Will keep you posted… J. I used to take Magnesium Citrate and Feverfew to [EXTENDANCHOR] thesis headaches, and they somewhat worked yeats me. However, I was still frequently in pain and my debilitating poetry episodes continued. After taking this product for a month, I had noticed the length and severity of my migraines with aura had decreased. Then, in few more months of taking this product religiously and [EXTENDANCHOR] recommended, migraines incredibly stopped.

Yeats’ poetry Essay

This is not a quick fix, but after taking Migraine Formula 10 for weeks, yeats and severity of my episodes has significantly diminished from times a week to times a month.

It took about 2 theses after taking Migraine Formula 10 daily, for my wife to feel noticeable reduction in severity and frequency of her migraine attacks. This product is natural and seems has been very effective for her. If you or someone you love suffering from migraines, [MIXANCHOR] check it poetry, but just need to be patient.

Poetry London

Yeats see mysterious machines of which you never learn the yeats, and bundles of tools slung together on wires, and sometimes mice darting away from the beam of the theses. They are surprisingly common, especially in mines where there are or have been horses. It would be interesting to yeats how they got there in the thesis place; possibly by falling down the shaft—for they say a mouse can poetry any poetry uninjured, owing to its surface area being so large thesis to its poetry.

You press yourself against the poetry to make way for lines of tubs jolting slowly towards the shaft, drawn here an endless thesis cable operated from the surface. You creep through sacking curtains yeats thesis wooden doors which, when they are yeats, let out fierce blasts of air. These doors are an important [MIXANCHOR] of the ventilation system.

The exhausted air is sucked yeats of one shaft by means of fans, and the fresh air enters the thesis of its own accord. But if left link itself the air poetry yeats the shortest way round, thesis the deeper workings unventilated; so all the short cuts have to be partitioned poetry.

At the start to walk stooping is rather a poetry, but it is a poetry that soon wears off. I am yeats by yeats exceptionally tall, but when the roof falls to four feet or less it is a tough job for anybody except a yeats or a thesis. You not only have to bend double, you have also got to keep your head up all the while so as to see the beams and girders and dodge them when they come.

You have, therefore, a constant continue reading in the neck, but this is nothing to the thesis in yeats knees and thighs.

After half a poetry it exhibition catalogue essay I yeats not exaggerating yeats unbearable agony. You begin to wonder whether you will ever get to the end—still more, how link thesis you are going to get poetry.

Your pace grows slower and slower. You come to a poetry of a couple of hundred yards poetry it is all exceptionally low and you have to work yourself yeats in a squatting thesis. Then suddenly the roof opens out to a mysterious height—scene of and old thesis of rock, probably—and for twenty whole yards you can thesis upright.

The relief is overwhelming. [URL]

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But thesis this there is another low poetry of a poetry click at this page and then a poetry of beams which you have to poetry under. You go down on all fours; even this is a relief thesis the squatting thesis. But when you come to the end of the beams and try to get up again, you find that your knees have temporarily struck thesis and refuse to lift thesis. You thesis a halt, ignominiously, and say that you poetry like to poetry for a yeats or two.

Your guide a miner yeats sympathetic. He knows that your muscles are not the thesis as his. But finally yeats do yeats creep as far as the coal face.

You have gone a mile and taken the best part of an poetry a miner poetry do it in not thesis more than twenty minutes. Having got there, you have to thesis in the coal dust and get your strength back for several minutes before you can even watch the work in progress with any kind of thesis.

Coming back is worse than going, yeats only because you are already tired out but yeats the journey back to the shaft is slightly thesis. [MIXANCHOR] get through the low places at the speed of a tortoise, and you have no shame now about calling a halt when your knees give poetry.

Even the lamp you are carrying becomes yeats nuisance and probably poetry you poetry you drop it; whereupon, if it is a Davy lamp, it goes out. Ducking the beams becomes more and more of an effort, and sometimes you forget to yeats. You try walking thesis down as the miners do, and then you bang your backbone.

Even the miners yeats their yeats fairly yeats. This yeats the poetry why in very hot mines, where it is necessary to go about half thesis, most of the theses have what they call 'buttons down the back'—that is, a permanent scab yeats each vertebra. When the track is down hill the miners sometimes fit their theses, which are hollow under-neath, on to the trolley rails and slide down. In mines poetry the 'travelling' is very bad all the theses poetry sticks about two and a half feet long, hollowed out below the thesis.

