TIMESTAMP
stringlengths 27
27
| ContextTokens
int64 3
7.44k
| GeneratedTokens
int64 6
1.9k
| text
stringlengths 9
41.5k
| time_delta
float64 0
3.44k
|
|---|---|---|---|---|
2023-11-16 18:26:39.3877430 | 1,318 | 29 |
Produced by David Edwards, Graeme Mackreth and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
YOU KNOW ME AL
RING W. LARDNER
YOU KNOW ME
AL
_A Busher's Letters_
BY
RING W. LARDNER
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1916,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A BUSHER'S LETTERS HOME 9
II THE BUSHER COMES BACK 45
III THE BUSHER'S HONEYMOON 83
IV A NEW BUSHER BREAKS IN 122
V THE BUSHER'S KID 166
VI THE BUSHER BEATS IT HENCE 208
YOU KNOW ME AL
YOU KNOW ME AL
CHAPTER I
A BUSHER'S LETTERS HOME
_Terre Haute, Indiana, September 6._
FRIEND AL: Well, Al old pal I suppose you seen in the paper where I
been sold to the White Sox. Believe me Al it comes as a surprise to
me and I bet it did to all you good old pals down home. You could of
knocked me over with a feather when the old man come up to me and says
Jack I've sold you to the Chicago Americans.
I didn't have no idea that anything like that was coming off. For five
minutes I was just dum and couldn't say a word.
He says We aren't getting what you are worth but I want you to go up to
that big league and show those birds that there is a Central League
on the map. He says Go and pitch the ball you been pitching down here
and there won't be nothing to it. He says All you need is the nerve and
Walsh or no one else won't have nothing on you.
So I says I would do the best I could and I thanked him for the
treatment I got in Terre Haute. They always was good to me here
and though I did more than my share I always felt that my work was
appresiated. We are finishing second and I done most of it. I can't
help but be proud of my first year's record in professional baseball
and you know I am not boasting when I say that Al.
Well Al it will seem funny to be up there in the big show when I never
was really in a big city before. But I guess I seen enough of life not
to be scared of the high buildings eh Al?
I will just give them what I got and if they don't like it they can
send me back to the old Central and I will be perfectly satisfied.
I didn't know anybody was looking me over, but one of the boys told me
that Jack Doyle the White Sox scout was down here looking at me when
Grand Rapids was here. I beat them twice in that serious. You know
Grand Rapids never had a chance with me when I was right. I shut them
out in the first game and they got one run in the second on account of
Flynn misjuging that fly ball. Anyway Doyle liked my work and he wired
Comiskey to buy me. Comiskey come back with an offer and they excepted
it. I don't know how much they got but anyway I am sold to the big
league and believe me Al I will make good.
Well Al I will be home in a few days and we will have some of the good
old times. Regards to all the boys and tell them I am still their pal
and not all swelled up over this big league business.
Your pal, JACK.
_Chicago, Illinois, December 14._
Old Pal: Well Al I have not got much to tell you. As you know Comiskey
wrote me that if I was up in Chi this month to drop in and see him. So
I got here Thursday morning and went to his office in the afternoon.
His office is out to the ball park and believe me its some park and
some office.
I went in and asked for Comiskey and a young fellow says He is not here
now but can I do anything for you? I told him who I am and says I had
an engagement to see Comiskey. He says The boss is out of town hunting
and did I have to see him personally?
I says I wanted to see about signing a contract. He told me I could
sign as well with him as Comiskey and he took me into another office.
He says What salary did you think you ought to get? and I says I
wouldn't think of playing ball in the big league for less than three
thousand dollars per annum. He laughed and says You don't want much.
You better stick round town till the boss comes back. So here I am and
it is costing me a dollar a day to stay at the hotel on Cottage Grove
Avenue and that don't include my meals.
I generally eat at some of the cafes round the hotel but I had supper
downtown last night and it cost me fifty-five cents. If Comiskey don't
come back soon I won't have no more money left.
Speaking of money I won't sign no contract unless I get the salary you
and I talked of, three thousand dollars. You know what I was getting in
Terre Haute, a hundred and fifty a month, and I know it's going to cost
me a lot more to live here. I made inquiries round here and find I can
get board and room for eight dollars a week but I will be out of town
half the time and will have to pay for my room when I am away or look
up a new one when I come back. Then I will have to buy cloths to wear
on the road in places like New York. When Comiskey comes back I will
name him three thousand dollars | 575.407783 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.4174700 | 742 | 37 |
Produced by Stanley A. Bridgeford
A
Greek–English Lexicon
to
The New Testament
Revised and Enlarged
by
Thomas Sheldon Green
with a preface by
H. L. Hastings
Editor of the Christian, Boston, U.S.A.
and
A Supplement
Prepared by Wallace N. Stearns
Under The Supervision of
J. H. Thayer, D.D., Litt.D.
Professor of New-Testament Criticism
and Interpretation in the
Divinity School of Harvard University
Containing Additional Words and Forms to be found in one or
another of the Greek Texts in current use, especially those
of Lachmann, Tischendorf, Treglles, Westcott
and Hort, and the Revisers of 1881
THIRTY-THIRD THOUSAND
Boston
H. L. Hastings, 47 Cornhill
1896
Copyright, 1896
Boston, Mass, U.S.A.
H. L. Hastings
Repository Press,
47 Cornhill
Greek-Eng Lexicon–33M–6, '96
Printed in America
PREFACE
The hidden depths both of the wisdom and knowledge of God were
manifest, not only in the revelation of his will contained in the
Scriptures of truth, but in the manner of giving that revelation, and in
the language in which is was given.
Egypt had wisdom, but it was enshrined in hieroglyphics so obscure that
their meaning faded centuries ago from the memory of mankind, and for
many successive ages no man on earth could penetrate their mysteries.
Assyria and Babylon had literature, art, and science; but with a
language written in seven or eight hundred cuneiform signs, some of them
having fifty different meanings, what wonder is it that for more than
two thousand years the language and literature of these nations was
lost, buried, and forgotten? The vast literature of China has survived
the changes of centuries, but the list of different characters, which in
a dictionary of the second century numbered 9353, and in the latest
imperial Chinese Dictionary numbers 43,960,—some of them requiring
fifty strokes of the pencil to produce them,—shows how unfit such a
language must be for a channel to convey the glad tidings of God's
salvation to the poor, the weak, the sorrowful, and to people who cannot
spend ten or twenty years in learning to comprehend the mysteries of the
Chinese tongue.
Who can imagine what would have been the fate of a divine revelation if
the words of eternal life had been enswathed in such cerements as these?
In the wisdom of God, the revelation of his will was given in the Hebrew
tongue, with an alphabet of twenty-two letters, some of which, as
inscribed on the Moabite stone, b.c. 900, are identical in form and
sound with those now used in English books.
This Hebrew alphabet, so simple that a child might learn it in a day,
has never been lost or forgotten. The Hebrew language in which the
Oracles of God were given to man, has never become a dead language.
Since the day when the Law was given to Moses on Mount Sinai, there
never has been a day or hour when the language in which it was | 575.43751 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.5195670 | 2,307 | 10 |
Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
THE THREE IMPOSTORS
or The Transmutations
by
ARTHUR MACHEN
TRANSLATOR OF 'L'HEPTAMERON' AND 'LE MOYEN DE PARVENIR';
AUTHOR OF 'THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY' AND 'THE GREAT GOD PAN'
BOSTON: Roberts Bros, 1895
LONDON: John Lane, Vigo st.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ADVENTURE OF THE GOLD TIBERIUS
THE ENCOUNTER OF THE PAVEMENT
NOVEL OF THE DARK VALLEY
ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING BROTHER
NOVEL OF THE BLACK SEAL
INCIDENT OF THE PRIVATE BAR
THE DECORATIVE IMAGINATION
NOVEL OF THE IRON MAID
THE RECLUSE OF BAYSWATER
NOVEL OF THE WHITE POWDER
STRANGE OCCURRENCE IN CLERKENWELL
HISTORY OF THE YOUNG MAN WITH SPECTACLES
ADVENTURE OF THE DESERTED RESIDENCE
THE THREE IMPOSTORS.
PROLOGUE.
"And Mr. Joseph Walters is going to stay the night?" said the smooth
clean-shaven man to his companion, an individual not of the most
charming appearance, who had chosen to make his ginger- mustache
merge into a pair of short chin-whiskers.
The two stood at the hall door, grinning evilly at each other; and
presently a girl ran quickly down, the stairs, and joined them. She was
quite young, with a quaint and piquant rather than a beautiful face, and
her eyes were of a shining hazel. She held a neat paper parcel in one
hand, and laughed with her friends.
"Leave the door open," said the smooth man to the other, as they were
going out. "Yes, by----," he went on with an ugly oath. "We'll leave the
front door on the jar. He may like to see company, you know."
The other man looked doubtfully about him. "Is it quite prudent do you
think, Davies?" he said, pausing with his hand on the mouldering
knocker. "I don't think Lipsius would like it. What do you say, Helen?"
"I agree with Davies. Davies is an artist, and you are commonplace,
Richmond, and a bit of a coward. Let the door stand open, of course. But
what a pity Lipsius had to go away! He would have enjoyed himself."
"Yes," replied the smooth Mr. Davies, "that summons to the west was very
hard on the doctor."
The three passed out, leaving the hall door, cracked and riven with
frost and wet, half open, and they stood silent for a moment under the
ruinous shelter of the porch.
"Well," said the girl, "it is done at last. I shall hurry no more on the
track of the young man with spectacles."
"We owe a great deal to you," said Mr. Davies politely; "the doctor said
so before he left. But have we not all three some farewells to make? I,
for my part, propose to say good-by, here, before this picturesque but
mouldy residence, to my friend Mr. Burton, dealer in the antique and
curious," and the man lifted his hat with an exaggerated bow.
"And I," said Richmond, "bid adieu to Mr. Wilkins, the private
secretary, whose company has, I confess, become a little tedious."
"Farewell to Miss Lally, and to Miss Leicester also," said the girl,
making as she spoke a delicious courtesy. "Farewell to all occult
adventure; the farce is played."
Mr. Davies and the lady seemed full of grim enjoyment, but Richmond
tugged at his whiskers nervously.
"I feel a bit shaken up," he said. "I've seen rougher things in the
States, but that crying noise he made gave me a sickish feeling. And
then the smell--But my stomach was never very strong."
The three friends moved away from the door, and began to walk slowly up
and down what had been a gravel path, but now lay green and pulpy with
damp mosses. It was a fine autumn evening, and a faint sunlight shone on
the yellow walls of the old deserted house, and showed the patches of
gangrenous decay, and all the stains, the black drift of rain from the
broken pipes, the scabrous blots where the bare bricks were exposed, the
green weeping of a gaunt laburnum that stood beside the porch, and
ragged marks near the ground where the reeking clay was gaining on the
worn foundations. It was a queer rambling old place, the centre perhaps
two hundred years old, with dormer windows sloping from the tiled roof,
and on each side there were Georgian wings; bow windows had been carried
up to the first floor, and two dome-like cupolas that had once been
painted a bright green were now gray and neutral. Broken urns lay upon
the path, and a heavy mist seemed to rise from the unctuous clay; the
neglected shrubberies, grown all tangled and unshapen, smelt dank and
evil, and there was an atmosphere all about the deserted mansion that
proposed thoughts of an opened grave. The three friends looked dismally
at the rough grasses and the nettles that grew thick over lawn and
flower-beds; and at the sad water-pool in the midst of the weeds. There,
above green and oily scum instead of lilies, stood a rusting Triton on
the rocks, sounding a dirge through a shattered horn; and beyond, beyond
the sunk fence and the far meadows; the sun slid down and shone red
through the bars of the elm trees.
Richmond shivered and stamped his foot. "We had better be going soon,"
he said; "there is nothing else to be done here."
"No," said Davies, "it is finished at last. I thought for some time we
should never get hold of the gentleman with the spectacles. He was a
clever fellow, but, Lord! he broke up badly at last. I can tell you he
looked white at me when I touched him on the arm in the bar. But where
could he have hidden the thing? We can all swear it was not on him."
The girl laughed, and they turned away, when Richmond gave a violent
start. "Ah!" he cried, turning to the girl, "what have you got there?
Look, Davies, look! it's all oozing and dripping."
The young woman glanced down at the little parcel she was carrying, and
partially unfolded the paper.
"Yes, look both of you," she said; "it's my own idea. Don't you think it
will do nicely for the doctor's museum? It comes from the right hand,
the hand that took the gold Tiberius."
Mr. Davies nodded with a good deal of approbation, and Richmond lifted
his ugly high-crowned bowler, and wiped his forehead with a dingy
handkerchief.
"I'm going," he said; "you two can stay if you like."
The three went round by the stable path, past the withered wilderness of
the old kitchen garden, and struck off by a hedge at the back, making
for a particular point in the road. About five minutes later two
gentlemen, whom idleness had led to explore these forgotten outskirts of
London, came sauntering up the shadowy carriage drive. They had spied
the deserted house from the road, and as they observed all the heavy
desolation of the place they began to moralize in the great style, with
considerable debts to Jeremy Taylor.
"Look, Dyson," said the one as they drew nearer, "look at those upper
windows; the sun is setting, and though the panes are dusty, yet
"The grimy sash an oriel burns."
"Phillipps," replied the elder and (it must be said) the more pompous of
the two, "I yield to fantasy, I cannot withstand the influence of the
grotesque. Here, where all is falling into dimness and dissolution, and
we walk in cedarn gloom, and the very air of heaven goes mouldering to
the lungs, I cannot remain commonplace. I look at that deep glow on the
panes, and the house lies all enchanted; that very room, I tell you, is
within all blood and fire."
ADVENTURE OF THE GOLD TIBERIUS.
The acquaintance between Mr. Dyson and Mr. Charles Phillipps arose from
one of those myriad chances which are every day doing their work in the
streets of London. Mr. Dyson was a man of letters, and an unhappy
instance of talents misapplied. With gifts that might have placed him in
the flower of his youth among the most favored of Bentley's favorite
novelists, he had chosen to be perverse; he was, it is true, familiar
with scholastic logic, but he knew nothing of the logic of life, and he
flattered himself with the title of artist, when he was in fact but an
idle and curious spectator of other men's endeavors. Amongst many
delusions, he cherished one most fondly, that he was a strenuous worker;
and it was with a gesture of supreme weariness that he would enter his
favorite resort, a small tobacco shop in Great Queen Street, and
proclaim to any one who cared to listen that he had seen the rising and
setting of two successive suns. The proprietor of the shop, a
middle-aged man of singular civility, tolerated Dyson partly out of good
nature, and partly because he was a regular customer; he was allowed to
sit on an empty cask, and to express his sentiments on literary and
artistic matters till he was tired or the time for closing came; and if
no fresh customers were attracted, it is believed that none were turned
away by his eloquence. Dyson, was addicted to wild experiments in
tobacco; he never wearied of trying new combinations, and one evening he
had just entered the shop and given utterance to his last preposterous
formula, when a young fellow, of about his own age, who had come in a
moment later, asked the shopman to duplicate the order on his account,
smiling politely, as he spoke, to Mr. Dyson's address. Dyson felt
profoundly flattered, and after a few phrases the two entered into | 575.539607 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.5203180 | 2,428 | 11 |
Produced by Katherine Ward, Juliet Sutherland, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
McCLURE'S MAGAZINE
VOL. I JUNE, 1893 No. 1
S. S. McCLURE, Limited
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1893
Copyright, 1893, by S. S. McClure, Limited. All rights reserved.
Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York
Table of Contents
PAGE
A Dialogue between William Dean Howells and Hjalmar Hjorth
Boyesen. Recorded By Mr. Boyesen. 3
The Nymph of the Eddy. By Gilbert Parker. 12
Human Documents. An Introduction by Sarah Orne Jewett. 16
How They Are Captured, Transported, Trained, and Sold. By
Raymond Blathwayt. 26
Under Sentence of the Law. By Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson. 34
Unsolved Problems that Edison Is Studying. By E. J. Edwards. 37
From "Locksley Hall". By Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 43
A Day With Gladstone. By H. W. Massingham. 44
Where Man Got His Ears. By Henry Drummond. 52
James Parton's Rules of Biography. 59
Europe at the Present Moment. By Mr. De Blowitz. 63
The Comedy of War. By Joel Chandler Harris. 69
The Rose Is Such a Lady. By Gertrude Hall. 82
The Count de Lesseps of To-day. By R. H. Sherard. 83
Illustrations
Professor Boyesen in His Study. 4
The Birthplace of W. D. Howells at Martins Ferry, Ohio. 5
The Giustiniani Palace. 6
W. D. Howells, After His Return From Venice. 7
W. D. Howells, in Cambridge in 1868. 8
W. D. Howells' Summer Home at Belmont in 1878. 9
The Author of "Annie Kilburn." 10
General Lew Wallace. 19
William Dean Howells. 20
Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 22
Alphonse Daudet. 24
Hawarden Castle. 46
The Library. 47
The Gladstone Family. 51
"Balanoglossus", and Large Sea Lamprey. 53
Embryos Showing Gill-slits. 53
Adult Shark. 54
Marble Head of Satyr. 55
Head of Satyr in Group of Marsyas and Apollo. 55
Faun. 55
Form of the Ear in Baby Outang. 55
Horned Sheep and Goat with Cervical Auricles. 55
Ear of Barbary Ape, Chimpanzee, and Man. 57
James Parton in 1852. 59
James Parton in 1891. 62
The Chateau de La Chesnaye. 84
Count de Lesseps in 1869. 85
Madame de Lesseps in 1880. 88
Count de Lesseps in 1880. 89
Count de Lesseps in 1892. 90
REAL CONVERSATIONS.--I.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS AND HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN.
RECORDED BY MR. BOYESEN.
When I was requested to furnish a dramatic biography of Mr. Howells, I
was confronted with what seemed an insuperable difficulty. The more I
thought of William Dean Howells, the less dramatic did he seem to me.
The only way that occurred to me of introducing a dramatic element
into our proposed interview was for me to assault him with tongue or
pen, in the hope that he might take energetic measures to resent my
intrusion; but as, notwithstanding his unvarying kindness to me, and
many unforgotten benefits, I cherished only the friendliest feelings
for him, I could not persuade myself to procure dramatic interest at
such a price.
My second objection, I am bound to confess, arose from my own sense of
dignity which rebelled against the _role_ of an interviewer, and it
was not until my conscience was made easy on this point that I agreed
to undertake the present article. I was reminded that it was an
ancient and highly dignified form of literature I was about to revive;
and that my precedent was to be sought not in the modern newspaper
interview, but in the Platonic dialogue. By the friction of two
kindred minds, sparks of thought may flash forth which owe their
origin solely to the friendly collision. We have a far more vivid
portrait of Socrates in the beautiful conversational turns of "The
Symposium" and the first book of "The Republic," than in the purely
objective account of Xenophon in his "Memorabilia." And Howells,
though he may not know it, has this trait in common with Socrates,
that he can portray himself, unconsciously, better than I or anybody
else could do it for him.
If I needed any further encouragement, I found it in the assurance that
what I was expected to furnish was to be in the nature of "an exchange
of confidences between two friends with a view to publication." It
was understood, of course, that Mr. Howells was to be more confiding
than myself, and that his reminiscences were to predominate; for an
author, however unheroic he may appear to his own modesty, is bound
to be the hero of his biography. What made the subject so alluring to
me, apart from the personal charm which inheres in the man and all
that appertains to him, was the consciousness that our friendship was of
twenty-two years' standing, and that during all that time not a
single jarring note had been introduced to mar the harmony of our
relation.
Equipped, accordingly, with a good conscience and a lead pencil
(which remained undisturbed in my breast-pocket), I set out to
"exchange confidences" with the author of "Silas Lapham" and "A Modern
Instance." I reached the enormous human hive on Fifty-ninth Street
where my subject, for the present, occupies a dozen most comfortable
and ornamental cells, and was promptly hoisted up to the fourth floor
and deposited in front of his door. It is a house full of electric
wires and tubes--literally honeycombed with modern conveniences. But
in spite of all these, I made my way triumphantly to Mr. Howells's
den, and after a proper prelude began the novel task assigned to me.
[Illustration: PROFESSOR BOYESEN IN HIS STUDY AT COLUMBIA COLLEGE.]
"I am afraid," I remarked quite _en passant_, "that I shall be
embarrassed not by my ignorance, but by my knowledge concerning your
life. For it is difficult to ask with good grace about what you
already know. I am aware, for instance, that you were born at Martin's
Ferry, Ohio, March 11, 1837; that you removed thence to Dayton, and a
few years later to Jefferson, Ashtabula County; that your father
edited, published, and printed a country newspaper of Republican
complexion, and that you spent a good part of your early years in the
printing office. Nevertheless, I have some difficulty in realizing the
environment of your boyhood."
_Howells._ If you have read my "Boy's Town," which is in all
essentials autobiographical, you know as much as I could tell you. The
environment of my early life was exactly as there described.
_Boyesen._ Your father, I should judge, then, was not a strict
disciplinarian?
_Howells._ No. He was the gentlest of men--a friend and companion to
his sons. He guided us in an unobtrusive way without our suspecting
it. He was continually putting books into my hands, and they were
always good books; many of them became events in my life. I had no end
of such literary passions during my boyhood. Among the first was
Goldsmith, then came Cervantes and Irving.
_Boyesen._ Then there was a good deal of literary atmosphere about
your childhood?
_Howells._ Yes. I can scarcely remember the time when books did not
play a great part in my life. Father was by his culture and his
interests rather isolated from the community in which we lived, and
this made him and all of us rejoice the more in a new author, in whose
world we would live for weeks and months, and who our thoughts
and conversation.
[Illustration: THE BIRTHPLACE OF W. D. HOWELLS AT MARTINS FERRY, OHIO.]
_Boyesen._ It has always been a matter of wonder to me that, with so
little regular schooling, you stepped full-fledged into literature
with such an exquisite and wholly individual style.
_Howells._ If you accuse me of that kind of thing, I must leave you to
account for it. I had always a passion for literature, and to a boy
with a mind and a desire to learn, a printing office is not a bad
school.
_Boyesen._ How old were you when you left Jefferson, and went to
Columbus?
_Howells._ I was nineteen years old when I went to the capital and
wrote legislative reports for Cincinnati and Cleveland papers;
afterwards I became one of the editors of the "Ohio State Journal." My
duties gradually took a wide range, and I edited the literary column
and wrote many of the leading articles. I was then in the midst of my
enthusiasm for Heine, and was so impregnated with his spirit, that a
poem which I sent to the "Atlantic Monthly" was mistaken by Mr. Lowell
for a translation from the German poet. When he had satisfied himself,
however, that it was not a translation, he accepted and printed it.
_Boyesen._ Tell me how you happened to publish your first volume,
"Poems by Two Friends," in partnership with John J. Piatt.
_Howells._ I had known Piatt as a young printer; afterwards when he
began to write poems, I read them and was delighted with them. When he
came to Columbus I made his acquaintance, and we became friends. By
this time we were both contributors to the "Atlantic Monthly." I may
as well tell you that his contributions to our joint volume were far
superior to mine.
_Boyesen._ Did Lowell share that opinion?
_Howells._ That I | 575.540358 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.7199160 | 905 | 11 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Colin M. Kendall and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
PAPERS AND PROCEEDINGS
OF THE
TWENTY-THIRD GENERAL MEETING
OF THE
AMERICAN LIBRARY ASSOCIATION
HELD AT
WAUKESHA, WISCONSIN
JULY 4-10
1901
PUBLISHED BY THE
AMERICAN LIBRARY ASSOCIATION
1901
CONTENTS.
TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE.
Address of the President _Henry J. Carr_ 1
What may be done for libraries by the city _T. L. Montgomery_ 5
What may be done for libraries by the state _E. A. Birge_ 7
What may be done for libraries by the nation _Herbert Putnam_ 9
The trusteeship of literature--I. _George Iles_ 16
" " " " II. _R. T. Ely_ 22
Book copyright _Thorvald Solberg_ 24
The relationship of publishers, booksellers
and librarians _W. Millard Palmer_ 31
Library buildings _W. R. Eastman_ 38
The relationship of the architect to the
librarian _J. L. Mauran _ 43
The departmental library _J. T. Gerould_ 46
Suggestions for an annual list of American}
theses for the degree of doctor of } _W. W. Bishop_ 50
philosophy }
Opportunities _Gratia Countryman_ 52
Some principles of book and picture selection _G. E. Wire_ 54
Book reviews, book lists, and articles on }
children's reading: Are they of practical} _Caroline M. Hewins_ 57
value to the children's librarian? }
Books for children:
I. Fiction _Winifred L. Taylor_ 63
II. Fairy tales _Abby L. Sargent_ 66
III. Science _Ella A. Holmes_ 69
Bulletin work for children _Charlotte E.
Wallace_ 72
Reference work with children _Harriet H. Stanley_ 74
Vitalizing the relation between the library
and the school:
I. The school _May L. Prentice_ 78
II. The library _Irene Warren_ 81
Opening a children's room _Clara W. Hunt_ 83
Report on gifts and bequests, 1900-1901 _G. W. Cole_ 87
Report of the A. L. A. Publishing Board _J. Le Roy
Harrison_ 103
Proceedings 107-141
First Session: Public meeting 107
Second Session 107-118
Secretary's report 107
Treasurer's report and necrology 108
Report of Trustees of Endowment Fund 111
Report of Co-operation Committee 113
Report of Committee on Foreign Documents 113
Report of Committee on Title-pages and Indexes of
Periodical Volumes 114
Report of Committee on "International Catalogue of
Scientific Literature" 116
Memorial to John Fiske 117
Third Session 118-125
Report of Committee on Public Documents 118
Report of Committee on Co-operation with N. E. A. 120
Report of Committee on International Co-operation 122
Report of Committee on Library Training 124
Collection and cataloging of early
newspapers. _W. Beer_ 124
Some principles of | 575.739956 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.8176890 | 1,111 | 9 |
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.
BEL AMI
OR
THE HISTORY OF A SCOUNDREL
A NOVEL
BY
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. POVERTY
CHAPTER II. MADAME FORESTIER
CHAPTER III. FIRST ATTEMPTS
CHAPTER IV. DUROY LEARNS SOMETHING
CHAPTER V. THE FIRST INTRIGUE
CHAPTER VI. A STEP UPWARD
CHAPTER VII. A DUEL WITH AN END
CHAPTER VIII. DEATH AND A PROPOSAL
CHAPTER IX. MARRIAGE
CHAPTER X. JEALOUSY
CHAPTER XI. MADAME WALTER TAKES A HAND
CHAPTER XII. A MEETING AND THE RESULT
CHAPTER XIII. MADAME MARELLE
CHAPTER XIV. THE WILL
CHAPTER XV. SUZANNE
CHAPTER XVI. DIVORCE
CHAPTER XVII. THE FINAL PLOT
CHAPTER XVIII. ATTAINMENT
BEL-AMI
CHAPTER I.
POVERTY
After changing his five-franc piece Georges Duroy left the restaurant.
He twisted his mustache in military style and cast a rapid, sweeping
glance upon the diners, among whom were three saleswomen, an untidy
music-teacher of uncertain age, and two women with their husbands.
When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to consider what route he
should take. It was the twenty-eighth of June and he had only three
francs in his pocket to last him the remainder of the month. That meant
two dinners and no lunches, or two lunches and no dinners, according to
choice. As he pondered upon this unpleasant state of affairs, he
sauntered down Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, preserving his military air
and carriage, and rudely jostled the people upon the streets in order
to clear a path for himself. He appeared to be hostile to the
passers-by, and even to the houses, the entire city.
Tall, well-built, fair, with blue eyes, a curled mustache, hair
naturally wavy and parted in the middle, he recalled the hero of the
popular romances.
