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Rajesh Singh
Anita Gehlot
Bhupendra Singh
Sushabhan Choudhury
CRC Press
Taylor & Francis Group
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300
Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
This book contains information obtained from authentic and highly regarded sources. Reasonable efforts
have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author and publisher cannot assume
responsibility for the validity of all materials or the consequences of their use. The authors and publishers
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Trademark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are
used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
Section I Introduction
v
vi Contents
Section IV Projects
11. 2.4 GHz RF Modem-Based Security System for Restricted Area ..... 145
11.1 Introduction ..................................................................................... 145
11.2 Circuit Diagram .............................................................................. 146
11.3 Program ............................................................................................ 149
11.3.1 Transmitter Section ......................................................... 149
11.3.2 Receiver Section ............................................................... 150
11.4 Proteus Simulation Model ............................................................. 151
11.5 LabVIEW GUI ................................................................................. 152
12. Campus Fire Monitoring System with a 2.4 GHz RF Modem .......... 155
12.1 Introduction ..................................................................................... 155
12.2 Circuit Diagram .............................................................................. 156
12.2.1 Transmitter Section ......................................................... 156
12.2.2 Receiver Section ............................................................... 157
12.3 Program ............................................................................................ 158
12.3.1 Transmitter Section ......................................................... 158
12.3.2 Receiver Section ............................................................... 159
12.4 Proteus Simulation Model ............................................................. 160
12.5 LabVIEW GUI ................................................................................. 161
15. Stepper Motor Control System with LabVIEW GUI ........................... 185
15.1 Introduction ..................................................................................... 185
15.2 Circuit Diagram .............................................................................. 187
15.2.1 Transmitter Section ......................................................... 187
15.2.2 Receiver Section ............................................................... 187
15.3 Program ............................................................................................ 190
15.3.1 Transmitter Section ......................................................... 190
15.3.2 Receiver Program ............................................................ 191
15.4 Proteus Simulation Model ............................................................. 193
15.5 LabVIEW GUI .................................................................................. 195
Index .....................................................................................................................305
Preface
Rajesh Singh
Anita Gehlot
Bhupendra Singh
Sushabhan Choudhury
xiii
About the Authors
xv
xvi About the Authors
Introduction
1
Introduction to Arduino
Low cost: Arduino boards are of relatively low cost as compared to other
microcontroller platforms.
Cross-platform: The Arduino software (IDE) is compatible with the
Windows, Macintosh OSX, and Linux operating systems.
User friendly: The Arduino software (IDE) is user friendly and easy to
use for beginners and very flexible for skilled programmers.
Open source: The Arduino is an open-source software and can be pro-
grammed with C, C++, or AVR-C languages. So, a variety of mod-
ules can be designed by the users.
3
4 Arduino-Based Embedded Systems
FIGURE 1.1
Arduino Uno board.
TABLE 1.1
Pin Description of Arduino Uno
Pin Description
FIGURE 1.2
Arduino Mega board.
TABLE 1.2
Pin Description of Arduino Mega
Pin Description
FIGURE 1.3
Arduino Nano board.
TABLE 1.3
Pin Description of Arduino Nano
Pin Description
This chapter describes the steps to write and compile a program with
Arduino integrated development environment (IDE). The Arduino IDE is an
open-source software which makes it user friendly for writing the code and
then upload directly on Arduino board.
FIGURE 2.1
Window Arduino IDE.
7
8 Arduino-Based Embedded Systems
FIGURE 2.2
Window to select type of Arduino.
FIGURE 2.3
Compile the program.
Steps to Write a Program with Arduino IDE 9
FIGURE 2.4
Window to check port of Arduino.
10 Arduino-Based Embedded Systems
FIGURE 2.5
The serial port of board.
FIGURE 2.6
Window to upload the program in Arduino.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Literary
values, and other papers
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.
