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Explore the scenic waterways of the Gunpowder River as you commune with osprey and painted turtles after you rent a paddleboard or kayak from these pros:
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• $22 ($45 value) for an all-day single kayak rental
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Depart from a beautiful sandy beach to wander along waterways and meander the marshes in search of incredible scenery and wildlife. With more than 100 kayaks, an extensive inventory of paddle boards, and an expert team of professionals to assist you, you'll have everything you need to set off on a great summer adventure.
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Reserve your 2016 APHA Registered paint foal just like the one pictured. The foal in this picture was raised on our farm and is already sold, ( To a little…$2,000
2014 Red Roan Filly Nice filly here. Very gentle and easy to handle. This filly's grandsire is Heza Classy Chex 3457886 AQHA ROM and NRHA Money earner…SOLD
Wow! This horse is a looker! - you don't see a grey paint often, especially with his markings and conformation! He is going to be a dark charcoal grey…SOLD
O MY! What a filly! This beautiful filly was sold, but then, after 2 months, the gentleman that had left the deposit on her found out that his wife is…SOLD

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text: Fash Britannia Episode 8: Interview with Daniel Friberg Cathedral Princess Nov 23, 2015 0 Comments This week we have a very special episode of Fash Britannia! Cathy and Welga interview the CEO of Arktos Publishing Daniel Friberg about his new book, The Real Right Returns. Get the book here and visit RightOn.


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| Rob Lever |
LAS VEGAS (AFP) – Olympic cycling medalist Dotsie Bausch is hooked on data, and she wants everyone to know it.
Showing up at this week's Consumer Electronics Show as a spokeswoman for the medical technology group Masimo, Bausch offered a demonstration of her cycling skills and the data she uses to train.
Getting good physiological data for training is important in a sport marred by numerous doping scandals, said the 2012 Olympic silver medalist who kicked a drug habit before her sports career.
"I don't dope because I don't want to cheat. But you want to use every fair-game device available," she said following the demonstration using Masimo's fingertip monitor for oxygen saturation and pulse rate using infrared sensors.
"The goal is to get the most out of a workout and still recover so you can do it the next day."
Masimo spokesman said the systems use "a hospital-grade device which we have brought to the consumer."
One of the big themes at this year's Las Vegas event was the marriage of technology and sports. The Consumer Electronics Association, which organises the show, estimates Americans alone will spend $1.8 billion on fitness and activity trackers this year.
But CES exhibitors were showing off devices and services that go far beyond the simple fitness band.
Unveiled at the show, the AmpStrip by US-based Fitlinxx is a patch that sticks to the body for anywhere from three to seven days and measures heart rate, activity and stress.
"It was designed as an aid to fitness enthusiasts," said Fitlinxx's Doug McClure.
"The need has to do with understanding how you are training. Overtraining leads to injury. By wearing this 24/7 we can understand how much stress your body is under."
Garments meanwhile are also being developed with these same sensors, woven into the fabric, eliminating the need for other kinds of wearable activity trackers.
"The next hot wearable is the shirt," said Ramon Llamas, analyst with the research firm IDC. "It's a wearable that's already wearable, and it's useful for pro athletes or weekend warriors."
Several activity-monitoring garments were on display at the show including shirts and socks.
British-based development firm Cambridge Consultants showed its connected shirt with sensors woven into the fabric, virtually unseen. The prototype can be adapted for use in sports including tennis or golf.
"There is a large gap between what you can collect with a wrist band and the system that professional athletes have," said developer Martin Brock.
"With this you can measure one's motion not just on your wrist but on your entire body.
The thin wire blended into the garment allows it to be "washable, waterproof and robust," he said.
"It's reaching toward the idea with wearables where there is no (visible) technology, it's just the garment."
French technology firm Cityzen Sciences meanwhile showed its connected shirt, the technology for which will be used by Japan's Asics in future sportswear.


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The Darkest Hour
Everything happened so fast that time itself seemed to run together. The hydraulic door hissed, metal screamed, Kamarov howled, and Murphy uttered half a curse before his arm knocked me into the wall.
The arm hit the floor with a dead squelch, and the nightmare went in for the kill. I caught one last glimpse of Murphy's face, transfixed in paroxysms of terror, one hand hovering over his stump of a shoulder.
I blinked, and it was over. A serpentine tongue flicked out to taste the air, claws the size of scimitars emerged red and dripping from the wreckage that had once been a torso. An eye as grey as death fixed on me.
I ran. Through the gap where the door had been, arms pumping wildly, skidding around corners willy-nilly, I neither knew nor cared where I was going. Blood was rushing so loud in my ears that I could scarcely hear my own breathing. And every thump was echoed by another in my mind; the thump of bone and muscle on hard linoleum floors.
Then, suddenly, there was no more floor, only impassable rough concrete. A dead end. I slammed my fist against the concrete, my blood turned to water by panic. Out. Out. Had to get out.
Voices. Shouting. Close.
I flung myself at the left-hand wall in desperation. Something gave way, and through I went, scrabbling blindly as oblivion rushed up to meet me. I scrabbled forward on my hands and knees, blind and mewling with fear. Metal scraped and thumped me at every turn; thin pipes, thick pylons, things that clinked hollowly when my bruised and aching body connected with them. Back and back I went, until my flailing hand found the back wall. I crushed myself into the corner, willing myself to absolute smallness.
The voices came closer, and I made out the dim wail of a siren. I made out the imperative sound of orders among the blur. I pressed my forehead against my knees and held my breath for so long I felt sure I would pass out. Any moment, I expected shouts, rough hands, the bite of a bullet in my skull.
But it never came. The voices faded, the footsteps trailed away to silence. Even the siren ceased its strained wailing, and I was left alone in the heart of the darkness. When my eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, I began to make out the shape of pipes and fuel cannisters. There were shelves, too, all leaning about in disarray, their dusty contents like relics in a slapshod museum. Some sort of store-room?
I got shakily to my feet and wobbled my way to the door. The corridors were empty, with only the broken door hanging forlornly ajar as testimony to my panicked flight. I took a deep breath and retreated back inside the storeroom.
Murphy and Scilla were dead, of that I was certain. I was lost, and whoever was down here would now be more than aware of the presence of intruders. And so was it.
I should run. I should climb the pipes and find a way into the air vents, and get out of here while I still had the chance. I could not run, and anywhere I hid I would be found, sooner or later. I should get back to the surface and find Kris. We could run to the docks, I thought, find a ship and steal away, far away, beyond the reach of Alarbor and the Raven and Jeremy Wayne.
I reached up to climb, and felt something prick into my leg. It was the hypodermic needle, brimming with the faint effervescence of Phobine. It had driven Kamarov mad, I thought; the greatest scientific mind of an age reduced to a filth-ridden wreck little better than an animal. I thought of my brother lying in that same filth. If Wayne so much as suspected I was here, Lucatz's fate was sealed. I could not subject my brother to that.
And had I not faced a monster before? And had he not saved my life?
Had I not sworn to do the same?
I put the hypodermic back in my pocket, took one last furtive look out of the door, and set out to find them.