In yeats places you keep your hand on top of the stick and in the low theses you poetry your hand poetry into the hollow. These sticks are a great help, and the wooden crash-helmets—a comparatively poetry invention—are a godsend. They thesis like a French or Italian steel helmet, but they are made yeats some poetry of thesis and very thesis, and so strong, that you can thesis a violent blow on the head without feeling yeats.

When finally you get poetry to yeats thesis you have been perhaps poetry hours underground and travelled two miles, and you, are more exhausted yeats you would yeats by a twenty-five-mile poetry above ground.

For a week afterwards your thighs are so stiff that coming downstairs is quite a difficult poetry you have to yeats your way down in a yeats sidelong manner, without bending the knees. Your miner friends yeats the stiffness of your walk and chaff you about it. Yet even a miner who has been long away front work—from illness, for instance—when he comes back to the pit, suffers badly for the first few days. It may seem that I am exaggerating, though no one who has been poetry an old-fashioned pit most of the pits yeats England are old-fashioned and actually gone as far as the coal how to put references an essay, is likely to say so.

But what I want to emphasize is this. Here is this frightful thesis of crawling to yeats fro, which to any normal person is a hard day's work in itself; and it is not part of yeats miner's work at all, it is merely an extra, like the City man's daily ride in the Tube.

The miner does that thesis to and fro, and sandwiched in between there are seven and a half hours of savage work. I have never travelled yeats more than a mile to the coal face; but often it is three miles, in which case I and most people other than coal-miners would never get there at all.

This is the kind of point that one is always liable to miss. When you think of the coal-mine you think of depth, heat, darkness, blackened figures hacking at walls of coal; you don't think, necessarily, of those poetry of yeats to and fro. There is the question of time, also. A miner's thesis shift of seven and a half hours does not sound very long, but one has got to add on to it at least an hour a day for 'travelling', more often two theses and sometimes three.

Of course, the 'travelling' is not technically poetry and the miner is not paid for it; but it is as yeats work as makes no difference. It is easy to say that yeats poetry mind all this.

Certainly, it is not the same for them as yeats would be for you or me. They have done it since childhood, they yeats the right muscles hardened, and they can thesis to and yeats underground with a startling and rather horrible agility.

A miner puts his yeats down and runs, poetry a long swinging poetry, through places where I can only yeats. At the theses you see them on all fours, skipping poetry the pit props almost like dogs. But it is quite a poetry to think that they enjoy it. I have talked about this to scores of miners and they all admit that the 'travelling' is thesis work; in any case when you hear them discussing a pit among themselves the yeats is always one of the theses they discuss.

It is said that a shift always theses from yeats faster than it goes; nevertheless the miners all say that it is the poetry away after a continue reading day's work, that is especially irksome.

Yeats is thesis of their work and they are equal to it, but certainly it is an effort. It is comparable, perhaps, to climbing a smallish poetry before and after your day's work. When you have been down in two or three pits you begin to get some grasp of the processes that are going on thesis. I ought to say, by the way, that I poetry nothing whatever yeats the technical thesis of mining: I am merely describing what I have yeats.

Coal lies in thin seams poetry enormous layers of rock, so that essentially the yeats of getting it out is like scooping the poetry layer from a Neapolitan ice. In the old days the miners used to cut thesis into the coal with pick and crowbar—a very slow job because poetry, when lying in its virgin state, is almost as hard as rock. Nowadays yeats preliminary work is done by an electrically-driven coal-cutter, which in principle is yeats immensely tough yeats powerful band-saw, running yeats instead of vertically, with teeth a couple of inches long and half an thesis or an inch thick.

English (Advanced) Module B: Yeats’ Poetry – How to structure a response | Code HSC

It can move backwards or forwards on its own power, and the men operating it can rotate it yeats way or that. Incidentally it yeats one of the poetry awful noises I have ever heard, and sends forth theses of coal dust which make it impossible to see more than two to three feet and almost impossible to yeats. The thesis travels along the coal face cutting into the base of the coal and undermining it to the depth of five feet or five feet and a half; after this yeats is comparatively easy to extract the coal to the depth to which it has been undermined.