It was one of those sultry, Parisian evenings when not a breath of air
is stirring; the sewers exhaled poisonous gases and the restaurants the
disagreeable odors of cooking and of kindred smells. Porters in their
shirt-sleeves, astride their chairs, smoked their pipes at the carriage
gates, and pedestrians strolled leisurely along, hats in hand.
When Georges Duroy reached the boulevard he halted again, undecided as
to which road to choose. Finally he turned toward the Madeleine and
followed the tide of people.
The large, well-patronized cafes tempted Duroy, but were he to drink
only two glasses of beer in an evening, farewell to the meager supper
the following night! Yet he said to himself: "I will take a glass at
the Americain. By Jove, I am thirsty."
He glanced at men seated at the tables, men who could afford to slake
their thirst, and he scowled at them. "Rascals!" he muttered. If he
could have caught one of them at a corner in the dark he would have
choked him without a scruple! He recalled the two years spent in
Africa, and the manner in which he had extorted money from the Arabs. A
smile hovered about his lips at the recollection of an escapade which
had cost three men their lives, a foray which had given his two
comrades and himself seventy fowls, two sheep, money, and something to
laugh about for six months. The culprits were never found; indeed, they
were not sought for, the Arab being looked upon as the soldier's prey.
But in Paris it was different; there one could not commit such deeds
with impunity. He regretted that he had not remained where he was; but
he had hoped to improve his condition--and for that reason he was in
Paris!
He passed the Vaudeville and stopped at the Cafe Americain, debating as
to whether he should take that "glass." Before deciding, he glanced at
a clock; it was a quarter past nine. He knew that when the beer was
placed in front of him, he would drink it; and then what would he do at
eleven o'clock? So he walked on, intending to go as far as the
Madeleine and return.
When he reached the Place de l'Opera, a tall, young man passed him,
whose face he fancied was familiar. He followed him, repeating: "Where
the deuce have I seen that fellow?"
For a time he racked his brain in vain; then suddenly he saw the same
man, but not so corpulent and more youthful, attired in the uniform of
a Hussar. He exclaimed: "Wait, Forestier!" and hastening up to | 575.837729 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.8209830 | 2,308 | 24 |
Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger
MARY-'GUSTA
By Joseph C. Lincoln
MARY-'GUSTA
CHAPTER I
On the twentieth day of April in the year 19--, the people--that is, a
majority of the grown people of Ostable--were talking of Marcellus Hall
and Mary-'Gusta.
A part of this statement is not surprising. The average person, no
matter how humble or obscure, is pretty certain to be talked about on
the day of his funeral, and Marcellus was to be buried that afternoon.
Moreover, Marcellus had been neither humble nor obscure; also, he had
been talked about a good deal during the fifty-nine years of his sojourn
on this planet. So it is not at all surprising that he should be talked
about now, when that sojourn was ended. But for all Ostable--yes, and a
large part of South Harniss--to be engaged in speculation concerning the
future of Mary-'Gusta was surprising, for, prior to Marcellus's death,
very few outside of the Hall household had given her or her future a
thought.
On this day, however, whenever or wherever the name of Marcellus Hall
was mentioned, after the disposition of Marcellus's own bones had been
discussed and those of his family skeleton disinterred and articulated,
the conversation, in at least eight cases out of ten, resolved itself
into a guessing contest, having as its problem this query:
"What's goin' to become of that child?"
For example:
Mr. Bethuel Sparrow, local newsgatherer for the Ostable Enterprise,
seated before his desk in the editorial sanctum, was writing an obituary
for next week's paper, under the following head:
"A Prominent Citizen Passes Away."
An ordinary man would probably have written "Dies"; but Mr. Sparrow,
being a young and very new reporter for a rural weekly, wrote "Passes
Away" as more elegant and less shocking to the reader.
It is much more soothing and refined to pass away than to die--unless
one happens to be the person most concerned, in which case, perhaps, it
may make little difference.
"The Angel of Death," wrote Mr. Sparrow, "passed through our midst on
Tuesday last and called to his reward Captain Marcellus Hall, one of
Ostable's most well-known and influential residents."
A slight exaggeration here. Marcellus had lived in Ostable but five
years altogether and, during the last three, had taken absolutely
no part in town affairs--political, religious or social. However,
"influential" is a good word and usual in obituaries, so Bethuel let it
stand. He continued:
"Captain Hall's sudden death--"
Erasure of "death" and substitution of "demise."
Then:
"--Was a shock to the community at large. It happened on account of--"
More erasures and substitutions. "--It was the result of his taking cold
owing to exposure during the heavy southeast rains of week before last
which developed into pneumonia. He grew rapidly worse and passed away at
3.06 P.M. on Tuesday, leaving a vacancy in our midst which will be hard
to fill, if at all. Although Captain Hall had resided in Ostable but a
comparatively short period, he was well-known and respected, both as a
man and--"
Here, invention failing, Mr. Sparrow called for assistance.
"Hey, Perce," he hailed, addressing his companion, Mr. Percy Clark, who
was busy setting type: "What's a good word to use here? I say Marcellus
was respected both as a man--and somethin' else."
"Hey?" queried Percy, absently, scanning the eight point case. "What
d'ye say?"
"I asked you what would be a good thing to go with'man'?"
"Hey? I don't know. Woman, I guess."
"Aw, cut it out. Never mind, I got it:
"--As a man and a citizen. Captain Hall was fifty-nine years of age at
the time of his demise. He was born in South Harniss and followed the
sea until 1871, when he founded the firm of Hall and Company, which was
for some years the leading dealer in fresh and salt fish in this section
of the state. When the firm--
"I say, Perce! 'Twouldn't do to say Marcellus failed in business, would
it? Might seem like hintin' at that stuff about his sister and the rest
of it. Might get us into trouble, eh?"
"Humph! I don't know who with. Everybody's talkin' about it, anyway. Up
to the boardin' house they've been talking about mighty little else ever
since he died."
"I know, but talk's one thing and print's another. I'm goin' to leave it
out.
"When the firm went out of business in 1879, Captain Hall followed the
sea again, commanding the ships Faraway, Fair Wind, and Treasure Seeker,
and the bark Apollo. Later he retired from the sea and has not been
active in the same or otherwise since. In 1894 he married Augusta Bangs
Lathrop, widow of the late Reverend Charles Lathrop, formerly pastor of
the Congregational Church in this town. Captain Hall had been residing
in his native town, South Harniss, but after his marriage he took up
his residence in Ostable, purchasing the residence formerly owned by
Elnathan Phinney on Phinney's Hill, where he lived until his lamented
demise. Mrs. Hall passed away in 1896. The sudden removal of Captain
Hall from our midst leaves a stepdaughter, Mary Augusta Lathrop, aged
seven. The--"
Here Mr. Sparrow's train of thought collided with the obstruction which
was derailing many similar trains in Ostable and South Harniss.
"I say, Perce," he observed "what's goin' to become of that kid of
Marcellus's--his wife's, I mean? Marcellus didn't have any relations, as
far as anybody knows, and neither did his wife. Who's goin' to take care
of Mary-'Gusta?"
Percy shook his head. "Don't know," he answered. "That's what all hands
are askin'. I presume likely she'll be looked after. Marcellus left
plenty of money, didn't he? And kids with money can generally find
guardians."
"Yup, I guess that's so. Still, whoever gets her will have their hands
full. She's the most old-fashioned, queerest young-one ever I saw."
So much for Mr. Sparrow and his fellow laborer for the Enterprise. Now
to listen for a moment to Judge Baxter, who led the legal profession
of Ostable; and to Mrs. Baxter who, so common report affirmed, led the
Judge. The pair were upstairs in the Baxter house, dressing for the
funeral.
"Daniel," declared Mrs. Baxter, "it's the queerest thing I ever heard
of. You say they don't know--either of them--and the child herself
doesn't know, either."
"That's it, Ophelia. No one knows except myself. Captain Hall read the
letter to me and put it in my charge a year ago."
"Well, I must say!"
"Yes, I know, I said it at the time, and I've been saying it to myself
ever since. It doesn't mean anything; that is, it is not binding
legally, of course. It's absolutely unbusinesslike and unpractical.
Simply a letter, asking them, as old friends, to do this thing. Whether
they will or not the Almighty only knows."
"Well, Daniel, I must say I shouldn't have thought you, as his lawyer,
would have let him do such a thing. Of course, I don't know either of
them very well, but, from what little I've heard, I should say they
know as much about what they would be supposed to do as--as you do about
tying a necktie. For mercy sakes let me fix it! The knot is supposed to
be under your chin, not under your ear as if you were going to be hung."
The Judge meekly elevated the chin and his wife pulled the tie into
place.
"And so," she said, "they can say yes or no just as they like."
"Yes, it rests entirely with them."
"And suppose they say no, what will become of the child then?"
"I can't tell you. Captain Hall seemed pretty certain they wouldn't say
no."
"Humph! There! Now you look a little more presentable. Have you got a
clean handkerchief? Well, that's an unexpected miracle; I don't know how
you happened to think of it. When are you going to speak with them about
it?"
"Today, if they come to the funeral, as I suppose they will."
"I shall be in a fidget until I know whether they say yes or no. And
whichever they say I shall keep on fidgeting until I see what happens
after that. Poor little Mary-'Gusta! I wonder what WILL become of her."
The Judge shook his head.
Over the road between South Harniss and Ostable a buggy drawn by an aged
white horse was moving slowly. On the buggy's seat were two men, Captain
Shadrach Gould and Zoeth Hamilton. Captain Gould, big, stout, and
bearded, was driving. Mr. Hamilton, small, thin, smooth-faced and
white-haired, was beside him. Both were obviously dressed in their
Sunday clothes, Captain Shadrach's blue, Mr. Hamilton's black. Each wore
an uncomfortably high collar and the shoes of each had been laboriously
polished. Their faces, utterly unlike in most respects, were very
solemn.
"Ah hum!" sighed Mr. Hamilton.
Captain Shadrach snorted impatiently.
"For the land sakes don't do that again, Zoeth," he protested. "That's
the tenth 'Ah hum' you've cast loose in a mile. I know we're bound to a
funeral but there ain't no need of tollin' the bell all the way. I don't
like it and I don't think Marcellus would neither, if he could hear
you."
"Perhaps he can hear us, Shadrach," suggested his companion, mildly.
"Perhaps he's here with us now; who can tell?"
"Humph! Well, if he is then I KNOW he don't like it. Marcellus never
made any fuss whatever happened, and | 575.841023 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.8225820 | 702 | 279 |
Produced by James Rusk
LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG
By Charles Reade
PREFACE
SHOULD these characters, imbedded in carpet incidents, interest the
public at all, they will probably reappear in more potent scenes. This
design, which I may never live to execute, is, I fear, the only excuse
I can at present offer for some pages, forming the twelfth chapter of
this volume.
CHAPTER I.
NEARLY a quarter of a century ago, Lucy Fountain, a young lady of
beauty and distinction, was, by the death of her mother, her sole
surviving parent, left in the hands of her two trustees, Edward
Fountain, Esq., of Font Abbey, and Mr. Bazalgette, a merchant whose
wife was Mrs. Fountain's half-sister.
They agreed to lighten the burden by dividing it. She should spend
half the year with each trustee in turn, until marriage should take
her off their hands.
Our mild tale begins in Mr. Bazalgette's own house, two years after
the date of that arrangement.
The chit-chat must be your main clue to the characters. In life it is
the same. Men and women won't come to you ticketed, or explanation in
hand.
"Lucy, you are a great comfort in a house; it is so nice to have some
one to pour out one's heart to; my husband is no use at all."
"Aunt Bazalgette!"
"In that way. You listen to my faded illusions, to the aspirations of
a nature too finely organized, ah! to find its happiness in this
rough, selfish world. When I open my bosom to him, what does he do?
Guess now--whistles."
"Then I call that rude."
"So do I; and then he whistles more and more."
"Yes; but, aunt, if any serious trouble or grief fell upon you, you
would find Mr. Bazalgette a much greater comfort and a better stay
than poor spiritless me."
"Oh, if the house took fire and fell about our ears, he would come out
of his shell, no doubt; or if the children all died one after another,
poor dear little souls; but those great troubles only come in stories.
Give me a friend that can sympathize with the real hourly
mortifications of a too susceptible nature; sit on this ottoman, and
let me go on. Where was I when Jones came and interrupted us? They
always do just at the interesting point."
Miss Fountain's face promptly wreathed itself into an expectant smile.
She abandoned her hand and her ear, and leaned her graceful person
toward her aunt, while that lady murmured to her in low and thrilling
tones--his eyes, his long hair, his imaginative expressions, his
romantic projects of frugal love; how her harsh papa had warned Adonis
off the premises; how Adonis went without a word (as pale as death,
love), and soon after, in his despair, flung himself--to an ugly
heiress; and how this disappointment had darkened her whole life, and
so on.
Perhaps, if Adonis had stood before her now, rolling his eyes, and his
phrases hot from the annuals | 575.842622 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.9176260 | 336 | 10 |
Produced by David Widger
ESSAYS OF MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE
Translated by Charles Cotton
Edited by William Carew Hazilitt
1877
CONTENTS OF VOLUME 6.
XXVII. Of friendship.
XXVIII. Nine-and-twenty sonnets of Estienne de la Boetie.
XXIX. Of moderation.
XXX. Of cannibals.
XXXI. That a man is soberly to judge of the divine ordinances.
XXXII. That we are to avoid pleasures, even at the expense of life.
XXXIII. That fortune is oftentimes observed to act by the rule of
reason.
XXXIV. Of one defect in our government.
XXXV. Of the custom of wearing clothes.
XXXVI. Of Cato the Younger.
XXXVII. That we laugh and cry for the same thing.
XXXVIII. Of solitude.
CHAPTER XXVII
OF FRIENDSHIP
Having considered the proceedings of a painter that serves me, I had a
mind to imitate his way. He chooses the fairest place and middle of any
wall, or panel, wherein to draw a picture, which he finishes with his
utmost care and art, and the vacuity about it he fills with grotesques,
which are odd fantastic figures without any grace but what they derive
from their variety, and the extravagance of their shapes. And in truth,
what are these things I scribble, other than grotesques and monstrous
bodies, made of various parts, without any certain figure, | 575.937666 |
2023-11-16 18:26:39.9187170 | 909 | 9 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: _The First Crusaders in Sight of Jerusalem_]
THE STORY OF
THE CRUSADES
BY
E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON
F.R.Hist.S.
AUTHOR OF
'BRITAIN LONG AGO' 'THE BOOK OF RUSTEM'
'TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN' ETC.
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY
_First published December 1910_
_by_ GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO.
_39-4l Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2
Reprinted September 1913
Reprinted in the present series:
March 1912; May 1914; January 1919; March 1924;
January 1927; November 1927; July 1930_
_Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_
Contents
I. The Story of Mohammed the Prophet
II. Mohammed as Conqueror
III. The Spread of Islam
IV. The Rise of Chivalry
V. The Story of Peter the Hermit
VI. The Story of the Emperor Alexios and the First Crusade
VII. The Siege of Antioch
VIII. The Holy City is won
IX. Bernard of Clairvaux and the Second Crusade
X. The Loss of Jerusalem
XI. The Story of the Third Crusade
XII. The Adventures of Richard Lion-Heart
XIII. The Story of Dandolo, the Blind Doge
XIV. The Forsaking of the High Enterprise
XV. The Story of the Latin Empire of Constantinople
XVI. The Story of the Children's Crusade
XVII. The Emperor Frederick and the Sixth Crusade
XVIII. The Story of the Seventh Crusade
XIX. The Crusade of St Louis
XX. The Story of the Fall of Acre
XXI. The Story of the Fall of Constantinople
XXII. The Effect of the Crusades
List of Books Consulted
Index of Proper Names
Illustrations
The First Crusaders in Sight of Jerusalem... _Frontispiece_
The Vision of Mohammed
Pilgrims of the Eleventh Century journeying to the Holy City
The Preaching of Peter the Hermit
Duke Godfrey marching through Hungary
Robert of Normandy at Dorylæum
The Storming of Jerusalem
King Louis surrounded by the Turks
Richard and Philip at the Siege of Acre
Richard of England utterly defeats the Army of Saladin
The Fleet of the Fifth Crusade sets Sail from Venice
The Children crossing the Alps
John of Brienne attacking the River Tower
The Landing of St Louis in Egypt
The Last Fight of William Longsword
The Fall of Acre
Map of the Crusades
{9}
The Story of the Crusades
CHAPTER I
The Story of Mohammed the Prophet
_A poor shepherd people roaming unnoticed in the deserts of Arabia: a
Hero-Prophet sent down to them with a word they could believe: See! the
unnoticed becomes world-notable, the small has grown world-great_.
CARLYLE: _Hero as Prophet_.
The two hundred years which cover, roughly speaking, the actual period
of the Holy War, are crammed with an interest that never grows dim.
Gallant figures, noble knights, generous foes, valiant women, eager
children, follow one another through these centuries, and form a
pageant the colour and romance of which can never fade, for the
circumstances were in themselves unique. The two great religious
forces of the world--Christianity and Islam, the Cross and the
Crescent--were at grips with one another, and for the first time the
stately East, with its suggestion of mystery, was face to face with the
brilliant West, wherein the civilisation and organisation of Rome were
at | 575.938757 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.0151680 | 808 | 24 |
Produced by Julia Miller and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections
is found at the end of the text. Inconsistencies in spelling and
hyphenation have been maintained. A list of inconsistently spelled
and hyphenated words is found at the end of the text.
Oe ligatures have been expanded.
MEMOIR
OF AN
EVENTFUL EXPEDITION
IN
CENTRAL AMERICA;
RESULTING IN THE DISCOVERY OF THE IDOLATROUS CITY OF
IXIMAYA,
In an unexplored region; and the possession of two
REMARKABLE AZTEC CHILDREN,
Descendants and Specimens of the Sacerdotal Caste, (now
nearly extinct,) of the Ancient Aztec Founders of the
Ruined Temples of that Country,
DESCRIBED BY
JOHN L. STEVENS, ESQ.,
AND OTHER TRAVELLERS.
Translated from the Spanish of
PEDRO VELASQUEZ,
of SAN SALVADOR.
NEW YORK:
E. F. Applegate, Printer, 111 Nassau Street.
1850.
PROFILE ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM
CENTRAL AMERICAN RUINS,
OF
ANCIENT RACES STILL EXISTING
IN IXIMAYA.
[Illustration]
The above three figures, sketched from engravings in "Stevens's Central
America," will be found, on personal comparison, to bear a remarkable
and convincing resemblance, both in the general features and the
position of the head, to the two living Aztec children, now exhibiting
in the United States, of the ancient sacerdotal caste of _Kaanas_, or
Pagan Mimes, of which a few individuals remain in the newly discovered
city of Iximaya. See, the following _Memoir_, page 31.
[Illustration]
These two figures, sketched from the same work, are said, by Senor
Velasquez, in the unpublished portion of his narrative, to be
"irresistible likenesses" of the equally exclusive but somewhat more
numerous priestly caste of _Mahaboons_, still existing in that city,
and to which belonged Vaalpeor, an official guardian of those children,
as mentioned in this memoir. Velasquez states that the likeness of
Vaalpeor to the right hand figure in the frontispiece of Stevens' second
volume, which is here also the one on the right hand, was as exact, in
outline, as if the latter had been a daguerreotype miniature.
While writing his "Narrative" after his return to San Salvador, in the
spring of the present year, (1850,) Senor Velasquez was favored, by an
American gentleman of that city, with a copy of "Layard's Nineveh," and
was forcibly struck with the close characteristic resemblance of the
faces in many of its engravings to those of the inhabitants in general,
as a peculiar family of mankind, both of Iximaya and its surrounding
region. The following are sketches, (somewhat imperfect,) of two of the
male faces to which he refers:
[Illustration]
And the following profile, from the same work, is pronounced by
Velasquez to be equally characteristic of the female faces of that
region, making due allowance for the superb head dresses of tropical
plumage, with which he describes the latter as being adorned, instead of | 576.035208 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.1195700 | 3,711 | 6 |
Produced by Bryan Ness, Stephen H. Sentoff and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
ADDRESSES AND PROCEEDINGS
OF THE
SECOND
National Conservation Congress
HELD AT
SAINT PAUL, MINNESOTA
SEPTEMBER 5-8
1910
[Illustration: BERNARD N. BAKER
Baltimore, Md.
President, Second National Conservation Congress]
PROCEEDINGS
OF THE
Second
National Conservation Congress
AT
Saint Paul
SEPTEMBER 5-8, 1910
"Let us conserve the foundations of our prosperity"
(Declaration of the Governors, 1908)
WASHINGTON
NATIONAL CONSERVATION CONGRESS
1911
W. F. ROBERTS COMPANY
PRINTERS
WASHINGTON, D. C.
[Illustration: HON. J. B. WHITE
Kansas City, Mo.
Chairman, Executive Committee, Second National Conservation
Congress and Third National Conservation Congress]
OFFICERS AND COMMITTEES FOR 1909-10
_President_
B. N. BAKER, Baltimore
_Executive Secretary_
THOMAS R. SHIPP, Washington, D. C.
_Secretary_
L. FRANK BROWN, Seattle
_Vice-Presidents_
JOHN BARRETT, Washington, D. C.
JAMES S. WHIPPLE, Albany
E. J. WICKSON, Berkeley
ALFRED C. ACKERMAN, Athens, Ga.
HENRY A. BARKER, Providence
_Executive Committee_
J. B. WHITE, Kansas City, Mo., _Chairman_
B. N. BAKER, Baltimore
J. N. TEAL, Portland, Ore.
A. B. FARQUHAR, York, Pa.
L. H. BAILEY, Ithaca
THOMAS BURKE, Seattle
HENRY E. HARDTNER, Urania, La.
W. A. FLEMING JONES, Las Cruces
Mrs PHILIP N. MOORE, Saint Louis
Mrs J. ELLEN FOSTER, Washington, D. C.
_Local Board of Managers for the Saint Paul Congress_
Hon. A. O. EBERHART, _Chairman_
FRANK B. KELLOGG, _Vice-Chairman_
J. S. BELL, Minneapolis
H. A. TUTTLE, Minneapolis
GEORGE M. GILLETTE, Minneapolis
B. F. NELSON, Minneapolis
L. S. DONALDSON, Minneapolis
JOSEPH H. BEEK, Saint Paul
GEORGE H. PRINCE, Saint Paul
REUBEN WARNER, Saint Paul
PAUL W. DOTY, Saint Paul
THEODORE W. GRIGGS, Saint Paul
W. C. HANDY, _Secretary_
OFFICERS AND COMMITTEES FOR 1910-11
_President_
HENRY WALLACE, Des Moines
_Executive Secretary_
THOMAS R. SHIPP, Washington, D. C.
_Treasurer_
D. AUSTIN LATCHAW, Kansas City, Mo.
_Recording Secretary_
JAMES C. GIPE, Clarks, La.
_Executive Committee_
J. B. WHITE, Kansas City, Mo., _Chairman_
B. N. BAKER, Baltimore
L. H. BAILEY, Ithaca
JAMES R. GARFIELD, Cleveland
FRANK C. GOUDY, Denver
W. A. FLEMING JONES, Las Cruces
Mrs PHILIP N. MOORE, Saint Louis
WALTER H. PAGE, New York
GEORGE C. PARDEE, Oakland, Cal.
GIFFORD PINCHOT, Washington, D. C.
J. N. TEAL, Portland, Ore.
E. L. WORSHAM, Atlanta
_Vice-Presidents_
ALABAMA, Hon. Albert P. Bush, Mobile; ALASKA, Hon. James Wickersham,
Fairbanks; ARIZONA, B. A. Fowler, Phenix; ARKANSAS, A. H. Purdue,
Fayetteville; CALIFORNIA, E. H. Cox, San Francisco; COLORADO, Murdo
Mackenzie, Trinidad; COLUMBIA (District of), W J McGee, Washington;
CONNECTICUT, Rollin S. Woodruff, Hartford; DELAWARE, Hon. George Gray,
Wilmington; FLORIDA, Cromwell Gibbons, Jacksonville; GEORGIA, Hon. Jno.
C. Hart, Union Point; HAWAII, Mrs Margaret R. Knudsen, Kanai; IDAHO,
James A. MacLean, University of Idaho; ILLINOIS, Julius Rosenwald,
Chicago; INDIANA, F. J. Breeze, Lafayette; IOWA, Carl Leopold,
Burlington; KANSAS, W. R. Stubbs, Topeka; KENTUCKY, James K. Patterson,
Lexington; LOUISIANA, Newton C. Blanchard, Shreveport; MAINE, Bert M.
Fernald, Augusta; MARYLAND, William Bullock Clark, Baltimore;
MASSACHUSETTS, Frank W. Rane, Boston; MICHIGAN, J. L. Snyder, Lansing;
MINNESOTA, Ambrose Tighe, Saint Paul; MISSISSIPPI, A. W. Shands, Sardis;
MISSOURI, Hermann Von Schrenk, Saint Louis; MONTANA, E. L. Norris,
Helena; NEBRASKA, Dr F. A. Long, Madison; NEVADA, Senator Francis G.
Newlands, Reno; NEW HAMPSHIRE, George B. Leighton, Monadnock; NEW
JERSEY, Charles Lathrop Pack, Lakewood; NEW MEXICO, W. A. Fleming Jones,
Las Cruces; NEW YORK, R. A. Pearson, Albany; NORTH CAROLINA, T. Gilbert
Pearson, Greensboro; NORTH DAKOTA, U. G. Larimore, Larimore; OHIO, James
R. Garfield, Cleveland; OKLAHOMA, Benj. Martin, Jr., Muskogee; OREGON,
J. N. Teal, Portland; PENNSYLVANIA, William S. Harvey, Philadelphia;
PHILIPPINE ISLANDS, Maj. George P. Ahern, Manila; PORTO RICO, Hon.
Walter K. Landis, San Juan; RHODE ISLAND, Henry A. Barker, Providence;
SOUTH CAROLINA, E. J. Watson, Columbia; SOUTH DAKOTA, Ellwood C.
Perisho, Vermillion; TENNESSEE, Herman Suter, Nashville; TEXAS, W.
Goodrich Jones, Temple; UTAH, Harden Bennion, Salt Lake City; VERMONT,
Fletcher D. Proctor, Proctor; VIRGINIA, A. R. Turnbull, Norfolk;
WASHINGTON, M. E. Hay, Olympia; WEST VIRGINIA, A. B. Fleming, Fairmont;
WISCONSIN, Charles R. Van Hise, Madison; WYOMING, Bryant B. Brooks,
Cheyenne; NATIONAL CONSERVATION ASSOCIATION, Gifford Pinchot,
Washington.
_Standing Committees_
FORESTS--H. S. Graves, U. S. Forester, Washington, D. C., _Chairman_; E.
M. Griffith, Madison, Wis.; E. T. Allen, Portland, Ore.; J. Lewis
Thompson, Houston.
LANDS--Governor W. R. Stubbs, Topeka, _Chairman_; Dwight B. Heard,
Phenix; J. L. Snyder, Lansing; Murdo Mackenzie, Trinidad; Charles S.
Barrett, Union City, Ga.
WATERS--W J McGee, Washington, D. C., _Chairman_; E. A. Smith, Spokane;
Henry A. Barker, Providence; J. N. Teal, Portland, Ore.; Herbert Knox
Smith, Washington, D. C.
MINERALS--Charles R. Van Hise, Madison, _Chairman_; Joseph A. Holmes,
Washington, D. C.; D. W. Brunton, Denver; John Mitchell, New York; I. C.
White, Morgantown, W. Va.
VITAL RESOURCES--Dr William H. Welch, Baltimore, _Chairman_; Professor
Irving Fisher, New Haven; Dr H. W. Wiley, Washington, D. C.; Dr J. H.
Kellogg, Battle Creek, Mich.; Walter H. Page, New York.
