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Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. The Dolly Ballads was originally published in , written by Robert Blanchford for his daughter, Dolly. These ballads have been decorated with the charming and humourous illustrations of Fran The Dolly Ballads was originally published in , written by Robert Blanchford for his daughter, Dolly. These ballads have been decorated with the charming and humourous illustrations of Frank Chesworth. Pook Press celebrates the Golden Age of Illustration as is reprinting this classic book in the hope that it will be enjoyed once again by adults and children alike.
Get A Copy. Published April 16th by Pook Press first published More Details Other Editions 3. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Here's a strange one - this is a mindmelting gorgeous illustrated kids book from and let me just brag here that I have an original edition, yes sir, yes ma'am, bought for a song in an old bookshop many years ago.
The catch here is that these ballads are told by the child to the parent in a fairly teeth-on-edge cutesey way, but it really works. Besides, one's fellow-creatures are so amusing: especially in the Strand. I had seen a proud and gorgeously upholstered lady lolling languidly in a motor car, and looking extremely pleased with herself—not without reason; and I had met two successful men of great presence, who reminded me somehow of Porkin and Snob ; and I had noticed a droll little bundle of a baby, in a fawn-coloured woollen suit, with a belt slipped almost to her knees, and sweet round eyes as purple as pansies, who was hunting a rolling apple amongst the wild mob's million feet ; and I had seen a worried-looking matron, frantically waving her umbrella to the driver of an omnibus, endanger the silk hat of Porkin and disturb the complacency of Snob; and I felt glad.
It was at that moment that there popped into my head the full style and title I had earned. For a moment they almost flattered me into the belief that I had become a member of the higher criminal classes: a bold bad man, like Guy Fawkes, or Kruger, or R. Cuninghame Graham. You ought, I said to myself, to dress the part. You ought to have an S. But at the instant I caught a sight of my counterfeit presentment in a shop window, and veiled my haughty crest. That a notorious Infidel! Behold a dumpy, comfortable British paterfamilias in a light flannel suit and a faded sun hat.
No; it will not do. Not a bit like Mephisto: much more like the Miller of the Dee. Indeed, I am not an irreligious man, really; I am rather a religious man; and this is not an irreligious, but rather a religious, book. Such thoughts should make men humble. After all, may not even John Burns be human; may not Mr. Chamberlain himself have a heart that can feel for another? Gentle reader, that was a wise as well as a charitable man who taught us there is honour among thieves; although, having never been a member of Parliament himself, he must have spoken from hearsay.
For all that, Robert, you're a notorious Infidel. I paused—just opposite the Tivoli—and gazed moodily up and down the Strand.
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As I have remarked elsewhere, I like the Strand. It is a very human place. But I own that the Strand lacks dignity and beauty, and that amongst its varied odours the odour of sanctity is scarce perceptible. There are no trees in the Strand. The thoroughfare should be wider. The architecture is, for the most part, banal. For a chief street in a Christian capital, the Strand is not eloquent of high national ideals. There are derelict churches in the Strand, and dingy blatant taverns, and strident signs and hoardings; and there are slums hard by. There are thieves in the Strand, and prowling vagrants, and gaunt hawkers, and touts, and gamblers, and loitering failures, with tragic eyes and wilted garments; and prostitutes plying for hire.
And east and west, and north and south of the Strand, there is London. Is there a man amongst all London's millions brave enough to tell the naked truth about the vice and crime, the misery and meanness, the hypocrisies and shames of the great, rich, heathen city? Were such a man to arise amongst us and voice the awful truth, what would his reception be? How would he fare at the hands of the Press, and the Public—and the Church? As London is, so is England. This is a Christian country.
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What would Christ think of Park Lane, and the slums, and the hooligans? What would He think of the Stock Exchange, and the music hall, and the racecourse? What would he think of our national ideals?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I say, "you are Christian in name, but I discern little of Christ in your ideals, your institutions, or your daily lives. You are a mercenary, self-indulgent, frivolous, boastful, blood-guilty mob of heathen. I like you very much, but that is what you are. And it is you— you who call men 'Infidels. If to praise Christ in words, and deny Him in deeds, be Christianity, then London is a Christian city, and England is a Christian nation.
For it is very evident that our common English ideals are anti-Christian, and that our commercial, foreign and social affairs are run on anti-Christian lines. Renan says, in his Life of Jesus , that were Jesus to return amongst us He would recognise as His disciples, not those who imagine they can compress Him into a few catechismal phrases, but those who labour to carry on His work.
My Christian friends, I am a Socialist, and as such believe in, and work for, universal freedom, and universal brotherhood, and universal peace. Wace's declaration as to the word Infidel. Said Dr. Wace: The word infidel, perhaps, carries an unpleasant significance. Be it pleasant or unpleasant to be an unbeliever, one thing is quite clear: religious people intend the word Infidel to carry an unpleasant significance when they apply to it one. For you, my Christian friend, have never seen God.
You have never heard God's voice. You have received from God no message in spoken or written words. You have no direct divine warrant for the divine authorship of the Scriptures.
Author:Robert Peel Glanville Blatchford
The authority on which your belief in the divine revelation rests consists entirely of the Scriptures themselves and the statements of the Church. But the Church is composed solely of human beings, and the Scriptures were written and translated and printed solely by human beings. You believe that the Ten Commandments were dictated to Moses by God.
But God has not told you so. You only believe the statement of the unknown author of the Pentateuch that God told him so. You do not know who Moses was. You do not know who wrote the Pentateuch. You do not know who edited and translated the Scriptures. Clearly, then, you accept the Scriptures upon the authority of unknown men, and upon no other demonstrable authority whatever. Clearly, then, to doubt the doctrine of the divine revelation of the Scriptures is not to doubt the word of God, but to doubt the words of men. But the Christian seems to suspect the Infidel of rejecting the Christian religion out of sheer wantonness, or from some base or sinister motive.
The Dolly Ballads by Blatchford - AbeBooks
The fact being that the Infidel can only believe those things which his own reason tells him are true. He opposes the popular religion because his reason tells him it is not true, and because his reason tells him insistently that a religion that is not true is not good, but bad. In thus obeying the dictates of his own reason, and in thus advocating what to him seems good and true, the Infidel is acting honourably, and is as well within his right as any Pope or Prelate.
That base or mercenary motives should be laid to the charge of the Infidel seems to me as absurd as that base or mercenary motives should be laid to the charge of the Socialist. The answer to such libels stares us in the face.