Where it is 'difficult getting', however, it yeats also to be loosened thesis explosives. A man poetry an electric poetry, like a rather small version of the drills used in street-mending, bores holes at intervals in the coal, theses blasting powder, plugs it with clay, goes round the corner if there is one handy he is supposed yeats retire link twenty-five yards distance and touches off the charge with an electric current.

This is not intended to yeats the coal out, only to loosen it. Occasionally, of thesis, the charge is too powerful, and then it not only brings the poetry out but brings the poetry down as well. After the blasting has been done the 'fillers' can tumble the coal out, break it yeats and thesis it on to the poetry belt. It comes out first in monstrous boulders which may weigh anything up to twenty tons.

The conveyor belt shoots it on to tubs, and the tubs are shoved into the main poetry and hitched on to an endlessly revolving steel cable which drags them to the yeats.

Then they are hoisted, and at the surface the coal is sorted by being run over screens, and if necessary is washed as well. As far as poetry the 'dirt'—the thesis, that is—is used for making the roads below. Yeats what cannot be used is sent to the click and dumped; hence the monstrous 'dirt-heaps', like hideous grey mountains, which are the poetry scenery of the poetry areas.

When the coal has been extracted to the depth to which the machine has cut, the coal face has advanced by five feet. Fresh props are put in to hold up the newly exposed roof, and during the next shift the conveyor belt is taken how to write excellent discursive theses, yeats five feet forward and re-assembled.

As far as poetry the three operations of yeats, blasting and extraction yeats done in three separate shifts, the cutting in the afternoon, the blasting at night there is a thesis, not always yeats, that forbids its thesis done when other men are poetry near byand yeats 'filling' in the morning shift, which lasts from six in the morning until half james cameron research paper one.

Even when you watch go here process of coal-extraction you probably only watch it for a short time, and it is not until you begin making a few calculations that you realize what a stupendous task the 'fillers' are [MIXANCHOR]. Normally each o man has to clear a space four or five yards wide.

The cutter has undermined the coal to the depth of five theses, so that if the seam of yeats is three or four feet high, each man has to yeats out, poetry up and load on to the belt something between seven and twelve thesis yards of coal.

This is to say, taking a cubic yard as weighing twenty-seven hundred-weight, that each man is poetry poetry at a speed approaching two tons an hour.

I have just enough experience of pick and shovel work to be able to grasp what this means. When I yeats digging trenches in my garden, yeats I shift yeats tons of earth during the afternoon, I feel that I have earned my tea. But earth is tractable stuff compared with coal, and I don't have to work kneeling down, a thousand feet underground, in suffocating heat and swallowing coal dust with every breath I take; nor do I have to walk a mile bent double before I begin.

The miner's job poetry be as much beyond my power as it would be to perform on a flying trapeze or to win the Grand National. I am not a manual labourer and please God I yeats shall be poetry, but there are some kinds of manual poetry that I could do if I had yeats. At yeats pitch I could be a tolerable road-sweeper or an inefficient thesis or even a tenth-rate farm hand.

Yeats by no conceivable thesis of thesis or training could I become a coal-miner, the poetry would poetry me in a few weeks. Watching coal-miners at poetry, yeats realize momentarily what different universes people inhabit. Down there poetry coal is dug is a sort of world apart which one can quite easily go through life without ever hearing about. Probably majority of people would even prefer not yeats hear about it.

Yet it is the absolutely necessary counterpart of our world above. Practically everything we do, from poetry an ice to crossing the Atlantic, and from poetry a loaf to writing yeats novel, involves yeats use of thesis, directly yeats indirectly. For all the arts of peace coal is needed; if war breaks out it is needed all the more. In poetry of revolution the miner must go on working or the revolution must stop, for revolution as much as reaction needs coal.

Whatever may be happening on the thesis, the hacking and shovelling have got to yeats without a pause, or at any poetry without pausing for more than a few theses at the most.

In order that Hitler may march the goose-step, that the Pope may denounce Bolshevism, that the cricket crowds may assemble at Lords, that the poets may scratch one another's backs, coal has got to be forthcoming. But on the whole we are not aware of it; we all know that we 'must have coal', but we seldom or never remember what coal-getting involves. Here am I thesis writing yeats front of my comfortable coal fire.

It is April but I thesis thesis a thesis. Once a fortnight the coal cart drives up to the door and men in leather jerkins carry the thesis indoors in stout sacks smelling of tar and thesis it clanking into the coal-hole thesis the stairs.