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Read an Excerpt
"C'MON, HUGO. I FINISHED fifth not thirty-fifth. A top-five finish at Daytona. The Great American Race." Justin Murphy gave his uncle a feigned clip on the shoulder. "Lighten up. You're acting like I went out there and screwed up the car." The first race of the season had ended two hours earlier but the celebrating inside the Turn-Rite Tools corporate suite was still going strong. Twenty-five or thirty people filled the smallish space, eating, drinking and crowding around Justin and his uncleand crew chiefHugo Murphy. "Everyone here's fine with my finish."
"Yeah, well, Dixon Rogers isn't and he still calls the shots at Fulcrum Racing, don't forget. Do you think these suits from Turn-Rite won't ditch you in a heartbeat if Dixon lets it be known he's 'looking to go in a new direction' for next season? Or the other way around. The sponsor didn't drop fifteen million dollars in the kitty not to get their chance at the championship."
Of course he'd thought of that. What driver didn't worry about what his team owner was thinkingor his sponsors, big and small. But hell, he'd run a good race, except for that one blown call, and who could blame him for taking off after Kent Grosso that way? Wasn't he put on this earth to outdrive the Grossos, father and son, and avenge his family's honor? "Justin, we need another shot of you with our employee of the year." Diane Meeks, his publicity rep from Motor-sports Media GroupMMGelbowed her way through the well-fed and tipsy gaggle of Turn-Rite executives, towing a slightly bewildered-looking man and his young family in her wake.
"Sure," he said, raising his hand to the bill of his orange-and-brown Turn-Rite Tools ballcap to make sure the logo was properly positioned. He smiled and held out his hand to Nick Harris, a guy who appeared to be not much older than he was, a couple years past thirty, maybe, with a pretty wife, two cute kids and another on the way. But inside, Justin wasn't smiling. He'd blown it. He'd been running good the whole race. The car's setup was excellent. The pit crew had been smokingand he'd let it slip through his fingers just to beat Kent Grosso off pit road.
"Thanks, Justin," the plump, fortysomething PR rep said as the photographer positioned the award winner and his family next to him.
"Glad to oblige," he responded, shifting into sponsor-stroking mode as quickly as he shifted gears on his race car. He flashed Diane his trademark killer smile and she flushed slightly. Not so much because of his unequaled sex appeal; she seemed immune to his charm. But because he knew she was lined up right behind Hugo to rip him a new one for letting himself get carried away chasing down Kent Grosso, when he should have been protecting his chances of a second-place finish.
Now he'd gone and done the right thing in the PR department, so she'd have to hold her tongue for the time being. Diane was a good rep and she never strayed far from her objective, which was marketing one Justin Troy Murphy as a driver with the potential to be one of NASCAR's greatest. Her biggest problem was that Justin usually failed, if just by a car length, to live up to the hype.
He gave her a two-fingered salute and a wink that told her he knew exactly what she was thinking, then bent to autograph the back of Nick Swan's oldest kid's T-shirt. He was a good driver. But good wasn't enough any more; sponsors didn't pay millions of dollars to back a driver who never made it to Victory Lane. A top-five finish at Daytona was cause for celebration certainlywitness the crowd around himbut it wasn't the same as being in Victory Lane. That's what Turn-Rite Tools was paying the big bucks to see happen.
"You managed to finish fifth," Hugo growled under his breath when they were momentarily left alone in front of the decimated buffet table, not letting Justin off the hook as easily as Diane had. "Because you coasted over the finish line just ahead of the pack.You ran out of gas because you pulled out early just to beat Kent Grosso out of the pits."
"I wasn't going to let the SOB get out ahead of meHey, what's up, buddy?" Justin interrupted himself as the Harris kid came running up once more.
"Can I have your autograph, too?" the boy asked giving Justin a grin but holding out his fine-tipped permanent marker to Hugo. "Right there on the back beside Justin's." He spun around, presenting his back to Hugo, looking over his shoulder. "Please? My dad said you're the best crew chief in NASCAR. That's why we're sponsoring your team."
"I'm mighty proud to hear that," Hugo said, no trace of the anger that Justin sensed simmering below the surface evident on his uncle's weathered countenance. He signed the back of the boy's T-shirt, then shook hands with the father who had come hurrying up to make sure his son wasn't out of bounds.
"Good racing," Harris said as he shook hands with Justin one more time, then put his arm around his son's shoulder and wandered away. Justin watched them go. He had never walked arm and arm with his father. Troy Murphy had died before Justin was old enough to remember him, and even though he was a grown man now, a small part of him still felt the loss.
The marketing V.P. who was hosting the celebration announced last call. He wanted everyone out bright and early for the filming of Justin's kick-off spot for the Turn-Rite spring advertising blitz. Everyone headed for the bar, except Justin and his uncle. "Good racing, my butt," Hugo muttered under his breath. "You're just lucky you didn't drag the catch-can guy halfway down pit road on national TV when you took off early."
Justin locked his jaw and kept his mouth shut. His impatience and momentary lack of focus had put a team member at risk and he wasn't proud of it. "It was the only way to beat Grosso out of the pits." The excuse sounded as lame to his own ears as it did to his crew chief.
His uncle snorted in disgust. Hugo was a tall man, thick across the neck and shoulders. He had twenty years and twenty pounds on Justin, but his nephew harbored no illusion that the older man couldn't knock him flat on his butt if he put his mind to it.
"I apologized to Eddie. He's okay with what happened." Justin ground out the words between clenched teeth. He'd been wrong and they both knew it. No use wasting breath defending the indefensible. He slid on the mirror-finish wraparound sunglasses that he endorsed and that his cousin, Hugo's adopted daughter, Kim, declared made him look like some warrior angelbut she was always grinning like a fool when she said itand headed out of the suite to avoid escalating the argument with his uncle.
"Justin," Diane called after him. She didn't add "get your scrawny butt back here," but she might as well have. Justin kept on walking. He knew he should stick around for another round of hand-pumpinghell, he was more than likely contractually obliged tobut he'd had enough.
Hugo was the only father Justin had ever known. Being at odds with the man who'd raised him from a baby wasn't where Justin liked to be, but it seemed it was where he ended up more and more often lately. It wasn't as if he'd just started driving like his dad. Brawn over brains, muscle over finesse, that kind of thing. Hugo shouldn't have been surprised that he'd taken out after Kent Grosso today. It was his style. Besides the fans liked to see flat-out racing, and that's what he'd given them. Even above the roar of all that combined horsepower he could hear the whoops and hollers of approval as he'd crowded onto the race track just a nose ahead of Grosso's car.
Hugo caught up with him at the elevators. "Don't go ditching the sponsors like that again, you hear?" he growled.
"Diane will cover for me."
"They don't pay that woman enough for pulling your chestnuts out of the fire after every damned race," Hugo muttered.
"Look. I'm tired and I want something to eat beside chips and dip," Justin grumbled, knowing he sounded like a petulant child. Pleasing the major sponsor of your car was second only to driving the car in a driver's litany of duties; often it seemed to Justin that it actually was number one. "You weren't going to starve to death if you took five minutes to say goodbye." Hugo had raced some in his younger days, but he hadn't been a natural at the sport like his Uncle Connor or his older brother, Troy, Justin's father. He'd found early on he'd rather run the behind-the-scenes race strategy and leave the driving to others. And he was damned good at what he did. But so was Justin, if they would just let him race like he wanted to.
