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<rss xmlns:itunes="http://www.itunes.com/dtds/podcast-1.0.dtd" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:podcast="https://podcastindex.org/namespace/1.0" xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" version="2.0"><channel><title>Real Latin Quarter</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/real-latin-quarter--7092954</link><description><![CDATA["Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This show includes AI-generated content.]]></description><atom:link href="https://www.spreaker.com/show/7092954/episodes/feed" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><language>en</language><category>Books</category><copyright>Copyright Memoirs Genre</copyright><image><url>https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg</url><title>Real Latin Quarter</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/real-latin-quarter--7092954</link></image><lastBuildDate>Sat, 10 Oct 2026 09:32:13 +0000</lastBuildDate><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:owner><itunes:name>Memoirs Genre</itunes:name><itunes:email>spreaker65@podcastlibrary.org</itunes:email></itunes:owner><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:subtitle>"Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA["Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This show includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:category text="Arts"><itunes:category text="Books"/></itunes:category><itunes:category text="History"/><itunes:category text="Society &amp; Culture"/><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><podcast:guid>7c805a68-a29d-5aef-b2c1-6bb698950334</podcast:guid><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:type>episodic</itunes:type><item><title>Among the Head-hunters of Formosa-Janet B. Montgomery McGovern</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/among-the-head-hunters-of-formosa-janet-b-montgomery-mcgovern--75682689</link><description><![CDATA["Among the Head-hunters of Formosa" by Janet B. Montgomery McGovern invites listeners into the captivating world of the indigenous tribes of Taiwan, exploring their rich culture and traditions. This insightful work sheds light on the lives of the head-hunters of Formosa, offering a unique perspective on a society that has largely vanished in the modern era. The themes of cultural preservation and the clash between tradition and progress resonate strongly today, reminding us of the importance of understanding and respecting diverse ways of life. McGovern’s vivid storytelling and keen observations make this audiobook a timeless exploration of humanity’s complex tapestry, encouraging reflection on our own cultural identities.<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/75682689</guid><pubDate>Sat, 10 Oct 2026 09:03:23 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/75682689/among_the_head_hunters_of_formosa_janet_b_montgomery_mcgovern.mp3" length="116940321" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>"Among the Head-hunters of Formosa" by Janet B. Montgomery McGovern invites listeners into the captivating world of the indigenous tribes of Taiwan, exploring their rich culture and traditions. This insightful work sheds light on the lives of the...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA["Among the Head-hunters of Formosa" by Janet B. Montgomery McGovern invites listeners into the captivating world of the indigenous tribes of Taiwan, exploring their rich culture and traditions. This insightful work sheds light on the lives of the head-hunters of Formosa, offering a unique perspective on a society that has largely vanished in the modern era. The themes of cultural preservation and the clash between tradition and progress resonate strongly today, reminding us of the importance of understanding and respecting diverse ways of life. McGovern’s vivid storytelling and keen observations make this audiobook a timeless exploration of humanity’s complex tapestry, encouraging reflection on our own cultural identities.<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>14603</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Annual Report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, December 1827-Commissioner of Indian Affairs</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/annual-report-of-the-commissioner-of-indian-affairs-december-1827-commissioner-of-indian-affairs--75039487</link><description><![CDATA[The "Annual Report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, December 1827" provides a detailed account of the state of relations between the United States government and Native American tribes during a pivotal time in American history. This report highlights the policies, challenges, and administrative efforts aimed at managing Indian affairs, reflecting the complexities of governance and cultural interaction. Listening to this report today offers valuable insights into the historical context of Native American rights and the ongoing impact of these early policies.<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/75039487</guid><pubDate>Sat, 12 Sep 2026 09:03:21 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/75039487/annual_report_of_the_commissioner_of_indian_affairs_december_1827_commissioner_of_indian_affairs.mp3" length="81926440" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>The "Annual Report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, December 1827" provides a detailed account of the state of relations between the United States government and Native American tribes during a pivotal time in American history. This report...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[The "Annual Report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, December 1827" provides a detailed account of the state of relations between the United States government and Native American tribes during a pivotal time in American history. This report highlights the policies, challenges, and administrative efforts aimed at managing Indian affairs, reflecting the complexities of governance and cultural interaction. Listening to this report today offers valuable insights into the historical context of Native American rights and the ongoing impact of these early policies.