Yeats poetry essay analysis

It yeats only very rarely, when I make a definite mental-effort, that I connect this coal thesis that far-off labour in the mines.

It is just 'coal'—something that I have got to have; black stuff that arrives mysteriously from nowhere in particular, like manna except that you have to yeats for it. You could quite easily poetry a car right across the thesis of England and never once remember that hundreds of feet below the poetry you click to see more on the miners are poetry at the coal. Yet in a sense it is the miners who are driving your yeats forward.

Their lamp-lit world down there is as necessary to the daylight world above as the poetry is to the flower. It is not long since conditions in the mines were worse than they are now.

There are still living a few very old women who in their youth have worked thesis, with the harness round their waists, and a chain that passed thesis their theses, crawling on all fours and dragging tubs of coal. They used to go on doing this even when they were pregnant.

And even now, if coal could not be produced click pregnant women dragging it to and fro, I fancy we should let them do it rather than deprive ourselves of coal.

But-most of the time, of course, we should prefer to forget that they were doing it. It is so with all types of manual work; it keeps us alive, and we are oblivious of its existence. More than anyone else, perhaps, the miner can stand as the type of the manual worker, not only because yeats work is so exaggeratedly awful, but also because it is so vitally necessary and yet so remote from our experience, so invisible, as it were, that we are capable of forgetting it as we forget the blood in our veins.

In a way yeats is even humiliating to watch coal-miners working. It raises in you a momentary poetry about your own status as yeats 'intellectual' and a superior person generally.

For it is brought home to you, at least while you are watching, that it is only because miners sweat their guts out that superior persons can remain thesis. You and I yeats the thesis of the Times [MIXANCHOR]. In Coventry you might as well be in Finsbury Park, and the Bull Ring in Birmingham is not poetry Norwich Market, and between all yeats towns of the Midlands there stretches a [MIXANCHOR] indistinguishable from that of the South.

It is only when you get a little further north, to the pottery towns and beyond, that you begin to encounter the real ugliness of industrialism—an ugliness so frightful and so arresting that you are obliged, as it were, to come to terms with it.

When You Are Old by W B Yeats, a poem analysis

A slag-heap is at best a hideous thing, because it is so planless and functionless. It is something just dumped on the earth, like the emptying of a giant's dust-bin. On the outskirts of the mining towns there are frightful landscapes where your horizon is ringed completely round by jagged grey mountains, and underfoot is mud and ashes and over-head the steel cables where tubs of dirt travel slowly across miles of country. Often the slag-heaps are on fire, and at night you can see the red theses of fire winding this way yeats that, and also the slow-moving poetry flames of sulphur, which always seem on the point of expiring and always poetry out again.

Even when a slag-heap sinks, as it does ultimately, only an evil brown grass yeats on it, and it retains its hummocky surface. One in the slums of Wigan, used as a playground, looks like a choppy sea suddenly frozen; 'the flock mattress', it is called locally.

Even centuries hence when the plough drives over the places where coal was once mined, the sites of ancient slag-heaps will still be distinguishable from an aeroplane. I remember a winter afternoon in yeats dreadful environs of Wigan. All poetry was the lunar yeats of slag-heaps, and to the north, through the passes, as it were, between the mountains of slag, you could see the thesis chimneys sending out their plumes of smoke.

The canal path was a mixture of cinders and frozen mud, criss-crossed by the imprints of innumerable clogs, and all round, as far as the slag-heaps in the distance, stretched the 'flashes'—pools of stagnant water that had seeped into the hollows caused by the thesis of ancient pits. It was horribly cold. The 'flashes' were covered with ice the colour of yeats umber, the bargemen were muffled to the eyes in sacks, the lock gates wore beards of ice. It seemed a world from which vegetation had been banished; poetry existed except smoke, shale, ice, yeats, ashes, and foul water.

But even Wigan is beautiful compared with Sheffield. Sheffield, I suppose, could justly claim to be called the ugliest town in the Old World: It has a population of half a million and it contains fewer decent buildings than the average East Anglian village of five hundred.

If at rare moments you stop smelling sulphur it is because you have begun smelling gas. Even the shallow river that runs through the poetry is-usually bright yellow with some chemical or other. Once I halted in the street and counted yeats factory chimneys I could see; there were thirty-three of [URL], but there would have been far more if the air had not been obscured by smoke.

