Hampton Court Quotes

Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.

Fun fact," Stevie said, trying to lighten the mood in the vast, gloomy space. "This fireplace? Henry the Eighth had one just like it, in Hampton Court. Albert Ellingham had an exact copy made." "Fun fact," Nate replied, "Henry the Eighth killed two of his wives. Who wants a murderer's fireplace?" "I'm not sure, but that's the name of my new game show.

Our house was a temple to The Book. We owned thousands, nay millions of books. They lined the walls, filled the cupboards, and turned the floor into a maze far more complex than Hampton Court’s. Books ruled out lives. They were our demi-gods.

Our house was a temple to The Book. We owned thousands, nay millions of books. They lined the walls, filled the cupboards, and turned the floor into a maze far more complex than Hampton Court's. Books ruled out lives. They were our demi-gods.

Well, if you insist. But, my dearest flower, how ghastly to consider that such a mustache must shadow the clean-shaven grandeur of my domicile.' Lord Akeldama was rumored to insist that all his drones go without the dreaded lip skirt. The vampire had once had the vapors upon encountering an unexpected mustache around a corner of his hallway. Muttonchops were permitted in moderation, and only because they were currently all the rage among the most fashionable of London's gentlemen-about-town. Even so, they must be as well tended as the topiary of Hampton Court.

So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness— Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together—there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!

We became six people at a table in Hampton Court. We rose and walked together down the avenue. In the thin, the unreal twilight, fitfully like the echo of voices laughing down some alley, geniality returned to me and flesh. Against the gateway, against some cedar tree I saw blaze bright, Neville, Jinny, Rhoda, Louis, Susan and myself, our life, our identity. Still King William seemed an unreal monarch and his crown mere tinsel. But we – against the brick, against the branches, we six, out of how many million millions, for one moment out of what measureless abundance of past time and time to come, burnt there triumphant. The moment was all; the moment was enough.

So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness: Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much the more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long-pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together; there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!

It will be seen that this mere painstaking burrower and grubworm of a poor devil of a Sub-Sub appears to have gone through the long Vaticans and street-stalls of the earth, picking up whatever random allusions to whales he could anyways find in any book whatsoever, sacred or profane. Therefore you must not, in every case at least, take the higgledy-piggledy whale statements, however authentic, in these extracts, for veritable gospel cetology. Far from it. As touching the ancient authors generally, as well as the poets here appearing, these extracts are solely valuable or entertaining, as affording a glancing bird's eye view of what has been promiscuously said, thought, fancied, and sung of Leviathan, by many nations and generations, including our own. So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness — Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much the more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long-pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together — there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!

The American presidential election is a drawn-out, byzantine process that involves precinct meetings, regional caucuses, state primaries and national conventions, all to give citizens the impression that their participation matters, for in the end, the lying buffoon who gets to stride into the White House has long been vetted and preselected by the banks, death merchants and brainwashing media that run our infernally corrupt and murderous country. It's foolish to expect a system to allow anyone who threatens it to the least degree to rise to the very top, for all those who benefit from this system will do all they can to snuff out such a pest each step of the way. He'd be lucky to get a job teaching freshmen English at the community college, and is as out of place in this bloody scheme as an Iowa beaver trapper at a Hamptons pool party. As for dissidents who get print space or airtime, they are but harmless, distracting foils or court jesters. Since voting cannot change the system but legitimizes it, voters become collaborators in all of the system's crimes, as well as their own destruction, for the system works against nearly all of them.

Literature, Art, and Fashion possess the power to transform the very essence of what we consider to be reality.

Literature & Fashion...food for the mind, a visual statement of the soul, a conversational platform for global transformation.

Scientific American had recorded the spectral testing of the Hampton Court portrait—with both X-ray and infrared light—back in 1937. These tests had been administered by a photographic expert named Charles Wisner Barrell, an early authorship-debate gadfly; yet when I contacted the Royal Collection I was informed that the picture’s conservation file was empty.

Searching for models in art as well as literature, he had roamed the picture galleries during his trip to London, visiting the Dulwich and Vernon collections, the newly established National Gallery, the royal collections at Hampton Court and Windsor Castle, and the vast private collection of Samuel Rogers. He had seen seascapes by Canaletto and Claude Lorrain, and was particularly drawn to those of J. M. W. Turner, in which he saw intimations of what, in Moby-Dick, he was to call the “howling infinite.

Henry VIII frequently took baths and had a new bathhouse constructed at Hampton Court for his personal use as well as a steam bath at Richmond palace. This new bath was made of wood but lined with a linen sheet to protect his posterior from catching splinters.

Gentlemen and gentlewomen kept chamber pots within their personal apartments at court. An excavated Tudor piss pot on display at Hampton Court still contains traces of genuine Tudor urine.

THE ADVANTAGE OF BOARDING the train at Hampton Court was that it was the end of the line, or the beginning, depending, of course, on which way you were traveling. There was a life lesson there, thought Iona. In her experience, most endings turned out to be beginnings in disguise.

