Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From An Anomalous Jew: Paul Among Jews, Greeks, and Romans (2016)

  Paul also emerged as the leader of the Antiochene mission to the Gentiles and constituted the foremost defender of the Antiochene church's stance concerning Gentiles and circumcision. 7. The increase in the number of Gentile believers in Antioch and in An- tioch’s daughter churches in Cyprus, Cilicia, and Pamphylia caused alarm among the Pharisaic wing of the Jerusalem church as to what it might mean for the ethos of the church as a whole. This explains the active opposition by a constituency of the Jerusalem church to Jewish Christ-believers eating with Gentiles and forgoing the necessity of Gentile circumcision for conversion. They even took the bold initiative to try to intervene in the Antiochene church (Gal 2:4-5; Acts 15:1). 8. The Jerusalem council achieved a via media by finding in Scripture a justification for the inclusion of Gentiles within the church without requiring circumcision and placing upon Gentiles only the obligation to avoid idol food, blood in strangled animals, and sexual immorality. Paul’s gospel and apos- tolate were affirmed by the Jerusalem pillars, but in turn they expected Paul to respect the status of the Torah in the mission to the circumcision. Yet the Jerusalem council also inadvertently permitted the existence of two parallel theologies: one theology where the Gentiles were uncircumcised equals** in a renewed Israel, with holiness constituted by the Spirit, and another theology where uncircumcised Gentiles were guests in a restored Israelite remnant that still defined holiness through Torah observance.** The Jerusalem council's decision presumed a setting where Jewish Christ-believers and Gentile Christ- believers were parallel rather than integrated, especially in relation to shared Peter's conversion of Cornelius (Acts 10:1-11:18). This projection is plausible, given that Acts 9:1-11:18 appears to interrupt a continuous account of a Hellenistic mission begun at 6:1 and then resumed and completed at 11:19-30. The reason for the insertion by Luke is probably to attribute the Gentile breakthrough to Peter and give the Gentile mission apostolic precedent and to also introduce Paul prior to the Cornelius narrative. 42. Shaye J. D. Cohen (The Beginnings of Jewishness [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999], 219-21) notes that there is no evidence for Jews and Gentiles being placed on an equal footing in a Jewish community. 43. See Bruce D. Chilton, “The Brother of Jesus and the Interpretation of Scripture, in The Use of Sacred Books in the Ancient World, ed. L. V. Rutgers, P. W. van der Horst, H. W. Havelaar, and L. Teugels (CBET 22; Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 37-40. 184 The Incident at Antioch (Gal 2:11-14): The Beginnings of Paulinism meals. The council did not stipulate the standard of Torah observance to be upheld for ethnically mixed table fellowship to ensue.** 9. At some point, we have the accession of James as the senior authority among the “elders” in Jerusalem.

• From The City of God

  65 Lecture 3 Transcript—The Sack of Rome, 410 A.D. So in their evangelism they mixed groups of people, and classes of people, in ways that the Romans found deeply disturbing. Also, the Christians were pretty clear that their loyalty to the imperium was less important than their loyalty to their Christos, and that that Christ had shown them what they should do when the two loyalties conflicted. It’s fairly obvious nowadays that the stories of huge massacres of Christians by the Romans, vast witch hunts and massive martyrdoms in the amphitheaters, were the product of later Christian propaganda. The Romans were eager, by and large, not to persecute Christians, so long as they would keep quietly to themselves and obey the laws. There was not that much anxiety about the need to sacrifice to the emperor. But there was a little anxiety about that, and at hard times that would become even more poignant for the authorities, and make them more nervous, suggest to them the lure of having a convenient scapegoat. And then some Christians would suffer. Furthermore, the Christians became, in their first century or two, a pretty apocalyptic group, with expectations of the radical transformation of the world that we all shared. After all, as I like to point out to my students, the central Christian symbol, the cross, is a mark of state-sanctioned capital punishment. Were Christianity to be born in America today, you could imagine the symbol would be an electric chair. Imagine churches that have the symbol of an electric chair on their altars. Nothing is less welcome to a hegemonic political power than an ideology that says the moral shape of the cosmos is designed to undo that empire. And the ideology becomes more unwelcome still when events in the outside world conspire to suggest that there might be something to that ideology’s message of the transience of worldly power and glory. So it was not precisely the sack of Rome in 410 that provoked Augustine to compose his book, but the shock it gave the elite, Christian and pagan alike. And that shock was itself merely a