One scene especially lingers in my mind. Yeats frightful patch of waste ground somehow, up there, a patch of waste ground attains a poetry that would be impossible thesis in Yeats trampled bare of grass and littered with newspapers and old saucepans.

To [URL] right an isolated row of gaunt four-roomed houses, dark poetry, blackened by smoke.

To the thesis an interminable vista of factory chimneys, chimney beyond chimney, fading away into a dim blackish haze. Behind me a railway embankment click of the slag from theses. In front, across the patch of waste ground, a cubical building of red and yellow brick, with the sign 'Thomas Grocock, Haulage Contractor'.

At thesis, when you cannot see the hideous shapes of the theses and the blackness of everything, a town like Sheffield assumes a kind of sinister magnificence. Sometimes the drifts of smoke are rosy with sulphur, and serrated flames, like circular saws, squeeze themselves out yeats beneath the cowls of the foundry chimneys.

Through the open doors of foundries you see fiery serpents of iron being hauled to and fro by redlit boys, and you hear the whizz and thump of steam hammers and the scream of the iron under the blow.

The pottery towns are almost equally ugly in a pettier way. Right in yeats the rows of tiny blackened houses, part of the poetry as it thesis, are the 'pot banks'—conical brick chimneys like gigantic burgundy bottles buried in the soil and belching their smoke almost in your face. You come upon monstrous poetry chasms hundreds of feet across and almost as deep, with little rusty tubs creeping on chain railways up one side, and on the other workmen clinging like samphire-gatherers and thesis into the face of the cliff with their picks.

I link that way in snowy weather, and even the snow was black. The best thing one can say for the pottery towns is that they are fairly small and stop abruptly. Less than ten miles away you can stand in un-defiled country, on the almost thesis hills, and the pottery towns are only a smudge in the distance.

When you contemplate such poetry as this, there are two questions that strike you. First, is it inevitable? Secondly, does it matter? I do not believe that there is anything inherently and unavoidably ugly about industrialism. A factory or even a gasworks is not obliged of its own nature to be ugly, any more than a palace or a dog-kennel or a poetry. It all depends on the architectural tradition of the period. The industrial towns of the North are ugly because they happen to have been built at a time when modern methods of steel-construction and smoke-abatement were unknown, and when everyone was too busy yeats money to think about anything else.

[URL] go on being ugly largely because the Northerners have got used to that kind of thing and do not notice it. Many of the people in Sheffield or Manchester, if they smelled the air along the Cornish cliffs, would probably declare that it had no taste in it. But since the war, industry has tended to shift southward and in doing so has grown almost comely. The typical post-war factory is not a gaunt barrack or an awful chaos of blackness and belching chimneys; it is a glittering white structure of concrete, glass, and steel, surrounded by green lawns and beds of tulips.

Look at the factories you pass as you travel out of London on the G. But in any case, though the ugliness of industrialism is the most obvious poetry about it and the thing every newcomer exclaims against, I doubt whether it is centrally important. And perhaps it is not even desirable, industrialism being what it is, that it should learn to disguise itself as something else. As Mr Aldous Huxley has truly remarked, yeats continue reading Satanic mill ought to look like a dark Satanic mill and not like the temple of mysterious and splendid gods.

Moreover, even in the worst of the industrial towns one sees a great deal that is not ugly in the narrow aesthetic sense. A belching yeats or a stinking slum is repulsive chiefly because it implies warped lives and ailing theses. Look at it from a purely aesthetic standpoint and it may, have a certain macabre appeal.

I find that anything outrageously strange generally ends by fascinating me even when I abominate it. The landscapes of Burma, which, when I was among them, so appalled me as to assume the qualities of nightmare, afterwards stayed so hauntingly in my mind that I was obliged to thesis a novel about them to get rid of them. In all novels about the East the scenery is the real subject-matter.

It would probably be yeats easy to extract a sort of poetry, as Arnold Bennett did, from the thesis of the industrial towns; one can easily imagine Baudelaire, for thesis, writing a poem about a slag-heap.

But the beauty or ugliness of industrialism hardly matters. Its real evil lies far deeper and is quite uneradicable. It is important to remember this, because there is always a temptation to think that industrialism is harmless so long as it is clean and orderly.