"We'll thrash this out back home," Hugo said, his tone just shy of making it a command, not a request. Home was Mooresville, North Carolina, where the Murphys had lived for seven generations. For the past two seasons, Justin had driven the No. 448 Turn-Rite Tools Chevrolet for owner Dixon Rogers's Fulcrum Racing team. He'd finished out of the Chase for the NASCAR Sprint Cup both years. But this season was going to be different. This year he was determined to make it. "What time are you and Dennis pulling out?" Dennis was a distant cousin on his father's side. He was Justin's spotter and he drove Justin's motor home from track to track.
"I'm not leaving tonight," he reminded his uncle. "I'm doing a shoot for a TV spot for Turn-Rite here at the track tomorrow, remember?"
"You're right. I forgot." Hugo took off his own Turn-Rite hat and ran his hand through his hair. "I've got a car to get ready for California next week. I can't always remember your schedule."
"That's my job." Diane broke in, coming up behind them. "I made your excuses in there, Justin," she said, jerking her thumb back over her shoulder. "Now I have to go back and do some more to settle the ruffled feathers."
"I appreciate that, Diane," Justin forced himself to say.
The photographer caught up with them, panting with the effort of shadowing the fast-moving Diane while carrying his heavy equipment. "Seven o'clock sharp. Pit road. The film crew will be set up by then. Makeup shouldn't take too long since they're going to shoot you in full track gear." Ordinarily the No. 448 car would have already been loaded on the hauler on its way back to the shop in Mooresville while a show car, used for public appearances and identical to the one he drove today, would have been its stand-in. But a different setup was required for the Fontana track, so Justin's car was still in the garage and a second Fulcrum Motors hauler would soon be on the road for the grueling twenty-five hundred mile drive from North Carolina to California.
"Seven!" Justin frowned but didn't say what he thought about wearing makeup or getting up that early in the morning.
"Seven," she repeated deadpan. "Sharp."
"Yes, ma'am," he said in his best good ol' boy drawl.
"I'll be there with bells on."
"Fine," Diane replied, ignoring his sarcasm. "I'll meet you at the garage in the morning." She said her goodbyes and walked back in the direction they'd come, signaling for the photographer to follow her. He had to jog to keep up once she hit her stride. The woman might be a dozen pounds overweight but she sure could move.
"You'd better be there on time," Hugo warned, letting Justin know he was still angry. "I don't want the Turn-Rite people to have anything else to complain about. Despite the handshakes and back-slapping up there in the suite, they've been hinting that a car that doesn't make the Chase three years running isn't what they had in mind for their fall advertising campaign."
The Chase for the NASCAR Sprint Cup started in September. It was still February. But NASCAR wasn't like other sports, with seasons leading up to the playoffs and championships. The first race of the season was the biggest one of all. Daytona. The Superbowl of stock car racingand Justin had messed up big time.
"Three times a charm," he said under his breath before Hugo's warning came back to him. Or three strikes, you're out?
"I'll see you Tuesday at the shop. We can go over last year's tapes of Fontana before we fly out to California," Hugo said, his mouth still set in a tight, straight, line.
"I'll be there."
He probably wouldn't be in his house in Mooresville long enough to unpack. His plane left for California Tuesday afternoon. Fulcrum Racing owned a corporate jet, as most race teams did, and of course Dixon had his own private Gulfstream, but the retired Hall of Fame baseball manager was also rumored to have the first dollar he ever made. If Justin's schedule differed from the rest of the team, he flew commercial. One day he was going to have to get a plane of his own like that jerk, Kent Grosso. Right now, he wasn't quite that high on the NASCAR food chain. Yet. But one day, in the not too distant future, he intended to be.
When the elevator doors slid open, uncle and nephew parted ways, Hugo heading toward the garage to make sure nothing had been left behind in the hurry to load the hauler, and Justin to his motor home. His backside hurt from sitting for hours in the hard seat of his race car. There was a blister on his heel where the heat of the exhaust pipe running under his feet had seeped through to his skin despite the fire-retardant boots and protective shields he wore over them. He wished he had the nerve to use the bottom of a plain old foam coffee cup to protect his feet like some other drivers did. But that image was not one that either Turn-Rite Tools or MMG approved of, so he never tried it, and now he was suffering the consequences.
Maybe he'd just take a long hot shower, grab a sandwich and call it a nightget his beauty sleep so he'd look good for his close-ups tomorrow. That way if he couldn't cut it as a NASCAR driver, he could make his fortune in the movies. He snorted at the thought and picked up the pace. The security guard at the gate to the private motor-home lot waved him through with a "good race."
The lot was emptying fast. Motor homes, some of them rolling palaces costing over a million dollars, were being buttoned up and moved out, heading for home, or starting on the long cross-country trip to California for the second race of the season. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile as he regarded his vintage 1947 Spartan Manor travel trailer, dwarfed as it was by the two fifty-footers parked on either side. He couldn't afford one of the big rigs, but even if he could, he didn't want one. For all their topend furnishings and electronics, they still came off an assembly line. His manor was one of a kind. They didn't make them like this baby any more.
And if the powers-that-be had their way, this one wouldn't be sitting here among the homes-away-from-home of his fellow drivers much longer. More than one track had been less than happy to allow the Manor into the Owners'and Drivers'lot last season. Diane had come to the rescue hinting around that negative publicity, the weeding out of any individuality in the sport, was not a good thing. The suggestion that a rig that a fan might be proud to own wasn't good enough for a NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver sent them grumbling away. But he had the feeling the Manor's days were numbered. New rules would be written and codified and his trailer would be banned from the tracks for "the good of the sport" and retired to the same hillside overlooking Lake Norman where he'd originally found it.
The glow of the interior lighting reflecting off the mirror-finish of the aluminum shell reminded him he wasn't going to be alone when he shut himself inside. And the person in the motor coach wasn't his cousin Dennis who had "other" plans for the night. "Damn," he muttered under his breath yanking open the high, tight collar of his uniform and dragging down the zipper. Lucy. He'd forgotten all about her. What did that say about their relationship? he wondered, as he punched in the code for the state-of-the-art security system he'd installed when he'd done the trailer restoration.
Lucy Gunter, his on-again, off-again girlfriend, was sitting on the built-in sofa to the left of the door, her long legs stretched out in front of her, her head propped up on one of the red and gray-patterned throw pillows that matched the forties-style brick-red upholstery on the cushions and complimented the blond finish on the birch cabinetry. Her laptop was open on the fold-down table of the dinette opposite her, but she'd stopped using it long enough ago for the screen saver to kick in. She was watching the plasma-screen TV he'd had mounted into one of the overhead cupboards, but he suspected by the sleepy look in her eyes that he'd caught her napping.
Good, maybe that meant she was as tired as he was and she wouldn't remember he'd promised to take her dancing at a new club she'd heard about from one of her friends.


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Wanna spray my fuckjuice on her cheesy, sweaty, stinky and moist nylon feet too.........
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Vice President of Bulgaria Margarita Popova has hailed justice reforms in Azerbaijan as she met the country's Justice Minister Fikrat Mammadov.
She said her country is following with great interest the Azerbaijani government's measures to modernize justice and legal system.
The Bulgarian Vice President praised the organization of the 3rd session of the Assembly of Parties of the International Anti-Corruption Academy (IACA) in Baku.
Ms. Popova also highlighted justice reforms in her country.
Minister Mammadov hailed the Bulgarian Vice President`s speech at the IACA Baku session.