In 1794 William Henry Ireland, a twenty-year-old Londoner, claimed to have discovered documents in the old trunk of a mysterious gentleman collector. The documents provided everything the literary world had longed for: a love letter from a young Shakespeare to Anne Hathaway, in which he had enclosed a lock of his hair; Shakespeare’s letters to and from Henry Wriothesley, the 3rd Earl of Southampton; Shakespeare’s haggling with a printer over the terms of publication of one of his plays (“ I do esteem much my play, having taken much care writing of it…. Therefore I cannot in the least lower my price”); a note from the Queen thanking Shakespeare for his “pretty verses” and inviting him to perform for her at Hampton Court; and, mercifully, Shakespeare’s Protestant “Profession of Faith,” putting an end to the dreadful possibility that the glory of the British nation might have been a secret Catholic. Ireland also “found” Shakespeare’s books inscribed with his name and marginal notes. And then, to top it all off, the greatest treasure of all: the original manuscript of King Lear in Shakespeare’s own hand, including a prefatory note from Shakespeare to his “gentle readers.” The literary world fell for the forgeries, hook, line, and sinker.

In 1543 the historian John Leland wrote, for example: A Stately place for rare and glorious shew There is, which Tamis with wandring stream doth dowse; Times past, by name of Avon men it knew: Here Henrie, the Eighth of that name, built a house So sumptuous, as that on such an one (Seeke through the world) the bright Sunne never shone. Leland’s words were quoted in the exhaustive history of Britain published by William Camden, Ben Jonson’s tutor. So the description would certainly have been known to Jonson. In another work, Leland explained that “Avon” was a shortening of the Celtic-Roman name “Avondunum,” meaning a fortified place (dunum) by a river (avon), which “the common people by corruption called Hampton.” Raphael Holinshed similarly wrote in his sprawling 1577 book of British history, Chronicles, that “we now pronounce Hampton for Avondune.” William Lambarde in his Topographical and Historical Dictionary of England affirmed that Hampton Court is “corruptly called Hampton for Avondun or Avon, an usual

Hampton Court maze!

Perhaps you may find work at court again.” “When the Queen is dead? Perhaps to be a servant in the household of a new Queen, watching to see how long she will last, what secrets I may accidentally hear that could get me into trouble? No, I will never go back to work there, whatever they pay ... They say at Whitehall Lady Rochford has gone mad in the Tower, screams and raves and can make no sensible answer. The poor Queen is held at Hampton Court, Jesu knows what state she is in. Still, a woman must smile and be cheerful, must she not?” She twisted her face into a parody of a girlish smile, then turned and ran from the room.

flagstones. She had to

Había el Fun Club. Fun es, como caut, y como hummour, una palabra especial intraducible. El fun es a la farsa lo que la pimienta a la sal. Penetrar en una casa y romper un espejo de valor, rasgar los retratos de familia, envenenar al perro o meter un gato en un palomar, se le llama "realizar un acto de fun". Dar una mala noticia falsa que obliga a las personas a ponerse de luto equivocadamente, es un fun. El fun es el que ha hecho un agujero cuadrado en un Holbein en Hampton-Court. El fun se sentiría orgulloso si hubiera sido él quien rompió los brazos de la Venus de Milo. Bajo Jacobo I, un joven Lord millonario, que una noche prendió fuego a una cabaña, hizo reir a carcajadas a Londres y fue proclamado "rey del fun". Los pobres diablos de la choza, habían escapado en camisa. Los miembros del Fun Club, todos de la más alta aristocracia, corrían por Londres a la hora en que los burgueses dormían, arrancaban los goznes de los postigos, cortaban las tuberías de las bombas, desfondaban las cisternas, descolgaban las insignias, devastaban los cultivos, apagaban los faroles, serraban las vigas maestras de las casa, rompían los cristales de las ventanas, sobre todo, en los barrios indigentes. Eran los ricos quienes hacían esto a los miserables. Por eso no era posible ninguna queja. Además, era pura comedia. Estas costumbres no han desaparecido completamente, En diversos puntos de Inglaterra o de las posesiones inglesas, en Guernesey, por ejemplo, de vez en cuando, devastan vuestra casa durante la noche, destrozan una verja, arrancan el aldabón de vuestra puerta, etcétera. Si fueran unos pobres se les mandaría a presidio pero son jovenes ricos.

Walmart bought twenty acres of land on Carolina Avenue, including most of the block where Randolph Sr. first built a home a century earlier. But before construction began, Walmart realized its error. Hampton was what legal advocacy groups call “a judicial hellhole,” a place where hometown jurors leveled $1 million judgments against big corporations in cases that would get a $100,000 judgment anywhere else in the state. If Walmart opened its doors in Hampton County, the Murdaughs would take them to court for every slip-and-fall in the state. Ultimately, Walmart canceled construction and gave the land to the town for free.

It was the summer of 1956, and Buster Murdaugh was getting desperate. For years, he had been leading a double life. Since his father had died in the train crash, Buster had served as both solicitor of the Fourteenth Circuit and senior partner in the growing Murdaugh law firm. On the side, though, he was running South Carolina’s biggest bootlegging ring. He barely tried to hide it. A dozen law enforcement officers had been on his payroll over the years, especially those who worked in Colleton County, just east of Hampton, which was rural enough to make it easier to hide thousands of stills. No one had dared to challenge the conspiracy until the Justice Department sent agents to ferret out the stills and then charged Buster and dozens of others. Now, as the trial approached, Buster knew he was in trouble, because the case would be heard in federal court, where the Murdaugh name had no sway.