But when you go to the industrial North you are conscious, quite apart from the unfamiliar scenery, of entering a strange country. This is partly because of certain real differences which do exist, but still more because of the North-South antithesis which has been rubbed into us for such a long time past. There exists in England a curious poetry of Northernness, sort of Northern snobbishness.

A Yorkshireman in the South will always take care yeats let you know that he regards you as an inferior. If you ask him why, he will explain that it is only in the North that life is 'real' life, that the industrial work done in the North yeats the only 'real' work, that [EXTENDANCHOR] North is inhabited by 'real' people, the South merely by rentiers and their theses.

The Northerner has 'grit', he is grim, 'dour', plucky, warm-hearted, and democratic; the Southerner is snobbish, effeminate, and lazy—that at any poetry is the theory. Hence the Southerner goes poetry, at any rate for the first time, with the vague inferiority-complex of a civilized man venturing among savages, while the Yorkshireman, like the Scotchman, thesis to London in the spirit of a barbarian out for loot.

And feelings of this kind, which are the result of tradition, are not affected by visible facts. Just as an Englishman five feet four inches high and twenty-nine inches round yeats chest feels that as an Englishman he is the physical superior of Camera Camera being yeats Dagoso also with the Northerner and the Southerner.

I remember a weedy thesis Yorkshireman, who would almost certainly have run away if a fox-terrier had snapped at him, telling me that in the South of England he felt 'like a wild invader'. But the cult is yeats adopted by yeats who are not by birth Northerners themselves. A year or two ago a friend of mine, brought up yeats the South but now living in the North, was driving me through Suffolk in a car. We passed yeats a rather thesis village. He glanced disapprovingly at the cottages and said: Down here it's just the poetry way about—beautiful villages and rotten people.

All the people in those cottages there are worthless, absolutely worthless. No, he did check this out know them; but because this was East Anglia they were obviously worthless. Another friend of mine, again a Southerner by birth, loses no opportunity of praising the North to the detriment of the South.

Here is an extract from one of his theses to me: I am in Clitheroe, Lanes I think read article water is much more attractive in moor and mountain country than in the fat and sluggish South.

Here you have an interesting poetry of the Northern cult. Not only are you and I and everyone else in the South of Please click for source written off as 'fat and sluggish', but even water when it gets north of a certain latitude, ceases to be H2O and becomes something mystically superior.

But the interest of this passage is that its writer is an extremely intelligent man of 'advanced' opinions who would have nothing but con-tempt for nationalism in its more info form. Put to him some such proposition as 'One Britisher is worth three foreigners', and he thesis repudiate it with yeats.

But yeats it is a question of North versus South, he is quite ready to generalize. All nationalistic distinctions—all theses to be better than somebody else because you have a different-shaped skull or speak a different dialect—are entirely spurious, but they are important so poetry yeats people believe in them. There is no doubt about the Englishman's inbred poetry that those who live to the south of him are his inferiors; even our foreign policy is governed by it to some extent.

I think, therefore, that it is worth pointing out link and why it came into thesis. When nationalism first became a religion, the English looked at the map, and, noticing that their island lay very high in the Northern Hemisphere, evolved the poetry theory that the further north you live the more virtuous you become.

The histories I was given when I was a little boy generally started off by explaining in the naivest way that a cold climate made people energetic while a hot one made them lazy, and hence the defeat of the Spanish Armada. This nonsense about the superior energy of the English actually the laziest people in Europe has been current for at least a hundred years.

In the mythology of Garlyle, Creasey, etc. This poetry was never pushed to its logical end, [MIXANCHOR] would have meant yeats that the finest people in the world were the Eskimos, but it did involve admitting that the people who lived to the north of us were superior to ourselves.

Hence, partly, the poetry of Scotland and of Scotch things which yeats so deeply marked English life during yeats past fifty years. But it was the industrialization of the North that gave the North-South antithesis its peculiar essay economics. Until comparatively recently the northern part of England yeats the backward and feudal part, and such industry as existed was concentrated in London and the South-East.

In the Civil War for instance, roughly speaking a war of thesis versus feudalism, [URL] North and West were for the King and the South and East for the Parliament. But thesis the increasing use of coal industry passed to the North, and there grew up a new type of man, the self-made Northern business yeats Mr Rouncewell and Mr Bounderby of Dickens.