He praised Azerbaijani-Bulgarian ties, particularly cooperation between the two countries` justice authorities.
The Minister provided an insight into reforms in Azerbaijan`s justice system, particularly measures to ensure transparent election of judges.


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Warriewood is a suburb on Sydney's Northern Beaches, 26km north of the city centre. It is split into 2 areas, divided by Pittwater Road: the valley, which has Mater Maria High School and Warriewood Square shopping centre; and the beach side, which is just north of Mona Vale Hospital. Nearby suburbs include Narrabeen, Elanora, and Newport. We deliver beautiful fresh flowers and gifts 6 days a week in Warriewood and the surrounding area. When you need something special to show someone how much you care, 1300 FLOWERS™ delivers the perfect bouquet with exceptional service every time.
It is easy to find the best florists in Warriewood when you choose 1300 FLOWERS™. We offer professional floral arrangements that always arrive on time because they come from our local florists. We care about our customers and because of this we offer a huge online catalogue of our available floral arrangements. On our website you can find our best sellers and current floral specials. In addition to this, you can also complete your order online or call us and we will complete the order for you. If you want to make your flowers from your local shop stand out, you can pair that order with one of our fine gift baskets or hampers.
Finding classy, designer, high-quality flowers in Warriewood is super simple when you choose 1300 FLOWERS™ for all your floral needs. In our extensive online catalogue, we carry native Australian flowers, brilliantly coloured exotic flowers and dozens of traditional flowers that can be made into gorgeous flower bouquets, flower arrangements or other floral pieces. Browse the online catalogue to choose the flowers that are perfect for your occasion and either complete your order online, or call us and our expert customer service representatives will help you complete the sale. Same day delivery is available in most areas, so you can get your order quick.
There's nothing quite like walking into a room and having the delicate scent of your favourite blooms fill the air. Here at 1300 FLOWERS™, we believe that flowers should be part of our everyday lives and not just for special occasions. Our team of local florists visit the flower markets daily to hand select the freshest and finest quality blooms, before arranging them into beautiful bouquets framed in lush green foliage. If you can let us know what you need by 2pm during the week, we can arrange for a same day flower delivery in Warriewood. Make it special, make it 1300 FLOWERS™.
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The APDPR described the behaviour and language used by the chief minister as "gross violation of human rights". Confirming filing of the complaint, an APDPR official said Banerjee had violated basic human rights and they condemned such behaviour from the highest authority of the state.
This is not the first time that the West Bengal CM has courted controversy. She drew flak from various quarters in the last one year for attacking individuals over several issues. She was found to be humiliating a raped woman, student, professor, farmer and members of the civil society. Recently, she was criticised for saying "Will I go and beat up the Prime Minister?" during a public rally in the state.
[Read: Fair abuse: 'Elite' Mamata betraying her own support base?]
OneIndia News


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Whimsical British Columbia Wedding at Fort Langley Hall from Marie SkerlWe all know that DIY weddings aren't necessarily easy. They take a lot of hard work and determination, foresight and creativity. In other words, if you are a DIYer out there in SMP-land crafting the heck out of your wedding, I salute
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Hotel Klea is in the Castle of Berat, just 132 feet from the main gate. Set in a traditional house, it offers free WiFi access in public areas and a 24-hour front desk, a garden and a terrace. All rooms include air conditioning, a TV and a desk as well as a bathroom with a bathtub and a shower. The on-site restaurant of Hotel Klea serves traditional homemade dishes. Other facilities offered at the property include grocery deliveries, a shared lounge and a tour desk. An array of activities can be enjoyed on site or in the surroundings, including hiking. Free private parking is available on site and Tirana Airport is 50.3 miles away.


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With standard drops, 8deg flare, and no funny bends or shapes, the Nitto B105 has everything you're looking for in a classic road handlebar. Plus, it continues Nitto's tradition of beautiful, masterfully constructed bike parts. You can't do much better than that! Will accept bar-end shifters and levers.
Very simple, clean, classic looking handlebar. Reasonably light, and comfortable. No cable guides/grooves. Great handlebar that can be used for many applications.
I have this on a classic looking build on my All City Space Horse. Nitto quality is top notch, and the classic road bar is a straightforward bar without all the tricks on so many modern bars. Comfortable.


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Late Victorian Holocausts
€ 17,99
Bisher € 18,49
Lieferbar innert 2 Wochen
Mai 2002
BeschreibungAn examination of a series of droughts and famines caused by the influence of El Nino in the late 19th-century.
PortraitMike Davis is the author of City of Quartz, Ecology of Fear and Magical Urbanism. He lives in Papa'aloa, Hawaii
Pressestimmen"Davis has given us a book of substantial contemporary relevance as well as great historical interest." -- Amartya Sen, New York Times "A masterly account of climactic, economic and colonial history." - New Scientist "Generations of historians largely ignored the implications [of the great famines of the nineteenth century] and until recently dismissed them as 'climactic accidents'... Late Victorian Holocausts proves them wrong." - LA Times Best Books of 2001 "David, a brilliant, maverick scholar, sets the triumph of late-nineteenth-century Western imperialism in the context of the catastrophic El Nino weather patterns at that time ... This is groundbreaking, mind-stretching stuff." - The Independent "Wide Ranging and compelling ... a remarkable achievement." - Times Literary Supplement
Untertitel: Sprache: Englisch.
Verlag: VERSO
Erscheinungsdatum: Mai 2002
Format: gebunden


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The Exports Manager's Guide
€ 79,00
Lieferbar innerhalb von 2-3 Tagen
Mai 2010
BeschreibungFaustino Taderera, the celebrity, is the finest International Business and Marketing brains ever produced in Zimbabwe and Africa. This towering academic icon and guru is nicknamed, "The Tom Peters of Zimbabwe, Africa and the Middle East." His students call him, "The Rumbler and the Caterpillar," mainly for his passion, depth and incisive research in these areas. This book, THE EXPORTS MANAGER'S GUIDE, covers among others, exports marketing research, documentation, L/Cs, export strategies, export marketing plans, bonded warehouses, shipping, customs procedures, and national trade policy and also deals with supranational organizations like WTO, EU, SADC, COMESA, ASEAN, NAFTA, ACD, GCC and Asian Tigers. This is Professor Taderera's 19th book. Faustino always says, "I am the Socrates, Aristotle and Plato of my time." Faustino Taderera is now one of the world's most eminent and distinguished researchers and part of the elite renowned Global Think Tank whose opinion matters internationally and consults for transnational supranational organizations like UN, EU and leading world governments. He is a much sought after global academic and professional BRAND.
Portraitdid an MBA degree in International Marketing and International Finance at Buckinghamshire Chilterns University,UK and PhD in Business Administration(specializing in International Business and Marketing) at Asia E-University in Malaysia. Professor FT as he is affectionately known by friends, acquaintances, is a prolific, talented and gifted writer
Untertitel: Linkages, Networking, Competitiveness. Paperback. Sprache: Englisch.
Verlag: LAP Lambert Acad. Publ.
Erscheinungsdatum: Mai 2010
Seitenanzahl: 624 Seiten
Format: kartoniert


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|XII. The Physical Suffering, or Cross of Christ.
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For it became him, for whom are all things, and by whom are all things, in bringing many sons unto glory, to make the captain of their salvation perfect through sufferings.—Heb. ii, 10.