Language: English
BY
JOHN BURROUGHS
I. Literary Values 1
II. Analogy—True and False 27
III. Style and the Man 52
IV. Criticism and the Man 80
V. Recent Phases of Literary Criticism 109
VI. “Thou shalt not preach” 134
VII. Democracy and Literature 151
VIII. Poetry and Eloquence 161
IX. Gilbert White again 168
X. Lucid Literature 180
XI. “Mere Literature” 186
XII. Another Word on Emerson 191
XIII. Thoreau’s Wildness 197
XIV. Nature in Literature 203
XV. Suggestiveness 205
XVI. On the Re-reading of Books 216
XVII. The Spell of the Past 232
XVIII. The Secret of Happiness 244
LITERARY VALUES
I
LITERARY VALUES
I
he wrote:
The phrase “well of pure English” conveys the same idea as “well of
English undefiled,” but how much greater the artistic value of the
latter than of the former! Thus the literary value of a sentence may
turn upon a single word.
The everyday speech of the people is often full of the stuff of which
literature is made. No poet could invent better epithets and phrases
than abound in the common vernacular. The sayings and proverbs of
a people are also, for the most part, of the pure gold of literature.
One trouble with all definitions of literature is that they proceed
upon the theory that literature is a definite something that may be
determined by definite tests like gold or silver, whereas it is more like
life or nature itself. It is not so much something as the visible
manifestation of something; it assumes infinite forms, and is of
infinite degrees of potency. There is great literature, and there is
feeble and commonplace literature: a romance by Hawthorne and a
novel by Haggard; a poem by Tennyson and a poem by Tupper; an
essay by Emerson and an essay by John Foster—all literature, all
touching the emotions and the imagination with varying degrees of
power, and yet separated by a gulf. There are no degrees of
excellence in gold or silver, but there are all degrees of excellence in
literature. How hard it is to tell what makes a true poem, a lasting
poem! When one asks himself what it is, how many things arise,
how hard to narrow the list down to a few things! Is it beauty? Then
what is beauty? One meets with beautiful poems every day that he
never thinks of or recurs to again. It is certain that without one thing
there is no real poetry—genuine passion. The fire came down out of
heaven and consumed Elijah’s offering because Elijah was sincere.
Plan and build your poem never so deftly, mankind will not
permanently care for it unless it has genuine feeling. It must be
impassioned.
The genus Literature includes many species, as novels, poems,
essays, histories, etc., but our business with them all is about the
same—they are books that we read for their own sake. We read the
papers for the news, we read a work of science for the facts and the
conclusions, but a work of literature is an end in and of itself. We
read it for the pleasure and the stimulus it affords us, apart from any
other consideration. It exhibits such a play of mind and emotion
upon the facts of life and nature as results in our own mental and
spiritual enrichment and edification.
Another thing is true of the best literature: we cannot separate our
pleasure and profit in the subject-matter from our pleasure and
profit in the personality of the writer. We do not know whether it is
Hawthorne himself that we most delight in, or his style and the
characters and the action of his romance. One thing is quite certain:
where there is no distinct personal flavor to the page, no stamp of a
new individual force, we soon tire of it. The savor of every true
literary production comes from the man himself. Hence, without
attempting a formal definition of literature, one may say that the
literary quality seems to arise from a certain vital relation of the
writer with subject-matter. It is his subject; it blends with the very
texture of his mind; his relation to it is primary and personal, not
secondary and mechanical. The secret is not in any prescribed
arrangement of the words—it is in the quality of mind or spirit that
warms the words and shines through them. A good book, says
Milton, is the precious life-blood of a master spirit. Unless there is
blood in it, unless the vital currents of a rare spirit flow through it
and vivify it, it has not the gift of life.
In all good literature we have a sense of touching something alive
and real. The writer uses words not as tools or appliances; they are
more like his hand or his eye or his ear—the living, palpable body of
his thought, the incarnation of his spirit.
The true writer always establishes intimate and personal relations
with his reader. He comes forth, he is not concealed; he is immanent
in his words, we feel him, our spirits touch his spirit.