[Illustration: HENRY WALLACE
Des Moines, Iowa
President, Third National Conservation Congress]
CONTENTS
PAGE
CONSTITUTION ix
OPENING SESSION 1
Invocation by ARCHBISHOP IRELAND 1
Greeting from CARDINAL GIBBONS 3
Address by GOVERNOR EBERHART 3
Welcome by MAYOR KELLER 13
Address by PRESIDENT TAFT 14
SECOND SESSION 34
Induction of GOVERNOR STUBBS as Chairman 34
Address by SENATOR NELSON 35
Address by GOVERNOR NOEL 48
Address by GOVERNOR NORRIS 52
Address by GOVERNOR DENEEN 59
Address by GOVERNOR HAY 64
Announcement by PROFESSOR CONDRA 71
Address by GOVERNOR BROOKS 72
Remarks by GOVERNOR STUBBS 75
Address by GOVERNOR VESSEY 77
THIRD SESSION 79
Appointment of Credentials Committee 79
Action on Constitution of
the National Conservation Congress 79
Remarks by DIRECTOR-GENERAL BARRETT 80
Remarks by GOVERNOR STUBBS 81
Invocation by REVEREND DOCTOR MONTGOMERY 81
Address by EX-PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT 82
FOURTH SESSION 93
Address by MISS BOARDMAN 94
Address by COMMISSIONER HERBERT KNOX SMITH 101
Modification of Credentials Committee 106
Address by HONORABLE JAMES R. GARFIELD 106
Address by EX-GOVERNOR PARDEE 115
Remarks by DELEGATE HORR, of Washington 120
Address by EX-GOVERNOR BLANCHARD 121
Address by WILLIAM E. SMYTHE 127
Address by WALTER L. FISHER 129
Address by COLONEL JAMES H. DAVIDSON 132
FIFTH SESSION 134
Invocation by BISHOP EDSALL 134
Address by PRESIDENT FINLEY 135
Report of Credentials Committee 145
Address by SENATOR BEVERIDGE 146
Response by GIFFORD PINCHOT 152
Address by PRESIDENT MCVEY 152
Discussion by CHAIRMAN WHITE 158
Address by MRS WELCH,
of the General Federation of Women's Clubs 160
Address by MRS HOYLE TOMKIES,
of the Women's National Rivers and Harbors Congress 163
Address by MRS SNEATH,
of the General Federation of Women's Clubs 166
Report by MRS HOWARD,
of the Daughters of the American Revolution 167
SIXTH SESSION 168
Induction of SENATOR CLAPP as Chairman 168
Address by PRESIDENT CRAIGHEAD 168
Postponement of Call of States 171
Address by D. AUSTIN LATCHAW 171
Address by JAMES J. HILL 177
Discussion by HENRY WALLACE 188
Address by SECRETARY WILSON 194
Discussion by REPRESENTATIVE STEVENS 201
Address by PROFESSOR BAILEY 203
SEVENTH SESSION 213
Address by PROFESSOR GRAVES 214
Address by ALFRED L. BAKER 222
Address by FRANK H. SHORT 226
Address by DIRECTOR-GENERAL BARRETT 237
Address by HONORABLE ESMOND OVEY 243
Action on time for election and report of
Resolutions Committee 246
EIGHTH SESSION 246
Appointment of Nominating Committee 246
Induction of GOVERNOR EBERHART as Chairman 246
Address by DEAN WESBROOK 247
Address by WALLACE D. SIMMONS 257
Address by COMMISSIONER ELMER E. BROWN 264
Address by MRS SCOTT, President of
the Daughters of the American Revolution 270
Action in memory of MRS J. ELLEN FOSTER 276
Presentation by MRS HOWARD to GIFFORD PINCHOT 276
Response by MR PINCHOT 277
Address by FRANCIS J. HENEY 278
Address by GIFFORD PINCHOT 292
Expression by GOVERNOR EBERHART 298
Statement by PROFESSOR CONDRA 298
CLOSING SESSION 299
Commencement of Call of States 299
Response by DELEGATE HARVEY, of Pennsylvania 299
Interlude by E. W. ROSS, of Washington 302
Report of Nominating Committee 303
Nomination by CHAIRMAN WHITE 303
Second by GIFFORD PINCHOT 304
Election of and response by HENRY WALLACE as President 305
Election of other Officers 306
Resolution of thanks to retiring PRESIDENT BAKER 308
Response by MR BAKER 308
Report of Resolutions Committee 308
Adoption of Resolutions 312
Interlude by E. W. ROSS, of Washington 312
Remarks by DELEGATE HORR, of Washington 313
Ratification of Vice-Presidents 313
Resolution in memory of PROFESSOR GREEN 313
Resumption of Call of States 314
Response by DELEGATE PURDUE, of Arkansas 314
Response by DELEGATE BANNISTER, of Indiana 314
Response by DELEGATE MILLER, of Iowa 314
Response by DELEGATE YOUNG, of Kansas 314
Response by DELEGATE BAKER, of Maryland 314
Response by DELEGATE THORP, of Minnesota 315
Response by STATE GEOLOGIST LOWE, of Mississippi 315
Response by GENERAL NOBLE, of Missouri 315
Response by CHAIRMAN WHITE 316
Response by PROFESSOR CONDRA, of Nebraska 317
Response by a Delegate from New York 318
Response by DELEGATE NESTOS, of North Dakota 318
Response by DELEGATE KRUEGER, of South Dakota 319
Remarks by DELEGATE JOHNS, of Washington 320
Privileged statement by LAND COMMISSIONER ROSS,
of Washington 322
Response by DELEGATE FOWLER, of Arizona 324
Response by DELEGATE HUNT, of District of Columbia 324
Response by DELEGATE BARKER, of Rhode Island 324
Response by PROFESSOR WHITE, of West Virginia 325
Response by DELEGATE WORSHAM, of Georgia 325
Motion for adjournment by DELEGATE MARTIN, of Oklahoma 326
SUPPLEMENTARY PROCEEDINGS 327
Laws that should be Passed,
by SENATOR FRANCIS G. NEWLANDS 327
Conservation of the Nation's Resources,
by CHAIRMAN J. B. WHITE 328
Practical Aspects of Conservation, by A. B. FARQUHAR 331
Report from Arkansas, by SID B. REDDING 333
Report from Colorado, by FRANK C. GOUDY 334
| 576.13961 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.1206800 | 7,429 | 12 |
Transcribed from the 1889 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
MADAM HOW AND LADY WHY
or, FIRST LESSONS IN EARTH LORE FOR CHILDREN
DEDICATION
To my son Grenville Arthur, and to his school-fellows at Winton House
This little book is dedicated.
PREFACE
My dear boys,--When I was your age, there were no such children's books
as there are now. Those which we had were few and dull, and the pictures
in them ugly and mean: while you have your choice of books without
number, clear, amusing, and pretty, as well as really instructive, on
subjects which were only talked of fifty years ago by a few learned men,
and very little understood even by them. So if mere reading of books
would make wise men, you ought to grow up much wiser than us old fellows.
But mere reading of wise books will not make you wise men: you must use
for yourselves the tools with which books are made wise; and that is--your
eyes, and ears, and common sense.
Now, among those very stupid old-fashioned boys' books was one which
taught me that; and therefore I am more grateful to it than if it had
been as full of wonderful pictures as all the natural history books you
ever saw. Its name was _Evenings at Home_; and in it was a story called
"Eyes and no Eyes;" a regular old-fashioned, prim, sententious story; and
it began thus:--
"Well, Robert, where have you been walking this afternoon?" said Mr.
Andrews to one of his pupils at the close of a holiday.
Oh--Robert had been to Broom Heath, and round by Camp Mount, and home
through the meadows. But it was very dull. He hardly saw a single
person. He had much rather have gone by the turnpike-road.
Presently in comes Master William, the other pupil, dressed, I suppose,
as wretched boys used to be dressed forty years ago, in a frill collar,
and skeleton monkey-jacket, and tight trousers buttoned over it, and
hardly coming down to his ancles; and low shoes, which always came off in
sticky ground; and terribly dirty and wet he is: but he never (he says)
had such a pleasant walk in his life; and he has brought home his
handkerchief (for boys had no pockets in those days much bigger than key-
holes) full of curiosities.
He has got a piece of mistletoe, wants to know what it is; and he has
seen a woodpecker, and a wheat-ear, and gathered strange flowers on the
heath; and hunted a peewit because he thought its wing was broken, till
of course it led him into a bog, and very wet he got. But he did not
mind it, because he fell in with an old man cutting turf, who told him
all about turf-cutting, and gave him a dead adder. And then he went up a
hill, and saw a grand prospect; and wanted to go again, and make out the
geography of the country from Cary's old county maps, which were the only
maps in those days. And then, because the hill was called Camp Mount, he
looked for a Roman camp, and found one; and then he went down to the
river, saw twenty things more; and so on, and so on, till he had brought
home curiosities enough, and thoughts enough, to last him a week.
Whereon Mr. Andrews, who seems to have been a very sensible old
gentleman, tells him all about his curiosities: and then it comes out--if
you will believe it--that Master William has been over the very same
ground as Master Robert, who saw nothing at all.
Whereon Mr. Andrews says, wisely enough, in his solemn old-fashioned
way,--
"So it is. One man walks through the world with his eyes open, another
with his eyes shut; and upon this difference depends all the superiority
of knowledge which one man acquires over another. I have known sailors
who had been in all the quarters of the world, and could tell you nothing
but the signs of the tippling-houses, and the price and quality of the
liquor. On the other hand, Franklin could not cross the Channel without
making observations useful to mankind. While many a vacant thoughtless
youth is whirled through Europe without gaining a single idea worth
crossing the street for, the observing eye and inquiring mind find matter
of improvement and delight in every ramble. You, then, William, continue
to use your eyes. And you, Robert, learn that eyes were given to you to
use."
So said Mr. Andrews: and so I say, dear boys--and so says he who has the
charge of you--to you. Therefore I beg all good boys among you to think
over this story, and settle in their own minds whether they will be eyes
or no eyes; whether they will, as they grow up, look and see for
themselves what happens: or whether they will let other people look for
them, or pretend to look; and dupe them, and lead them about--the blind
leading the blind, till both fall into the ditch.
I say "good boys;" not merely clever boys, or prudent boys: because using
your eyes, or not using them, is a question of doing Right or doing
Wrong. God has given you eyes; it is your duty to God to use them. If
your parents tried to teach you your lessons in the most agreeable way,
by beautiful picture-books, would it not be ungracious, ungrateful, and
altogether naughty and wrong, to shut your eyes to those pictures, and
refuse to learn? And is it not altogether naughty and wrong to refuse to
learn from your Father in Heaven, the Great God who made all things, when
he offers to teach you all day long by the most beautiful and most
wonderful of all picture-books, which is simply all things which you can
see, hear, and touch, from the sun and stars above your head to the
mosses and insects at your feet? It is your duty to learn His lessons:
and it is your interest. God's Book, which is the Universe, and the
reading of God's Book, which is Science, can do you nothing but good, and
teach you nothing but truth and wisdom. God did not put this wondrous
world about your young souls to tempt or to mislead them. If you ask Him
for a fish, he will not give you a serpent. If you ask Him for bread, He
will not give you a stone.
So use your eyes and your intellect, your senses and your brains, and
learn what God is trying to teach you continually by them. I do not mean
that you must stop there, and learn nothing more. Anything but that.
There are things which neither your senses nor your brains can tell you;
and they are not only more glorious, but actually more true and more real
than any things which you can see or touch. But you must begin at the
beginning in order to end at the end, and sow the seed if you wish to
gather the fruit. God has ordained that you, and every child which comes
into the world, should begin by learning something of the world about him
by his senses and his brain; and the better you learn what they can teach
you, the more fit you will be to learn what they cannot teach you. The
more you try now to understand _things_, the more you will be able
hereafter to understand men, and That which is above men. You began to
find out that truly Divine mystery, that you had a mother on earth,
simply by lying soft and warm upon her bosom; and so (as Our Lord told
the Jews of old) it is by watching the common natural things around you,
and considering the lilies of the field, how they grow, that you will
begin at least to learn that far Diviner mystery, that you have a Father
in Heaven. And so you will be delivered (if you will) out of the tyranny
of darkness, and distrust, and fear, into God's free kingdom of light,
and faith, and love; and will be safe from the venom of that tree which
is more deadly than the fabled upas of the East. Who planted that tree I
know not, it was planted so long ago: but surely it is none of God's
planting, neither of the Son of God: yet it grows in all lands and in all
climes, and sends its hidden suckers far and wide, even (unless we be
watchful) into your hearts and mine. And its name is the Tree of
Unreason, whose roots are conceit and ignorance, and its juices folly and
death. It drops its venom into the finest brains; and makes them call
sense, nonsense; and nonsense, sense; fact, fiction; and fiction, fact.
It drops its venom into the tenderest hearts, alas! and makes them call
wrong, right; and right, wrong; love, cruelty; and cruelty, love. Some
say that the axe is laid to the root of it just now, and that it is
already tottering to its fall: while others say that it is growing
stronger than ever, and ready to spread its upas-shade over the whole
earth. For my part, I know not, save that all shall be as God wills. The
tree has been cut down already again and again; and yet has always thrown
out fresh shoots and dropped fresh poison from its boughs. But this at
least I know: that any little child, who will use the faculties God has
given him, may find an antidote to all its poison in the meanest herb
beneath his feet.
There, you do not understand me, my boys; and the best prayer I can offer
for you is, perhaps, that you should never need to understand me: but if
that sore need should come, and that poison should begin to spread its
mist over your brains and hearts, then you will be proof against it; just
in proportion as you have used the eyes and the common sense which God
has given you, and have considered the lilies of the field, how they
grow.
C. KINGSLEY.
CHAPTER I--THE GLEN
You find it dull walking up here upon Hartford Bridge Flat this sad
November day? Well, I do not deny that the moor looks somewhat dreary,
though dull it need never be. Though the fog is clinging to the
fir-trees, and creeping among the heather, till you cannot see as far as
Minley Corner, hardly as far as Bramshill woods--and all the Berkshire
hills are as invisible as if it was a dark midnight--yet there is plenty
to be seen here at our very feet. Though there is nothing left for you
to pick, and all the flowers are dead and brown, except here and there a
poor half-withered scrap of bottle-heath, and nothing left for you to
catch either, for the butterflies and insects are all dead too, except
one poor old Daddy-long-legs, who sits upon that piece of turf, boring a
hole with her tail to lay her eggs in, before the frost catches her and
ends her like the rest: though all things, I say, seem dead, yet there is
plenty of life around you, at your feet, I may almost say in the very
stones on which you tread. And though the place itself be dreary enough,
a sheet of flat heather and a little glen in it, with banks of dead fern,
and a brown bog between them, and a few fir-trees struggling up--yet, if
you only have eyes to see it, that little bit of glen is beautiful and
wonderful,--so beautiful and so wonderful and so cunningly devised, that
it took thousands of years to make it; and it is not, I believe, half
finished yet.
How do I know all that? Because a fairy told it me; a fairy who lives up
here upon the moor, and indeed in most places else, if people have but
eyes to see her. What is her name? I cannot tell. The best name that I
can give her (and I think it must be something like her real name,
because she will always answer if you call her by it patiently and
reverently) is Madam How. She will come in good time, if she is called,
even by a little child. And she will let us see her at her work, and,
what is more, teach us to copy her. But there is another fairy here
likewise, whom we can hardly hope to see. Very thankful should we be if
she lifted even the smallest corner of her veil, and showed us but for a
moment if it were but her finger tip--so beautiful is she, and yet so
awful too. But that sight, I believe, would not make us proud, as if we
had had some great privilege. No, my dear child: it would make us feel
smaller, and meaner, and more stupid and more ignorant than we had ever
felt in our lives before; at the same time it would make us wiser than
ever we were in our lives before--that one glimpse of the great glory of
her whom we call Lady Why.
But I will say more of her presently. We must talk first with Madam How,
and perhaps she may help us hereafter to see Lady Why. For she is the
servant, and Lady Why is the mistress; though she has a Master over her
again--whose name I leave for you to guess. You have heard it often
already, and you will hear it again, for ever and ever.
But of one thing I must warn you, that you must not confound Madam How
and Lady Why. Many people do it, and fall into great mistakes
thereby,--mistakes that even a little child, if it would think, need not
commit. But really great philosophers sometimes make this mistake about
Why and How; and therefore it is no wonder if other people make it too,
when they write children's books about the wonders of nature, and call
them "Why and Because," or "The Reason Why." The books are very good
books, and you should read and study them: but they do not tell you
really "Why and Because," but only "How and So." They do not tell you
the "Reason Why" things happen, but only "The Way in which they happen."
However, I must not blame these good folks, for I have made the same
mistake myself often, and may do it again: but all the more shame to me.
For see--you know perfectly the difference between How and Why, when you
are talking about yourself. If I ask you, "Why did we go out to-day?"
You would not answer, "Because we opened the door." That is the answer
to "How did we go out?" The answer to Why did we go out is, "Because we
chose to take a walk." Now when we talk about other things beside
ourselves, we must remember this same difference between How and Why. If
I ask you, "Why does fire burn you?" you would answer, I suppose, being a
little boy, "Because it is hot;" which is all you know about it. But if
you were a great chemist, instead of a little boy, you would be apt to
answer me, I am afraid, "Fire burns because the vibratory motion of the
molecules of the heated substance communicates itself to the molecules of
my skin, and so destroys their tissue;" which is, I dare say, quite true:
but it only tells us how fire burns, the way or means by which it burns;
it does not tell us the reason why it burns.
But you will ask, "If that is not the reason why fire burns, what is?" My
dear child, I do not know. That is Lady Why's business, who is mistress
of Mrs. How, and of you and of me; and, as I think, of all things that
you ever saw, or can see, or even dream. And what her reason for making
fire burn may be I cannot tell. But I believe on excellent grounds that
her reason is a very good one. If I dare to guess, I should say that one
reason, at least, why fire burns, is that you may take care not to play
with it, and so not only scorch your finger, but set your whole bed on
fire, and perhaps the house into the bargain, as you might be tempted to
do if putting your finger in the fire were as pleasant as putting sugar
in your mouth.
My dear child, if I could once get clearly into your head this difference
between Why and How, so that you should remember them steadily in after
life, I should have done you more good than if I had given you a thousand
pounds.
But now that we know that How and Why are two very different matters, and
must not be confounded with each other, let us look for Madam How, and
see her at work making this little glen; for, as I told you, it is not
half made yet. One thing we shall see at once, and see it more and more
clearly the older we grow; I mean her wonderful patience and diligence.
Madam How is never idle for an instant. Nothing is too great or too
small for her; and she keeps her work before her eye in the same moment,
and makes every separate bit of it help every other bit. She will keep
the sun and stars in order, while she looks after poor old Mrs. Daddy-
long-legs there and her eggs. She will spend thousands of years in
building up a mountain, and thousands of years in grinding it down again;
and then carefully polish every grain of sand which falls from that
mountain, and put it in its right place, where it will be wanted
thousands of years hence; and she will take just as much trouble about
that one grain of sand as she did about the whole mountain. She will
settle the exact place where Mrs. Daddy-long-legs shall lay her eggs, at
the very same time that she is settling what shall happen hundreds of
years hence in a stair millions of miles away. And I really believe that
Madam How knows her work so thoroughly, that the grain of sand which
sticks now to your shoe, and the weight of Mrs. Daddy-long-legs' eggs at
the bottom of her hole, will have an effect upon suns and stars ages
after you and I are dead and gone. Most patient indeed is Madam How. She
does not mind the least seeing her own work destroyed; she knows that it
must be destroyed. There is a spell upon her, and a fate, that
everything she makes she must unmake again: and yet, good and wise woman
as she is, she never frets, nor tires, nor fudges her work, as we say at
school. She takes just as much pains to make an acorn as to make a
peach. She takes just as much pains about the acorn which the pig eats,
as about the acorn which will grow into a tall oak, and help to build a
great ship. She took just as much pains, again, about the acorn which
you crushed under your foot just now, and which you fancy will never come
to anything. Madam How is wiser than that. She knows that it will come
to something. She will find some use for it, as she finds a use for
everything. That acorn which you crushed will turn into mould, and that
mould will go to feed the roots of some plant, perhaps next year, if it
lies where it is; or perhaps it will be washed into the brook, and then
into the river, and go down to the sea, and will feed the roots of some
plant in some new continent ages and ages hence: and so Madam How will
have her own again. You dropped your stick into the river yesterday, and
it floated away. You were sorry, because it had cost you a great deal of
trouble to cut it, and peel it, and carve a head and your name on it.
Madam How was not sorry, though she had taken a great deal more trouble
with that stick than ever you had taken. She had been three years making
that stick, out of many things, sunbeams among the rest. But when it
fell into the river, Madam How knew that she should not lose her sunbeams
nor anything else: the stick would float down the river, and on into the
sea; and there, when it got heavy with the salt water, it would sink, and
lodge, and be buried, and perhaps ages hence turn into coal; and ages
after that some one would dig it up and burn it, and then out would come,
as bright warm flame, all the sunbeams that were stored away in that
stick: and so Madam How would have her own again. And if that should not
be the fate of your stick, still something else will happen to it just as
useful in the long run; for Madam How never loses anything, but uses up
all her scraps and odds and ends somehow, somewhere, somewhen, as is fit
and proper for the Housekeeper of the whole Universe. Indeed, Madam How
is so patient that some people fancy her stupid, and think that, because
she does not fall into a passion every time you steal her sweets, or
break her crockery, or disarrange her furniture, therefore she does not
care. But I advise you as a little boy, and still more when you grow up
to be a man, not to get that fancy into your head; for you will find
that, however good-natured and patient Madam How is in most matters, her
keeping silence and not seeming to see you is no sign that she has
forgotten. On the contrary, she bears a grudge (if one may so say, with
all respect to her) longer than any one else does; because she will
always have her own again. Indeed, I sometimes think that if it were not
for Lady Why, her mistress, she might bear some of her grudges for ever
and ever. I have seen men ere now damage some of Madam How's property
when they were little boys, and be punished by her all their lives long,
even though she had mended the broken pieces, or turned them to some
other use. Therefore I say to you, beware of Madam How. She will teach
you more kindly, patiently, and tenderly than any mother, if you want to
learn her trade. But if, instead of learning her trade, you damage her
materials and play with her tools, beware lest she has her own again out
of you.
Some people think, again, that Madam How is not only stupid, but
ill-tempered and cruel; that she makes earthquakes and storms, and famine
and pestilences, in a sort of blind passion, not caring where they go or
whom they hurt; quite heedless of who is in the way, if she wants to do
anything or go anywhere. Now, that Madam How can be very terrible there
can be no doubt: but there is no doubt also that, if people choose to
learn, she will teach them to get out of her way whenever she has
business to do which is dangerous to them. But as for her being cruel
and unjust, those may believe it who like. You, my dear boys and girls,
need not believe it, if you will only trust to Lady Why; and be sure that
Why is the mistress and How the servant, now and for ever. That Lady Why
is utterly good and kind I know full well; and I believe that, in her
case too, the old proverb holds, "Like mistress, like servant;" and that
the more we know of Madam How, the more we shall be content with her, and
ready to submit to whatever she does: but not with that stupid
resignation which some folks preach who do not believe in lady Why--that
is no resignation at all. That is merely saying--
"What can't be cured
Must be endured,"
like a donkey when he turns his tail to a hail-storm,--but the true
resignation, the resignation which is fit for grown people and children
alike, the resignation which is the beginning and the end of all wisdom
and all religion, is to believe that Lady Why knows best, because she
herself is perfectly good; and that as she is mistress over Madam How, so
she has a Master over her, whose name--I say again--I leave you to guess.
So now that I have taught you not to be afraid of Madam How, we will go
and watch her at her work; and if we do not understand anything we see,
we will ask her questions. She will always show us one of her lesson
books if we give her time. And if we have to wait some time for her
answer, you need not fear catching cold, though it is November; for she
keeps her lesson books scattered about in strange places, and we may have
to walk up and down that hill more than once before we can make out how
she makes the glen.
Well--how was the glen made? You shall guess it if you like, and I will
guess too. You think, perhaps, that an earthquake opened it?
My dear child, we must look before we guess. Then, after we have looked
a little, and got some grounds for guessing, then we may guess. And you
have no ground for supposing there ever was an earthquake here strong
enough to open that glen. There may have been one: but we must guess
from what we do know, and not from what we do not.
Guess again. Perhaps it was there always, from the beginning of the
world? My dear child, you have no proof of that either. Everything
round you is changing in shape daily and hourly, as you will find out the
longer you live; and therefore it is most reasonable to suppose that this
glen has changed its shape, as everything else on earth has done.
Besides, I told you not that Madam How had made the glen, but that she
was making it, and as yet has only half finished. That is my first
guess; and my next guess is that water is making the glen--water, and
nothing else.
You open your young eyes. And I do not blame you. I looked at this very
glen for fifteen years before I made that guess; and I have looked at it
some ten years since, to make sure that my guess held good. For man
after all is very blind, my dear boy, and very stupid, and cannot see
what lies under his own feet all day long; and if Lady Why, and He whom
Lady Why obeys, were not very patient and gentle with mankind, they would
have perished off the face of the earth long ago, simply from their own
stupidity. I, at least, was very stupid in this case, for I had my head
full of earthquakes, and convulsions of nature, and all sorts of
prodigies which never happened to this glen; and so, while I was trying
to find what was not there, I of course found nothing. But when I put
them all out of my head, and began to look for what was there, I found it
at once; and lo and behold! I had seen it a thousand times before, and
yet never learnt anything from it, like a stupid man as I was; though
what I learnt you may learn as easily as I did.
And what did I find?
The pond at the bottom of the glen.
You know that pond, of course? You don't need to go there? Very well.
Then if you do, do not you know also that the pond is always filling up
with sand and mud; and that though we clean it out every three or four
years, it always fills again? Now where does that sand and mud come
from?
Down that stream, of course, which runs out of this bog. You see it
coming down every time there is a flood, and the stream fouls.
Very well. Then, said Madam How to me, as soon as I recollected that,
"Don't you see, you stupid man, that the stream has made the glen, and
the earth which runs down the stream was all once part of the hill on
which you stand." I confess I was very much ashamed of myself when she
said that. For that is the history of the whole mystery. Madam How is
digging away with her soft spade, water. She has a harder spade, or
rather plough, the strongest and most terrible of all ploughs; but that,
I am glad to say, she has laid by in England here.
Water? But water is too simple a thing to have dug out all this great
glen.
My dear child, the most wonderful part of Madam How's work is, that she
does such great things and so many different things, with one and the
same tool, which looks to you so simple, though it really is not so.
Water, for instance, is not a simple thing, but most complicated; and we
might spend hours in talking about water, without having come to the end
of its wonders. Still Madam How is a great economist, and never wastes
her materials. She is like the sailor who boasted (only she never
boasts) that, if he had but a long life and a strong knife, he would
build St. Paul's Cathedral before he was done. And Madam How has a very
long life, and plenty of time; and one of the strongest of all her tools
is water. Now if you will stoop down and look into the heather, I will
show you how she is digging out the glen with this very mist which is
hanging about our feet. At least, so I guess.
For see how the mist clings to the points of the heather leaves, and
makes drops. If the hot sun came out the drops would dry, and they would
vanish into the air in light warm steam. But now that it is dark and
cold they drip, or run down the heather-stems, to the ground. And
whither do they go then? Whither will the water go,--hundreds of gallons
of it perhaps,--which has dripped and run through the heather in this
single day? It will sink into the ground, you know. And then what will
become of it? Madam How will use it as an underground spade, just as she
uses the rain (at least, when it rains too hard, and therefore the rain
runs off the moor instead of sinking into it) as a spade above ground.
Now come to the edge of the glen, and I will show you the mist that fell
yesterday, perhaps, coming out of the ground again, and hard at work.
You know of what an odd, and indeed of what a pretty form all these glens
are. How the flat moor ends suddenly in a steep rounded bank, almost
like the crest of a wave--ready like a wave-crest to fall over, and as
you know, falling over sometimes, bit by bit, where the soil is bare.