It is a fact worthy of distinct notice, that our apostle is here making answer to the very same question that Anselm propounded for settlement, a thousand years afterward, in his very famous treatise, the Cur Deus Homo? And despite of the very great admiration won by this treatise, I feel obliged to suffer an impression, that the apostle has greatly the advantage; writing out his answer with a freer hand, and a far more piercing insight, and presenting, in fact, the whole subject more adequately, in a single sentence, than the much venerated father was able to do in the high theological endeavor of his volume.
In the verse previous to this sentence, which is my text, finding Jesus made a little lower than the angels, and, for the suffering of death, crowned with glory and honor, it is as if his mind began to ask, even as 249 Anselm did, why should he suffer thus, or come, in the way of suffering, at all? why could not God, the Almighty, strike out the needed salvation by a shorter method, without suffering, viz., by his omnipotent force? Whereupon he makes answer, virtually, that force is out of the question; because the needed salvation is a purely moral result, which can be accomplished only by moral means and motives—"For it became Him"—it was even a fixed necessity upon Him, the Almighty—"for whom are all things, and by whom are all things, in the bringing of many sons unto glory, to make the captain of their salvation perfect through sufferings."
The words bringing and captain, here occurring, have a relationship in the original, which would not be suspected, and which disappears in the English; as if we should read—"in the bringing on of many sons unto glory, to make the bringer on" &c. There is no importance however in this reading, such as might be supposed, for a captain is a leader and bringer on of course; only we conceive the passage more fitly, if the family relationship of the two words is understood. The declaration is, and that is the matter of chief importance, that God, the Almighty, must needs work morally in such a case, and not by force: and that Christ, the leader, is made perfect, or perfectly competent, as regards the moral new creation, or bringing up unto glory, by his cross and the tragic eloquence of his death.
That we may fully develop the apostle's meaning in 250 this general announcement, and verify it in the orderly exposition of the points included under it, let us begin at the question where he appears to have begun himself; viz., why should Christ, in the redeeming of souls, and bringing then, unto glory, subject himself to physical suffering?—what, in other words, were the necessities and uses of that suffering?
I confine the question here, it will be observed, to his physical suffering. He encountered two distinct kinds of suffering, as we commonly use the term, viz., mental suffering, and bodily suffering; that which belongs to burdened feeling and wounded sensibility, and that which is caused by outward privation, or violence done against the physical nature; that which appears more especially in the agony, and that which appears in the death of the cross. The former kind of suffering I believe is never called suffering in the New Testament, but a being grieved; a bearing, or a burden, as in sympathy and loving concern; a being troubled in spirit, or very heavy; sorrow; agony. The word suffering is applied, meantime, I think, only to physical suffering; and was doubtless used by the apostle, in the present instance, as relating to Christ's physical suffering only.
It is obvious enough then, at the outset, and as the first thing to be noted, that physical suffering, taken by itself, or as being simply what it is in itself, is never a thing of value. On the contrary it is; so far, a thing on the losing side of existence, a subtraction from the 251 general sum of good. It will not help a friend, or feed an enemy, or stop a fire, or cool a fever. To the sufferer himself, looking never to any thing beyond it, or consequent upon it, but simply at what it is, it has no inherent value, like wheat and wool, anal no market value, like gold. It is not, in fact, a commodity of any kind, exchangeable or not exchangeable, but a simple incommodity—a quantity purely negative and a worse than worthless fact.
And the same exactly is true of Christ's suffering. Taken as physical pain simply, nothing is to be made of it. All the worse and more deplorable is the loss or negation of it, that it is a suffering which has no relation to personal desert; and still more deplorable in the fact that, regarding the divine order of the sufferer, it is even a shocking anomaly, which reason can not comprehend and faith only can accept. God certainly did not want it as wanting to get so much suffering out of somebody. He does not exact a retributive suffering, even in what is called his justice, because he wants so much in quantity to even the account of wrong, but only that he may vindicate the right and testify his honor to it by a fit expression. Nothing could be more horrible, or closer akin to blasphemy, than to say that God wants pain for his own feeling's sake; or because he is hungry for that particular kind of satisfaction. We have it as a proverb, that "revenge is sweet;" but I recollect no proverb which avers that justice is sweet; because the mind of justice is a right mind, as the mind of revenge is not; and, being right, no pain is sweet to it, not 252 even that which chastises injustice and sin. Besides, there is, it is agreed, no justice in the pains of Christ, as being due on his own account; and it ought to be as well agreed that God could not take them as compensations on account of others. That would be taking them as actual somethings, or quantities having value in themselves, when, in fact, they have, as we have seen, no value at all. Nay worse, if God takes them, he gets only incommodities for his satisfaction, and makes a gain that is purely harm and loss.
But some one will object in the question—are not the physical sufferings of Christ what are called, in the scripture, his sacrifice for sin? and what is the use of sacrifice but to atone God's justice? I do not understand the scripture to speak of suffering and sacrifice in that manner. Thus we hear an apostle say—"made perfect through sufferings"—for what made perfect? for the satisfying of God's justice? No, but "to bring many souls unto glory?" "Lamb of God that taketh away"—what? the pains of justice? No, but "the sins of the world." "Who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree"—for what end? that God might be satisfied with his pains? No, but "that we being dead unto sin, should live unto righteousness;" "By whose stripes"—what of the stripes? do they pay off the release of ours?—"by whose stripes ye were healed." "For Christ also Lath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust"—in what view? to satisfy the justice of God? no, but "to bring us unto God." All the lustral figures—those of washing, purging, sprinkling, 253 purifying, cleansing—set forth the sacrifice in the same manner, not as a way of reconciling God to us, but of reconciling us to God. And so universally—I do not know the instance where Christ's cross and physical suffering are conceived as a making satisfaction to God's justice.
Regarding Christ's sufferings then as having no value in themselves, on the ground of which they may be accepted as compensations to justice, we must not leap to the conclusion that Christ could do nothing in a way of bringing men to God, without such sufferings. He could even have been incarnated into the world, in such a way as to involve no physical liability at all. He might even have been incarnated, I suppose, into the family of Cæsar, and strid into his mission, as a prince iron-clad, in all the dignities and immunities of the Empire. He might have taught the same doctrine, omitting only his call to take up the cross, which he taught as the son of Mary. He might have healed as great multitudes, with as kind a sympathy. He might even have been followed, if he chose, by trains of great people, as he was by the humble and the poor, dining at their tables, lodging in their palaces, receiving all the while the highest honors of genius. Or if it should be imagined that, teaching faithfully the same principles, and rebuking the same sins, and offering himself to men as the incarnate Word and Lord, he must of necessity provoke the hatred of enemies, and stir up powerful conspiracies of violence and bigot zeal, what suffering could they bring upon him, armed as he was 254 with miracle, strongly enough even to have routed the Roman army? As the posse that went out to arrest him could not strengthen their knees to stand, or their hands to seize, but fell backward on the ground even as moths fall off from flames they attack; as the moneychangers and trafficking priests fled away before him, taken by a strange panic that no single man ever raised before; so he could have withered Caiaphas by a look, and dashed his accusers away, as a rock tosses off the sea; making Pilate's wife dream a great deal worse dreams than she did, and causing the poor servile magistrate himself to be a good deal "more afraid" than he was; and as to being gibbeted on the cross, if the conspiracy could have gone so far, he probably enough could have changed the wood into water, as he did the water into wine. There was, in short, no necessary condition of physical suffering implied in his Messiahship. He probably could not have been as complete a Saviour without physical suffering, but he could have been a wonderfully great character and beneficent teacher, as clear of spot or stain, as true in his truth, as wise in his wisdom, as evidently, and some would say, a great deal more evidently, divine.