Style in letters is a quality of mind—a certain flavor imparted to
words by the personality back of them. Pass language through one
mind and it is tasteless and colorless; pass it through another, and it
acquires an entirely new value and significance and gives us a
unique pleasure. In the one case the sentences are artificial; in the
other they bud and sprout out of the man himself as naturally as the
plants and trees out of the soil.
There is nothing else in the world so sensitive and chameleon-like as
language; it takes on at once the hue and quality of the mind that
uses it. See how neutral and impersonal, or old and worn and faded
the words look in the pages of some writers, then see how drastic or
new and individual they become when a mind of another type
marshals them into sentences. What vigor and life in them! they
seem to have been newly coined since we last met them. It is the
test of a writer’s real worth—does the language tarnish, as it were,
in his hand, or is it brightened and freshened in his use?
A book may contain valuable truths and sound sentiments of
universal appeal, but if the literary coinage is feeble, if the page is
not strongly individualized, freshly and clearly stamped by the
purpose of the writer, it cannot take rank as good literature. To
become literature, truth must be perpetually reborn, reincarnated,
and begin life anew.
A successful utterance always has value, always has truth, though in
its purely intellectual aspects it may not correspond with the truth as
we see it. I cannot accept all of Ruskin’s views upon our civilization
or all of Tolstoi’s upon art, yet I see that they speak the truth as it
defines itself to their minds and feelings. A counter-statement may
be equally true. The struggle for existence goes on in the ideal world
as well as in the real. The strongest mind, the fittest statement,
survives for the time being. That a system of philosophy or religion
perishes or is laid aside is not because it is not or was not true, but
because it is not true to the new minds and under the new
conditions. It no longer expresses what the world thinks and feels. It
is outgrown. Was not Calvinism true to our fathers? It is no longer
true to us because we were born at a later day in the world. With
regard to truths of science, we may say, once a truth always a truth,
because the world of fact and of things is always under the same
law, but the truth of sentiments and emotions changes with
changing minds and hearts. The tree of life, unlike all other trees,
bears different fruit to each generation. What our fathers found
nourishing and satisfying in religion, in art, in philosophy, we find
tasteless and stale. Every gospel has its day. The moral and
intellectual horizon of the race is perpetually changing.
IV
In our modern democratic communities the moral sense is no doubt
higher than it was in the earlier ages, while the artistic or æsthetic
sense is lower. In the Athenian the artistic sense was far above the
moral; in the Puritan the reverse was the case. The Latin races seem
to have a greater genius for art than the Teutonic, while the latter
excel in virtue. In this country, good taste exists in streaks and
spots, or sporadically here and there. There does not seem to be
enough to go around, or the supply is intermittent. One writer has it
and another has it not, or one has it to-day and not to-morrow; one
moment he writes with grace and simplicity, the next he falls into
crudenesses or affectations. There is not enough leaven to leaven
the whole lump. Some of our most eminent literary men, such as
Lowell and Dr. Holmes, are guilty of occasional lapses from good
taste, and probably in the work of none of them do we see the
thorough ripening and mellowing of taste that mark the productions
of the older and more centralized European communities. One of our
college presidents, writing upon a serious ethical subject, allows
himself such rhetoric as this: “Experiment and inference are the
hook and line by which Science fishes the dry formulas out of the
fluid fact. Art, on the other hand, undertakes to stock the stream
with choice specimens of her own breeding and selection.” We can
hardly say of such metaphors what Sainte-Beuve said of
Montaigne’s, namely, that they are of the kind that are never
“detached from the thought,” but that they “seize it in its very
centre, in its interior, and join and bind it.”