Oh, yes; you are very fond of those banks. It is "awfully jolly," as you
say, scrambling up and down them, in the deep heath and fern; besides,
there are plenty of rabbit-holes there, because they are all sand; while
there are no rabbit-holes on the flat above, because it is all gravel.
Yes; you know all about it: but you know, too, that you must not go too
far down these banks, much less roll down them, because there is almost
certain to be a bog at the bottom, lying upon a gentle <DW72>; and there
you get wet through.
All round these hills, from here to Aldershot in one direction, and from
here to Windsor in another, you see the same shaped glens; the wave-crest
along their top, and at the foot of the crest a line of springs which run
out over the <DW72>s, or well up through them in deep sand-galls, as you
call them--shaking quagmires which are sometimes deep enough to swallow
up a horse, and which you love to dance upon in summer time. Now the
water of all these springs is nothing but the rain, and mist, and dew,
which has sunk down first through the peaty soil, and then through the
gravel and sand, and there has stopped. And why? Because under the
gravel (about which I will tell you a strange story one day) and under
the sand, which is what the geologists call the Upper Bagshot sand, there
is an entirely different set of beds, which geologists call the
Bracklesham beds, from a place near the New Forest; and in those beds
there is a vein of clay, and through that clay the water cannot get, as
you have seen yourself when we dug it out in the field below to puddle
the pond-head; and very good fun you thought it, and a very pretty mess
you made of yourself. | 576.14072 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.1251850 | 729 | 65 |
E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 27511-h.htm or 27511-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/5/1/27511/27511-h/27511-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/5/1/27511/27511-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
The titles given in the Table of Contents for Chapters VII
and VIII differ from the chapter titles used in the text.
THE FREE RANGE
by
ELWELL LAWRENCE
Illustrations by Douglas Duer
[Illustration: They rode needlessly close together and swung their
clasped hands like happy children.]
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers :: New York
Copyright 1913 by
W. J. Watt & Company
Published June
To MATHEW WHITE Jr.,
Editor, author, critic, friend.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Flinging The Gauntlet 9
II A Late Arrival 18
III An Unsettled Score 31
IV The Six Pistol Shots 39
V Strategy and a Surprise 50
VI Ugly Company 64
VII You Have Forgotten The Mask 74
VIII Fiendish Revenge 85
IX The Man in The Mask 98
X War Without Quarter 114
XI Made Prisoner 124
XII Juliet Asserts Herself 136
XIII The Heathen Chinee 149
XIV Sentenced 161
XV Cowland Topsy-Turvy 176
XVI A Message By a Strange Hand 190
XVII A Battle in The Dark 203
XVIII The Immortal Ten 217
XIX An Indian Coulee 235
XX Somebody New Turns Up 245
XXI Julie Investigates 253
XXII The Use of Photography 265
XXIII The Crossing 279
XXIV The Story of Lester 289
XXV The Threads Meet 301
THE FREE RANGE
CHAPTER I
FLINGING THE GAUNTLET
"Then you insist on ruining me, Mr. Bissell?"
Bud Larkin, his hat pushed back on his head, looked unabashed at the
scowling heavy features of the man opposite in the long, low room, and
awaited a reply.
"I don't want to ruin anybody," puffed old "Beef" Bissell, whose cattle
overran most of the range between the Gray Bull and the Big Horn. "But I
allow as how them sheep of yours had better stay down Nebrasky way where
they come from."
"In other words," snapped Larkin, "I had better give up the idea of
bringing them north altogether. Is that it?"
"Just about."
"Well, now, see here, Mr. Bissell, you forget one or two things. The first
is, that my sheep ranch is | 576.145225 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.2173080 | 890 | 12 |
Produced by Tapio Riikonen and David Widger
SKETCHES AND STUDIES
by
Nathaniel Hawthorne
CONTENTS
Life of Franklin Pierce
Chiefly about War Matters
Alice Doane's Appeal
The Ancestral Footstep
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE.
PREFACE.
The author of this memoir--being so little of a politician that he
scarcely feels entitled to call himself a member of any party--would not
voluntarily have undertaken the work here offered to the public. Neither
can he flatter himself that he has been remarkably successful in the
performance of his task, viewing it in the light of a political
biography, and as a representation of the principles and acts of a public
man, intended to operate upon the minds of multitudes during a
presidential canvass. This species of writing is too remote from his
customary occupations--and, he may add, from his tastes--to be very
satisfactorily done, without more time and practice than he would be
willing to expend for such a purpose. If this little biography have any
value, it is probably of another kind--as the narrative of one who knew
the individual of whom he treats, at a period of life when character
could be read with undoubting accuracy, and who, consequently, in judging
of the motives of his subsequent conduct, has an advantage over much more
competent observers, whose knowledge of the man may have commenced at a
later date. Nor can it be considered improper (at least, the author will
never feel it so, although some foolish delicacy be sacrificed in the
undertaking) that when a friend, dear to him almost from boyish days,
stands up before his country, misrepresented by indiscriminate abuse on
the one hand, and by aimless praise on the other, he should be sketched
by one who has had opportunities of knowing him well, and who is
certainly inclined to tell the truth.
It is perhaps right to say, that while this biography is so far
sanctioned by General Pierce, as it comprises a generally correct
narrative of the principal events of his life, the author does not
understand him as thereby necessarily indorsing all the sentiments put
forth by himself in the progress of the work. These are the author's own
speculations upon the facts before him, and may, or may not, be in
accordance with the ideas of the individual whose life he writes. That
individual's opinions, however,--so far as it is necessary to know them,
--may be read, in his straightforward and consistent deeds, with more
certainty than those of almost any other man now before the public.
The author, while collecting his materials, has received liberal aid from
all manner of people--Whigs and Democrats, congressmen, astute lawyers,
grim old generals of militia, and gallant young officers of the Mexican
war--most of whom, however, he must needs say, have rather abounded in
eulogy of General Pierce than in such anecdotical matter as is calculated
for a biography. Among the gentlemen to whom he is substantially
indebted, he would mention Hon. C. G. Atherton, Hon. S. H. Ayer, Hon.
Joseph Hall, Chief Justice Gilchrist, Isaac O. Barnes, Esq., Col. T. J.
Whipple, and Mr. C. J. Smith. He has likewise derived much assistance
from an able and accurate sketch, that originally appeared in the "Boston
Post," and was drawn up, as he believes, by the junior editor of that
journal.
CONCORD, MASS., August 27, 1852.
CHAPTER I.
HIS PARENTAGE AND EARLY LIFE.
Franklin Pierce was born at Hillsborough, in the State of New Hampshire,
on the 23d of November, 1804. His native county, at the period of his
birth, covered a much more extensive territory than at present, and might
reckon among its children many memorable men, and some illustrious ones.
General Stark, the hero of | 576.237348 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.2210410 | 74 | 30 |
Produced by Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE LOST WORLD
I have wrought my simple plan
If I give one hour of joy
To the boy who's half a man,
Or the man who's half a boy.
The Lost World
By
SIR ARTHUR | 576.241081 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.2243730 | 456 | 17 |
Produced by Marlo Dianne
[Illustration: "These Are My Dearest Children."]
THE
CRYPTOGRAM.
A Novel.
By James De Mille,
Author of
"The Dodge Club," "Cord and Creese," "The American Baron," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
New York:
Harper & Brothers, Publishers,
Franklin Square.
1872
CHAPTER I.
TWO OLD FRIENDS.
Chetwynde Castle was a large baronial mansion, belonging to the
Plantagenet period, and situated in Monmouthshire. It was a grand old
place, with dark towers, and turrets, and gloomy walls surmounted
with battlements, half of which had long since tumbled down, while
the other half seemed tottering to ruin. That menacing ruin was on
one side of the structure concealed beneath a growth of ivy, which
contrasted the dark green of its leaves with the sombre hue of the
ancient stones. Time with its defacing fingers had only lent
additional grandeur to this venerable pile. As it rose there--"standing
with half its battlements alone, and with five hundred years
of ivy grown"--its picturesque magnificence and its air of hoar
antiquity made it one of the noblest monuments of the past which
England could show.
All its surroundings were in keeping with the central object. Here
were no neat paths, no well-kept avenues, no trim lawns. On the
contrary, every thing bore the unmistakable marks of neglect and
decay; the walks were overgrown, the terraces dilapidated, and the
rose pleasaunce had degenerated into a tangled mass of bushes and
briers. It seemed as though the whole domain were about to revert
into its original state of nature; and every thing spoke either of
the absence of a master, or else of something more important
still--the absence of money.
The castle stood on slightly elevated ground; and from its gray stone
ivy-covered portal so magnificent was the view that the most careless
observer would be attracted by it, and stand wonder-struck at the | 576.244413 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.3194380 | 261 | 15 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Gary Houston and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
ENGLAND IN AMERICA
1580-1652
By
Lyon Gardiner Tyler, LL.D.
J. & J. Harper Editions
Harper & Row, Publishers
New York and Evanston
1904 by Harper & Brothers.
[Illustration: SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552-1618). From an engraving by
Robinson after a painting by Zucchero.]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION xiii
AUTHOR'S PREFACE xix
I. GENESIS OF ENGLISH COLONIZATION (1492-1579) 3
II. GILBERT AND RALEIGH COLONIES (1583-1602) 18
III. FOUNDING OF VIRGINIA (1602-1608) 34
IV. GLOOM IN VIRGINIA (1608-1617) 55
V. TRANSITION OF VIRGINIA (1617-1640) 76
VI. SOCIAL AND ECONOMIC CONDITIONS OF VIRGIN | 576.339478 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.3206570 | 2,305 | 8 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sigal Alon and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE BROCHURE SERIES
OF ARCHITECTURAL ILLUSTRATION.
VOL. I. MAY, 1895. No. 5.
TWO FLORENTINE PAVEMENTS.
The church of San Miniato al Monte, just outside the walls southeast of
Florence, and the Baptistery, or church of San Giovanni Battista, in
Florence, are among the finest examples of the Tuscan Romanesque style,
and both probably date from about the same time--the early part of the
twelfth century--although the date of San Miniato has until recently
been referred several centuries further back.
These two churches have many points of similarity, although entirely
different in plan. San Miniato was referred to in the article upon the
Byzantine-Romanesque doorways of Southern Italy in our February number,
and Fergusson's classification of Byzantine-Romanesque was, for the time
being, adopted for lack of better authority. Later writers have,
however, generally agreed that there is little or no Byzantine influence
in these two churches; that the delicate and refined treatment of
classic forms here found is not the result of Byzantine or Greek
influence, but is due entirely to the natural refinement of the Tuscan
race. The same characteristic was again shown later in the treatment of
Gothic detail, and is evident in the Renaissance work of this locality.
The dimensions of San Miniato were given in the February number referred
to above. The interior of this church is generally considered one of the
most beautiful interiors of Italy on account of its effective basilican
plan with a crypt opening from the nave, its beautiful and rich detail,
and its fine mosaics and decorations. The pavement is not the least of
its attractions.
The Baptistery will be remembered for its famous bronze doors, the work
of Ghiberti, which have given occasion for so much discussion, favorable
and unfavorable. It is octagonal in plan, and 108 feet in diameter
externally. It was erected originally for the cathedral of the city, but
in the eleventh and twelfth centuries was so thoroughly remodeled that
no recognizable features of the old building remain.
The pavements, in point of design, appear quite independent of the other
ornamental work in the two buildings we are considering.
The motives of ornament are those commonly found in the stuffs,
especially silks, of Sicily and the East, and their use here could
easily be accounted for through connection with Sicily. It is known that
the Hotel de Tiraz at Palermo, the great royal manufactory of stuffs,
artistic metal work, mosaics, etc., established in the sixth century,
and which continued until the sixteenth, supplied not only much of the
finest textile products for all of Europe in that time, but also
furnished workmen who carried with them the designs and methods of
Sicilian textile manufacture to other countries. Such manufactories were
established in several Italian cities, among them Lucca.
The relationship seems clear, as the forms are perfectly similar. The
beasts and birds set in balancing pairs facing each other and repeated
in an all-over pattern, as in a woven fabric, strongly suggest the
Sicilian silks. Eug. Muentz in his work, "La Tapisserie," speaks of this
evident relationship. The internal evidence of the design itself would
be quite sufficient if we had no other means of tracing it.
These two pavements are practically unique, as far as we are able to
learn. They are marble inlay, the pattern having been cut out in a slab
of white marble and pieces of black marble carefully fitted in to form
the figure. This is not true mosaic, and differs essentially in design
from the mosaic work of the same period which was derived from the Roman
mosaics made up of small pieces of marble or other material. Most of the
floor mosaics in Italy have suffered from wear and tear, and have in
many cases been very poorly restored; but these two pavements appear to
be in nearly their original condition.
The design does not have the merit of belonging distinctively to the
material in all cases, and might just as well be applied to wood
parquetry as stone. In fact, it might be even more effective in this
material if the colors were judiciously chosen.
[Illustration: XXXIII. Portion of the Pavement in the Baptistery,
Florence, Italy.]
[Illustration: XXXIV. Portion of the Pavement in the Baptistery,
Florence, Italy.]
[Illustration: XXXV. Portion of the Pavement in the Baptistery,
Florence, Italy.]
[Illustration: XXXVI. Portion of the Pavement in the Baptistery,
Florence, Italy.]
[Illustration: XXXVII. Portion of the Pavement in the Baptistery,
Florence, Italy.]
XXXIII to XXXVII.
PORTIONS OF THE PAVEMENT IN THE BAPTISTERY, FLORENCE, ITALY.
One exception should be made to the remarks above in relation to true
mosaic. The lower left-hand portion of plate XXXVI is without doubt made
up of small pieces put together after the manner of the old Roman
mosaics, and it is possible that the portion shown in the upper
left-hand corner of the same plate is made in the same way. There are
several parts of the floor laid in this manner, but they are distinctly
secondary in interest to the inlaid portions.
The pavement is divided irregularly by squares and rectangles, the
portion especially rich in ornament being that between the door and the
altar. The rectangular patterns are irregularly cut into by special
pavements, placed before several of the monumental tombs in the walls.
[Illustration: XXXVIII. Portion of the Pavement in the Church of San
Miniato al Monte, Florence, Italy.]
[Illustration: XXXIX. Portion of the Pavement in the Church of San
Miniato al Monte, Florence, Italy.]
[Illustration: XL. Portion of the Pavement in the Church of San Miniato
al Monte, Florence, Italy.]
XXXVIII to XL.
PORTIONS OF THE PAVEMENT IN THE CHURCH OF SAN MINIATO AL MONTE,
FLORENCE, ITALY.
In the first of these plates there is a suggestion of the mosaic
treatment commonly seen in the pavements of Rome, Venice, and Siena.
The sort of guilloche of interlacing circles was very generally used.
Plate XL on the other hand is as plainly reminiscent of textile designs
as it well might be; and in plate XXXIII from the Baptistery the same
characteristic can be seen.
Wood Floors.
The addition which a fine hardwood floor makes to the attractiveness of
a room is appreciated by some architects, but good floors are not by any
means as common as they should be. The expense of hard wood is not so
much more than that of a cheap floor as to stand in the way of its use
when the final result is considered.
It is generally admitted that a floor entirely covered with a carpet is
in many ways undesirable, especially from a sanitary point of view;
while a hardwood floor, wholly or partly covered with rugs, has every
advantage. Furthermore, the fashion, which has a great deal to do with
what shall be used, aside from any question of intrinsic merit, has set
strongly in this direction, and in many cases old floors are replaced
with new ones of hard wood for the sole purpose of giving a chance for
the use of rugs in place of carpets. This is one, even if it be a rare
instance of the agreement of fashion and good taste. In working over an
old floor a plain or ornamental border can usually be laid at no great
expense by using the thin wood carpet, manufactured by all the best
makers of parquetry, and the centre can be laid with a pattern or with
narrow strips such as the "roll goods" which are manufactured by S. C.
Johnson of Racine, which are made up of strips usually one and
three-eighths inches wide and five sixteenths of an inch thick, glued to
a backing of canvas.
Patterns of all descriptions made from all the best foreign and domestic
woods can be obtained, as the designs of the best manufacturers include
an almost unlimited choice, and there is no end to the combinations
which can be made from the stock patterns. As an instance of this, the
catalogue of J. W. Boughton of Philadelphia contains a remarkably fine
selection of borders which can be combined and adapted to almost any
requirement, while the designs for the field or centre of the floor are
fully as varied and usable. These designs are made in such shape that
they can be easily adapted to any shape of room and fitted to all sorts
of irregular niches and jogs at slight extra expense.
Owing to the economy of manufacturing floors made from pieces which can
be put together on a system of squares, hexagons, or octagons, most of
the patterns in common use are made up of these units, or of triangles
or rectangles combining to form these figures. Curved forms cannot be
used to good advantage in this way as it is difficult and expensive to
cut or join them properly. Nevertheless, all the principal manufacturers
will execute to order any design desired.
When placed in a new house floors of 7/8 inch or 1-1/4 inch are usually
to be preferred, and are made in sections of convenient size for
shipment at the factory, and finished after they are in place.
Most of the makers nail thin parquetry work through from the surface and
fill the nail holes with putty, although in some cases blind nailing is
used.
Western manufacturers have in the last few years been making rapid
progress in this industry. While J. W. Boughton, who is one of the
oldest and best known makers of ornamental flooring, is still doing a
large and increasing business, Western houses are catering to and
obtaining a great deal of the best trade. The Interior Hardwood Company
of Indianapolis, under the business management of its vice-president,
Mr. Charles Hinman Comstock, has doubled its capacity in the last year
and shows commendable energy in pushing its business. S. C. Johnson of
Racine, Wis., is also in the front rank in first-class trade. The
Wood-Mosaic Company of Rochester should also be considered as one of the
leading and reliable houses. Its collection of designs is full and
varied | 576.340697 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.4170140 | 3,659 | 6 |
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Bureau of Agriculture.
Farmer's Bulletin No. 8.
THE COCOANUT
With Reference to Its Products and Cultivation
in the Philippines.
By
WILLIAM S. LYON,
In charge of Division of Plant Industry.
Manila:
Bureau of Public Printing.
1903.
CONTENTS.
Page.
Letter of transmittal 4
Introduction 5
History 5
Botany 6
Uses 6
Copra and cocoanut oil 6
Coir 10
Tuba 12
Minor uses 13
Cultivation 14
Selection of location 14
The soil 16
Seed selection 17
Planting 18
Manuring 21
Irrigation 27
Harvest 28
Enemies 28
Remedies 29
Renovation of old groves 30
Conclusion 30
LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL.
Bureau of Agriculture,
Manila, June 1, 1903.
Sir: In responding to numerous inquiries about the cocoanut, its
uses, cultivation, and preparation for market, I have prepared,
by your direction, the accompanying bulletin, which is intended to
cover the general field of the inquiries addressed to this Bureau,
and herewith submit the same, with the recommendation that it be
published as Farmers' Bulletin No. 8.
Respectfully,
Wm. S. Lyon,
In Charge of Division of Plant Industry.
To Hon. F. Lamson-Scribner,
Chief Bureau of Agriculture, Manila.
THE COCOANUT.
INTRODUCTION.
The following pages are written chiefly in the interests of the
planter, but the writer feels that the great agricultural importance
which the cocoanut palm is bound to assume in these Islands is
sufficient to justify the presentation of some of its history and
botany.
For that part of the bulletin which touches upon the botany of the
cocoanut I am indebted to Don Regino Garcia, associate botanist of the
Forestry Bureau; for that relating to its products and local uses, to
the courtesy of manufacturers in Laguna; and, for the rest, to personal
experience and observations made in Laguna Province and in the southern
Visayan Islands where, as elsewhere in this Archipelago, the cocoanut
may properly be considered a spontaneous and not a cultivated product.
HISTORY.
The legendary history of the "Prince of Palms," [1] as it has been
called, dates back to a period when the Christian era was young,
and its history is developing day by day in some new and striking
manifestation of its utility or beauty. It seems not unreasonable to
assume that much of the earlier traditionary history of the cocoanut
may have been inspired as much by its inherent beauty as by its
uses. Such traditional proverbs Or folklore as I have gathered in
the Visayas recognize the influence of the beautiful, in so far as
the blessings of the trees only inure to the good; for instance,
"He who is cruel to his beast or his family will only harvest barren
husks from the reproving trees that witness the pusillanimous act;"
and, again, "He who grinds the poor will only grind water instead of
fat oil from the meat."
To this day the origin of the cocoanut is unknown. De Candolle (Origin
of Cult. Plants, p. 574) recites twelve specific claims pointing to
an Asiatic origin, and a single, but from a scientific standpoint
almost unanswerable, contention for an American derivation. None of
the remaining nineteen species of the genus Cocos are known to exist
elsewhere in the world than on the American continent. His review of
the story results in the nature of a compromise, assigning to our
own Islands and those to the south and west of us the distinction
of having first given birth to the cocoanut, and that thence it was
disseminated east and west by ocean currents.
BOTANY.
The cocoanut (Cocos nucifera Linn.) is the sole oriental representative
of a tropical genus comprising nineteen species, restricted, with
this single exception, to the New World.
Its geographical distribution is closely confined to the two
Tropics. [2]
Not less than nineteen varieties of C. nucifera are described by
Miquel and Rumphius, and all are accepted by Filipino authors.
Whether all of these varieties are constant enough to deserve
recognition need not be considered here. Many are characterized by
the fruits being distinctly globular, others by fruits of a much
prolonged oval form, still others by having the lower end of the
fruit terminating in a triangular point.
In the Visayas there is a variety in which the fibrous outer husk
of the nut is sweet and watery, instead of dry and astringent, and
is chewed by the natives like sugar cane. Another variety occurs in
Luzon, known as "Pamocol," the fruit of which seldom exceeds 20 cm. in
diameter. There is also a dwarf variety of the palm, which rarely
exceeds 3 meters in height, and is known to the Tagalogs as "Adiavan."
These different varieties are strongly marked, and maintain their
characters when reproduced from seed.
USES.
The cocoanut furnishes two distinct commercial products--the dried
meat of the nut, or copra, and the outer fibrous husk. These products
are so dissimilar that they should be considered separately.
COPRA AND COCOANUT OIL.
Until very recent years the demand for the "meat" of the cocoanut
or its products was limited to the uses of soap boilers and
confectioners. Probably there is no other plant in the vegetable
kingdom which serves so many and so varied purposes in the domestic
economy of the peoples in whose countries it grows. Within the past
decade chemical science has produced from the cocoanut a series of
food products whose manufacture has revolutionized industry and placed
the business of the manufacturer and of the producer upon a plane of
prosperity never before enjoyed.
There has also been a great advance in the processes by which the
new oil derivatives are manufactured. The United States took the
initiative with the first recorded commercial factories in 1895. In
1897 the Germans established factories in Mannheim, but it remained
for the French people to bring the industry to its present perfection.
According to the latest reports of the American consul at Marseilles,
the conversion of cocoanut oil into dietetic compounds was undertaken
in that city in 1900, by Messrs. Rocca, Tassy and de Roux, who in
that year turned out an average of 25 tons per month. During the year
just closed (1902) their average monthly output exceeded 6,000 tons
and, in addition to this, four or five other large factories were
all working together to meet the world's demand for "vegetaline,"
"cocoaline," or other products with suggestive names, belonging to
this infant industry.
These articles are sold at gross price of 18 to 20 cents per kilo to
thrifty Hollandish and Danish merchants, who, at the added cost of a
cent or two, repack them in tins branded "Dairy Butter" and, as such,
ship them to all parts of the civilized world. It was necessary to
disguise the earlier products by subjecting them to trituration with
milk or cream; but so perfect is the present emulsion that the plain
and unadulterated fats now find as ready a market as butter. These
"butters" have so far found their readiest sale in the Tropics.
The significance of these great discoveries to the cocoanut planter can
not be overestimated, for to none of these purely vegetable fats do the
prejudices attach that so long and seriously have handicapped those
derived from animal margarin or margarin in combination with stearic
acid, while the low fusion point of pure dairy butters necessarily
prohibits their use in the Tropics, outside of points equipped with
refrigerating plants. The field, therefore, is practically without
competition, and the question will no longer be that of finding a
market, but of procuring the millions of tons of copra or oil that
this one industry will annually absorb in the immediate future.
Cocoanut oil was once used extensively in the manufacture of fine
candles, and is still occasionally in demand for this purpose in the
Philippines, in combination with the vegetable tallow of a species
of Stillingia. It is largely consumed in lamps, made of a tumbler or
drinking glass half filled with water, on top of which float a few
spoonfuls of oil, into which the wick is plunged. In remote barrios it
is still in general use as a street illuminant, and so perfect is its
combustion that under a constant flicker it emits little or no smoke.
When freshly expressed, the oil is an exceptionally good cooking fat,
and enters largely into the dietary of our own people. The medicinal
uses of the oil are various, and in the past it has been strongly
advocated for the cure of eczema, burns, as a vermifuge, and even
as a substitute for cod-liver oil in phthisis. Its medicinal virtues
are now generally discredited, except as a restorative agent in the
loss of hair resulting from debilitating fevers. Its value in this
direction may be surmised from the splendid heads of hair possessed
by the Filipino women, who generally use the oil as a hair dressing.
Cocoanut oil is derived from the fleshy albumen or meat of the ripe
fruit, either fresh or dried. The thoroughly dried meat is variously
known as copra, coprax, and copraz. The exportation of copra is
detrimental to the best interests of the planter, tending to enrich
the manufacturer and impoverish the grower. The practice, however,
is so firmly established that the writer can only record a probably
futile protest against its continuance.
The causes which for a long time will favor the exportation of copra
instead of oil in this Archipelago may be briefly stated as follows:
(1) An oil-milling plant, constructed with due regard to economy of
labor and the production of the best quality of oil, would involve
an outlay of capital of $2,500, gold, and upward, according to
capacity. The production of copra requires the labor of the planter's
hands only.
(2) The oil packages must be well-made barrels, casks, or metallic
receptacles. The initial cost of the packages is consequently great,
their return from distant ports impracticable, and their sale value
in the market of delivery is not sufficient to offset the capital
locked up in an unproductive form. On the other hand, copra may be
sold or shipped in boxes, bags, sacks, and bales, or it may even be
stored in bulk in the ship's hold.
(3) When land transportation has to be considered, the lack of good
roads still further impedes the oil maker. He can not change the
size and weight of his packages from day to day to meet the varying
passability of the trail. On the other hand, packages of copra may
be adjusted to meet all emergencies, and the planter can thus take
advantage of the market conditions which may be denied to the oil
maker.
(4) Perhaps the most serious difficulty the oil maker has to contend
with is the continuous discouragement he encounters from the agent
of foreign factories, who buys in the open market and, bidding up to
nearly the full oil value of the copra, finds an ample manufacturer's
profit paid by the press cake, so valuable abroad, but, unfortunately,
practically without sale or value here. The residue from the mill may
be utilized both for food and for manure by the oil maker who is a
tree owner and who maintains cattle. For either of these purposes
its value rates closely up to cotton-seed cake, and the time is
not remote when it will be recognized in the Philippines as far
too valuable a product to be permitted to be removed from the farm
excepting at a price which will permit of the purchase at a less
figure of an equivalent in manure. So active are the copra-buying
agents in controlling this important branch of the industry, that
they refuse to buy the press cake at any price, with the result that,
in two instances known to the writer, they have forced the closure
of oil-milling plants and driven the oil maker back to his copra.
Many copra-making plants in India and Ceylon are now supplied with
decorticating, breaking, and evaporating machinery. The process
employed in this Archipelago consists in first stripping the ripe
fruit of the outer fibrous husk. This is effected by means of a stout,
steel spearhead, whose shaft or shank is embedded firmly in the soil
to such a depth that the spear point projects above the ground rather
less than waist high. The operator then holds the nut in his hands
and strikes it upon the spear point, gives it a downward, rotary
twist, and thus, with apparent ease, quickly removes the husk. An
average operator will husk 1,000 nuts per day, and records have been
made of a clean up of as many as 3,000 per day. The work, however,
is exceedingly hard, and involves great dexterity and wrist strength.