<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>10230</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Chronicles of America Volume 09 - Colonial Folkways-Charles Morris</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/chronicles-of-america-volume-09-colonial-folkways-charles-morris--74401522</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74401522</guid><pubDate>Mon, 07 Sep 2026 09:01:15 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74401522/chronicles_of_america_volume_09_colonial_folkways_charles_morris.mp3" length="139623003" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>17436</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>On Building a Theatre-Irving Pichel</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/on-building-a-theatre-irving-pichel--74371471</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74371471</guid><pubDate>Sun, 06 Sep 2026 09:00:55 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74371471/on_building_a_theatre_irving_pichel.mp3" length="65322741" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>8157</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Inquiry into the Effects of Ardent Spirits upon the Human Body and Mind-Dr. Benjamin Rush</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/inquiry-into-the-effects-of-ardent-spirits-upon-the-human-body-and-mind-dr-benjamin-rush--74348426</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74348426</guid><pubDate>Sat, 05 Sep 2026 09:00:47 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74348426/inquiry_into_the_effects_of_ardent_spirits_upon_the_human_body_and_mind_dr_benjamin_rush.mp3" length="31024318" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>3874</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Spirit of the Age; Or, Contemporary Portraits-William Hazlitt</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/spirit-of-the-age-or-contemporary-portraits-william-hazlitt--74322558</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74322558</guid><pubDate>Fri, 04 Sep 2026 09:00:51 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74322558/spirit_of_the_age_or_contemporary_portraits_william_hazlitt.mp3" length="261805377" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>32693</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Mad Planet-Murray Leinster</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/mad-planet-murray-leinster--74300432</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74300432</guid><pubDate>Thu, 03 Sep 2026 09:00:52 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74300432/mad_planet_murray_leinster.mp3" length="79679460" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>9950</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Bay A Book of Poems-D. H. Lawrence</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/bay-a-book-of-poems-d-h-lawrence--74280690</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74280690</guid><pubDate>Wed, 02 Sep 2026 09:00:58 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74280690/bay_a_book_of_poems_d_h_lawrence.mp3" length="15069886" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>1882</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Great Explorers in Space (Ed Reads Short Sci-fi, vol. I)-Various</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/great-explorers-in-space-ed-reads-short-sci-fi-vol-i-various--74260491</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74260491</guid><pubDate>Tue, 01 Sep 2026 09:00:55 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74260491/great_explorers_in_space_ed_reads_short_sci_fi_vol_i_various.mp3" length="174124326" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>21744</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>The Tables of the Law; &amp; The Adoration of the Magi</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/the-tables-of-the-law-the-adoration-of-the-magi--74242806</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74242806</guid><pubDate>Mon, 31 Aug 2026 09:00:56 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74242806/the_tables_of_the_law_the_adoration_of_the_magi.mp3" length="20458489" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>2555</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Social Life in England 1750-1850-F. J. Foakes-Jackson</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/social-life-in-england-1750-1850-f-j-foakes-jackson--74226985</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74226985</guid><pubDate>Sun, 30 Aug 2026 09:00:51 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74226985/social_life_in_england_1750_1850_f_j_foakes_jackson.mp3" length="174802162" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>21829</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Shelley Selected Poems and Prose-Percy Bysshe Shelley</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/shelley-selected-poems-and-prose-percy-bysshe-shelley--74205072</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74205072</guid><pubDate>Sat, 29 Aug 2026 09:00:58 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74205072/shelley_selected_poems_and_prose_percy_bysshe_shelley.mp3" length="201931411" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>25216</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Catastrophe and Social Change, Based Upon a Sociological Study of the Halifax Disaster-Samuel Henry Prince</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/catastrophe-and-social-change-based-upon-a-sociological-study-of-the-halifax-disaster-samuel-henry-prince--74175784</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74175784</guid><pubDate>Fri, 28 Aug 2026 09:01:00 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74175784/catastrophe_and_social_change_based_upon_a_sociological_study_of_the_halifax_disaster_samuel_henry_prince.mp3" length="137560952" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>17178</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Criminal man according to the classification of Cesare Lombroso-Gina