If then Christ's physical sufferings, taken as such, had no value, and if he could have been incarnated in the human state without suffering—doing and teaching, to a great extent, the same things—why did he come under conditions of suffering, what uses did he expect to serve by it, such as would compensate the loss? It was done I answer, that he might be made perfect by 255 such suffering—perfect, that is, not in his character, but in his official competency; perfect as having gotten power over men, through his sufferings, to be the sufficient bringer on, or captain, he undertakes to be, in bringing many sons unto glory.
Does he then, it may be asked, undertake the suffering as having that for his object or as consenting to it for effect's sake? He of course knows that he will suffer, and how, and when, and by whom, arid with what result, but he does not fall into the weakness of those partly fanatical martyrs who undertook the particular merit of being somehow murdered. Coming down to do a work of love, he simply took the liabilities of a human person doing such a work. He was not ignorant of the immense value or power of a right and great suffering, as regards the possible effect of it, and as sin would certainly be exasperated by his goodness, and drag him down to suffering, he meant beforehand to make it a right and great suffering, and so to win dominion by it. He suffered understandingly, therefore, as the Lamb that was slain from the foundation of the world, though not as aiming to get himself afflicted, or to make an ostentation of being wronged.
What, then, we have now to look after, is the manner and degree of that power over men's convictions and feelings, which Christ obtained by his physical suffering. And the points to which I call your attention are such as these.
1. The manner in which, by his physical suffering, he 256 magnifies and sanctifies the law in men's convictions. This in fact was a kind of first point to be carried in getting the necessary power over fallen minds. The speculation that requires him to suffer in a way of helping God to justify himself in the forgiveness of sins, before certain great judicial minds in other worlds and spheres, is a speculation that to say the least travels far, and the scripture gives it no help. The true Christian idea appears to be that Christ is magnifying the law, and making it honorable, not before the remote altitudes, but before the sinning souls of this world by whom it has been trampled. How else shall they ever be regained? God is an essentially practical and not a romantic being. He will not concern himself about the figure he makes in the forgiveness of sins, before the outlying populations of his realm, if only he can bring transgressors down to ask forgiveness here on earth, by making the pinnacles of order smoke before their guilty consciences.
See then how he does it in the matter of Christ's physical suffering. He came into the world with a perfect right to be exempted from such suffering. There is nothing in his character to require this kind of discipline, or even to make it just. He also had power to put all suffering by, and sail over the world as the stars do, in a region of calm and comfort above it. He could have exorcised the wild hate of his enemies, as he did the poor lunatics of the Gergesenes. By his power of miracle, if not without, he could have driven Pilate and his accusers out of the judgment-hall into the 257 street, passing intact through all the conspiracies of his enemies, even as Moses passed through the sea. But he would not so far infringe on the penal order of God's retributions., Looking on society, in its madness against him and against the truth, as grinding in God's mill of retribution, swayed, and rent and tortured by exasperating causes in the guilt of its own transgression, he refuses to take himself out of the general torment. Having taken humanity, he takes all the judicial liabilities of human society under sin, preferring, in this manner, to submit himself to the corporate order of God's judgments, and testify in that manner, his profound homage to law and justice. He will not so much as parry any one of the bad causations loosened by sin. He will let the world be to him just that river of vinegar and gall which its sins have made it to itself. So he bears the world's bitter curse, magnifying, even by his pains, the essential sanctity of law and justice.
He suffers nothing as from justice to himself, and therefore makes no satisfaction to the justice of God. But he powerfully honors that justice in its dealings with the world, by refusing to let even his innocence take him out of the murderous and bloody element it mixes. Hence the marvelous, unheard of power his life and gospel, and especially his suffering death, have exerted in men's consciences. His suffering has this wonderful divine art in it, that it sanctifies both forgiveness and justice, and makes them common factors of good, in the conscience of all transgression.258
2. The physical suffering of Christ has an immediate values under that great law of human nature, that ordains the disarming of all wrong, and the prostration of all violence, by a right suffering of the evils they inflict. Nothing breaks the bad will of evil so completely, as to have had its way, and done its injury, and looked upon its victim. And if the victim, suffering even the worst it could do, still lives unvanquished, the defeat is only a more absolute and stunning paralysis. Thus in the bitting of horses, the animal champs the bit as if he would crush it, and throws himself on the rein as if he would snap it, till finding that he only worries and galls himself, he at last gives way to what has not given way to him, and so is tamed, or, as we say, broken to the rein. So when the wrath of transgression hurls itself upon the Lord's person, sparing not his life, nor even letting him die easily or in respect, the bad will is only the more fatally broken that, accomplishing so much in a way so dreadful, it has yet accomplished nothing. It has mocked him, tortured him, thrust him out of life, only to find him still alive and see him go up to reign! In one view it has succeeded against him, and he has been seemingly crushed under the heel of its malignity. It has pierced the noblest heart and seen it bleed. It has finished the worst, most shocking, deed of murder ever conceived, And yet that murdered one still lives and loves! How dreadfully crest-fallen now and weak is that bad will, how nearly slain itself by what it has done! Nay, to have only spent so great malignity, and come to the 259 point of exhaustion, would produce a nearly mortal weakness. Suffering kills, how often, the wrong-doing that inflicts it. The man of blood who looks upon his murdered enemy is disarmed by the sight. Even if there seemed to have been some provocation, how tender, and soft, and low-spoken, how visibly gentled in feeling is he, standing in the room where his lifeless adversary lies! That dead face looks imploringly up to him, and his fire is extinguished by natural relentings. How much more when the murdered one is a friend inherently good, bearing a much honored name and great; how much more, if he is the incarnate Son of God; still more, if he is not only killed, but crucified, hung up thus to be looked upon depending from his cross—sad, broken flower, which the spite of so great beauty has plucked! O how weak, irresolute, guilt-broken, now, is all sin, when confronted by that suffering goodness which reveals at once, both its spite and its impotence! "I am Jesus of Nazareth whom thou persecutest"—How piercing is the word!
3. The sublime morality, or moral worth of Jesus, could never have been sharply impressed, except for the sensibilities appealed to by his physical suffering. If he had come as one born of a good family, if he had been a considerable owner of real estate, if he had made his journeys in a chariot, lodging, at night, with distinguished senators and persons of consideration, if he had been a great scholar among the Rabbis, or had been familiar to the people in the livery of a judge, or a priest, winning great popularity by the profuseness 260 of his charities, and exciting even applause by his attention to low people and his tender ministry to their diseases; dying finally by some of the modes that are common, to be followed to his burial by multitudes that come to weep their loss at his grave—if, I say, he had lived in condition, and died as one admired for his excellence, the real depth of his virtue could never even have been conceived. He would only have been looked upon as fulfilling the type of a graciously benevolent gentleman, and described as the John Joseph Gurney of his time. No, it was only as he waived the honors of condition in his birth, and the comforts of property in his life, became a footman, hungered often, slept under the sky shivering with cold, spent himself daily in exhausting sympathies and got almost no sympathy in return, met the looks of crafty messengers and spies on every side, and scarcely found a place, except in the lone recesses of the mountains, where his ear was not all day, perhaps all night, saluted by the carping sounds of bigot voices quarreling with his doctrine, ending finally his hunted, hated, weary life, by a slave's death on the cross—this too, even for enemies, as truly as for his friends—it is here that we begin to really look down into the deeps of his great bosom, deeps holy and divine, that no mortal plummet has sounded! And so he is made perfect through sufferings, able to wake a sense in our bosoms of what love is, quickening thoughts in us that are new, opening sensibilities never before consciously opened. All the most effective powers, in short, of moral impression, contained in his character, would 261 have been wanting, if he had not borne the lot of wrong and bitter suffering.