• From The City of God

  44 Books That Matter: The City of God But why should we give him that chance? Why it is should we read Augustine now? First, he helps us understand our past. The history of thought in the West after Augustine can be interpreted largely as a history of readings of Augustine, and indeed as misreadings of him. Consider where he stands in the history of philosophy. He lived roughly 800 years after Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, and roughly 800 years before Aquinas, and there are roughly 800 years between Aquinas and today. In a way, Augustine marks the transition between ancient and medieval philosophy, and most medieval philosophy is commentary on Augustine, and a great deal of modern philosophy is commentary on Augustine, as well—more than most people, even some philosophers, know. In terms of political thought, to read The City forces you to grapple with multiple interpretations of that book, rival readings whose alternatives structures much of the history of political thought in the West. Reading him helps us better understand our past, how we got here today. This does not only apply to Christians, or those who are from Christian backgrounds; everyone in our world today might well be educated by this work. Even non-Christians can find it useful to understand this most influential of Christian imaginations of the cosmos, of political order, and of the meaning of history. Furthermore, reading Augustine now might well help us live into our future. For thinking about him helps us understand how and why we organize our secular world today. Consider that we stand at the end of Christendom, and this is so in two senses: one well known, the other not so well known. The well-known sense is clear: Christendom is over. If we understand that term to designate an effort to shape and sustain civilization on explicitly Christian terms, by and large the world we live in has largely left that ambition behind. The status of religious beliefs—their legitimacy in public; the sincerity with which we try to organize our lives through them—is much more contested, and far more fragile and recognizably contingent, than they have ever been before, and there are no signs that that trend is being reversed.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer’s departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings’s forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more. On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend’s, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able to travel. But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper’s room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne. The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,— “Is mama coming?”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart.” Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, “To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.—I have had it above these three years.” She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward’s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. “I have never been able,” continued Lucy, “to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity.” “You are quite in the right,” replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. “I am sure,” said she, “I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman.” “I certainly did not seek your confidence,” said Elinor; “but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety.” As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy’s countenance suffered no change.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  In a morning’s excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance,—whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs. Jennings’s attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day. The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady Middleton’s good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John’s confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles’ arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings’s style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton’s regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her. Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton. About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the morning’s drive. “Good God!” cried Marianne, “he has been here while we were out.” Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say, “Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.” But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings’s entrance, escaped with the precious card. This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out. Elinor’s thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street during their absence; but a moment’s glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table. “For me!” cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward. “No, ma’am, for my mistress.” But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up. “It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!” “You are expecting a letter, then?” said Elinor, unable to be longer silent. “Yes, a little—not much.” After a short pause. “You have no confidence in me, Marianne.” “Nay, Elinor, this reproach from _you_—you who have confidence in no one!” “Me!” returned Elinor in some confusion; “indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever. No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself. “Remember, Elinor,” said she, “how very often Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John’s hands.” Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother. “Why do you not ask Marianne at once,” said she, “whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to you more especially.” “I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne’s heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.” Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister’s youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood’s romantic delicacy. It was several days before Willoughby’s name was mentioned before Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;—but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed, “We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes again...But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens.” “Months!” cried Marianne, with strong surprise. “No—nor many weeks.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,” said she, “in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward’s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t’other day, when Edward’s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can’t think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward’s sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom—we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke.” Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate. “Sometimes.” continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, “I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.” As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. “But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too—so dear as he is to me—I don’t think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?” “Pardon me,” replied Elinor, startled by the question; “but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you.” “To be sure,” continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, “his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill.” “Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited us?” “Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?”