Another man now takes up the nut and with a bolo strikes it a smart
blow in the middle, dividing it into two almost equal parts. These
parts are spread out and exposed to the sun for a few hours, or such
time as may be necessary to cause the fleshy albumen to contract and
shrink away from the hard outer shell, so that the meat may be easily
detached with the fingers.
Weather permitting, the meat thus secured is sun dried for a day
and then subjected to the heat of a slow fire for several hours. In
some countries this drying is now effected by hot-air driers, and a
very white and valuable product secured; but in the Philippines the
universal practice is to spread out the copra upon what may be called
a bamboo grill, over a smoky fire made of the shells and husks, just
sufficient heat being maintained not to set fire to the bamboo. The
halves, when dried, are broken by hand into still smaller irregular
fragments, and subjected to one or two days of sun bath. By this time
the moisture has been so thoroughly expelled that the copra is now
ready to be sacked or baled and stored away for shipment or use.
All modern cocoanut-oil mills are supplied with a decorticator armed
with revolving discs that tear or cut through the husk longitudinally,
freeing the nut from its outer covering and leaving the latter in
the best possible condition for the subsequent extraction of its
fiber. This decorticator is fed from a hopper and is made of a size
and capacity to husk from 500 to 1,000 nuts per hour.
Rasping and grinding machinery of many patterns and makes, for
reducing the meat to a pulp, is used in India, Ceylon, and China;
and, although far more expeditious, offers no improvements, so far
as concerns the condition to which the meats are reduced, over the
methods followed in the Philippines. Here the fleshy halves of the
meat are held by hand against a rapidly revolving, half-spherical
knife blade which scrapes and shaves the flesh down to a fine degree
of comminution. The resulting mass is then macerated in a little water
and placed in bags and subjected to pressure, and the milky juice which
flows therefrom is collected in receivers placed below. This is now
drawn off into boilers and cooked until the clear oil is concentrated
upon the surface. The oil is then skimmed off and is ready for market.
The process outlined above is very wasteful. The processes I have seen
in operation are very inadequate, and I estimate that, not less than
10 per cent of the oil goes to loss in the press cake. This is a loss
that does not occur in establishments equipped with the best hydraulic
presses. It is true that very heavy pressure carries through much
coloring matter not withdrawn by the primitive native mill, and that
the oil is consequently darker, and sooner undergoes decomposition;
but modern mills | 576.437054 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.4204690 | 261 | 14 |
Produced by Peter Vachuska, Chuck Greif, Leonard Johnson
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
From the Journal of the Cincinnati Society of Natural History, Oct.
1892, Jan. 1893.
THE MYXOMYCETES OF THE MIAMI VALLEY, OHIO.
BY A. P. MORGAN.
First Paper.
(Read January 3, 1893.)
Table of Contents
MYXOMYCETES, Wallr.
Order Genera Page
LICEACEAE. 4
Licea 4
Tubulina 6
Lycogala 7
RETICULARIACEAE. 10
Reticularia 10
Clathroptychium 12
Cibraria 13
Dictydium 16
PERICHAENACEAE. 19
Perichaena 19
Ophiotheca 21
ARCYRIACEAE. 23
Lachnobolus 23
Arcyria 24
| 576.440509 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.4205120 | 3,659 | 6 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Renshaw Fanning's Quest, by Bertram Mitford.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
RENSHAW FANNING'S QUEST, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.
PROLOGUE.
"Just consider! You would soon get to hate me. I should be the ruin of
you."
Thus the owner of the bright, sparkling face which was turned, half
mockingly, half ruefully, upon that of her companion. Looking out
killingly from under the broad-brimmed hat, the dark, lustrous eyes
seemed to melt into his.
"How can you say such a thing?" was the reply, in the deep,
half-tremulous tone of a man who is in dead earnest. "How can you say
such a thing?" he repeated involuntarily, driving a spur into his
horse's flank with a dig that made that spirited animal curvet and
prance beneath the restraining curb.
"Oh, take care! you are making my horse restive. And I am such a bad
rider, as you know!" And the lithe, graceful figure in the well-fitting
habit was thrown into the relief involved by a real physical effort.
"How can I say so?" she went on; "how can I say so? Why, it is only
candid on my part. Do you seriously think a butterfly like me is cut
out for a life on the High Veldt?"
The man's bronzed features faded to a ghastly paleness. He averted his
head for some moments, as though with a wild instinctive idea of
breaking the spell that was upon him. Overhead towered the stately cone
of a great mountain, soaring aloft in the summer haze. Around, in
undulating sweep, the bushclad <DW72>s shut in the tortuous, stony road.
Birds piped and called to one another in the lustrous sunlight, and the
rich sensuous air was alive with the drowsy boom of bees and the
metallic plash of the river in its rocky bed beneath.
"There are other and pleasanter places in this country than the High
Veldt," he said at last, but in the tone of an advocate pleading a
hopeless cause, and that cause his own.
"But even then," she rejoined, her voice softening as though in
compunction over the final stab she was about to inflict, "even then--no
one is less qualified to make you happy than I am, believe me. Why, you
don't really know me as I am! Sometimes I think I hardly know myself."
"You do yourself injustice," he said. "Give me the opportunity of
proving it."
A curious passing spasm--a kind of a stormy look--shot across the
beautiful face.
"You are too generous," she replied vehemently, "and far too good to be
made miserable for life by such a little wretch as I am. Better, far,
feel a little sorry now than that."
"And you are underrating yourself. But I will not hurry you. Take
time; but oh, my darling, don't tell me that what you said just now is
your final answer."
"I must tell you that very thing. It cuts me to the heart to give you
pain; and that is more than I have been able to say before to any man
living. But--there are reasons--if you only knew. There. Forget that
I ever said that. But I know that with you anything I may say is as
safe as death itself."
This time he made no reply. For one brief instant their eyes met, and
in that instant he understood her; understood, too, that her first
answer was final.
Yet he was goodly to look upon, this man, with his splendid physique,
and refined, noble countenance. Many a feminine heart, we trow, would
have beat quicker--but with vivid joy--at such words as he had addressed
to his present companion. Many a pair of eyes would have brightened
gladsomely into a quick love-light. Many another would have desired no
better protector and stay until her life's end than this man now riding
by the side of her who had rejected him.
To propose on horseback is the very worst place a man can choose wherein
to propose, says some one or other, by reason of both the proposer and
proposee being in a measure subject to the precarious whims of one or a
pair of wholly unreliable quadrupeds. He who now rode there had either
never heard that salutary axiom or had forgotten it for the occasion;
but now he was made to feel its force by a male voice, some little
distance ahead, hallooing--
"Now, you two good people, spur up, or we shall never get there
to-night!"
And a bend in the road brought into view other horsemen--other
"habits"--stationary, and obviously and provokingly awaiting the arrival
of the two laggards.
And the equestrians, now merged into one group, rode on their way in the
golden sunlight of that lovely afternoon, rejoicing in the exquisite
glories of the wild and romantic mountain road. But, in the prevailing
mirth, one among them bore no part, for he carried within his breast the
dead burden of a sore and aching heart.
CHAPTER ONE.
THIRST-LAND.
The heat was terrible.
Terrible, even for the parched, burning steppes of the High Veldt, whose
baked and crumbling surface lay gasping in cracks and fissures beneath
the blazing fierceness of the African sun. Terrible for the stock,
enfeebled and emaciated after months of bare subsistence on such
miserable wiry blades of shrivelled grass as it could manage to pick up,
and on the burnt and withered Karroo bushes. Doubly terrible for those
to whom the wretched animals, all skin and bone, and dying off like
flies, represented nothing more nor less than the means of livelihood
itself.
Far away to the sky-line on every side, far as the eye could travel,
stretched the dead, weary surface of the plain. Not a tree, not a bush
to break the level. On the one hand a low range of flat-topped hills
floated, mirage like, in mid-air, so distant that a day's journey would
hardly seem to bring you any nearer; on the other, nothing--nothing but
plain and sky, nothing but the hard red earth, shimmering like a furnace
in the intolerable afternoon heat; nothing but a frightful desert,
wherein, apparently, no human being could live--not even the ape-like
Bushman or the wild Koranna. Yet, there stands a house.
A house thoroughly in keeping with its surroundings. A low one-storied
building, with a thatched roof and walls of sun-baked brick. Just a
plain parallelogram; no attempt at ornamentation, no verandah, not even
a _stoep_. No trace of a garden either, for in this horrible desert of
drought and aridity nothing will grow. Hard by stand the square stone
kraals for the stock, and a little further on, where the level of the
plain sinks into a slight depression, is an artificial dam, its liquid
store at present reduced to a small patch of red and turgid water lying
in the middle of a surrounding margin of dry flaky mud, baked into a
criss-cross pattern of cracks, like a huge mosaic.
On a low, stony _kopje_, a few hundred yards distant from this
uninviting homestead, sits its owner. Nobody but a Boer could dwell in
such a place, would be the first thought succeeding that of wonder that
any white man could be found to inhabit it at all. But a glance would
suffice to show that he now sitting there is not a member of that dogged
and pachydermatous race. The face is a fine--even a noble--one, whose
features the bronzed and weatherworn results of a hard life have failed
to roughen. A broad, lofty brow, and pensive dark eyes stamp their
owner as a man of intellect and thought, while the peculiar curve of the
well-formed nostrils betokens a sensitive and self-contained nature.
The lower half of the face is hidden by a dark silky beard and
moustache.
One brown, sinewy hand grasps a geologist's hammer, with which it chips
away listlessly at the ground. But, although the action is now purely
mechanical, it is not always so, as we shall see if we use our
story-teller's privilege and dip into his inner thoughts. Briefly
rendered, they run in this wise:
"Oh, this awful drought! When is it going to end? Not that it much
matters, either way, now, for there's hardly a sound hoof left on the
place; and, even if a good rain did come, it would only finish off the
whole fever-stricken lot. Well, I'll have to clear out, that's one
consolation. I've held on as long as any man could, and now I'll just
have to go."
His gaze wanders over the arid plain. Far away through the shimmer it
rests on a multitude of white specks--a flock of Angora goats, striving
in desperation to pick up what miserable subsistence it may.
"There's nothing to be done with the place--nothing," he muses, bringing
his hammer down upon a boulder with a despairing whack. "It won't sell
even for an old song--no one will so much as touch land now, nor will
they for a long time to come, and there isn't a `stone' [`Diamond' in
digger parlance] on the whole farm, for I've dug and fossicked in every
likely place, and unlikely one, too. No; I'll shut up shop and get
away. The few miserable brutes left are not worth looking after--not
worth their _brand ziek_ [Scab-affected] skins. Yet I'll have one more
search, one more crazy fool's errand, after the `Valley of the Eye,'
before I trek. This 'll make the fifth--but, no matter. One may as
well make an ass of oneself five times as four. I can't exactly believe
old Greenway took all that trouble to dictate an infernal lie on his
death-bed; and, if his yarn's true, I'm a rich man for life--if I can
only find the place, that is," he adds bitterly. "And I've had four
shies at it. Well, perhaps the fifth is going to be lucky."
With which consoling reflection the thinker rises from his stony
resting-place, revealing as he does so a tall, straight figure,
admirably proportioned. Suddenly he starts, and a sallow paleness comes
over the bronzed, handsome features. For he is conscious of a strange
giddiness. A mist seems to float before his eyes, shutting out
completely the glare of the burning veldt.
"Never that cursed up-country fever again?" he murmurs, to himself, in
real alarm.
And for the latter there is reason--reason in the abnormal and unhealthy
heat of the terrible drought--reason in his utter isolation, the vast
distance between himself and a fellow-countryman--let alone such
considerations as medical aid.
Recovering himself with an effort, he strolls on towards the house.
There is no sign of life about the place as he approaches, unless a
couple of miserable, fever-stricken sheep, panting and wheezing in the
shade of the kraal wall, constitute such. But, dead and tomb-like as it
looks outside, there is something refreshing in the coolness of the
inner room as he enters. A rough tablecloth is laid, and a knife and
fork. The walls are papered with pictures from illustrated prints, and
are hung with swinging shelves containing a goodly number of books of
all sorts. A few chairs and a couch, the latter much the worse for
wear, constitute the furniture; and, on the whole, what with pipes,
stray bits of saddlery, and miscellaneous odds and ends of every
description, the place is about as untidy as the average bachelor abode
is apt to be within the pale of civilisation, let alone away on the High
Veldt. The floor is of hardened clay, and there is no ceiling--nothing
between the inmate of the room and the bare and ragged thatch, one
drawback to which arrangement being that a fine, lively tarantula will
occasionally drop down upon the head or shoulder of the said inmate.
A call of "Kaatje. Dinner bring," is soon productive of that meal, in
so far as the remnant of a half-starved and wholly unnutritious chicken,
dressed up with so insipid an ingredient as some plain boiled rice, can
be said to constitute dinner. It is productive, simultaneously, of an
extraordinary specimen of humanity.
A creature of mahogany hue and parchment hide, the latter hanging in
flaps around her perspiring and scantily-attired person. A creature of
the hideosity of one of Bunyan's fiends--a frightful grin, horn-like
ears, and a woolly skull--waddling on the abnormal hip-development of
the native Bushman or Koranna. A nice sort of being to bring in one's
dinner, not of itself over-inviting! But one gets used to queer things
on the High Veldt, and this hideous and repulsive object is only a
harmless Koranna woman, and according to her lights a good old soul
enough; and she officiates as cook and general factotum to this rough
and ready household of one.
The swarming flies buzz around. The windows are black with them; the
table is black with them; the air is thick with them. In they sail
through open windows and open doors, fresh from the foetid stew-pans of
the kitchen; fresh from the acrid, pungent dust of the goat kraals;
fresh from the latest garbage, which they have been sharing with carrion
birds, in the veldt. They light on the diner's head, crawl about his
face, crowd over plates and dishes and tablecloth--mix themselves up
with the food, drown themselves in the drink. Everywhere flies.
The South African house-fly is identical with the British, but he is a
far greater pest. He is more aggressive, and he brings to bear upon his
victims the solid weight of numbers. Go where you will, you cannot
shake him off. If you fit up a waggon, and dive into the far interior,
there also will the common fly be with you--and with you in swarms.
Renshaw Fanning looks disgustedly at his uninviting meal, and plays with
it rather than eats. Then he pushes back his chair. He has no
appetite.
Again he seeks the open air. A restless mood is upon him, and broiling,
stifling as the heat is outside, he cannot remain in the house.
Suddenly a winged object appears fluttering in the sunlight. A quick
exclamation escapes him, as he shades his eyes to watch it.
"Ha, of course! The last straw! Locusts. Here they come, by Jove!
thicker and thicker to put the finishing touch on what the drought has
begun. By this time to-morrow there won't be a blade of grass left on
the place, nor a hoof either."
He stands watching the flying insects. Barely five minutes after the
discovery of the first one, the air is thick with them. They seem to
spring out of nowhere. Thicker and thicker they come, their gauzy wings
fluttering in the sunlight, blundering into the spectator's face,
colliding with the walls, falling to the ground. It is an ill wind that
blows nobody good. A few starved fowls at the back of the house perk up
into new life as they rush forth to fill their emaciated carcases with
this unlooked-for and abundant dainty. But the watcher withdraws
indoors again, as if to shut out all sight and sound of these new and
fatal intruders, and, | 576.440552 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.4224900 | 3,659 | 6 |
Produced by Emmy, MFR and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and
italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
Price 25 Cents
[Illustration]
Christmas at
McCarthy’s
_GUPTILL_
PAINE PUBLISHING CO.
DAYTON, OHIO
New Entertainment Songs
By Edna Randolph Worrell.
These songs can be used in all manner of entertainments. The music is
easy, and both music and words are especially catchy. Children like
them. Everybody likes them. Sheet music. Price =25= cents each. Five
copies, =$1.00=.
WE HOPE YOU’VE BROUGHT YOUR SMILES ALONG. A welcome song that will at
once put the audience in a joyous frame of mind and create a happy
impression that will mean half the success of your entire program.
Words, bright and inspiring. Music, catchy.
WE’LL NOW HAVE TO SAY GOOD-BYE. This beautiful song has snap and go
that will appeal alike to visitors and singers. It is just the song to
send your audience home with happy memories of the occasion.
WE’VE JUST ARRIVED FROM BASHFUL TOWN. This song will bring memories
to the listeners of their own bashful school days. Words, unusually
clever. Music, decidedly melodious. A capital welcome song, or it may
be sung at any time on the program with assured success.
MY OWN AMERICA, I LOVE THEE. A song that will bring a thrill of
patriotism to the heart of every one who hears it. The children and
grown-ups just can’t resist the catchy music. It makes a capital
marching song.
COME AND PARTAKE OF OUR WELCOME CAKE. A merry welcome song and a jolly
one, too. The audience will be immediately curious about the Welcome
Cake, and the children will love to surprise the listeners with the
catchy words. Music, easy and tuneful.
LULLABY LANE. The music and words blend so beautifully that people will
be humming the appealing strains long after they hear this charming
song. A wonderfully effective closing song, whether sung by the school
or as a solo by a little girl, with a chorus of other little girls with
dolls.
JOLLY PICKANINNIES. Words by Elizabeth F. Guptill. Music by Edna R.
Worrell. This spicy <DW53> song will bring down the house, especially if
you use the directions for the motions which accompany the music. The
black faces and shining eyes of the pickaninnies will guarantee a hit.
The words are great and the music just right.
THE LITTLE BIRD’S SECRET. Here is just the song for those two little
folks to sing together. They won’t have to be coaxed to sing it,
especially when they find that the whole school is to whistle the
chorus. This is a decided novelty, and will prove a rare treat to your
audience.
A GARDEN ROMANCE. This is a dainty little song telling of the romance
and wedding of Marigold and Sweet William. It is just the song for
dainty little girls to sing.
COME TO THE NURSERY RHYME GARDEN AND PLAY. Here is something different
for the little folks to sing. The Nursery Rhyme Folk are so familiar to
children, it will be no trick for them to remember the words. The music
has a most captivating swing.
=Paine Publishing Company= =Dayton, Ohio=
Christmas at McCarthy’s
BY
ELIZABETH F. GUPTILL
_Author of “Christmas at Punkin Holler,”
“A Topsy Turvy Christmas,” Etc._
[Illustration]
Copyright, 1916
PAINE PUBLISHING COMPANY
Dayton, Ohio
Cast of Characters
PATRICK MCCARTHY, the most important man in the “tinement”
BRIDGET MCCARTHY His Wife
MR. OPPERMAN A Jew
MRS. OPPERMAN His Wife
LARS A Swede
MRS. CHLOE WASHINGTON
MRS. FERRARI Italian
MR. STRAUSS Elsie’s father, a German
ELSIE “Tinement” Orphan
JIMMIE The News Boy
PATSY }
KATIE }
POMPEY }
CONNIE }
CLEOPATRA }
MICKEY } Other Children of the “Tinement”
CAESAR }
LUIGI }
CARLOTTA }
HILDA }
TONY }
Christmas at McCarthy’s
SCENE I.
(_Setting—The sidewalk outside of “Murphy’s Tinement.” Have a couple
of low, wide steps, if possible. The children are gathered on and
around these steps. Use plenty of children—as many as convenient. Small
children from two to six or seven may be used as little brothers and
sisters to those who have the speaking parts. As curtain rises, some
of the children are playing “Button, button,” on the lowest step, and
others are playing “Hop-scotch” at one side. The smallest ones hug
dilapidated dollies, rolled up from rags. One has a small wheel, such
as might have been on a little cart, once. Enter Jimmy and Elsie—hurry
along to group._)
KATIE—Sold out so soon?
JIMMY—Ivery blissid paper av thim. Sure, ’twas the swate face of Ilsie
did it. I do be a thinkin’. An’ ivery sowl that bought a paper, almost,
axed quistions about her. Guess they thought she was a high-born leddy,
and me a stealthy, crapy kidnapper. Shure, an’ she got a foine chanst
to be a leddy, and she wouldn’t take it, at all, at all! Think av that,
now!
CONNIE—How could she get a chanst to be a leddy, when she’s jist a bit
av a colleen?
CLEOPATRA—Ah reck’n he means to be quality. Did some quality lady
wanter stole yer, honey chile?
ELSIE—Lady wanted to take me ’way fum Jimmy. She said, fere was mine
mutter dat her let me does papers to sell? And I wasn’t selling dose
papers at all! Jimmy was selling ’em. And I telled her mine mutter was
to Himmel gone, and mine fader was all loss, and—
JIMMY—And she wanted to take her home to be her little gel, ’n whin I
said we couldn’t spare the sunny face av her, she tried to wheedle her
away! Bad ’cess to her!
ELSIE—And she said I wasn’t Jimmy’s little sister at all, she did!
JIMMY—And she axed, she did, as purry as a cat, could we afford to kape
a growin’ choild that didn’t belong to us, and I says to her, says I,
“Ilsie belongs to the whole tinement, that she does!” And she axed how
that was, and I told her how Mrs. Ferrari slapes her, and Mrs. Omstrom
ates her, and Aunt Bridget washes her, and Mrs. Washington minds her,
and Mr. Opperman buys her bit clothes, and you girls kape her tidy, and
I buy her hair ribbins, and she laughed, and called her a communerty
orphin.
ELSIE—And I telled her I wasn’t no orfing, I was Jimmy’s little sister,
and she laughed some more, and she said I was pretty, and she gaved me
this. (_shows quarter._)
MICKY—Begorra, what a lot av money! It’s a capitalist ye’ll be afther
being, like the Rocky feller.
JIMMY—And thin, bedad, she began to wheedle, and she promised her foine
drisses, and a babby doll, and a cab to wheel it in, and iverything ye
could think about, and more, too, begorry. And thin if she didn’t up
and offer her a Christmas tree!
KATIE—A Christmas tree! Why didn’t she offer her the earth, with a
noice little pick fince around it? And ye wouldn’t lave us for a
Christmas tree, Elsie darlint?
ELSIE—“No,” I said, “Jimmy will buy me a Christmas tree a’reddy.”
MICKEY—Like fun he will! Does she think Jimmy’s a millionair?
JIMMY—And she asked where did we live, and I said, “over at the South
side,” says I, and I mutters “over the lift” to mesilf and says she,
“I’m a coming to see yer mother,” she says. And says I, wid the face av
me as sober as a praste, “Me mither’s me ant, for the rale mither av
me’s over in Ould Oirland in a churchyard, where she’s been iver since
jist before I was born, or jist afther, I forgit which, its so long
ago.”
ELSIE—And she laughed, and said she was going to haf her pretty baby,
yet a’retty, but I won’t with that lady go. I will stay with my Jimmy.
Jimmy won’t let her get me.
JIMMY—Don’t worry the golden braids av yer, Ilsie love. I gave her
shtrate way out at the South side that isn’t there at all, at all, and
bedad, she’ll hunt awhile before she finds that addriss, and whin she
does, it’ll be the wrong one.
ELSIE—(_confidently_) And Jimmy will buy me a Christmas, won’t you,
Jimmy?
JIMMY—Maybe, Ilsie love, a little one.
ELSIE—No, a big one, with a big, big tree.
CAESAR—Dar don’t no trees grow in de city, Ailsie honey, not cut down
ones.
ELSIE—They grow the stores in. Mine fader always did buy me one.
LUIGI—Maybe we mighta, all togetta, buy a leedla one. I could de shoesa
polish, and get some mon’.
CAESAR—An’ I kin hold de gemman’s hosses, ’n run arrantses.
MICKY—Let’s all try hard and see if we can’t get Elsie a little
Christmas tree.
ELSIE—I don’t a little Christmas want. I wants a big Christmas and a
big tree, like mine fader always did me get.
KATIE—But you see, Elsie, we’re all poor folks, and—
ELSIE—Jimmy will buy me a Christmas—a big Christmas, and a big tree. I
know he will.
MICKY—Gee, Jimmy! It’s up to you, all right.
MR. OPPERMAN—(_entering_) Vot vos up to Chimmy?
CAESAR—Ter cunjur up a big Christmas tree fo’ Ailsie. She done boun’
ter have one.
ELSIE—Mine fader did get me one always, Mr. Opperman.
OPPERMAN—Vell, vell, ve never did yet have van Christmas here yet
a’retty, but meppe ve might half von leedle von, if ve all chip in
togedder. Be patient a’retty, mine leedle fraulein, and ve’ll see vot
ve’ll see!
ELSIE—But I don’t want one little tree, I want one big one like mine
fader always did me get. Jimmy will buy me one. I know he will. I’m
Jimmy’s little sister. He did buy for me these hair ribbons of the blue
color.
CAESAR—You’ll half ter do it, Jimmy, whedder or no, as de preachah say.
ELSIE—You know, Mr. Opperman. You one German was, too. You know the
German kinder do always one big Christmas tree have. Mustn’t I have one?
OPPERMAN—Vell, vell, leedle Madchen, I vos sure von Cherman, but I vos
von Cherman Chew a’retty. Der Chews no Christmas do keep, nor drees.
ELSIE—(_beginning to cry_) I must have one big Christmas tree. I must.
And no one wants me my tree to have but Jimmy.
JIMMY—There, there, Ilsie, don’t spoil the swate eyes av yez wid
cryin’, ans we’ll think up a way somehow. (_Mrs. McCarthy, Mrs.
Ferrari, Mrs. Omstrom, and Mrs. Washington come out and seat themselves
on the steps._)
CHLOE—(_taking Elsie into her lap_) What dey bin a doin’ to mammy
Chloe’s li’l white lambie?
BRIDGET—Which av ye spalpeens hov bin afther makin’ the wee colleen
wape, now? Be shame to yez, who iver yez are!
ELSIE—They don’t want me my Christmas to have a’retty.
BRIDGET—And who’s bin afther puttin’ Christmas into the hid av her?
You, Jim, I’ll bet a sixpince. Yez do spile the choild, most awful.
JIMMY—’Twasn’t me, nather. ’Twas a foine leddy who wanted to adopt her,
av yez plaze, or av yez don’t plaze, either.
CHLOE—’Dopt her? Den she’d be quality, like she ottah be, but ole mammy
Chloe would miss her li’l white missy.
BRIDGET—Bedad, an’ she can’t have her, thin. She’s the baby of all
Murphy’s tinement, and betwane us we’ll get up a Christmas for her if
she’s thot set on it. I kin take in an ixtry wash or two, mebbe. Sure
me own little spalpeens have niver had a Christmas yit, nor Jimsie,
naythur.
JIMMY—I don’t need any, Aunt Bridget, but Elsie wants one that bad, she
can’t same to do widout it.
ELSIE—Mine fader did always one tree for me get.
CARLOTTA—How mucha one tree he costa?
OPPERMAN—Ve von leedle von could get vor—led me see—
ELSIE—I don’t one little one want. I want one big one.
CHLOE—Shuah you do, ma honey. Like de quality allers has, a-settin’
in de parlah, an’ a-reachin’ clar up to de high ceilin’, wid candles
a-twinklin’ an’ pretty, tings a-shinin’. Mammy’s seen ’em, in de Souf.
If we was dah, now! Dey grows dah, an’ Pompey could go out wid his axe
an’ cut one down fo’ his li’l Missy.
ELSIE—(_very eager_) Yes, Mammy Chloe, that just what I want! Just like
the tree I always did have every Christmas.
CARLOTTA—But where we so mucha mon’ getta?
HILDA—They haff the so large trees the churches in. What bane they do
with them after?
OPPERMAN—Dot vos so! Dot Svede voman vos one pargin hunter a’retty. Dot
tree be segond hand de day after de Christmas, and he gome cheap.