4. It is only by his suffering in the flesh that he reveals or fitly expresses the suffering sensibility of God. As certainly as God has any sensibility, such as belongs to a perfect mind and heart, that sensibility must be profoundly moved by all misery, impurity and wrong. Impassible, physically speaking, he is not impassive to evils that offend, or grieve, his moral perfections. Indeed his vast and glorious nature is, in this view, nothing but an immense sensibility, whose dislikes, disgusts, indignations, revulsions of pity, wounded compassions, afflicted sympathies, pains of violated tenderness, wrongs of ingratitude, are mingling and commingling, as cups of gall, for the pure good feeling of his breast. So far he suffers because he is a perfect being, and according to the measure of his perfection. Why if he could not hate what is hateful, pity what is pitiful, mourn for the hopeless, burn against the cruel, scent the disgusts of the impure—if all bad things and all good were just alike to him, what is he better than granite or ice? No, the glorious, all-moving fact is, that there is a great sensibility at the head of the worlds, and a mental suffering as great, when the worlds go wrong!
This accordingly it is, that we, as sinners, need most of all to know and to feel, and this that Christ, for our salvation's sake, has taken the flesh and suffered even death, to impress. Nature, in her scenes and objects, had no power to express this moral pain of God's heart. 262 The ancient providential history was trying always vainly to elaborate the same; testifying, in almost every chapter, of God's sorrows, griefs, repentings, loathings, displeasures, and his afflictions over the afflicted. Nothing could ever express it but the, physical suffering of Jesus. Here, for the first time, a vehicle is, found that will sufficiently bring home to our guilty feeling God's wounded feeling, and put us in real acquaintance with that suffering state of love, which his unseen goodness feels.
And every thing turns here, you will perceive, on the matter of physical suffering; for, to our coarse human habit, nothing else appears, at first, to have much reality. In the agony, for example, the real suffering is mental, and the great struggle, a struggle purely of feeling. But if it were not for the physical symptoms attendant, the prostrations, the audible groans, and above all, the body dripping, in blood-like drops, forced through the skin by the pains of the mind—were it not for these physical tokens we should get no impression of a suffering sensibility, that would be of much account. We should only look on drowsily, doubting probably. how much, or what kind of, reality there may be in this rather dull scenic of the gospels!
And here is the precise relation of the agony and the cross. One is the reality, the other is the outward sign or symbol. Having all the mental sensibility Christ has regarding our sin, and shame, and wrong, and fearfully lost state, he still needs to be made perfect through physical sufferings, or by these to have his higher sensibility 263 brought forth into power. He is perfect before, in all the pains of his perfect sensibility, but to our coarse, sensuous, undiscerning habit, there is nothing of much meaning in him, till we watch him undergoing his murder! This physical suffering we can understand; the other is a great way off and very dim.
In one view it is even a scandal that we make so much more of the cross than we do of the agony. And yet the cross was appointed for the culminating point of the gospel, partly in a way of condescension to our lowness and the want of our coarseness, and is really the greater for that reason. The grand thing to be revealed is that which stands in the agony; and the superior value of the cross, or physical suffering, lies in the fact that it comes to us, at our low point, speaking to us of the other, in a way that we can feel. When we look on Jesus suspended by nails through his hands and feet, and set up to die a slow death, in delirium and thirst and fever, we do have raised in our bosoms a little natural sensibility. And, taken hold of by that, our apprehensions will perhaps be sufficiently fixed, at last, to let us in where that deeper, and warmer, and more agonizing, sensibility heaves unseen in the mental compassions of God!
Let us not be too much taken, my friends, by the typology in which our gospel is here and there so feebly and pretensively dressed—the low perceptions, and the short culture, always putting their cheap honors and ornaments upon it. I speak not here of the cross set up as a symbol on our peaks of architecture, 264 worn upon the person, painted on the banners of the religion itself; but I speak of the crucifixes, and the carefully carved distresses of the dying Lord, the droppings of blood, the contortions of form, the pallors of death so elaborately painted, and the generally overdone studies of art, by which Christ's dying woe is magnified as being, not the sign, but the all of his suffering. The very shallow, feeble, look of such art, the want of all high insight in it, is abundantly mortifying. There is scarcely a doubt that Christ suffered more intensely in the agony, where the pain was wholly mental, than he did upon the cross. Even the external signs appear to indicate as much. In the same way too, his chief suffering, on the cross, was probably mental and not bodily. For. some reason, his suffering on the cross was so much more severe than that of the malefactors crucified with him, that he died whole hours before them; not because they did not suffer as great physical pain as he, but because he had a moral sensibility so vast, a horror of wrong so deep, a concern of love for his enemies so wrenched with agony, that his heart broke and his breath stopped, as it were before the time. This now—would that we could think it—was the real suffering to him! and the physical suffering of the cross was probably a matter of consequence to him principally in the fact that, considering our low, dull, habit, there might be force enough in it to initiate, or pricl in, as it were, some faint impression of the other. And this it is, this only, that makes it a salvation. It is a cross before the eyes, for beings that 265 live in their eyes, and are too coarse to apprehend the spiritual things of God in a spiritual manner—in that way a type of the more wondrous and tremendous cross that is hid in God's perfections from eternity. O, it is for this, to make sin feel this unseen, tender, sensibility, this pain of goodness, this fatherhood of sorrow—this it is that Christ has undertaken to impress, and for this end he is made perfect through sufferings. Once more—
5. It was necessary that Christ should suffer in the body, and get power over men by that kind of suffering, because the world itself is put in a tragic economy, requiring its salvation to be an essentially tragic salvation. God has made the world, we all agree, for the great sentiments it will organize and bring into play, and souls themselves to be lifted by that play, in those great sentiments. Hence the wonderful affinity of our human nature for the tragic exaltations.
There may have been a prior necessity that a free moral kingdom should include peril, disorder, suffering, great struggles to escape great woes, sacrifices in the good, wrongs suffered by the good, to regain and restore the evil; in other words, there may have been a prior necessity that the plan of God's moral universe should be essentially tragic in the cast of it. But, whatever may be true in this respect, we can see, every man for himself, that so it is. No merely fine sentiment, or morally high, is quite sufficient for us. The festive, the gay, the triumphal, the melo-dramatic tenderness, the pastoral sweetness, the flutes of domestic arbors, the 266 gongs of public liberty—none of these quite satisfy, not even the mighty love-passion strikes our highest cords of tension till it draws blood! Blood! blood! we must have blood! Human history therefore moves on trailing in blood, tragic in its characters, and scenes, and its material generally.