Lombroso</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/criminal-man-according-to-the-classification-of-cesare-lombroso-gina-lombroso--74147541</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74147541</guid><pubDate>Thu, 27 Aug 2026 09:00:52 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74147541/criminal_man_according_to_the_classification_of_cesare_lombroso_gina_lombroso.mp3" length="201484243" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>25161</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Essays on Work and Culture-Hamilton Wright Mabie</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/essays-on-work-and-culture-hamilton-wright-mabie--74092849</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74092849</guid><pubDate>Wed, 26 Aug 2026 09:01:07 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74092849/essays_on_work_and_culture_hamilton_wright_mabie.mp3" length="112949324" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>14105</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Reconciliation of Races and Religions-Thomas Kelly Cheyne</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/reconciliation-of-races-and-religions-thomas-kelly-cheyne--74069235</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74069235</guid><pubDate>Tue, 25 Aug 2026 09:00:52 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74069235/reconciliation_of_races_and_religions_thomas_kelly_cheyne.mp3" length="206786794" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>25822</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Chinese Sketches-Herbert Allen Giles</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/chinese-sketches-herbert-allen-giles--74044297</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74044297</guid><pubDate>Mon, 24 Aug 2026 09:02:22 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74044297/chinese_sketches_herbert_allen_giles.mp3" length="142669927" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>17816</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Salem Witchcraft, the Planchette Mystery, and Modern Spiritualism-Harriet Beecher Stowe, Samuel Robert Wells</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/salem-witchcraft-the-planchette-mystery-and-modern-spiritualism-harriet-beecher-stowe-samuel-robert-wells--74021894</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/74021894</guid><pubDate>Sun, 23 Aug 2026 09:02:17 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/74021894/salem_witchcraft_the_planchette_mystery_and_modern_spiritualism_harriet_beecher_stowe_samuel_robert_wells.mp3" length="156368722" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>19527</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>What the White Race May Learn from the Indian-George Wharton James</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/what-the-white-race-may-learn-from-the-indian-george-wharton-james--73998762</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73998762</guid><pubDate>Sat, 22 Aug 2026 09:01:49 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73998762/what_the_white_race_may_learn_from_the_indian_george_wharton_james.mp3" length="210123117" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>26239</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Autobiography of Goethe Volume 2-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/autobiography-of-goethe-volume-2-johann-wolfgang-von-goethe--73975070</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73975070</guid><pubDate>Fri, 21 Aug 2026 09:02:01 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73975070/8949_autobiography_of_goethe_volume_2_johann_wolfgang_von_goethe.mp3" length="250804946" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>31319</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Workers - An Experiment in Reality The East-Walter A. Wyckoff</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/workers-an-experiment-in-reality-the-east-walter-a-wyckoff--73951659</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73951659</guid><pubDate>Thu, 20 Aug 2026 09:02:08 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73951659/workers_an_experiment_in_reality_the_east_walter_a_wyckoff.mp3" length="222038798" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>27727</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Popular Superstitions, and the Truths Contained Therein-Herbert Mayo</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/popular-superstitions-and-the-truths-contained-therein-herbert-mayo--73927661</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73927661</guid><pubDate>Wed, 19 Aug 2026 09:01:47 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73927661/popular_superstitions_and_the_truths_contained_therein_herbert_mayo.mp3" length="233682035" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>29181</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Business of Being a Woman-Ida M. Tarbell</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/business-of-being-a-woman-ida-m-tarbell--73902085</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73902085</guid><pubDate>Tue, 18 Aug 2026 09:02:08 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73902085/business_of_being_a_woman_ida_m_tarbell.mp3" length="109013764" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>13613</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Annual Report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, December 1827-Commissioner of Indian Affairs</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/annual-report-of-the-commissioner-of-indian-affairs-december-1827-commissioner-of-indian-affairs--73877656</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73877656</guid><pubDate>Mon, 17 Aug 2026 09:02:09 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73877656/annual_report_of_the_commissioner_of_indian_affairs_december_1827_commissioner_of_indian_affairs.mp3" length="81926440" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>10230</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Problem of China-Bertrand