. Some things he at once views and understands, as though he were awakened from a sleep, as though he came “trailing clouds of glory.” But with him, as with man, the field of instinct is limited; its utterances are obscure and occasional; and about the far larger part of life both the dog and his master must conduct their steps by deduction and observation.

    Lil shot me a cautioning look. She’d ceded the Hall to Debra’s ad-hocs,that being the only way to avoid the appearance of childish disattentionto the almighty Whuffie. Now she had to keep up the fiction of goodnaturedcooperation—that meant not shoulder-surfing Debra, lookingfor excuses to pounce on her work.

    In spite of the alarming benefits which Balzac attributes to this regime, one is amazed at the abundance of his productions, for, even though he sacrificed a large part of his days and nights, he none the less frequented certain famous salons, was often absent on vacations at M. de Margonne’s home at Sache; at La Grenadiere, where he rented a house; and at Nemours. Besides, he had to spare some time to his friends, his publishers, and to the adjustment of his already complicated finances.

    There is another sceptical topic of a like nature, derived from the most profound philosophy; which might merit our attention, were it requisite to dive so deep, in order to discover arguments and reasonings, which can so little serve to any serious purpose. It is universally allowed by modern enquirers, that all the sensible qualities of objects, such as hard, soft, hot, cold, white, black, &c. are merely secondary, and exist not in the objects themselves, but are perceptions of the mind, without any external archetype or model, which they represent. If this be allowed, with regard to secondary qualities, it must also follow, with regard to the supposed primary qualities of extension and solidity; nor can the latter be any more entitled to that denomination than the former. The idea of extension is entirely acquired from the senses of sight and feeling; and if all the qualities, perceived by the senses, be in the mind, not in the object, the same conclusion must reach the idea of extension, which is wholly dependent on the sensible ideas or the ideas of secondary qualities. Nothing can save us from this conclusion, but the asserting, that the ideas of those primary qualities are attained by Abstraction, an opinion, which, if we examine it accurately, we shall find to be unintelligible, and even absurd. An extension, that is neither tangible nor visible, cannot possibly be conceived: and a tangible or visible extension, which is neither hard nor soft, black nor white, is equally beyond the reach of human conception. Let any man try to conceive a triangle in general, which is neither Isosceles nor Scalenum, nor has any particular length or proportion of sides; and he will soon perceive the absurdity of all the scholastic notions with regard to abstraction and general ideas.31


    The cards were compared; they were identical. “Well, now what do you think of that!” exclaimed Bobolink.

    Near me there was a man looking on with hollow cheeks and eager eyes, whose thin black coat was threadbare. He followed with envious looks these possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and I read on his lips, which curled with a bitter smile, all that passed in his mind.

    Further arrivals confused her, the schoolmaster and his family, parties of villagers, contingents from neighbouring parishes; she mixed up their names, could not confine her attention to their polite remarks; her usual calm self-assurance had fled, everything seemed curiously changed and unreal.

    "You had better give it to me."

    When the high lords



    "That may be good of you, dear, but I don't believe you," she returned. "Still I am glad you made the remark just at this minute. It helps me with what I wish to say to you. Nona wanted me to find out what it was that had changed your feeling for her. She says she has done her best to discover for herself and has asked you to tell her, but without success. She seems much distressed and is anxious to make amends if she has injured you."

    "And who are you? I cannot quite collect my thoughts—I know something has happened. Who are you? I cannot remember you."


    A dream relating to Justinian’s avarice—The vast treasures of Anastasius squandered by Justinian—He makes himself master of the fortunes of private individuals by false accusations, and squanders them in presents of money to the barbarians, who plunder the Empire—Fulfilment of the dream.

    Your E-mail dear gossip girl, are u really even a girl? u seem like the type 2 pretend to be a girl when u’r really a 50-yrs-old bored journalist with nothing better 2 do than to harsh on kids like me. loser. —jdwack Dearest Jdwack, I’m the girliest girl you’d ever want to meet. And I’m pre-college, pre-voting age, too. How do I know you’re not some fifty-year-old bitter dude with boils on your face taking his inner angst out on innocent girls like me?—GG Dear GG, I loooove your column so much I showed it to my Dad, who totally loved it!! He has friends who work at Paper and the Village Voice and other magazines. Don’t be surprised if your column gets much, much bigger!! I hope you don’t mind!!! Love always!!! —JNYHY Mind? No way. I’m all about being big. I’m going to be huge. No more crappy one-line parts in interschool plays for me. You might even see me on the side of a bus sometime soon. Bring it on! You know you love me, “Yum,” Serena said, eyeing the cookies laid out on a table in the Constance lunchroom. Peanut butter cream, chocolate chip, oatmeal. Next to the cookies were plastic cups full of orange juice or milk. A lunch lady was monitoring the cookies, making sure each girl took only two. This was recess, the daily twenty-minute break Constance gave its girls after second period, no matter what grade they were in. When the lunch lady’s head was turned, Serena grabbed six peanut butter creams and glided away to stuff her face. It wasn’t exactly a healthy breakfast, but it would have to do. She’d stayed up late the night before trying to read her father’s leather-bound edition of War and Peace so she’d be better prepared for Vanessa’s film. Whoa, War and Peace is like, two million pages long. Ever heard of CliffsNotes? Serena saw Vanessa, wearing her usual black turtleneck and bored expression, coming out of the cafeteria kitchen with a cup of tea in her hand. Serena waved a cookie at her, and Vanessa came over. “Hi,” Serena said cheerfully. “Made up your mind yet?” Vanessa sipped her tea. She’d been up half the night trying to decide between Serena and Marjorie for the part. But she couldn’t get the look on Dan’s face when he read with Serena out of her head. And no matter how good Serena was, she never wanted to see that look on Dan’s face again. She certainly didn’t want to capture it on film. “Actually, yes. I haven’t told Marjorie yet,” Vanessa said calmly, “but I’m giving her the part.” Serena dropped the cookie she was eating on the floor, stunned. “Oh,” she said.

    Neville's fingers tapped restlessly on the table.

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