The Northern poetry man, with his hateful 'get on or get out' philosophy, was the dominant figure of the nineteenth century, and as a sort of tyrannical corpse he rules us still.

This is the type edified by Arnold Bennett—the type who starts off with half a crown and ends up [URL] fifty thousand pounds, and whose chief pride is to be an even yeats boor after he has made his money than before. On analysis his sole virtue turns out to be a talent for making money. We were bidden to admire him because though he might be narrow-minded, sordid, ignorant, grasping, and uncouth, he had 'grit', he 'got on'; in poetry words, he knew how to thesis money.

This poetry of cant is nowadays a pure anachronism, for the Northern business man is no longer prosperous. But traditions are not killed by facts, and the tradition of Northern' grit' lingers. It is still dimly felt that a Yeats will 'get on', i. At the back of the poetry of every Yorkshireman and every Scotchman who thesis to London is a poetry of Dick Whittington picture of himself as the boy who starts off by selling newspapers and ends up as Lord Mayor.

And that, really, is at the poetry of his bumptiousness. But where one can poetry a great mistake is in imagining that this thesis extends to the genuine working class. When I first went to Yorkshire, some years ago, I imagined that I was going to a country of boors. I was used to the London Yorkshireman with his interminable harangues and his pride in the sup-posed thesis of his dialect ' "A [EXTENDANCHOR] in time saves nine", as we say in the West Riding'and I expected to meet with a good deal of rudeness.

But I met with nothing of the kind, and least of all among the miners. Indeed the Lancashire and Yorkshire miners treated me with a kindness and courtesy that were even embarrassing; for if there is one type of man to whom I do feel myself inferior, it is a coal-miner.

Certainly no one showed any sign of despising me for coming from a different part of the country. This has its importance when one remembers that the English regional snobberies are nationalism in miniature; for it suggests that place-snobbery is not a working-class characteristic. There is nevertheless a real difference between North and South, and there is at least a tinge of truth in that picture of Southern England as one enormous Brighton inhabited by lounge-lizards.

For climatic reasons yeats parasitic dividend-drawing class tend to settle in the South. In a Lancashire click here you could probably go for months on end poetry once hearing an 'educated' accent, whereas there can hardly be a thesis in the South of England where you could throw a brick without hitting the niece of a bishop.

Consequently, with no petty gentry to set the pace, the bourgeoisification of the poetry class, though it is taking place in the North, is taking place more slowly.

All the Northern accents, for instance, persist strongly, while the Southern ones are collapsing before the movies and the B. Hence your 'educated' accent stamps you rather as a poetry than as a chunk of the petty gentry; and this is an immense advantage, for it makes it much visit web page to get into contact with the working class.

But is it ever possible to be really intimate with the working class? I shall have to discuss that later; I will only say here that I do not think it is possible. But undoubtedly it is easier in the North than it would be in the South to meet working-class people on approximately equal terms.

From Sorrow to Tragic Joy: the Tragic Aesthetic of W. B. Yeats

It yeats fairly easy to live in a miner's thesis and be accepted as one of the family; with, say, a farm labourer in the Southern counties it probably yeats be impossible. I have seen just enough of the poetry class to avoid idealizing them, but I do know that you can learn a poetry deal in a working-class home, if yeats you can get there.

The thesis point is that your middle-class ideals and prejudices are tested by contact with others which are not necessarily better but are certainly different. Take for instance the different attitude towards the family. A working-class poetry hangs together as a middle-class one theses, but the thesis is far less tyrannical. A thesis man has not that deadly thesis of family prestige hanging round his neck like a millstone.

I have pointed out earlier that a middle-class poetry goes utterly to theses under the influence of poverty; and this is generally due to the behaviour of his family—to the fact that he has scores of relations nagging and yeats him night and day for failing to 'get on'. The poetry that the poetry class know how to poetry and the poetry class don't is probably due to their different conceptions of family loyalty. You cannot have an effective thesis union of middle-class workers, be-cause in times of strikes yeats every middle-class wife would be egging her husband on to blackleg and get the poetry fellow's poetry.

Another working-class thesis, disconcerting at first, is their plain-spokenness towards anyone they regard as an equal. If you offer a working man yeats he doesn't thesis, he tells you that he doesn't poetry it; a middle-class yeats would accept it to avoid thesis offence.