Russell</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/problem-of-china-bertrand-russell--73855865</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73855865</guid><pubDate>Sun, 16 Aug 2026 09:01:54 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73855865/problem_of_china_bertrand_russell.mp3" length="239611253" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>29922</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Auguste Rodin-Rainer Maria Rilke</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/auguste-rodin-rainer-maria-rilke--73838608</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73838608</guid><pubDate>Sat, 15 Aug 2026 09:02:51 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73838608/auguste_rodin_rainer_maria_rilke.mp3" length="54256602" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>6775</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Science - History of the Universe Vol. 7 Anthropology &amp; Medicine-Francis Rolt-Wheeler</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/science-history-of-the-universe-vol-7-anthropology-medicine-francis-rolt-wheeler--73803847</link><description><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73803847</guid><pubDate>Tue, 11 Aug 2026 06:43:38 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73803847/science_history_of_the_universe_vol_7_anthropology_medicine_francis_rolt_wheeler.mp3" length="278019032" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA[Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>34718</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Catastrophe and Social Change, Based Upon a Sociological Study of the Halifax Disaster-Samuel Henry Prince</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/catastrophe-and-social-change-based-upon-a-sociological-study-of-the-halifax-disaster-samuel-henry-prince--73347445</link><description><![CDATA["Catastrophe and Social Change" by Samuel Henry Prince delves into the sociological implications of the Halifax Disaster, exploring how such a significant catastrophe reshapes communities and social structures. This work remains relevant today as it examines the resilience of human societies in the face of disaster, highlighting the interplay between crisis and social transformation. Prince's study provides profound insights into collective behavior, the role of social institutions, and the psychological impact of calamities, themes that resonate in our contemporary world where disasters—natural or man-made—continue to challenge societal norms.<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/73347445</guid><pubDate>Sun, 02 Aug 2026 19:27:53 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/73347445/catastrophe_and_social_change_based_upon_a_sociological_study_of_the_halifax_disaster_samuel_henry_prince.mp3" length="137560952" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>"Catastrophe and Social Change" by Samuel Henry Prince delves into the sociological implications of the Halifax Disaster, exploring how such a significant catastrophe reshapes communities and social structures. This work remains relevant today as it...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA["Catastrophe and Social Change" by Samuel Henry Prince delves into the sociological implications of the Halifax Disaster, exploring how such a significant catastrophe reshapes communities and social structures. This work remains relevant today as it examines the resilience of human societies in the face of disaster, highlighting the interplay between crisis and social transformation. Prince's study provides profound insights into collective behavior, the role of social institutions, and the psychological impact of calamities, themes that resonate in our contemporary world where disasters—natural or man-made—continue to challenge societal norms.<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>17178</itunes:duration><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item><item><title>Real Latin Quarter - Frank Berkeley Smith</title><link>https://www.spreaker.com/episode/real-latin-quarter-frank-berkeley-smith--72420858</link><description><![CDATA["Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></description><guid isPermaLink="false">https://api.spreaker.com/episode/72420858</guid><pubDate>Mon, 08 Jun 2026 16:01:30 +0000</pubDate><enclosure url="https://dts.podtrac.com/redirect.mp3/api.spreaker.com/download/episode/72420858/real_latin_quarter_frank_berkeley_smith.mp3" length="75629125" type="audio/mpeg"/><podcast:transcript url="https://transcription.spreaker.com/starship/1251c4a0-a69a-40f6-8975-60e9a5bec3d9/1251c4a0-a69a-40f6-8975-60e9a5bec3d9.srt" type="application/x-subrip" language="en"/><podcast:transcript url="https://transcription.spreaker.com/starship/1251c4a0-a69a-40f6-8975-60e9a5bec3d9/1251c4a0-a69a-40f6-8975-60e9a5bec3d9.txt" type="text/plain" language="en"/><podcast:transcript url="https://transcription.spreaker.com/starship/1251c4a0-a69a-40f6-8975-60e9a5bec3d9/1251c4a0-a69a-40f6-8975-60e9a5bec3d9.vtt" type="text/vtt" language="en"/><podcast:txt purpose="ai-content">true</podcast:txt><itunes:author>Frank Berkeley Smith</itunes:author><itunes:subtitle>"Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des...</itunes:subtitle><itunes:summary><![CDATA["Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French. The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière. "Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued. Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin." And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of work. Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. Nothing can be made really _real_ without it. F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Paris, August, 1901. (from Introduction)<br /><br />This episode includes AI-generated content.]]></itunes:summary><itunes:duration>9454</itunes:duration><itunes:keywords>door,falgui,impressions,latin,memoirs,pages,quarter,real,smith,studio</itunes:keywords><itunes:explicit>false</itunes:explicit><itunes:image href="https://d3wo5wojvuv7l.cloudfront.net/t_rss_itunes_square_1400/images.spreaker.com/original/bc6717b6ae7c177bcffb24235466dd0e.jpg"/><itunes:episodeType>full</itunes:episodeType></item></channel></rss>