CHLOE—Mah Pompey he know dah sextant ob dat big chu’ch on Ellum Street,
’n ah reckon he’ll git it mo’n cheap. Yo’ shill hab yo’ tree, Ailsie
lamb.
TONY—I wanta tree, too.
ELSIE—It will be one tree for everbody, a’retty.
BRIDGET—So it shall. The entire communerty of inhabitints is invoited
to be prisint at a gran Christmas party, with a tree, refrishments and
an intertainmint, in McCarthy’s fore room the noight afther Christmas.
ELSIE—No, not the night after; I want it the Christmas Day on.
BRIDGET—And so it will be, bedad! I hereby make the announc | 576.44253 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.4252980 | 2,430 | 6 |
Produced by Thomas Berger, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
[Illustration: EDWARD BELLAMY.]
EQUALITY
by
EDWARD BELLAMY
Author of
Looking Backward, Dr. Heidenhoff's Process, Miss Ludington's Sister, etc.
* * * * *
Second Edition
* * * * *
PREFACE.
Looking Backward was a small book, and I was not able to get into it all
I wished to say on the subject. Since it was published what was left out
of it has loomed up as so much more important than what it contained that
I have been constrained to write another book. I have taken the date of
Looking Backward, the year 2000, as that of Equality, and have utilized
the framework of the former story as a starting point for this which I
now offer. In order that those who have not read Looking Backward may be
at no disadvantage, an outline of the essential features of that story is
subjoined:
In the year 1887 Julian West was a rich young man living in Boston. He
was soon to be married to a young lady of wealthy family named Edith
Bartlett, and meanwhile lived alone with his man-servant Sawyer in the
family mansion. Being a sufferer from insomnia, he had caused a chamber
to be built of stone beneath the foundation of the house, which he used
for a sleeping room. When even the silence and seclusion of this retreat
failed to bring slumber, he sometimes called in a professional mesmerizer
to put him into a hypnotic sleep, from which Sawyer knew how to arouse
him at a fixed time. This habit, as well as the existence of the
underground chamber, were secrets known only to Sawyer and the hypnotist
who rendered his services. On the night of May 30, 1887, West sent for
the latter, and was put to sleep as usual. The hypnotist had previously
informed his patron that he was intending to leave the city permanently
the same evening, and referred him to other practitioners. That night the
house of Julian West took fire and was wholly destroyed. Remains
identified as those of Sawyer were found and, though no vestige of West
appeared, it was assumed that he of course had also perished.
One hundred and thirteen years later, in September, A. D. 2000, Dr.
Leete, a physician of Boston, on the retired list, was conducting
excavations in his garden for the foundations of a private laboratory,
when the workers came on a mass of masonry covered with ashes and
charcoal. On opening it, a vault, luxuriously fitted up in the style of a
nineteenth-century bedchamber, was found, and on the bed the body of a
young man looking as if he had just lain down to sleep. Although great
trees had been growing above the vault, the unaccountable preservation of
the youth's body tempted Dr. Leete to attempt resuscitation, and to his
own astonishment his efforts proved successful. The sleeper returned to
life, and after a short time to the full vigor of youth which his
appearance had indicated. His shock on learning what had befallen him was
so great as to have endangered his sanity but for the medical skill of
Dr. Leete, and the not less sympathetic ministrations of the other
members of the household, the doctor's wife, and Edith the beautiful
daughter. Presently, however, the young man forgot to wonder at what had
happened to himself in his astonishment on learning of the social
transformation through which the world had passed while he lay sleeping.
Step by step, almost as to a child, his hosts explained to him, who had
known no other way of living except the struggle for existence, what were
the simple principles of national co-operation for the promotion of the
general welfare on which the new civilization rested. He learned that
there were no longer any who were or could be richer or poorer than
others, but that all were economic equals. He learned that no one any
longer worked for another, either by compulsion or for hire, but that all
alike were in the service of the nation working for the common fund,
which all equally shared, and that even necessary personal attendance, as
of the physician, was rendered as to the state like that of the military
surgeon. All these wonders, it was explained, had very simply come about
as the results of replacing private capitalism by public capitalism, and
organizing the machinery of production and distribution, like the
political government, as business of general concern to be carried on for
the public benefit instead of private gain.
But, though it was not long before the young stranger's first
astonishment at the institutions of the new world had passed into
enthusiastic admiration and he was ready to admit that the race had for
the first time learned how to live, he presently began to repine at a
fate which had introduced him to the new world, only to leave him
oppressed by a sense of hopeless loneliness which all the kindness of his
new friends could not relieve, feeling, as he must, that it was dictated
by pity only. Then it was that he first learned that his experience had
been a yet more marvelous one than he had supposed. Edith Leete was no
other than the great-granddaughter of Edith Bartlett, his betrothed, who,
after long mourning her lost lover, had at last allowed herself to be
consoled. The story of the tragical bereavement which had shadowed her
early life was a family tradition, and among the family heirlooms were
letters from Julian West, together with a photograph which represented so
handsome a youth that Edith was illogically inclined to quarrel with her
great-grandmother for ever marrying anybody else. As for the young man's
picture, she kept it on her dressing table. Of course, it followed that
the identity of the tenant of the subterranean chamber had been fully
known to his rescuers from the moment of the discovery; but Edith, for
reasons of her own, had insisted that he should not know who she was till
she saw fit to tell him. When, at the proper time, she had seen fit to do
this, there was no further question of loneliness for the young man, for
how could destiny more unmistakably have indicated that two persons were
meant for each other?
His cup of happiness now being full, he had an experience in which it
seemed to be dashed from his lips. As he lay on his bed in Dr. Leete's
house he was oppressed by a hideous nightmare. It seemed to him that he
opened his eyes to find himself on his bed in the underground chamber
where the mesmerizer had put him to sleep. Sawyer was just completing the
passes used to break the hypnotic influence. He called for the morning
paper, and read on the date line May 31, 1887. Then he knew that all this
wonderful matter about the year 2000, its happy, care-free world of
brothers and the fair girl he had met there were but fragments of a
dream. His brain in a whirl, he went forth into the city. He saw
everything with new eyes, contrasting it with what he had seen in the
Boston of the year 2000. The frenzied folly of the competitive industrial
system, the inhuman contrasts of luxury and woe--pride and
abjectness--the boundless squalor, wretchedness, and madness of the whole
scheme of things which met his eye at every turn, outraged his reason and
made his heart sick. He felt like a sane man shut up by accident in a
madhouse. After a day of this wandering he found himself at nightfall in
a company of his former companions, who rallied him on his distraught
appearance. He told them of his dream and what it had taught him of the
possibilities of a juster, nobler, wiser social system. He reasoned with
them, showing how easy it would be, laying aside the suicidal folly of
competition, by means of fraternal co-operation, to make the actual world
as blessed as that he had dreamed of. At first they derided him, but,
seeing his earnestness, grew angry, and denounced him as a pestilent
fellow, an anarchist, an enemy of society, and drove him from them. Then
it was that, in an agony of weeping, he awoke, this time awaking really,
not falsely, and found himself in his bed in Dr. Leete's house, with the
morning sun of the twentieth century shining in his eyes. Looking from
the window of his room, he saw Edith in the garden gathering flowers for
the breakfast table, and hastened to descend to her and relate his
experience. At this point we will leave him to continue the narrative for
himself.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I.--A SHARP CROSS-EXAMINER
II.--WHY THE REVOLUTION DID NOT COME EARLIER
III.--I ACQUIRE A STAKE IN THE COUNTRY
IV.--A TWENTIETH-CENTURY BANK PARLOR
V.--I EXPERIENCE A NEW SENSATION
VI.--HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE
VII.--A STRING OF SURPRISES
VIII.--THE GREATEST WONDER YET--FASHION DETHRONED
IX.--SOMETHING THAT HAD NOT CHANGED
X.--A MIDNIGHT PLUNGE
XI.--LIFE THE BASIS OF THE RIGHT OF PROPERTY
XII.--HOW INEQUALITY OF WEALTH DESTROYS LIBERTY
XIII.--PRIVATE CAPITAL STOLEN FROM THE SOCIAL FUND
XIV.--WE LOOK OVER MY COLLECTION OF HARNESSES
XV.--WHAT WE WERE COMING TO BUT FOR THE REVOLUTION
XVI.--AN EXCUSE THAT CONDEMNED
XVII.--THE REVOLUTION SAVES PRIVATE PROPERTY FROM MONOPOLY
XVIII.--AN ECHO OF THE PAST
XIX.--"CAN A MAID FORGET HER ORNAMENTS?"
XX.--WHAT THE REVOLUTION DID FOR WOMEN
XXI.--AT THE GYMNASIUM
XXII.--ECONOMIC SUICIDE OF THE PROFIT SYSTEM
XXIII.--"THE PARABLE OF THE WATER TANK"
XXIV.--I AM SHOWN ALL THE KINGDOMS OF THE EARTH
XXV.--THE STRIKERS
XXVI.--FOREIGN COMMERCE UNDER PROFITS; PROTECTION AND FREE TRADE, OR
BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA
XXVII.--HOSTILITY OF A SYSTEM OF VESTED INTERESTS TO IMPROVEMENT
XXVIII.--HOW THE PROFIT SYSTEM NULLIFIED THE BENEFIT OF INVENTIONS
XXIX.--I RECEIVE AN OVATION
XXX.--WHAT UNIVERSAL CULTURE MEANS
XXXI.--"NEITHER IN THIS MOUNTAIN NOR AT JERUSALEM"
XXXII.--ERITIS SICUT DEUS
XXXIII.--SEVERAL | 576.445338 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.5252550 | 2,433 | 6 |
Produced by V-M Österman, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
SHORT STORIES AND SELECTIONS
FOR USE IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOLS
COMPILED AND ANNOTATED, WITH QUESTIONS FOR STUDY
BY
EMILIE KIP BAKER
[Illustration: Walter Scott's Library at Abbotsford]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A LEAF IN THE STORM, _by_ Louise de la Ramee,
_from_ A Leaf in the Storm and Other Stories
CATS, _by_ Maurice Hewlett,
_from_ Earthwork out of Tuscany
AN ADVENTURE, _by_ Honore de Balzac,
_from_ A Passion in the Desert
FOR THOSE WHO LOVE MUSIC, _by_ Axel Munthe,
_from_ Vagaries
OUT OF DOORS, _by_ Richard Jefferies,
_from_ Saint Guido
THE TABOO, _by_ Herman Melville,
_from_ Typee
SCHOOL DAYS AT THE CONVENT, _by_ George Sand,
_from_ The Story of My Life (adapted)
IN BRITTANY, _by_ Louisa Alcott,
_from_ Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag
THE ADIRONDACKS, _by_ John Burroughs,
_from_ Wake Robin
AN ASCENT OF KILAUEA, _by_ Lady Brassey,
_from_ Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam
THE FETISH, _by_ George Eliot,
_from_ The Mill on the Floss
SALMON FISHING IN IRELAND, _by_ James A. Froude,
_from_ A Fortnight in Kerry
ACROSS RUNNING WATER, _by_ Fiona Macleod,
_from_ Sea Magic and Running Water
THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS, _by_ Nathaniel Hawthorne,
_from_ Grandfather's Chair
THE WHITE TRAIL, _by_ Stewart Edward White,
_from_ The Silent Places
A DISSERTATION ON ROAST PIG, _by_ Charles Lamb,
_from_ Essays of Elia
THE LAST CLASS, _by_ Alphonse Daudet,
_from_ Monday Tales
AN ARAB FISHERMAN, _by_ Albert Edwards,
_from_ The Barbary Coast
THE ARCHERY CONTEST, _by_ Walter Scott,
_from_ Ivanhoe
BABY SYLVESTER, _by_ Bret Harte,
_from_ Bret Harte's Writings
THE ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG, _by_ Abraham Lincoln,
_from_ Lincoln's Speeches
THE SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS, _by_ Abraham Lincoln,
_from_ Lincoln's Speeches
AN APPRECIATION OF LINCOLN, _by_ John Hay,
_from_ Life of Lincoln
THE ELEPHANTS THAT STRUCK, _by_ Samuel White Baker,
_from_ Eight Years in Ceylon
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP, _by_ Bret Harte
THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN, _by_ Rudyard Kipling,
_from_ Plain Tales from the Hills
A CHILD, _by_ John Galsworthy,
_from_ Commentary
TOO DEAR FOR THE WHISTLE, _by_ Benjamin Franklin,
_from_ The Autobiography
A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT, _by_ Robert Louis Stevenson,
_from_ The New Arabian Nights
A BAD FIVE MINUTES IN THE ALPS, _by_ Leslie Stephen,
_from_ Freethinking and Plainspeaking (adapted)
THE GOLD TRAIL, _by_ Stewart Edward White,
_from_ Gold
TWENTY YEARS OF ARCTIC STRUGGLE, _by_ J. Kennedy McLean,
_from_ Heroes of the Farthest North and South (adapted)
THE SPEECH IN MANCHESTER, _by_ Henry Ward Beecher,
_from_ Addresses and Sermons
A GREEN DONKEY DRIVER, _by_ Robert Louis Stevenson,
_from_ Travels with a Donkey
A NIGHT IN THE PINES, _by_ Robert Louis Stevenson,
_from_ Travels with a Donkey
LIFE IN OLD NEW YORK, _by_ Washington Irving,
_from_ Knickerbocker's History of New York
THE BAZAAR IN MOROCCO, _by_ Pierre Loti,
_from_ Into Morocco
A BATTLE OF THE ANTS, _by_ Henry D. Thoreau,
_from_ Walden (adapted)
AN AFRICAN PET, _by_ Paul B. du Chaillu,
_from_ The African Forest and Jungle
ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE, _by_ Lloyd Morgan,
_from_ Animal Sketches (adapted)
BUCK'S TRIAL OF STRENGTH, _by_ Jack London,
_from_ The Call of the Wild
ON THE SOLANDER WHALING GROUND, _by_ Frank Bullen,
_from_ Idylls of the Sea
AN EPISODE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION, _by_ Charles Dickens,
_from_ A Tale of Two Cities
THE COMMANDER OF THE FAITHFUL, _by_ Pierre Loti,
_from_ Into Morocco (adapted)
WALT WHITMAN, _by_ John Burroughs,
_from_ Whitman--A Study (adapted)
HEROISM IN HOUSEKEEPING, _by_ Jane Welsh Carlyle,
_from_ Letters
A YOUTHFUL ACTOR, _by_ Thomas Bailey Aldrich,
_from_ The Story of a Bad Boy
WAR, _by_ Thomas Carlyle, _from_ Sartor Resartus
<DW53>-HUNTING, _by_ Ernest Ingersoll,
_from_ Wild Neighbors (adapted)
SIGHT IN SAVAGES, _by_ W. H. Hudson,
_from_ Idle Days in Patagonia
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER, _by_ Washington Irving,
_from_ The Sketch Book
INTRODUCTION
The testimony of librarians as to the kind of books people are reading
nowadays is somewhat discouraging to the book-lover who has been brought
up in the old traditions. We are told that Scott and Thackeray and
George Eliot cannot compete with the year's "best sellers," and that the
old classics are read only by the few who have a cultivated taste and a
trained intelligence.
The interest of novelty, the dislike of mental effort, the temptation to
read merely for a mild sensation,--all these undoubtedly tend to keep
down the level of literary taste. To many readers of good average
ability, neither the esthetic nor the purely intellectual makes a strong
appeal. Even minds of fine quality often find a welcome diversion in
trivial reading. In fact, to expect every one and at all times to have
his mind keyed up to the higher levels is neither sincere nor
reasonable. And yet, making due allowance for intellectual limitations,
for the busy and distracting conditions of modern life, and for the real
need of light reading at times when recreation is of more value than
instruction, it would seem that a fair proportion of our reading could
and should be on a higher plane.
To put it on this high plane is one of the fixed objects of the school.
For this end the schools have given English an important place, have
broadened the list of recommended books year by year, and have sought to
improve the method of teaching literature. Especially have they hoped to
create in the pupil the habit of reading good books and of discovering
new material on his own initiative. Thus far their success has fallen
much below their hopes, as the testimony of librarians, adduced above,
plainly indicates.
There is one significant fact which both librarians and teachers have
observed. The average reader, child or adult, seldom knows how or where
to find things to read. He is lost in a library, whether among the
book-shelves or at a card-catalogue. He is like a traveler who is
ignorant of the geography of the country and cannot use the compass. And
worse still, he has not the explorer's instinct. If he possessed this,
he would somehow find his way himself,--a thing which occasionally
happens when the reader has more than usual ability. Between the covers
of those books, turning to him their uncommunicative backs, behind those
labels--to him so unexpressive--there may be passages, whole chapters or
more, that would give him entertainment, if he only knew!
To introduce him to an author may be to give him a new friend.
Introductions need not imply long and intimate companionship. This
author may hold him for half an hour, and never again; that one may
claim his attention for a day; and another may come to rank as one of
his old friends. In each case the acquaintance may depend upon the fact
of an introduction, and not upon the reader's own initiative in
discovery. More than the acquaintances thus made, is the sense of
at-homeness among books which they gradually bring about. We all know
that feeling of the unreality of a book of which we have merely heard
the title, and how soon we forget it. A book that we have seen and
handled, however, and especially one which we have read or from which we
have seen a passage quoted in another volume, is somehow real,--an
entity. Through continued experiences of this sort we come to feel
really acquainted with books, to know where to find the things we are
looking for, to judge and appreciate,--in brief, to feel at home among
them.
It is as a series of such introductions to the larger world of
literature that this volume has been compiled. Some of the selections
are from books whose titles are already familiar to high school
students; many others are from sources that few pupils will know. All of
them, it is confidently believed, are within the interest and
comprehension of boys and girls of high school age. The notes and
questions at the end of each selection will, it is hoped, be of some
help to the students in getting at the author's meaning, and in
suggesting interesting topics for discussion. If, after finishing the
Short Stories and Selections, a few more students will have formed the
habit of good reading and will feel, not merely willing, but eager, to
enlarge their acquaintance among good books, this volume has
accomplished its purpose.
EMILIE K. BAKER
SHORT STORIES AND SELECTIONS
A LEAF IN THE STORM
Bernadou clung to his home with a dogged devotion. He would not go from
it to fight unless compelled, but for it he would have fought like a
lion. His love for his country was only an indefinite shadowy existence
that was not clear to him; he could not save a land that he had never
seen, a capital that was only to him as an empty name; nor could he
comprehend the danger that his nation ran; nor could he desire to go
forth and spend his lifeblood in defence of things unknown to him. He
was only a peasant, and he could not read nor greatly understand. But
affection for his birthplace was a passion with him,--mute indeed, but
deep-seated as an oak. For his birthplace he would have struggled as a
man can struggle only when supreme love as well as duty nerves his arm.
Neither he nor Reine Allix could see that a man's duty might lie from
home, | 576.545295 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.6152070 | 2,431 | 20 |
Produced by Michelle Shephard, Tiffany Vergon, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
FRA BARTOLOMMEO and ANDREA D'AGNOLO
By Leader Scott
Author Of "A Nook In The Apennines"
Re-Edited By Horace Shipp and Flora Kendrick, A.R.B.S.
_The reproductions in this series are from official photographs of the
National Collections, or from photographs by Messrs. Andersen, Alinari
or Braun._
FOREWORD
Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael: the three great names of the noblest
period of the Renaissance take our minds from the host of fine artists
who worked alongside them. Nevertheless beside these giants a whole
host of exquisite artists have place, and not least among them the
three painters with whom Mr. Leader Scott has dealt in these pages. Fra
Bartolommeo linking up with the religious art of the preceding period,
with that of Masaccio, of Piero de Cosimo, his senior student in the
studio of Cosimo Roselli, and at last with that of the definitely
"modern" painters of the Renaissance, Raphael, Leonardo and Michelangelo
himself, is a transition painter in this supreme period. Technique and
the work of hand and brain are rapidly taking the place of inspiration
and the desire to convey a message. The aesthetic sensation is becoming
an end in itself. The scientific painters, perfecting their studies of
anatomy and of perspective, having a conscious mastery over their tools
and their mediums, are taking the place of such men as Fra Angelico.
As a painter at this end of a period of transition--a painter whose
spiritual leanings would undoubtedly have been with the earlier men, but
whose period was too strong for him--Fra Bartolommeo is of particular
interest; and Albertinelli, for all the fiery surface difference of his
outlook is too closely bound by the ties of his friendship for the Frate
to have any other viewpoint.
Andrea del Sarto presents yet another phenomenon: that of the artist
endowed with all the powers of craftsmanship yet serving an end
neither basically spiritual nor basically aesthetic, but definitely
professional. We have George Vasari's word for it; and Vasari's blame
upon the extravagant and too-well-beloved Lucrezia. To-day we are so
accustomed to the idea of the professional attitude to art that we can
accept it in Andrea without concern. Not that other and earlier artists
were unconcerned with the aspect of payments. The history of Italian
art is full of quarrels and bickerings about prices, the calling in of
referees to decide between patron and painter, demands and refusals
of payment. Even the unworldly Fra Bartolommeo was the centre of such
quarrels, and although his vow of poverty forbade him to receive money
for his work, the order to which he belonged stood out firmly for the
_scudi_ which the Frate's pictures brought them. In justice to Andrea it
must be added that this was not the only motive for his activities;
it was not without cause that the men of his time called him "_senza
errori_," the faultless painter; and the production of a vast quantity
of his work rather than good prices for individual pictures made his art
pay to the extent it did. A pot-boiler in masterpieces, his works have
place in every gallery of importance, and he himself stands very close
to the three greatest; men of the Renaissance.
Both Fra Bartolommeo and Albertinelli are little known in this country.
Practically nothing has been written about them and very few of their
works are in either public galleries or private collections. It is in
Italy, of course, that one must study their originals, although the
great collections usually include one or two. Most interesting from
the viewpoint of the study of art is the evolution of the work of the
artist-monk as he came under the influence of the more dramatic modern
and frankly sensational work of Raphael, of the Venetians and of
Michelangelo. In this case (many will say in that of the art of
the world) this tendency detracted rather than helped the work. The
draperies, the dramatic poses, the artistic sensation arrests the mind
at the surface of the picture. It is indeed strange that this devout
churchman should have succumbed to the temptation, and there are moments
when one suspects that his somewhat spectacular pietism disguised the
spirit of one whose mind had little to do with the mysticism of the
mediaeval church. Or perhaps it was that the strange friendship between
him and Albertinelli, the man of the cloister and the man of the world,
effected some alchemy in the mind of each. The story of that lifelong
friendship, strong enough to overcome the difficulties of a definite
partnership between the strict life of the monastery and the busy life
of the _bottega_, is one of the most fascinating in art history.
Mr. Leader Scott has in all three lives the opportunity for fascinating
studies, and his book presents them to us with much of the flavour of
the period in which they lived. Perhaps to-day we should incline to
modify his acceptance of the Vasari attitude to Lucrezia, especially
since he himself tends to withdraw the charges against her, but leaves
her as the villainess of the piece upon very little evidence. The
inclusion of a chapter upon Ghirlandajo, treated merely as a follower
of Fra Bartolommeo, scarcely does justice in modern eyes to this fine
artist, whose own day and generation did him such honour and paid him
so well. But the author's general conclusions as to the place in art
and the significance of the lives of the three painters with whom he
is chiefly concerned remains unchallenged, and we have in the volume a
necessary study to place alongside those of Leonardo, of Michelangelo
and of Raphael for an understanding of the culmination of the
Renaissance in Italy.
HORACE SHIPP.
CONTENTS.
FRA BARTOLOMMEO.
CHAPTER
I. THOUGHTS ON THE RENAISSANCE
II. THE "BOTTEGA" OF COSIMO ROSELLI. A.D. 1475-1486
III. THE GARDEN AND THE CLOISTER. A.D. 1487-1495
IV. SAN MARCO. A.D. 1496-1500
V. FRA BARTOLOMMEO IN THE CONVENT. A.D. 1504-1509
VI. ALBERTINELLI IN THE WORLD. A.D. 1501-1510
VII. CONVENT PARTNERSHIP. A.D. 1510-1513
VIII. CLOSE OF LIFE. A.D. 1514-1517
IX. PART I.--SCHOLARS OF FRA BARTOLOMMEO
PART II.--SCHOLARS OF MARIOTTO ALBERTINELLI
X. RIDOLFO GHIRLANDAJO
ANDREA DEL SARTO.
CHAPTER I. YOUTH AND EARLY WORKS. A.D. 1487-1511
II. THE SERVITE CLOISTER. A.D. 1511-1512
III. SOCIAL LIFE AND MARRIAGE. A.D. 1511-1516
IV. WORKS IN FLORENCE. A.D. 1511-1515
V. GOING TO FRANCE. A.D. 1518-1519
VI. ANDREA AND OTTAVIANO DE' MEDICI. A.D. 1521-1523
VII. THE PLAGUE AND THE SIEGE. A.D. 1525-1531
VIII. SCHOLARS OF ANDREA DEL SARTO
BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ADORATION. By BARTOLOMMEO PROCESSION TO CALVARY. By GHIRLANDAIO A
SCULPTOR. By ANDREA DEL SARTO MADONNA AND CHILD WITH SS. JOHN AND
ELIZABETH. By ANDREA DEL SARTO THE HOLY FAMILY. By BARTOLOMMEO THE
SAVIOUR. By ALBERTINELLI VIRGIN AND CHILD. By ANDREA DEL SARTO ECCE
<DW25>. By BARTOLOMMEO
FRA BARTOLOMMEO.
CHAPTER I.
THOUGHTS ON THE RENAISSANCE.
It seems to be a law of nature that progress, as well as time, should be
marked by periods of alternate light and darkness--day and night.
This law is nowhere more apparent than in the history of Art. Three
times has the world been illuminated by the full brilliance of Art, and
three times has a corresponding period of darkness ensued.
The first day dawned in Egypt and Assyria, and its works lie buried in
the tombs of prehistoric Pharaohs and Ninevite kings. The second day
the sun rose on the shores of many-isled Greece, and shed its rays over
Etruria and Rome, and ere it set, temples and palaces were flooded with
beauty. The gods had taken human form, and were come to dwell with men.
The third day arising in Italy, lit up the whole western world with the
glow of colour and fervour, and its fading rays light us yet.
The first period was that of mythic art; the world like a child
wondering at all around tried to express in myths the truths it could
not comprehend.
The second was pagan art which satisfies itself that in expressing the
perfection of humanity, it unfolds divinity. The third era of Christian
art, conscious that the divine lies beyond the human, fails in aspiring
to express infinitude.
Tracing one of these periods from its rise, how truly this similitude
of the dawn of day is carried out. See at the first streak of light
how dim, stiff, and soulless all things appear! Trees and objects bear
precisely the relation to their own appearance in broad daylight as the
wooden Madonnas of the Byzantine school do to those of Raphael.
Next, when the sun--the true light--first appears, how it bathes the sea
and the hills in an ethereal glory not their own! What fair liquid tints
of blue, and rose, and glorious gold! This period which, in art, began
with Giotto and ended with Botticelli, culminated in Fra Angelico, who
flooded the world of painting with a heavenly spiritualism not material,
and gave his dreams of heaven the colours of the first pure rays of
sunshine.
But as the sun rises, nature takes her real tints gradually. We see
every thing in its own colour; the gold and the rose has faded away with
the truer light, and a stern realism takes its place. The human form
must be expressed, in all its solidity and truth, not only in its
outward semblance, but the hidden soul must be seen through the veil of
flesh. And in this lies the reason of the decline; only to a | 576.635247 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.7143680 | 864 | 13 |
Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.
Suppers
NOVEL SUGGESTIONS FOR SOCIAL
OCCASIONS
Compiled by
PAUL PIERCE
Editor and Publisher of _What to Eat_, the National Food Magazine,
Superintendent of Food Exhibits at the St. Louis Worlds's Fair,
Honorary Commissioner of Foods at the Jamestown Exposition.
CHICAGO
BREWER, BARSE & CO.