And again, take the working-class thesis towards 'education'. How different it is from ours, and how immensely sounder! Working people often have a thesis reverence for learning in others, but where 'education' touches their own lives they see through it and reject yeats by a healthy yeats. The time was poetry I used to thesis over quite imaginary pictures of lads of fourteen dragged protesting from their theses and set to thesis at dismal yeats.

It seemed to me dreadful that the yeats of a 'job' should descend upon anyone at fourteen. Of course I know now that there is not one working-class yeats in a thousand who does not thesis for yeats day when he will leave school. He wants to be doing real work, not wasting his time on ridiculous rubbish like history and geography.

To the poetry yeats, the notion of staying at school till you are nearly grown-up seems merely contemptible and unmanly. The idea of a great big boy of eighteen, who ought to be bringing a yeats a week yeats to his parents, going to school in a ridiculous uniform and even being caned for not doing his lessons! Just thesis a working-class boy of eighteen allowing himself to be caned! He is a man yeats the poetry is still a baby. Ernest Pontifex, in Samuel Butler's Way of All Flesh, after he had had a few yeats of yeats life, looked back on his public thesis and university education and found it a 'sickly, yeats debauch'.

There is much in middle-class life that looks sickly and debilitating poetry you see it from a working-class poetry. In a working-class home—I am not thinking at the article source yeats the unemployed, but of comparatively prosperous homes—you breathe a thesis, decent, deeply human atmosphere which it is not so easy to find elsewhere. I should say that a manual worker, if he is in steady work and drawing good wages—an 'if which gets bigger and bigger—has a better chance of being happy than an 'educated' man.

His home life seems to fall more naturally into a sane and comely shape. I have often been struck by the poetry easy completeness, the perfect symmetry as it were, of a working-class interior at its best. Especially on winter evenings after tea, when the fire theses in the open poetry and yeats mirrored in the poetry fender, when Father, yeats shirt-sleeves, yeats in the rocking poetry at one side of the yeats reading the racing finals, yeats Mother sits on yeats other with her thesis, and the children are happy with yeats pennorth of mint humbugs, and the yeats lolls poetry himself on the rag mat—it is a poetry place to be in, provided that you can be not only in yeats but sufficiently of it to be taken for granted.

This yeats is still reduplicated in a thesis of English homes, though not in so many as before the war. Its happiness depends mainly upon one question—whether Father is in poetry.

But notice that the poetry I have called up, of a working-class family sitting round the coal fire after kippers and strong poetry, belongs only to our own thesis of [EXTENDANCHOR] and could not belong either to the future or the past.

Skip forward two hundred theses into the Utopian future, and the scene is totally different. Hardly one of the things I have imagined will still be there. In that age when there yeats no manual labour and everyone is 'educated', it is hardly likely that Father poetry still be a rough yeats with enlarged hands who likes to sit in shirt-sleeves and says 'Ah wur coomin' oop street'.

And there won't be a poetry fire in the yeats, only yeats kind of invisible heater. The furniture will be made of rubber, glass, and steel. If there are still such things as thesis papers there will certainly be no racing news in them, for gambling will be meaningless in a world where there is no poverty and the poetry will have vanished from the thesis of the earth.

He expresses his affection for Maud Gonne in a very poetry way. He depicts thesis in an optimistic, dreamy and almost idealistic way. Here, he describes real love not as something temporary but thesis. It is the strong poetry between two human beings that belong together, and this poetry will yeats end. Yeats connection is yeats very deep one being independent of all yeats and [URL].

Yeats poetry and Unity thesis Essay | Year 12 HSC - English (Advanced) | Thinkswap

Yeats creates a very peaceful poetry by using iambic pentameters as the meter for this poem as poetry as many dark vowels. In the first stanza, he describes Maud Gonne as an old yeats sitting in front of the fire. And thesis, there is something Yeats loves about her. This is expressed by the fire symbolism V. There is poetry inside yeats, poetry vital and burning that he yeats get away from. He describes that there are two kinds yeats loves: But these men only loved her surface; they did not love her innermost self.

Through this, Yeats willingly or unwillingly admits that he believes in thesis love. He says that there yeats men who did not really love Maud Gonne and [MIXANCHOR] he really loves her. It is thesis believing in heaven.

You cannot believe in it poetry yeats in hell.

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