• From An Anomalous Jew: Paul Among Jews, Greeks, and Romans (2016)

  After having tortured those men whom he used to love, he imprisoned them and ordered that the soldiers of the great king be sought, and he issued an edict that all Christians and soldiers of Christ that were found should be executed.” This document, though admittedly late second century, is far more than dramatic fiction. It seems to indicate that faith in Christ and allegiance to Cae- 33. According to Simon R. F. Price (“Ritual and Power,’ in Paul and Empire: Religion and Power in Roman Imperial Society, ed. R. A. Horsley [Harrisburg, PA: TPI, 1997], 71), the im- perial cult was “a major part of the web of power that formed the fabric of society”; and for Barclay (Pauline Churches, 355-56), “The worship of the divine Augustus (and Roma) indicated the recognition that the imperial order was the guarantor and mediator of the favor of the gods, and that Roman emperors, with their unique and superhuman capacities, were endowed with divine powers to benefit society. ... One did not choose between worshipping ‘the gods’ and worshipping the imperial house; one worshipped the imperial house because of its central role within the cosmic order sponsored and sustained by the whole panoply of gods.” 34. Acts of Paul 11.2, trans. M. R. James. 213 AN ANOMALOUS JEW sar, when viewed as absolute authorities, were regarded as mutual exclusives and that Christians were thought to be potentially destabilizing to the religious and social fabric of the imperium. There are, however, a few lingering problems with reading anti-imperial rhetoric into Paul’s letters.** First, Paul’s letters indicate that he was hardly consumed with political activism, and his focus pertained to establishing churches with harmonious relations between Jewish and Gentile believers. In fact, much of Paul’s letters concern themselves with urging Christ-believers to live at peace with those outside their community (see Rom 12:14-21; 1 Cor 10:32-33). That does not necessarily make him apolitical, but he was hardly a political-change agent. That should be unsurprising because in the New Tes- tament the ratio of 8e6c to Kaioap is 30:1.*° Second, a further problem is that many of these so-called anti-imperial readings look suspiciously like a coded critique of American foreign and eco- nomic policy under GOP presidents. One is left wondering, then, if scholarly reconstructions of Paul’s critique of Roman power are really a veiled critique of American policy by left-leaning academics. To be honest, there is no ques- tion about it, since Richard Horsley is quite explicit in this regard.*’ The word “empire” carries negative connotations of hegemonic and tyrannical power,** 35. See criticisms in Christopher Bryan, Render to Caesar: Jesus, the Early Church, and the Roman Superpower (New York: OUP, 2005), 9-10, 91-93; A. Standhartinger, “Die paulin- ische Theologie im Spannungsfeld rémisch-imperialer Machtpolitk: Eine neue Perspecktive auf Paulus, kritisch gepriift anhand des Philippersbriefs,” in Religion, Politik und Gewallt, ed.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother’s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars’s resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in;_ that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning with the observation of “your sister looks unwell to-day,” or “your sister seems out of spirits,” he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, “your sister’s engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known.” “It cannot be generally known,” returned Elinor, “for her own family do not know it.” He looked surprised and said, “I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of.” “How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?” “By many—by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister’s writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it impossible to—? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  _He_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about twelve o’clock, and she returned to her sister’s apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne’s side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor’s, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought. Marianne’s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational. She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could not come, for some other advice, when the former—but not till after five o’clock—arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him.” “You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed.” “A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_ require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister’s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?” “I hope not, I believe not,” cried Elinor. “I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning;—he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character;—but I will not raise objections against any one’s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent.” “You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother’s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother’s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?—He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that—Oh, la! one can’t repeat such kind of things you know)—she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “But I thought it was right, Elinor,” said Marianne, “to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure.” “No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?” “You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,” said Edward to Elinor, “Do you gain no ground?” “Quite the contrary,” replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. “My judgment,” he returned, “is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister’s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!” “Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,” said Elinor. “She knows her own worth too well for false shame,” replied Edward. “Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy.” “But you would still be reserved,” said Marianne, “and that is worse.” Edward started—“Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?” “Yes, very.” “I do not understand you,” replied he, colouring. “Reserved!—how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?” Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, “Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?” Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent—and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