Copyright 1907
by
PAUL PIERCE
TO THE ARISTOCRACY OF AMERICA.
To that much abused, but very eminent class, the society women of
America, this book is dedicated. It is with a realization that they
constitute the better half of the best aristocracy in the
world--probably the only real aristocracy of the present day. It is an
aristocracy of real merit, entree to which is attained by achievement,
not by mere inheritance. No titles are inherited there; they are bought
with effort and accomplishments. It is an aristocracy of the fittest,
not of chance birth. Out of the competition is growing a higher and
higher standard for each succeeding generation, and hence it is an
aristocracy of ascent and not of descent.
Suppers are the favorite social function of the American aristocrats.
Hence it is with the highest esteem of their station, and the honor they
reflect on the nation that this humble volume is recommended to their
especial protection and favor.
PUBLISHER'S ANNOUNCEMENT.
So scant is the information regarding suppers that it has been almost
impossible for the host or hostess to obtain authentic knowledge
regarding these functions excepting through actual experience as a
guest, and even then the prevailing ignorance has led to many erroneous
conceptions causing deplorable awkwardness. The publication of this
volume was decided upon only after a search of libraries and bookshops
everywhere revealed such a woeful dearth of information on suppers and
the fact that such information as was obtainable was often misleading
and in many cases positively ridiculous. There is no social function
that lends itself so admirably for a high class entertainment as the
supper.
This volume, therefore, will fill a vacuum in the needs of society; it
will supply a long felt want of both men and women, who often, so often,
have worried over the proper forms and menus for suppers. The book is
complied by Paul Pierce, publisher of _What To Eat_, The National Food
Magazine, an international authority on all subjects pertaining to
dinings and other social functions. Mr. Pierce is the Compiler of
"Dinners and Luncheons," "Parties and Entertainments," "Breakfasts and
Teas," and "Weddings and Wedding Celebrations," to which "Suppers" is a
companion. All the other volumes will be found most helpful to the man
or woman who entertains on a large or small scale.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. _Chafing Dish Suppers_--Chafing Dish Cooking and
Serving--Chafing Dish Chat--A Chafing Dish Supper--A Chafing Dish
Party--Over the Chafing Dish.
CHAPTER II. _German, Dutch and Bohemian Suppers_--Some Queer German
Suppers--A Dutch Supper--Bohemian Supper for Men--The Dutch Supper.
CHAPTER III. _Entertaining in the Modern Apartment_--A Little Sunday
Night Supper--Stag Suppers--A Bachelor Supper.
CHAPTER IV. _Suppers for Special Occasions_--Danish Valentine Supper--A
Hallowe'en Ghost Hunt--A Hallowe'en Supper--Hallowe'en Supper Menus--A
Pie Party for Thanksgiving Season--The Pie Shelf--Birthday
Suppers--Birthday Party.
CHAPTER V. _Miscellaneous Suppers_--Camping Parties and
Clambakes--Nutting Party--Harvest Home Supper--Autumn Suppers | 576.734408 |
2023-11-16 18:26:40.9167910 | 710 | 157 |
CALLISTA
A TALE OF THE THIRD CENTURY
CALLISTA
A TALE OF THE THIRD CENTURY
BY
JOHN HENRY CARDINAL NEWMAN
"Love thy God, and love Him only,
And thy breast will ne'er be lonely.
In that One Great Spirit meet
All things mighty, grave, and sweet.
Vainly strives the soul to mingle
With a being of our kind;
Vainly hearts with hearts are twined:
For the deepest still is single.
An impalpable resistance
Holds like natures still at distance.
Mortal: love that Holy One,
Or dwell for aye alone."
DE VERE
_NEW IMPRESSION_
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1904
_All rights reserved_
_To_
_HENRY WILLIAM WILBERFORCE._
_To you alone, who have known me so long, and who love me so well, could I
venture to offer a trifle like this. But you will recognise the author in
his work, and take pleasure in the recognition._
_J. H. N._
ADVERTISEMENT.
It is hardly necessary to say that the following Tale is a simple fiction
from beginning to end. It has little in it of actual history, and not much
claim to antiquarian research; yet it has required more reading than may
appear at first sight.
It is an attempt to imagine and express, from a Catholic point of view,
the feelings and mutual relations of Christians and heathens at the period
to which it belongs, and it has been undertaken as the nearest approach
which the Author could make to a more important work suggested to him from
a high ecclesiastical quarter.
_September 13, 1855._
POSTSCRIPTS TO LATER EDITIONS.
_February 8, 1856._--Since the volume has been in print, the Author finds
that his name has got abroad. This gives him reason to add, that he wrote
great part of Chapters I., IV., and V., and sketched the character and
fortunes of Juba, in the early spring of 1848. He did no more till the end
of last July, when he suddenly resumed the thread of his tale, and has
been successful so far as this, that he has brought it to an end.
Without being able to lay his finger upon instances in point, he has some
misgiving lest, from a confusion between ancient histories and modern
travels, there should be inaccuracies, antiquarian or geographical, in
certain of his minor statements, which carry with them authority when they
cease to be anonymous.
_February 2, 1881.--October, 1888._--In a tale such as this, which professes
in the very first sentence of its Advertisement to be simple fiction from
beginning to end, details may be allowably filled up by the writer's
imagination and by his personal opinions and beliefs, the only
rule binding on him being this--that he has no right to contravene
acknowledged historical facts. Thus it is that Walter Scott exercises a
poet's licence | 576.936831 |
2023-11-16 18:26:41.2163920 | 1,039 | 9 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor, Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Library of Early
Journals.)
Transcriber's note: A few typographical errors have been corrected: they
are listed at the end of the text.
* * * * *
{261}
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 203.]
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17. 1853.
[Price Fourpence. Stamped Edition 5d.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
Page
Our Shakspearian Correspondence 261
NOTES:--
Mr. Pepys and East London Topography, &c. 263
Picts' Houses in Aberdeenshire 264
FOLK LORE:--Legends of the County Clare--Devonshire
Cures for the Thrush 264
HERALDIC NOTES:--Arms of Granville--Arms of
Richard, King of the Romans 265
Shakspeare Correspondence, by J. O. Halliwell and
Thos. Keightley 265
MINOR NOTES:--Longfellow's Poetical Works--Sir
Walter Raleigh--Curious Advertisement--Gravestone
Inscription--Monumental Inscription 267
QUERIES:--
Sir Philip Warwick 268
Seals of the Borough of Great Yarmouth, by E. S.
Taylor 269
MINOR QUERIES:--Hand in Bishop Canning's Church
--"I put a spoke in his wheel"--Sir W. Hewit--
Passage in Virgil--Fauntleroy--Animal Prefixes
descriptive of Size and Quality--Punning Devices
--"Pinece with a stink"--Soiled Parchment Deeds
--Roger Wilbraham, Esq.'s, Cheshire Collection
--Cambridge and Ireland--Derivation of Celt--
Ancient Superstition against the King of England
entering or even beholding the Town of Leicester
--Burton--The Camera Lucida--Francis Moore--
Waugh, Bishop of Carlisle--Palace at Enfield--
"Solamen miseris," &c.--Soke Mills--Second Wife
of Mallet 269
MINOR QUERIES WITH ANSWERS:--Books burned by
the Common Hangman--Captain George Cusack--
Sir Ralph Winwood 272
REPLIES:--
Books chained to Desks in Churches, by J. Booker, &c. 273
Epitaphs by Cuthbert Bede, B.A., &c. 273
Parochial Libraries 274
"Up, Guards, and at them!" by Frank Howard 275
PHOTOGRAPHIC CORRESPONDENCE:--Mr. Muller's Process
--Stereoscopic Angles--Ammonio-nitrate of
Silver 275
REPLIES TO MINOR QUERIES:--Sir Thomas Elyot--
Judges styled "Reverend"--"Hurrah" and other
War-cries--Major Andre--Early Edition of the
New Testament--Ladies' Arms borne in a Lozenge
--Sir William Hankford--Maullies, Manillas--The
Use of the Hour-glass in Pulpits--Derivation of the
Word "Island"--A Cob-wall--Oliver Cromwell's
Portrait--Manners of the Irish--Chronograms and
Anagrams--"Haul over the Coals,"--Sheer Hulk--
The Magnet--Fierce--Connexion between the
Celtic and Latin Languages--Acharis, &c. 276
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Notes on Books, &c. 282
Books and Odd Volumes wanted 282
Notices to Correspondents 282
Advertisements 283
* * * * *
OUR SHAKSPEARIAN CORRESPONDENCE.
We have received from a valued and kind correspondent (not one of those
emphatically good-natured friends so wittily described by Sheridan) the
following temperate remonstrance against the tone which has distinguished
several | 577.236432 |
2023-11-16 18:26:41.4170740 | 2,433 | 28 |
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
QUESTIONABLE AMUSEMENTS AND WORTHY SUBSTITUTES
By J. M. Judy
Introduction by George H. Trever, Ph.D., D.D. The manuscript of
This book was not submitted to any publisher, but was put in its
present form by JENNINGS & PYE, for a friend of the author.
Address. Chicago: Western Methodist Book Concern, 1904.
INTRODUCTION.
By George H. Trever, PH.D., D.D.
Author of Comparative Theology, etc.
A BOOK on "Questionable Amusements and Worthy Substitutes" is timely
to-day. Such a grouping of subject matter is in itself a commendation.
Possibly we have been saying "Don't" quite enough without offering the
positive substitute. The "expulsive power of a new affection" is, after
all, the mightiest agency in reform. "Thou shalt not" is quite easy to
say; but though the house be emptied, swept, and garnished, unless pure
angels hasten to occupy the vacated chambers, other spirits worse than
the first will soon rush in to befoul them again.
The author of these papers, the Rev. J.M. Judy, writes out of a full,
warm heart. We know him to be a correct, able preacher of the gospel,
and an efficient fisher of men. Having thoroughly prepared himself for
his work by courses in Northwestern University and Garrett Biblical
Institute, by travel in the South and West of our own country, and by a
visitation of the Old World, he has served on the rugged frontier of his
Conference, and among foreign populations grappling successfully with
some of the most difficult problems in modern Church work.
The following articles aroused much interest when delivered to his own
people, and must do good wherever read. In style they are clear and
vivid; in logical arrangement excellent; glow with sacred fervor, and
pulse with honest, eager conviction. We bespeak for them a wide reading,
and would especially commend them to the young people of our Epworth
Leagues.
WHITEWATER, WIS., March 2, 1904.
PREFACE.
"QUESTIONABLE Amusements and Worthy Substitutes" is a consideration of
the "so-called questionable amusements," and an outlook for those forms
of social, domestic, and personal practices which charm the life, secure
the present, and build for the future. To take away the bad is good; to
give the good is better; but to take away the bad and to give the good
in its stead is best of all. This we have tried to do, not in our own
strength, but with the conscious presence of the Spirit of God.
The spiritual indifference of Christendom to-day as one meets with it
in all forms of Christian work has led us to send out this message.
"Questionable Amusements," form both a cause and a result of this
widespread indifference. An underlying cause of this indifference among
those who profess to be followers of Jesus Christ, is lack of conviction
for sin, want of positive faith in the fundamental truths of the
Scriptures, too little and superficial prayer, and lack of personal,
soul-saving work. Is the class-meeting becoming extinct? Is the
prayer-meeting lifeless? Is the revival spirit decaying? Is family
worship formal, or has it ceased? However some may answer these
questions, still we believe that the Church has a warm heart, and that
signs of her vigorous life are expressed in her tenacious hold for high
moral standards, and in her generous GIVING of money and of men.
Our point of view has been that of the person, old or young, regardless
of sect, race, party, occupation, or circumstances, who has a life to
live, and who wants to make the most out of it for himself and for his
fellow-men, and who believes that he will find this life disclosed in
nature, in history, and in the Word of God. J.M.J.
ORFORDVILLE, WIS., March, 1904.
CONTENTS
PART I.
QUESTIONABLE AMUSEMENTS
CHAPTER
I TOBACCO
II DRUNKENNESS
III GAMBLING, CARDS
IV DANCING
V THEATER-GOING
PART II
WORTHY SUBSTITUTES
VI BOOKS AND READING
VII SOCIAL RECREATION
VIII FRIENDSHIP
IX TRAVEL
X HOME AND THE HOME-MAKER
PART I. QUESTIONABLE AMUSEMENTS.
"The excesses of our youth are drafts on our old age,
payable about one hundred years after date without
interest."--JOHN RUSKIN.
I. TOBACCO.
Tobacco wastes the body. It is used for the nicotine that is in it. This
peculiar ingredient is a poisonous, oily, colorless liquid, and gives to
tobacco its odor. This odor and the flavor of tobacco are developed by
fermentation in the process of preparation for use. "Poison" is commonly
defined as "any substance that when taken into the system acts in
an injurious manner, tending to cause death or serious detriment
to health." And different poisons are defined as those which act
differently upon the human organism. For example, one class, such as
nicotine in tobacco, is defined as that which acts as a stimulant or
an irritant; while another class, such as opium, acts with a quieting,
soothing influence. But the fact is that poison does not act at all
upon the human system, but the human system acts upon the poison. In
one class of poisons, such as opium, the reason why the system does not
arouse itself and try to cast off the poison, is that the nerves become
paralyzed so that it can not. And in the case of nicotine in tobacco the
nerves are not thus paralyzed, so that they try in every way to cast off
the poison. Let the human body represent the house, and the sensitive
nerves and the delicate blood vessels the sleeping inmates of that
house. Let the Foe Opium come to invade that house and to destroy the
inmates, for every poison is a deadly Foe. At the first appearance of
this subtle Foe terror is struck into the heart of the inmates, so that
they fall back helpless, paralyzed with fear. When the Intruder Tobacco
comes, he comes boisterously, rattling the windows and jostling the
furniture, so that the inmates of the house set up a life-and-death
conflict against him.
This is just what happens when tobacco is taken into the human system.
Every nerve cries out against it, and every effort is made to resist it.
You ask, Will one's body be healthier and live longer without tobacco
than with it? We answer, by asking, Will one's home be happier and more
prosperous without some deadly Foe continually invading it, or with such
a Foe? When the membranes and tissues of the body, with their host of
nerves and blood vessels, have to be fighting against some deadly poison
in connection with their ordinary work, will they not wear out sooner
than if they could be left to do their ordinary work quietly? To
illustrate: A particle of tobacco dust no sooner comes into contact with
the lining membrane of the nose, than violent sneezing is produced.
This is the effort of the besieged nerves and blood vessels to protect
themselves. A bit of tobacco taken into the mouth causes salivation
because the salivary glands recognize the enemy and yield an increased
flow of their precious fluid to wash him away. Taken into the stomach
unaccustomed to its presence, and it produces violent vomiting. The
whole lining membrane of that much-abused organ rebels against such an
Intruder, and tries to eject him. Tobacco dust and smoke taken into
the lungs at once excretes a mucous-like fluid in the mouth, throat,
windpipe, bronchial tubes, and in the lungs themselves. Excretions such
as this mean a violent wasting away of vitality and power. Taken in
large quantities into the stomach, tobacco not only causes an excretion
of mucus from the mouth, throat, and breathing organs, but it produces
an overtaxing of the liver; that is, this organ overworks in order to
counteract the presence of the poison. But one asks, If tobacco is so
injurious, why is it used with such apparent pleasure? A small quantity
of tobacco received into the system by smoking, chewing, or snuffing is
carried through the circulation to the skin, lungs, liver, kidneys, and
to all the organs of the body, by which it is moderately resisted. The
result is a gentle excitement of all these organs. They are in a state
of morbid activity. And as sensibility depends upon vital action of
the bodily organisms, there is necessarily produced a degree of
sense gratification or pleasure. The reason why these sensations are
pleasurable instead of painful is, in this state of moderate excitement
the circulation is materially increased without being materially
unbalanced. But as with every sense indulgence, when the craving for
increased doses becomes satisfied, when larger doses are taken the
circulation becomes unbalanced, vital resistance centers in one point,
congestion occurs, then the sensation becomes one of pain instead of one
of pleasure. This disturbance or excitement caused by tobacco is nothing
more nor less than disease. For it is abnormal action, and abnormal
action is fever, and fever is disease. It is state on good authority,
"that no one who smokes tobacco before the bodily powers are developed
ever makes a strong, vigorous man." Dr. H. Gibbons says: "Tobacco
impairs digestion, poisons the blood, depresses the vital powers, causes
the limbs to tremble, and weakens and otherwise disorders the heart." It
is conceded by the medical profession that tobacco causes cancer of the
tongue and lips, dimness of vision, deafness, dyspepsia, bronchitis,
consumption, heart palpitation, spinal weakness, chronic tonsillitis,
paralysis, impotency, apoplexy, and insanity. It is held by some men
that tobacco aids digestion. Dr. McAllister, of Utica, New York, says
that it "weakens the organs of Digestion and assimilation, and at length
plunges one into all the horrors of dyspepsia."
*Tobacco dulls the mind.* It does this not only by wasting the body,
the physical basis of the mind, but it does it through habits of
intellectual idleness, which the user of tobacco naturally forms.
Whoever heard of a first-class loafer who did not e-a-t the weed or burn
it, or both? On the rail train recently we were compelled to ride for
an hour in the smoking-car, which Dr. Talmage has called "the nastiest
place in Christendom." In front of me sat a young man, drawing and
puffing away at a cigar, polluting the entire region about | 577.437114 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.1189940 | 1,355 | 11 |
This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
RAILWAY ADVENTURES
AND ANECDOTES:
EXTENDING OVER MORE THAN FIFTY YEARS.
EDITED BY RICHARD PIKE.
THIRD EDITION.
* * * * *
"The only _bona fide_ Railway Anecdote Book published
on either side of the Atlantic."--_Liverpool Mercury_.
* * * * *
LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.
NOTTINGHAM: J. DERRY.
* * * * *
1888.
NOTTINGHAM:
J. DERBY, PRINTER, WHEELER GATE AND HOUNDS GATE.
PREFACE.
Although railways are comparatively of recent date we are so accustomed
to them that it is difficult to realize the condition of the country
before their introduction. How different are the present day ideas as to
speed in travelling to those entertained in the good old times. The
celebrated historian, Niebuhr, who was in England in 1798, thus describes
the rapid travelling of that period:--"Four horses drawing a coach with
six persons inside, four on the roof, a sort of conductor besides the
coachman, and overladen with luggage, have to get over seven English
miles in the hour; and as the coach goes on without ever stopping except
at the principal stages, it is not surprising that you can traverse the
whole extent of the country in so few days. But for any length of time
this rapid motion is quite too unnatural. You can only get a very
piece-meal view of the country from the windows, and with the tremendous
speed at which you go can keep no object long in sight; you are unable
also to stop at any place." Near the same time the late Lord Campbell,
travelling for the first time by coach from Scotland to London, was
seriously advised to stay a day at York, as the rapidity of motion (eight
miles per hour) had caused several through-going passengers to die of
apoplexy.
It is stated in the year 1825, there was in the whole world, only one
railway carriage, built to convey passengers. It was on the first
railway between Stockton and Darlington, and bore on its panels the
motto--"Periculum privatum, publica utilitas." At the opening of this
line the people's ideas of railway speed were scarcely ahead of the canal
boat. For we are told, "Strange to say, a man on horseback carrying a
flag headed the procession. It was not thought so dangerous a place
after all. The locomotive was only supposed to go at the rate of from
four to six miles an hour; an ordinary horse could easily keep ahead of
that. A great concourse of people stood along the line. Many of them
tried to accompany the procession by running, and some gentlemen on
horseback galloped across the fields to keep up with the engine. At a
favourable part of the road Stephenson determined to try the speed of the
engine, and he called upon the horseman with the flag to get out of his
way! The speed was at once raised to twelve miles an hour, and soon
after to fifteen, causing much excitement among the passengers."
George Stephenson was greatly impressed with the vast possibilities
belonging to the future of railway travelling. When battling for the
locomotive he seemed to see with true prescience what it was destined to
accomplish. "I will do something in course of time," he said, "which
will astonish all England." Years afterwards when asked to what he
alluded, he replied, "I meant to make the mail run between London and
Edinburgh by the locomotive before I died, and I have done it." Thus was
a similar prediction fulfilled, which at the time he uttered it was
doubtless considered a very wild prophecy, "Men shall take supper in
London and breakfast in Edinburgh."
From a small beginning railways have spread over the four quarters of the
globe. Thousands of millions of pounds have been spent upon their
construction. Railway contractors such as Peto and Brassey at one time
employed armies of workmen, more numerous than the contending hosts
engaged in many a battle celebrated in history. Considering the mighty
revolutions that have been wrought in social affairs and in the commerce
of the world by railways, John Bright was not far wrong when he said in
the House of Commons "Who are the greatest men of the present age? Not
your warriors, not your statesmen. They are your engineers."
The Railway era, although of modern date, has been rich in adventures and
incidents. Numerous works have been written upon Railways, also memoirs
of Railway Engineers, relating their struggles and triumphs, which have
charmed multitudes of readers. Yet no volume has been published
consisting exclusively of Railway Adventures and Anecdotes. Books having
the heading of Railway Anecdotes, or similar titles, containing few of
such anecdotes but many of a miscellaneous character, have from time to
time appeared. Anecdotes, racy of the Railway calling and circumstances
connected with it are very numerous: they are to be found scattered in
Parliamentary Blue Books, Journals, Biographies, and many out-of-the-way
channels. Many of them are highly instructive, diverting, and
mirth-provoking, having reference to persons in all conditions. The
"Railway Adventures and Anecdotes," illustrating many a quaint and
picturesque scene of railway life, have been drawn from a great variety
of sources. I have for a long time been collecting them, and am willing
to believe they may prove entertaining and profitable to the railway
traveller and the general reader, relieving the tedium of hours when the
mind is not disposed to grapple with profounder subjects.
The romance of railways is in the past and not in the future. How
desirable then it is that a well written history of British Railways
should speedily be produced, before their traditions, interesting
associations, and early workers shall | 578.139034 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.2203220 | 2,435 | 7 |
Produced by Annie McGuire
HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
1880
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
FRANKLIN SQUARE
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS.
ACROSS THE OCEAN:--
Signing, 233;
Frank meets with an Accident--Christmas Dinner, 249;
Store-Room--Frank's Fight with "Monkey," 268;
Man Overboard, 284;
Oiling the outer Bearings, 285;
Frank and old Herrick, 300;
Captain's Room, 301;
Sargasso Sea, 316;
Ocean Race, 317;
Eclipse, 332;
Towed with the Speed of a Locomotive, 332;
Gibraltar Fruit Boat, 333;
Rock of Gibraltar, 333;
Spanish Sailors in a Storm, 345;
Malta, 364, 365;
Shooting the Water-Spout--In the Suez Canal, 380;
Singapore Pilot-Boat, 381;
Loading at Singapore, 393;
Chinese Fleet, 412, 413;
Loading Tea at Hong-Kong, 428;
Little Whampoa Steers to Shore, 429;
Street of Stairs, Hong-Kong, 429.
Albatross, The, 336.
Alligators, The Moral, 741.
AMERICAN NAVY, THE STORY OF THE:--
Battle between the "Bon Homme Richard" and the "Serapis," 545;
Decatur and his Men boarding the Gun-Boat, 576;
Escape of the "Constitution," 589;
The "Constitution" and the "Guerriere," 612;
"Essex," "Phoebe," and "Cherub," 628;
Commodore Perry's Ships in the Bay of Jeddo, 644;
Fight between the "Monitor" and "Merrimac," 656;
Sinking of the "Alabama" by the "Kearsarge," 673.
Andre, Capture of--History re-enacted, 744.
Anemone, Sea-, 606.
Angel in the Lilly Family, The (five Illustrations), 757.
Animals, Wild, looking at People in Cages, 29.
Apple-Smellers, 620.
April, 752.
April-fool Rat, 281.
Aquarium, Salt-water, Specimens from a, 604-606;
Specimens from a Fresh-water Aquarium, 620.
Aquatic Plants, 620.
Archery--Mohawk Bowmen, 505.
Arctic Regions, Hunting in the, 377.
Artist, The little, 144.
Asleep at his Post, 709.
August, 753.
Aviary, How to make an, 415-16.
Babe in the Woods--
"I 'ant to do Home!" 533;
Babe in the Wood, 677.
Baby, 228.
Baby King, The, 269.
Bag, Travelling, for Pets, 46.
Ball, Base-, Season, Opening of the, 732.
Balloon Voyage, Charley's, 457.
Balusters, Riding on the, 661.
Baptizing Coptic Babies, 732.
Barnacles, 606.
Barn, A good Time in the, 516.
Barrel, Boys in a--Playing "Hookey," 440.
BATTLES.
(See "American Navy, Story of the," and "Old Times in the Colonies.")
BEARS:--
Feeding the Twins, 33;
"A poor, dood, dead Bear," 537;
Polar Bear slain in Defense of her Young, 128;
Shooting a Polar Bear, 377;
Grizzly Bear and Buffaloes, 448.
Bear-skin, Children Playing on a, 597.
Beetles, An Evening Flight of, 544.
Besieged, 488.
Bessie Maynard on the Bridge, 565.
Bicycle, Boys on a--Breakers Ahead, 408.
Bicycles, The Meet of, at Newport--The young Captain, 481.
BIDDY O'DOLAN:--
Mending the Doll, 204;
"Bless me! if it isn't Phil Kennedy!" 220;
Charley in the Hospital, 244;
"Biddy sat down on the Steps by Katy," 260.
Birdie and her little Friends, 192.
Birdie, Little, 101.
BIRDS:--
Feeding the Sparrows, 153;
Bird's Morning Message, 453;
Catching a Canary, 616;
Peacock and Lady, 721;
The Storm-Petrel, 736.
Bird's Nest adrift, 613.
Birthday Party, Ada preparing for her, 200.
Birthday Pranks, Dick's, 168.
Birthday, Too much, 504.
Boar, wild, Spearing a, 108;
Wild Boar at Bay, 193.
Boat-Flies, 620.
Boating, 409.
BOATS:--
A Gondola, 253;
A cheap Canoe, 351;
Bob's Navy, 361;
Singapore Pilot-Boat, 381;
The 'Longshore Club on its Annual Cruise, 668.
(See "Moral Pirates.")
Bo-Peep and Santa Claus, 65.
"Boss" Fish, The--Jeff and Charley fishing before Breakfast, 592.
BOTANY:--
Hepatica, 322;
Draba Verna, 322.
Bottled Shower-Bath, 504.
Bottle, The Magic, 7.
Boy, Dog, Cat, and Kittens. 488.
Boys, The, and Uncle Josh, 160.
BRAVE SWISS BOY, THE:--
"Toni Hirzel hastened out of the Cottage," 1;
"As he stood there, leaning on his Alpenstock," 9;
"Walter aimed two or three Blows at the Creature's Breast," 18;
Watty and his Father hunting, 26;
"Let me go," he cried: "I must save my Father!" 34;
"He unbuckled the Money-Belt," 43;
"Pinned to the Earth by the sagacious Animal," 51;
"He wrapped himself in his Dressing-Gown, and walked hastily to and
fro," 76.
Breakers Ahead! Boys on a Bicycle, 408.
Buffaloes and Grizzly Bear, 448.
Buffalo Range, Cut off on the, 433.
Bumps, A Study of, 641.
Bunny and Bow-wow, 16.
Bureau Drawers, Children rummaging in, 424.
Butterfly and Flower, 577.
Butterfly on the Track, 149.
Caddis-Worms, 620.
"Caddy leaned against her tall Friend," 132.
Cadet Gray, The Lad in, 405.
Camel and his Rider, The, 577.
Camping out, Ted and Kitty, 681.
Camp Life, 400.
Canary, Catching a, 616.
Canoe, A cheap, 351;
Working Plans for a, 352.
Catamaran, A, 617.