V
The keener appreciation in Europe of literature as a fine art is no
doubt the main reason why Poe is looked upon over there as our
most noteworthy poet. Poe certainly had a more consummate art
than any other American singer, and his productions are more
completely the outcome of that art. They are literary feats. “The
Raven” was as deliberately planned and wrought out as is any piece
of mechanism. Its inspiration is verbal and technical. “The truest
poetry is most feigning,” says Touchstone, and this is mainly the
conception of poetry that prevails in European literary circles. Poe’s
poetry is artistic feigning, like good acting. It is to that extent
disinterested. He does not speak for himself, but for the artistic
spirit. He has never been popular in this country, for the reason that
art, as such, is far less appreciated here than abroad. The stress of
life here is upon the moral and intellectual elements much more than
upon the æsthetic. We demand a message of the poet, or that he
shall teach us how to live. Poe had no message but that of art; he
made no contribution to our stock of moral ideas; he made no
appeal to the conscience or manhood of the race; he did not touch
the great common workaday mind of our people. He is more akin to
the Latin than to the Anglo-Saxon. Hence his deepest impression
seems to have been made upon the French mind. In all our New
England poets the voice of humanity, of patriotism, of religious
ideas, of strenuous moral purpose, speaks. Art is subordinated to
various human passions and emotions. In Poe alone are these
emotions subordinated to art. In Poe alone is the effort mainly a
verbal and technical one. In him alone is the man lost in the artist.
To evoke music from language is his constant aim. No other
American poet approaches him in this kind of verbal mastery, in this
unfettered creative technical power. In ease, in splendor, in audacity,
he is like a bird. One may understand and admire him and not be
touched by him. To be moved to anything but admiration is foreign
to pure art. Would one make meat and drink of it? Our reading is
selfish, we seek our own, we are drawn to the book that is going our
way. Can we appreciate beyond our own personal tastes and needs?
Can we see the excellence of the impersonal and the disinterested?
We want to be touched in some special and intimate way; but art
touches us in a general and impersonal way. No one could take to
himself Shakespeare, or Milton’s “Lycidas,” or Keats’s odes as
directed especially to his own personal wants and aspirations. We
forget ourselves in reading these things, and share for the time the
sentiment of pure art, which lives in the universal. How crude the art
of Whittier compared with that of Poe, and yet Whittier has touched
and moved his countrymen, and Poe has not. There is much more of
the substance of character, of patriotism, of strenuous New England
life, in the one than in the other. “Snow-Bound” is a metrical
transcript from experience; not a creation of the imagination, but a
touched-up copy from the memory. We cannot say this of “The
Bells” or “The Raven,” or of the work of Milton or Keats or Tennyson.
Whittier sings what he feels; it all has a root in his own experience.
The great poet feigns the emotion and makes it real to us.
We complain of much current verse that it has no feeling. The
trouble is not that the poets feign, but that the feigning is feeble; it
begets no emotion in us. It simulates, but does not stimulate.
It is not Wordsworth’s art that makes him great; it is his profound
poetic emotion when in the presence of simple, common things.
Tennyson’s art, or Swinburne’s art, is much finer, but the poetic
emotion back of it is less profound and elemental.
Emerson’s art is crude, but the stress of his poetic emotion is great;
the song is burdened with profound meanings to our moral and
spiritual nature. Poe has no such burden; there is not one crumb of
the bread of life in him, but there is plenty of the elixir of the
imagination.
This passion for art, so characteristic of the Old World, is seen in its
full force in such a writer as Flaubert. Flaubert was a devotee of the
doctrine of art for art’s sake. He cared nothing for mere authors, but
only for “writers;” the work must be the conscious and deliberate
product of the author’s literary and inventive powers, and in no way
involve his character, temperament, or personality. The more it was
written, the more it savored of deliberate plan and purpose,—in
other words, the less it was the product of fate, race, or of anything
local, individual, inevitable,—the more it pleased him. Art, and not
nature, was his aspiration. And this view has more currency in
Europe than in this country. In some extreme cases it becomes what
one may fairly call the art disease. Baudelaire, for instance, as
quoted by Tolstoi, expressed a preference for a painted woman’s
face over one showing its natural color, “and for metal trees and a
theatrical imitation of water, rather than real trees and real water.”
Thus does an overweening passion for art degenerate into a love for
the artificial for its own sake. In the cultivation of letters there seems
always to be a danger that we shall come to value things, not for
their own sake, but for the literary effects that may be wrought out
of them. The great artist, I take it, is primarily in love with life and
things, and not with art. On these terms alone is his work fresh and
stimulating and filled with good arterial blood.