• From The City of God

  66 Books That Matter: The City of God catalyzing force that crystallized a whole constellation of their concerns. For some of them, their concerns were framed in a pagan idiom, for others in a Christian one. But whatever the language, they were already anxious; and yet also for these reasons, they were pretty well unprepared for it. When the shock came, it synthesized a number of different forces and arguments running under the surface of the late imperial world. I said earlier that this time, in this sack, there would be no Aeneas— no one would be left with enough fortitude and intelligent will to carry the weight of tradition on their shoulders out of the burning rubble of the past. And many felt that at the time. But in fact there was someone not unlike Aeneas, although also very different. This was Augustine. How he came to understand the task he had accepted as, in some sense, a civilization-saving undertaking is the subject of our next lecture. 67 Augustine’s Pagan and Christian Audience “W hat has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” This line, uttered by the third-century North African theologian Tertullian, has echoed down the centuries in Christian thought. Tertullian meant to contrast Christian faith to Greek rationalist philosophy. For him, the questions and attitudes popular among skeptical philosophical types were anathema to the absolute truths of Christian dogma. He asserted that the two approaches were utterly opposed and insisted on affirming Christianity without regard for human reason. The question of conflict between reason and faith has remained alive ever since to haunt Christian theologians and as ammunition to non-Christians. The Problem of Civic Morality „In the context of the writing of The City of God, Augustine knew that his audience, Christian and pagan alike, was asking a slightly different version of Tertullian’s question: What has Rome to do with Jerusalem? Augustine shaped his book to answer that question. In no other of his works was his audience as richly diverse. „The first sentence of the book is an answer to a request from one Marcellinus, a Christian tribune and notary under the western emperor Honorius. He was a major Roman player and a friend to Augustine, who dedicated The City of God to him. Many years later, Augustine recalled Marcellinus’s prompt: In the last paragraph of Book 22, 15 years after Marcellinus’s death, Augustine describes the completion of the work as recompense for a debt he had accepted long ago. Lecture 4

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from Lucy’s assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John’s joking intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy’s superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival’s intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure. But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton’s head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment’s pause, he spoke with calmness. “I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope.” “But have you not received my notes?” cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. “Here is some mistake I am sure—some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven’s sake tell me, what is the matter?” He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, “Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me,” turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. “Go to him, Elinor,” she cried, as soon as she could speak, “and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again—must speak to him instantly.—I cannot rest—I shall not have a moment’s peace till this is explained—some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment.” “How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow.” With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.

• From The City of God

  47 The Sack of Rome, 410 A.D. I f the end of the world has a beginning, we could do far worse than date it to August 24–26, 410 A.D., when Alaric and the Visigoths entered the city of Rome. Almost as soon as it occurred, the Sack of Rome left the space of history and entered the realm of myth. It is in a very real way foundational for the apocalyptic imagination of the west. When we try to depict the end of life as we know it, the outcome turns out to be remarkably like what we imagine the sack of Rome to have been. The Thrilling Myth „Imagine that you live in an empire that has lasted 1,000 years. In that time, almost all other civilizations have been incorporated into it. Its people are prosperous, its cities magnificent, its lands secure. You know of no people, no kingdom, that equals it in greatness—indeed there is little beyond its boundaries to compare. It seems that human society and the empire are bound up in one another. „Now imagine that in your lifetime, that empire is invaded from the outside by barbarians—people in some sense uncivilized, not quite lawless, but rather operating on a very primitive set of laws that could never suffice to govern a society as sophisticated as yours. They ravage your countryside, besiege and sack your towns and cities, and finally reach the capital of your empire—the greatest city ever known, the center of the world—and overrun it. „Such was the situation facing the Roman world when Augustine began to write The City of God. Augustine writes in the wake of chaos, attempting to accept what has happened and to learn Lecture 3