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Frank asked why it was the whale "spouted," or blew up, the column of spray. Captain Spofford explained that the whale is not, properly speaking, a fish, but an animal. "He has warm blood, like a cow or horse," said the Captain, "and he must come to the surface to breathe. He takes a certain amount of water into his lungs along with the air, and when he throws it out, it makes the spray you have seen, and which the sailors call a spout." Prout nodded admiringly. Lawrence took a photograph from his pocket. as exactly like the McBrides as I can. Not for all the money in the much what happens to the mother--she is such a jelly-fish. At the very top of the incline, the enclosing wall, black with age but bright with yellow velvet moss, rises precipitously above the plain, and three light balconies, with columns as slight as flower-stems,[Pg 77] crowned with pointed roofs recurved at the angles, overhang the abyss. Another distinguished compliment was paid to Plotinus after his death by no less an authority than the Pythian Apollo, who at this period had fully recovered the use of his voice. On being consulted respecting the fate of the philosopher＊s soul, the god replied by a flood of bombastic twaddle, in which the glorified spirit of Plotinus is described as released from the chain of human necessity and the surging uproar of the body, swimming stoutly to the storm-beaten shore, and mounting the heaven-illumined path, not unknown to him even in life, that leads to the blissful abodes of the immortals.423 Mostly, Larry caught his own mistakes in time. He first published an engraving of "The Small Masquerade Ticket, or Burlington Gate," in ridicule of Lord Burlington's architecture, and of Pope's eulogiums on Burlington and satire of the Duke of Chandos. He illustrated "Hudibras," and produced a satirical plate, "The Taste of the Times," in 1724; and, some years after, "The Midnight Conversation" and "Southwark Fair." Not content with the fame which this vein, so peculiarly his own, was bringing him, he had the ambition to attempt the historical style, but this was a decided failure. In 1734, however, he came out in his full and peculiar strength in "The Harlot's Progress." The melancholy truth of this startling drama, mingled with touches of genuine humour, seized at once on the minds of all classes. It became at once immensely popular; it was put on the stage, and twelve hundred subscriptions for the engravings produced a rich harvest of profit. In the following year he produced "The Rake's Progress," which, though equally clever, had not the same recommendation of novelty. In 1744 he offered for sale the original paintings of these subjects, as well as "The Four Times of the Day," and "The Strolling Actresses Dressing in a Barn;" but here he felt the effects of the sturdy English expression of his sentiments on art, and his distributing of an engraving of "The Battle of the Pictures," as a ticket of admission, gave great offence to painters and their patrons. The whole sum received was only four hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Undaunted by his self-injuring avowal of his opinions, he offered in 1750 the pictures of "Marriage 角 la Mode" for sale, but put forth an advertisement in such caustic terms, as he reflected on the result of his former auction, that he effectually kept away purchasers, and obtained only a hundred and twenty pounds for what Mr. Angerstein afterwards gave a thousand pounds for. His "March to Finchley" being sent for the royal inspection, so impressed George II. with the idea that it was a caricature of his Guards, that, though the engraving of it was dedicated to him, he ordered the picture out of his sight, with expressions of great indignation. Hogarth quietly substituted the name of the King of Prussia in the dedication, as "an encourager of the arts." "How hard did they kick when they were fired?" "And the strife will begin this night!" said Margaret, fearfully, as Holgrave, bending over the bed, where lay two sleeping children, glanced for an instant at a dark-haired boy of five or six, and then, taking a little rosy infant of about a twelve-month in his arms, kissed it, and gazed upon its face with all the delight of a father. "Please you, my lord," said Wells, nothing daunted, "did not John Oakley get Stephen Holgrave from the forest of Dean?" HoME renyudongwurenyushou5 ENTER NUMBET 0010cnganlan.com.cn
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