2:3 In covetousness they will exploit you with deceptive words: whose sentence
now from of old doesn't linger, and their destruction will not slumber. 2:4 ForifGod
didn't spareangels when they sinned, but cast them down toTartarus, and
committed them to pits of darkness, to bereservedfor judgment; 2:5and didn't
spare the ancient world, but preserved Noah with seven others, a preacher of
righteousness, whenhe brought a flood on the world ofthe ungodly; 2:6 and
turningthe cities ...
Your Lebanon is an arena for men from the West and men from the East. My Lebanon is a flock of birds fluttering in the early morning as shepherds lead their sheep into the meadows and rising in the evening as farmers return from their fields and vineyards. You have your Lebanon and its people. I have my Lebanon and its people. Yours are those whose souls were born in the hospitals of the West; they are as a ship without rudder or sail upon a raging sea . . . . They are strong and eloquent among themselves but weak and dumb among Europeans. They are brave, the liberators and the reformers, but only in their own area. But they are the cowards, always led backward by the Europeans. They are those who croak like frogs boasting that they have rid themselves of their ancient, tyrannical enemy, but the truth of the matter is that this tyrannical enemy still hides within their own souls. They are the slaves for whom time had exchanged rusty chains for shiny ones so that they thought themselves free. These are the children of your Lebanon. Is there anyone among them who represents the strength of the towering rocks of Lebanon, the purity of its water or the fragrance of its air? Who among them vouchsafes to say, "When I die I leave my country little better than when I was born?"
They are the slaves for whom time had exchanged rusty chains for shiny ones so that they thought themselves free. These are the children of your Lebanon.
Sheik Abbas was looked upon as a prince by the people of a solitary village in North Lebanon. His mansion stood in the midst of those poor villagers' huts like a healthy giant amidst the sickly dwarfs. He lived amid luxury while they pursued an existence of penury. They obeyed him and bowed reverently before him as he spoke to them. It seemed as though the power of mind had appointed him its official interpreter and spokesman. His anger would make them tremble and scatter like autumn leaves before a strong wind. If he were to slap one's face, it would be heresy on the individual's part to move or lift his head or make any attempt to discover why the blow had come. If he smiled at a man, the villagers would consider the person thus honoured as the most fortunate. The people's fear and surrender to Sheik Abbas were not due to weakness; however, their poverty and need of him had brought about this state of continual humiliation. Even the huts they lived in and the fields they cultivated were owned by Sheik Abbas who had inherited them from his ancestors.
Sheik Abbas was looked upon as a prince by the people of a solitary village in North Lebanon.
Valley. begins. I went with lagging step, looking back at every minute. When, from
the summit of the hill, I saw the valley for the last time I was struck with the
contrast it presented to what it was when I first came there. Then it was verdant,
then it glowed, glowed and blossomed like my hopes and my desires. Initiated
now into the gloomy secrets of a family, sharing the anguish of a Christian Niobe,
sad with her sadness, my soul darkened, I saw the valley in the tone of my own
thoughts.
STUDENTS. It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I need
not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one
of our great university towns, and it was during this time that the small but
instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It will be obvious that
any details which would help the reader exactly to identify the college or the
criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So painful a scandal may well be
allowed to die out.
Let me tell you, my dear young reader, about a happy little family
ofthreebrothersandthreesisters, who lived in a pleasant home, not far from the
great city of NewYork. Their father, Mr. Howard, was a wealthy merchant, and had
his store in the city, to which he usually rode early in the morning, directly after
breakfast, and returned home in season to take tea with his family. He had six
children, the little folks whom I am now going to tell you about. The girls were
named Maria, Elizabeth, ...