VI
Teaching literature is like teaching religion. You can give only the dry
bones of the matter in either case. But the dry bones of theology are
not religion, and the dry bones of rhetoric are not literature. The
flesh-and-blood reality is alone of value, and this cannot be taught, it
must be felt and experienced.
The class in literature studies an author’s sentence-structure and
paragraphing, and doubtless could tell the author more about it than
he knows himself. The probabilities are that he never thought a
moment about his sentence-structure or his paragraphing. He has
thought only of his subject-matter and how to express himself
clearly and forcibly; the structure of his sentences takes care of
itself. From every art certain rules and principles may be deduced,
but the intelligent apprehension of those rules and principles no
more leads to mastery in that art, or even helps to mastery in it,
than a knowledge of the anatomy and the vital processes of the
stomach helps a man to digest his dinner, or than the knowledge of
the gunsmith helps make a good marksman. In other words the
science of any art is of little use to him who would practice that art.
To be a fiddler you must fiddle and see others fiddle; to be a painter
you must paint and study the painting of others; to be a writer you
must write and familiarize yourself with the works of the best
authors. Studying an author from the outside by bringing the light of
rhetoric to bear upon him is of little profit. We must get inside of
him, and we can only get inside of him through sympathy and
appreciation. There is only one way to teach literature, only one vital
way, and that is by reading it. The laboratory way may give one the
dry bones of the subject, but not the living thing itself. If the
teacher, by his own living voice and an occasional word of comment,
can bring out the soul of a work, he may help the student’s
appreciation of it; he may, in a measure, impart to him his own
larger and more intelligent appreciation of it. And that is a true
service.
Young men and young women actually go to college to take a course
in Shakespeare or Chaucer or Dante or the Arthurian legends. The
course becomes a mere knowledge course, as Professor Corson
suggests. My own first acquaintance with Milton was through an
exercise in grammar. We parsed “Paradise Lost.” Much of the current
college study of Shakespeare is little better than parsing him. The
minds of the pupils are focused upon every word and line of the
text, as the microscope is focused upon a fly’s foot in the laboratory.
The class probably dissects a frog or a star-fish one day, and a great
poet the next, and it does both in about the same spirit. It falls upon
one of these great plays like hens upon a bone in winter: no
meaning of word or phrase escapes it, every line is literally picked to
pieces; but of the poet himself, of that which makes him what he is,
his tremendous dramatic power, how much do the students get?
Very little, I fear. They have had an intellectual exercise and not an
emotional experience. They have added to their knowledge, but
have not taken a step in culture. To dig into the roots and origins of
the great poets is like digging into the roots of an oak or a maple,
the better to increase your appreciation of the beauty of the tree.
There stands the tree in all its summer glory; will you really know it
any better after you have laid bare every root and rootlet? There
stand Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dante, Homer. Read them, give
yourself to them, and master them if you are man enough. The
poets are not to be analyzed, they are to be enjoyed; they are not to
be studied, but to be loved; they are not for knowledge, but for
culture—to enhance our appreciation of life and our mastery over its
elements. All the mere facts about a poet’s work are as chaff
compared with the appreciation of one fine line or fine sentence.
Why study a great poet at all after the manner of the dissecting-
room? Why not rather seek to make the acquaintance of his living
soul and to feel its power?
The mere study of words, too,—of their origin and history, or of the
relation of your own language to some other,—how little that avails!
As little as a knowledge of the making and tempering of a sword
would help a man to be a good swordsman. What avails in literature
is a quick and delicate sense of the life and individuality of words—“a
sense practiced as a blind man’s touch,” or as a musician’s ear, so
that the magic of the true style is at once felt and appreciated; this,
and an equally quick and delicate sense of the life and individuality
of things. “Is there any taste in the white of an egg?” No more is
there in much merely correct writing. There is the use of language
as the vehicle of knowledge, and there is the use of it as an
instrument of the imagination. In Wordsworth’s line,
in Whitman’s sentence,
“Oh, waves, I have fingered every shore with you,”
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