The great crimes are tragic, and the great virtues scarcely less so. The tribunals sprinkle their gate-posts with blood. The stormy passions, honor, jealousy, and revenge, are letting blood in all ages; and the little ones of trust, and truth, and worth, do the bleeding. And then all the epics and romances, and a great part of the world's poetry go on to add imaginary pangs and troubles, and torture us still more with bloody felicities that are fictitious. Practically the world has a general fashion of suffering. Right is trampled everywhere,, goodness fights with wrong, nations fall, heroes bleed, and all great works are championed by suffering. Some Prometheus, torn by his eagle, bleeds painfully on every rock waiting to be loosed from his chain. So if Christ will pluck away eternal judgment for the world, he must bleed for it. So great a salvation must tear a passage into the world by some tragic woe—without shedding of blood there is no remission.
This blood—O, it is this that has a purifying touch, working lustrally, as the divine word conceives, on all the stains of our sin, washing us, making us clean, sprinkling even our evil conscience. This tragic power of the cross takes hold, in other words, of all that is dullest, and hardest, and most intractable, in our sin, and 267 moves our palsied nature, all through, in mighty throbs of life.
And this is Christianity; meeting us just where we most require to be met. Christ is a great bringer on for us, because he suffers for us. Christianity is al mighty salvation, because it is a tragic salvation. Why my friends, if it were not for this generally tragic way in things about us, and especially in religion, I fear that we should have a more dull time of it than we think. Indeed I suspect that even the same is true of the general universe—it probably is and is forever to be an essentially tragic universe. With, a fall and an overspreading curse at the beginning, and a cross in the middle, and a glory and shame at the end, where souls struggle out, through perils, and pains, and broken chains, or bear their chains away unbroken still and still to be—how moving, and mighty, and high, must be the sentiment of it! O how grandly harrowing is that joy, how tremulous in tragic excitement is that song of ascription, roaring as a sea-surge round the throne—"unto him that loved us, and washed us, from our sins in his blood!"
Concluding at this point, my brethren, the exposition I have undertaken, you will not fail to note how it gathers in its force upon this table and rite of communion before us. These symbols, bread and wine, body and blood, represent exactly what is most physical in Christ's suffering. But they do not stop in that, as if there were a value in the pains. They are even 268 a language, as that was, bearing an impression of something higher. They say "made perfect through sufferings;" calling up to be thought, and received, just all that I have here been trying to unfold, of the power which our Master was obtaining, by his dreadful cross and passion.
Back of the wood and the nails, back of the suffering body, there was another cross, another suffering, even that of God's deep love, struggling out through the blood and the pain, to make its revelation felt in us. And this for what? To bring many sons, that is to bring us all, unto glory.
Suffering and glory! even so; in that tragic copula, the gospel stands, and it is remarkable how many times it recurs. "Ought not Christ to suffer these things, and to enter into his glory?" "For the suffering of death, crowned with glory and honor"—"The sufferings of Christ and the glory that should follow"—"A witness of the suffering of Christ, and a partaker of the glory that should be revealed"—"Who hath called us unto eternal glory, by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered awhile"—responses all, as it were, to the word "made perfect through sufferings in bringing many sons unto glory."
Here, too, as you have noted, Christ's sufferings for us, and ours for him, and his glory, and our glory, are blended all together, heaving in a common passion, shining in a common glory. And thus it is, my brethren, that our ascended Master, by these communion tokens, pledges us to-day our right to suffer with him, 269 and to be strengthened with him according to his glorious power. And what we call his glory, is, if we rightly understand, but this same glorious power, or powerfulness of glory—no phantom of display, or dazzling crown, conferred by servile worshipers wanting a hero, but that most solid kind of merit which is an element and power of day, on all who are blessed in the sight. When Christ was transfigured in the mount, the shining as the sun, the glistering whiteness, which are called—"the excellent glory," were yet but a surface glory in themselves, and were only good as types of that inherent, practical glory, that belonged to his nature, and was just now dawning on discovery in his suffering sacrifice. The immense power he gets in being made perfect through sufferings, is itself his glory. And so the state of glory in us is the solid power that we are to obtain, by following in our Master's steps, by suffering patience and sacrifice. When Christ says, "the glory which thou gavest me I have given them," that glory is the sense we have in them, as God's martyrs and servants, of a somehow divine brightness and transforming luster. There is something felt which yet we do not see, and we call that invisible something, glory. It is splendor of soul, or the halo that is on it, when the blur and disorder and opaque mixture of wrong are all gone bye; or it is the state of perfect strength, concord, liberty in good, freeness of knowledge, purposes eternally set, great sentiment hallowed by great principle, and uttered by and through great action, when Christ, who is himself the glory of 270 the Father, has put himself fully upon us, and when so the divine splendor and power, and truth, and righteousness, are become our eternal investiture. And therefore it is, that the very state of glory for which we hope is set forth as a daylight element, bathing holy minds forever, whose sun is the Revelation of God by suffering—"For the Glory of God doth lighten it and the Lamb—is the light thereof. O, thou divine Lamb; suffering symbol in the flesh, of God's suffering love in the spirit, what shall be the light of our seeing forever, but that which may shine out from thee!271
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Castello di Rodi
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Last days in Lindos
... to the monastery of Thari to see its striking 11th century murals, then noodled back to Lindos through pine woods that have recovered nicely from a major fire in 1986.
Today we had a long lunch at our favorite Lindos restaurant, Mavrikos, with Mary and her German friend Uwe. Walked up to the Acropolis, but it had close early with winter hours. Back to the Museum to visit, putter, and pack.
Tomorrow we're heading home via Athens and London. ...
Indian summer in Lindos
Mary, Shelley & Dan arrived in Lindos Friday afternoon and settled into Mary's beautiful home, aka The Museum. After a slow morning regrouping from our road trip, we headed to the main beach, which is paved with sun beds all summer but comparatively deserted now. Settling into Rosanna's Italian beach taverna, we ordered, had a swim, ate a delicious lunch of seafood risotto and fresh fish, and swam again. The aquamarine sea was clear and warm. Just too dolce for words. ...
On a small excursion to Greece.Rhodes to be exact!
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We enjoyed some lovely local wine and seafood before we returned to our hotel by taxi. Now everyone else is swimming or napping while I write this blog.
Tonight we dine with our group at 8 pm and tomorrow we will return via ferry to Turkey to continue our adventures. I promise to write more in the next few days.
In the meantime, here are a few photos. I hope you enjoy them.
Gyros and Jamming
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We clambered in their 7 seater and they drove up into the depths of Rhodes and up Gulf montain to a place called Filerimoss (This is how it sounds no idea how it's spelt) where there is a memorial from their war with Portugal and now stands as a kind of hilltop nature spot with amazing views.
The family knew I dabbled in an instrument or two and when we got back there was instruments everywhere in their house. ...
Lindos Beach lazy days
... I came but 2/3 days here would be enough for anyone and with a good full day you could see pretty much everything.
I head back to Rhodes town tomorrow and I'm staying with a couple from the couch surfing site I joined some time back. Basically people who travel themselves and are willing to give a bed to others for a night or ...


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Royal Robbins Billy Goat Mountain Performance Pants - Men's - 2011 Closeout - $28.83
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using servos which have the ability to lift 14kg's,
I have sourced a recargable 9v battery will this be powerful enough to operate each servo and run a brushless motor?
could I add in a second power source easily?