CATS:--
Pet and her Cat, 82;
Cat's Nose out of Joint, 152;
Cat and Monkey, 185;
Cat and Toy Rat, 200;
Cat, Child, and Doll--Ready to move, 356;
Old Cat washing the Babies' Faces, 596;
Cat, Monkey, and Parrot (five Illustrations), 772, 773.
CAT'S-MEAT:--
Preparing the Meat, 256;
Starting out, 257;
Some down-town Cats, 257;
A Charity Cat, 257;
The Morning Call, 257;
Carlo, 257.
Caught in the Act, 593.
Cavalry reviewed by Infantry, 497.
Centenarian, A young, 24.
Chamois, Battle of the, 272.
Chautauqua Lake, Scenes on and about, 624, 625.
Chestnutting, 4.
Chickens, Feeding the--A Winter Morning, 169.
Chinaman's Pigtail--"Will it ring, Mamma?" 232.
Chinese School, Fun in a, 372.
Chinese Ships, 412, 413.
CHRISTMAS:--
Bringing Home Christmas Green, 60;
Christmas Puzzle, 61;
Bringing Christmas Cheer, 64;
Boy and Girl looking at Christmas Presents in a Shop Window, 72;
Christmas Tree, What became of the, 77.
Church, Trinity, Ruins of, 181.
Circus at Home, A, 200;
Waiting for the Circus, 504.
Claudine's Doves, 633.
Clock, Caddy and the, 132.
Coaching Club, 600.
Coachy--"Bessie recovers the Remains," 729.
Coaster, Wreck of a, 209.
Coasting, Boy and Girl, 46;
Coasting on New-Year's Eve, 73;
A Wreck, 209.
CONEY ISLAND SKETCHES:--
An Island Newsboy--On the Way to the Island--Weighing Baby--The
Merry-go-round--A Study of Bumps--The Ponies--Fortunes told
and Corns cured, 641.
Constancy (Child and Doll), 396.
'<DW53>, Frank and the, 700.
Corn, Roasting Ears of, 725.
Cow ("Bossy") Puzzle, 312, 360.
Crabbing--Setting the Net, 521.
Crimson-spotted Newt, 620.
Crows, Two, on a Tree, 321.
Cucuius, How to make a, 680.
Cunningham and Mrs. Day, 384.
Dance in the Kitchen, The, 126.
Dandelion and Child, 421.
Darwinogram, The, 248.
Decatur and his Men boarding the Gun-Boat, 576.
December, 753.
DOGS:--
Dog and Toy Rabbit, 16;
Dog at School, 56;
Dog and Child--Tired out, 112;
Dogs treeing a Lynx, 113;
Collie and Terrier--"Come out and have some Fun," 164;
Dog dropped from Elevator, 188;
Dog on Guard, 252;
Carlo, 257;
The jolly | 578.240362 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.3142800 | 2,302 | 92 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)
NEW IRELAND PAMPHLETS. NUMBER THREE
PRICE TWOPENCE
THE ISSUE
The Case for Sinn Fein
BY LECTOR
AS PASSED BY CENSOR.
NEW IRELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, Limited
13 FLEET STREET, DUBLIN
1918
THE ISSUE
=INDEPENDENCE.=
Does Ireland wish to be free? Do we alone among the ancient Nations of
Europe desire to remain slaves? That, and that alone, is the question
which every Irish elector has now to answer. Let us put everything else
out of our minds as irrelevant claptrap. Let nothing distract us from this
single issue of Liberty. We must turn a deaf ear to sentimental whining
about what this or that man did, his length of service, his "fighting on
the floor of the House," and so on. Whatever may have been done in the way
of small doles, petty grants, and big talk, the =fact= is that we are not
Free and the =issue= is, Do we want to be Free?
Why should we be afraid of Freedom? Would any sane adult voluntarily
prefer to be a slave, to be completely in the control and power of
another? Men do not willingly walk into jail; why, then, should a whole
people? The men who are =afraid= of national liberty are unworthy even of
personal liberty; they are the victims of that slave mentality which
English coercion and corruption have striven to create in Ireland. When
Mr. John Dillon, grown tremulous and garrulous and feeble, asked for a
national convention this autumn "to definitely forswear an Irish
Republic," he was asking Ireland to commit an act of national apostasy and
suicide. Would =you= definitely forswear your personal freedom? Will Mr.
John Dillon hand his cheque-book and property over to some stranger and
indenture himself as a serf or an idiot? When he does, but not till then,
we shall believe that the Irish Nation is capable of sentencing itself
cheerfully to penal servitude for all eternity.
It was not always thus. "I say deliberately," said Mr. John Dillon at
Moville in 1904, "that I should never have dedicated my life as I have
done to this great struggle, if I did not see at the end of it the
crowning and consummation of our work--A FREE AND INDEPENDENT IRELAND." It
is sad that, fourteen years later, when the end is in sight, Mr. Dillon
should be found a recreant and a traitor to his past creed. The
degeneration of such a man is a damning indictment of Westminsterism.
Parnell, too save for one short moment when he tried by compromise to fool
English Liberalism but was foiled, proclaimed his belief in Irish
Independence.
This is what Parnell said at Cincinatti on 23rd February, 1880:--
"When we have undermined English misgovernment, we have paved the way
for Ireland to take her place among the nations of the earth. And let
us not forget that that is the ultimate goal at which all we Irishmen
aim. None of us, whether we be in America or in Ireland, or wherever
we may be, will be satisfied =until we have destroyed the last link
which keeps Ireland bound to England=."
Were he alive to-day, when the last link is snapping, on what side would
Parnell be? Would he forswear an Irish Republic or would he proclaim once
more, as he said in Cork (21st Jan., 1885): "No man has a right to fix the
boundary of the march of a Nation. No man has a right to say: Thus far
shalt thou go and no farther. And we have never attempted to fix the _ne
plus ultra_ to the progress of Ireland's nationhood and we never shall."
=IRELAND AND SMALL NATIONS.=
At New York 31st August, 1904, John Redmond declared:--
"If it were in my power to-morrow by any honourable means to
absolutely emancipate Ireland, I would do it and feel it my duty to do
it. (1904, not 1914!) I believe it would be just as possible for
Ireland to have a prosperous and free separate existence as a nation
as Holland, Belgium, or Switzerland, or other small nationalities. And
if it were in the power of any man to bring that result about
to-morrow by honourable and brave means, he would be indeed a coward
and a traitor to the traditions of his race did he not do so."
If Holland and Poland and all the other little lands, why not Ireland? Put
that straight question to yourself and you must answer it as John Redmond
did in 1904. Are we alone among the nations created to be slaves and
helots? Are we so incompetent and incapable as not to be able to manage
our own country? Is a people of four millions to be in perpetual bondage
and tutelage to a solicitor and a soldier? Did God Almighty cast up this
island as a sandbank for Englishmen to walk on? Is it the sole mission of
Irish men and women to send beef and butter to John Bull?
Look at the other nations and ask yourself, Why not? Why is not Ireland
free? Are we too small in area? We are double Switzerland or Denmark,
nearly three times Holland or Belgium. Is our population too small--though
it was once double? We are as numerous as Serbia, our population is as
large as that of Switzerland and nearly double that of Denmark or Norway.
Does the difficulty lie in our poverty? Are we too poor to exist as a free
people? The revenue raised =per head= in Ireland is double that of any
other small nation, seven times that of Switzerland! The total revenue of
Ireland is ten times that of Switzerland, three times that of Norway, four
times that of Denmark, Serbia or Finland. Yet all these countries have
their own armies, consuls, etc.; they run themselves as free nations at
far below the cost of servile Ireland. Why? Because there is no other
country pocketing their cash.
Here are some figures:--
Area Population Revenue
(thousands of (Millions) (Millions L)
sq. miles)
Ireland 32-1/2 4-1/3 30
Belgium 11-1/2 7-1/2 32
Holland 12-1/2 6-1/2 18-3/4
Denmark 15-1/2 2-3/4 7-1/2
Norway 125 2-1/2 10
Switzerland 16 4 3
Rumania 53-1/2 7-1/2 24
Serbia 34 4-1/2 8-1/2
Finland 126 3-1/4 8-1/2
These figures would suggest that Ireland is a strong military and naval
power among the small nations. And so we are--only the army and navy we
support are not our own; they exist to keep us in slavery, not in freedom.
It is about time we started business on our own.
=DEPENDENT ON ENGLAND?=
The most significant instance of English policy in Ireland is the creation
of the widespread delusion that we are economically dependent on England.
An elaborate network of fraud and deceit has been built up to hide the
truth from our eyes. We are secretly and systematically robbed and we
hardly notice it. The ordinary Irish worker pays at least four shillings a
week to England, he is hardly aware of the fact, so nicely is it done
whenever he buys tobacco or his wife gets tea and sugar, and so on. Though
the average income in England is three times what it is in Ireland, the
notoriously underfed Irish workers have to pay more than twice the English
proportion of indirect taxes on food, etc. We pay England 1/- on every
pound of tea, 1-1/2d. on every pound of sugar, 7d. on every oz. of
tobacco. There is no fuss about it: it is accepted as part of the laws of
nature that tea should be a shilling a pound dearer than it need be. As
for direct taxation--well, even the farmers know what the English
income-tax is. Where does it all go? To England as taxes, profits, rents,
imperial contributions, and trade. As a going concern Ireland is now worth
thirty million a year to its owner, John Bull. There are certain expenses
of administration--police, Castle, secret service, prisons, tax
collectors--and there are, of course, several items of hush-money, dodges
necessary to fool the people, such as "education." But the fact is that a
bigger and bigger profit is being made every year out of this island. More
agricultural materials and products are shipped to England, more Irish
brains are selected for running India, etc., more Irishmen are utilised
for gun-fodder. Sometimes, after much beseeching by resolutions and
deputations, we are graciously presented with a minute fraction of our own
goods. Is it not about time that we recognised in English "grants" our own
country's transmuted plunder? We are as dependent on England as a factory
is on an absentee society lady who is shareholder.
In 1663 began the long series of English laws against Irish trade. Charles
II. closed the English markets to Irish cattle, meat, leather, butter,
etc. Ireland built ships and opened direct trade with Flanders, France,
Spain, the American Colonies. The Navigation Act and the Jacobite War once
more destroyed our mercantile marine and ruined our industries. Ireland
was practically confined by law to the English market. In 1782, 60,000
Volunteers, with arms in their hands, won Free Trade--i.e., the liberty of
Ireland to trade direct with the world. In a few years, bad as our own
Parliament was, the country | 578.33432 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.3161500 | 868 | 16 |
Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
NORTHMEN IN AMERICA.
985-1015.
THE
DISCOVERY OF AMERICA
BY THE
NORTHMEN.
985-1015.
A DISCOURSE DELIVERED BEFORE THE NEW
HAMPSHIRE HISTORICAL SOCIETY,
APRIL 24, 1888.
BY THE REV. EDMUND F. SLAFTER, D. D.,
A CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY, HONORARY MEMBER OF THE
ROYAL HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF GREAT BRITAIN, ETC., ETC.
CONCORD, N. H.:
PRIVATELY PRINTED.
1891.
REPRINTED FROM THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE NEW HAMPSHIRE HISTORICAL
SOCIETY.
DISCOURSE.
On the 29th day of October, 1887, a statue erected to the memory of
Leif, the son of Erik, the discoverer of America, was unveiled in the
city of Boston, in the presence of a large assembly of citizens. The
statue is of bronze, a little larger than life-size, and represents the
explorer standing upon the prow of his ship, shading his eyes with his
hand, and gazing towards the west. This monument[1] suggests the subject
to which I wish to call your attention, viz., the story of the discovery
of this continent by the Scandinavians nearly nine hundred years ago.
I must here ask your indulgence for the statement of a few preliminary
historical facts in order that we may have a clear understanding of this
discovery.
About the middle of the ninth century, Harald Haarfager, or the
fair-haired, came to the throne of Norway. He was a young and handsome
prince, endowed with great energy of will and many personal attractions.
It is related that he fell in love with a beautiful princess. His
addresses were, however, coolly rejected with the declaration that when
he became king of Norway in reality, and not merely in name, she would
give him both her heart and her hand. This admonition was not
disregarded by the young king. The thirty-one principalities into which
Norway was at that time divided were in a few years subjugated, and the
petty chieftains or princes who ruled over them became obedient to the
royal authority. The despotic rule, however, of the king was so
irritating and oppressive that many of them sought homes of greater
freedom in the inhospitable islands of the northern seas. Among the
rest, Iceland, having been discovered a short time before, was colonized
by them. This event occurred about the year 874. Notwithstanding the
severity of the climate and the sterility of the soil, the colony
rapidly increased in numbers and wealth, and an active commerce sprung
up with the mother country, and was successfully maintained. At the end
of a century, they had pushed their explorations still farther, and
Greenland was discovered, and a colony was planted there, which
continued to flourish for a long period.
About the year 985, a young, enterprising, and prosperous navigator, who
had been accustomed to carry on a trade between Iceland and Norway, on
returning from the latter in the summer of the year, found that his
father had left Iceland some time before his arrival, to join a new
colony which had been then recently planted in Greenland. This young
merchant, who bore the name of Bjarni, disappointed at not finding his
father in Iceland, determined to proceed on and pass the coming winter
with him at the new colony in Greenland. Having obtained what
information he could as to the geographical position of Greenland, this
intrepid | 578.33619 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.3162030 | 3,713 | 12 |
Produced by D Alexander, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW
_A Novel_
BY
MARVIN DANA
Author of WITHIN THE LAW, etc.
BASED ON THE FAMOUS POEM OF
ROBERT W. SERVICE
PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES
FROM THE PHOTO PLAY
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1915, by
BARSE & HOPKINS
THE ILLUSTRATIONS SHOWN IN THIS EDITION ARE REPRODUCTIONS OF SCENES
FROM THE PHOTO-PLAY OF "THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW"--SCENARIO BY
AARON HOFFMAN--PRODUCED AND COPYRIGHTED BY THE POPULAR PLAYS AND
PLAYERS CO. INC., TO WHOM THE PUBLISHERS DESIRE TO EXPRESS THEIR
THANKS AND APPRECIATION FOR PERMISSION TO USE THE PICTURES.
[Illustration: EDMUND BREESE AND COMPANY IN "THE SHOOTING OF DAN
McGREW."]
THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW
Produced by
THE POPULAR PLAYS AND PLAYERS, Inc.
Scenario by
AARON HOFFMAN
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jim EDMUND BREESE
Dan McGrew WILLIAM MORSE
Lou KATHRIN ADAMS
Nell BETTY RIGGS
Jack Reeves WALLACE SCOTT
Sam Ward JAMES JOHNSON
The Sheriff JACK AUSTEN
Fingie Whalen JACK MURRAY
Caribou Bill BILL COOPER
Harry, the Dog Man HIMSELF
THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW
CHAPTER I
A clatter of hoofs on the gravel of the driveway. A shout from the rider
as he swung himself down from the saddle:
"Lou!"
A woman came swiftly from the cool shadows of the porch into the
brilliance of the summer sunlight, to meet the man who now advanced
toward her with fond, smiling eagerness.
The two kissed very tenderly, for they were lovers still, after seven
years of married life. The delicate rose of the wife's cheeks deepened a
little under the warmth of the husband's caress, and the graciously
curving lips trembled to a smile of happiness as she looked up into the
strong face of the man she loved. In the slightly rugged features, she
read virility and honesty and loyalty. An exquisite contentment pervaded
her. She felt that the cup of joy was brimming. Husband and child and
home--!
Her train of thought was broken by the man's words, spoken quickly in a
tone that mingled curiously amusement and chagrin:
"Dangerous Dan! He's coming, Lou! He's buried the hatchet, and is coming
to visit us. Dangerous Dan McGrew! Now, what do you think of that?" He
waited for an answer, staring quizzically into the suddenly perturbed
face of his wife.
"My rival!" he added whimsically, albeit a bit complacently.
"Never!" the wife declared with emphasis. A note of harshness had crept
into the music of her voice. "Never your rival, Jim, though he tried to
be." The earnestness of utterance gratified the man, in whom a vague,
latent jealousy stirred at thought of that other who had loved where he
loved. But there was no gratification in the new mood of the woman.
Instead, a subtle dread touched her spirit. The contentment of a moment
before was fled. There was nothing precise, nothing formulated, in her
thoughts. Only, something sinister, menacing, pressed upon her. She
welcomed the distraction afforded by her daughter's appearance on the
scene.
The girl came running from the gardens behind the ranch-house and sprang
into her father's arms with a cry of delight.
To her six years, his frequent rides to the village ten miles away were
in the nature of great events, and she welcomed each return as if from
long and perilous voyaging. Moreover, there was always an added thrill
for Nell in her father's home-coming, because of the mysterious charm in
the gift that never failed. To-day, indeed, the present was destined to
mark her life; even to be of vital import in a crisis of distant years.
No hint of the gravity of things-to-be shadowed the radiant joy of the
child's face, as she was lifted in the man's arms and kissed. There was
only vivid anticipation of the gift that would mark this wonderful hour.
James Maxwell lowered his daughter to the ground, with an affirmative
nod toward his wife.
"Now, Nell," he said in a voice of authority, "stand perfectly still,
and keep your eyes shut, and maybe something will happen."
The girl rested uneasily in an effort of obedience, with her eyes
screwed tight-shut, giggling expectantly.
The mother looked on, smiling again, the momentary depression of her
spirit allayed, if not destroyed, by the scene. She met the man's glance
with understanding in the brown, gold-flecked deeps of her eyes. The
father took from a pocket a small leather case, and opened it, and held
up for his wife's inspection the gold chain and pendant locket, set with
an initial _N_ in tiny pearls. The wife nodded her approval.
Straightway, the chain was adjusted about the child's neck, with the
locket hanging low on the slender breast.
"Now!" the father cried sternly.
On the instant, Nell's dark eyes flashed open in swift inquiry to her
father's face, then, following the direction of his gaze, the proud chin
was drawn in, and she stared down rapturously at the trinket lying on
her bosom. Followed little squeals of bliss, then reverent touching of
the treasure. The secret of the catch baffled her, and the father had to
come to the rescue lest patience become too hardly strained. When the
locket had been opened, she stared into it through long seconds in
wordless pleasure. Finally, she spoke in a hushed voice, as if in the
presence of something very sacred.
"It's you, Daddy!" It was a broken whisper of happiness. Her eyes,
lustrous with glad tears, were lifted adoringly to her father's face for
a moment. Then, again, her glance went to the locket.
"And you, Mamma!" she exclaimed, and turned to regard her mother with
equal love. "Oh, it's just beautiful! Pictures of both of you--Daddy and
Momsy!--all my very own!... And may I really, truly wear it?" Nell's
voice was suddenly become timid, infinitely wistful.
The mother answered, as she stooped and kissed her daughter.
"Yes, darling; it's all your very own, to wear every minute, day and
night, if you want to."
Presently, when the intricacy of the locket's catch had been fully
mastered, Nell stole away to her favorite shady nook in the rose-garden,
to be alone with her delight, while husband and wife ascended the steps
of the porch, and seated themselves at ease in the wicker chairs. The
lattice-work of vines shut off the rays of the westering sun. Blowing
over the stretches of lawn, thick-set with shrubberies and studded with
trees, the soft breeze came refreshingly, and bore to the two the
multiple bland aromas of the generous earth. Beyond the green within
which the mansion stood, rolled rich acres of ripening grain that
undulated beneath the gentle urging of the wind in shimmering waves of
gold. The whole scene was one of peace and prosperity, where a fruitful
soil lavished riches in return for the industry of man. The house itself
was a commodious structure, bountifully equipped with the comforts and
elegancies of living; for James Maxwell was, though still a young man,
one who had achieved a full measure of success from out the fertile
fields of the West, and his culture and that of his wife had given to
their home a refinement unusual in regions so remote. Thus far, their
married life had been almost flawless. The wholesomeness and simplicity
of their life together, blessed with the presence of the child, varied
by occasional visits to the larger centers of civilization, had held
them in tranquil happiness. Yet, this afternoon, there lacked something
of the accustomed serenity between the two. Now, the oppression that had
affected the woman at the mention of Dan McGrew returned to her in some
measure, and, by reason of the sympathy between her and him, a
heaviness weighed on his mood as well, though he concealed it as best
he might, even from himself, and spoke with brisk cheerfulness.
"Yes, Lou, Dangerous Dan McGrew is about to descend upon us--handsome as
ever, I suppose, and with all his wiles still working. I can't cease to
wonder, Lou, how I ever came to win you from him." There was a new
tenderness in his voice as he spoke the final words.
The wife laughed softly.
"Don't fish, Jim," she retorted. "You know perfectly well that Dan never
had a chance with me--not really. He was always a fascinating fellow
enough, but, somehow--" She fell silent, a puzzled frown lining the warm
white of her forehead beneath its coronal of golden hair.
"Yes," the husband agreed; "somehow, there is always that 'but' when one
gets to thinking of Dan." He would have added more, but checked himself,
reluctant to speak ill of one who had been his friend, one whom he had
bested in the struggle for a woman's favor.
The wife had no such scruple. She spoke incisively, and her voice was
harsher than its wont.
"I never trusted him," she said. "I always found myself doubting his
honesty."
Thus encouraged, Jim spoke his mind frankly.
"Dan was always as crooked as a dog's hind leg," he declared, without
any trace of bitterness, but as one stating a fact not to be denied.
"He wrote to you?" Lou inquired, with a suggestion of wondering in her
voice.
"No; it was Tom."
Jim thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and brought
forth an envelope, from which he took out and unfolded a single sheet of
typewritten paper. Then he read the letter:
"_Dear old Chum_:
"Dan McGrew is back again in his old home after five years. He
is coming down to see you and his old sweetheart, Lou. He has
not yet forgiven you for winning her. He seems to have the same
old unsettled disposition and I think he requires the strong
hands of a friend to keep him in the straight path.
"Sincerely your old friend,
"TOM."
"Then you don't know when he will get here?" Lou asked.
Jim shook his head.
"No," he said, rather irritably; "we'll just have to wait for the
visitation to descend upon us, be it sooner or later."
"We shall have to be nice to him, of course," the wife said.
"I'm not specially keen on dry-nursing Dan McGrew," Jim remarked
plaintively. "We were never really intimate, though we were friendly
enough. To tell the truth, Lou, I'm mighty sorry Dan's coming here." His
face was somber as he gazed into his wife's eyes and read in their clear
light sympathy with his own repugnance at the prospect. With an
impatient ejaculation, he sprang to his feet and went into the house,
where he seated himself before the grand piano that occupied the center
of the spacious living-room. In a fierce crashing of dissonances, he
voiced the resentment that was in him. But after a little, indignation
somewhat relieved by such audible interpretation, his fingers flew into
rippling arpeggios, out of which came, at last, a lilting melody,
joyous, yet tender. For Jim Maxwell, lover of music all his days, had a
gift of improvisation, with a sufficient technique for its exercise. To
it he resorted often for the sounding of his deeper moods, and in it
found a never-failing solace. So now, presently, soothed by his own art,
he got up from the piano and went back to the porch, where he faced his
wife, smiling.
Lou smiled in response.
"Thank you, Jim," she said softly. "You scared away all the blue devils
with those dreadful discords. And then you just tempted all sorts of
good fairies to come and hover, and they did. You cheered me up. It's
all right that Dan should come to visit us. Only--"
She broke off, nor did the husband utter any question as to the
uncompleted sentence. But in the hearts of both lurked still something
of the dread which the music had failed entirely to dispel.
CHAPTER II
The time of Dan McGrew's arrival was not long left in doubt; for, on the
third day following Tom's letter, Jim received one from Dan himself.
_Dear Jim_:
Am back again in the old home after five years, and have grown
rich. Am coming right down to see you and my old sweetheart,
Lou. I can still hardly forgive you for winning her from me,
but I suppose you're the better man. I am still the same
rolling stone, ever seeking the gold that seems to get further
away as I approach. Will reach your place the Tuesday following
your receipt of this letter.
Sincerely,
DAN MCGREW.
So, on the appointed Tuesday, Jim drove in his light, covered buggy to
the town, to meet the through train from the East. With him, mounted on
her pony, went Nell. She wore the precious locket proudly displayed
against her trim khaki coat, and she rode in happy excitement, for the
trip to her was a great adventure, and there was, in addition, the
thrilling novelty of this stranger's coming, who might be a prince in
disguise.
When, at last, the limited roared into the station at Coverdale, and Dan
McGrew swung himself down from the Pullman's steps, Jim went forward and
seized his visitor's hand in a warm clasp.
"It's good to see you again, after all these years," he cried heartily.
At this moment, there was only kindness in his feeling toward the tall,
handsome man who returned his greeting so genially. He meant to be as
friendly as he could to this guest, to be helpful and loyal, so far as
he might, though the other had no claim upon his friendship, and though
he himself had neither liking nor respect for Dan McGrew.
After the first exchange of exclamations between the two, Jim called to
Nell, who had remained standing diffidently at a little distance, her
deeply tanned face, under the dark masses of hair, tense with interest,
as her eyes searched the newcomer in vast curiosity. A great shyness was
upon her as she approached.
"This is my daughter, Nell," Jim said, with manifest pride in the
winsome creature.
"And Lou's!" the other muttered, under his breath. But Jim caught the
words, and was moved to a fleeting pity for the man who had failed in
love.
Nell murmured a stilted phrase in expression of her pleasure at meeting
Mr. McGrew. But as the stranger bent and kissed her, she felt a sudden
instinct of distaste under the caress that both frightened and puzzled
her. For, hitherto in her childish experience, embraces and kisses had
been matters either of pleasure, as in the case of her father and mother
and others dear to her, or of utter indifference, as in the case of
those for whom she cared nothing. Now, for the first time, a kiss was
disagreeable. She felt herself somehow frightened by this fine
gentleman, who might be a prince. She could not understand it.
The child could not have understood even had she been able to look into
the heart of Dangerous Dan McGrew, there to see the black malice that
fouled it.
For such was the fact. There was evil in the mind and in the soul of Dan
McGrew. Through all the years since he had lost Lou Ainsworthy, he had
longed for her. The circumstance that she was married to another man put
no curb on his fierce desire for her. Unlawful passion throbbed in his
blood. It was this that had driven | 578.336243 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.3817710 | 223 | 15 |
Produced by Don Kretz, Juliet Sutherland, and Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration]
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN SUPPLEMENT NO. 447
NEW YORK, JULY 26, 1884
Scientific American Supplement. Vol. XVIII, No. 447.
Scientific American established 1845
Scientific American Supplement, $5 a year.
Scientific American and Supplement, $7 a year.
* * * * *
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
I. CHEMISTRY.--The Bitter Substance of Hops.--By Dr. H. BUNGENER.
--What gives hops their bitter taste?--Processes for obtaining
hop-bitter acid.--Analysis of the same.
II. ENGINEERING AND MECHANICS.--Improvements in the Harbor
of Antwerp.--With engraving of caisson for deepening the
river.
Progress of Antwerp.--Recent works in the harbor.
Bicycles and Tricycles.--By C.V. BOYS.---Adv | 578.401811 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.4820220 | 1,926 | 9 |
E-text prepared by sp1nd, Matthew Wheaton, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 41109-h.htm or 41109-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41109/41109-h/41109-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41109/41109-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through the
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/admiraljellicoe00appl
ADMIRAL JELLICOE
by
ARTHUR APPLIN
+-----------------------------------------------------------------+
| ADMIRAL JELLICOE |
| |
| |
| _UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_ |
| |
| |
| Lord Roberts: |
| |
| THE STORY OF HIS LIFE |
| |
| By ROY VICKERS |
| |
| "A thrilling tale of the adventures of the Great |
| Field-Marshal.... Well written and makes a suitable gift |
| book." |
| --DAILY CALL. |
| |
| |
| Also at 1/6 net |
| |
| Lord Kitchener: |
| |
| THE STORY OF HIS LIFE |
| |
| By HORACE G. GROSER |
| |
| "An excellent life... giving just the information the |
| general reader requires, and its perusal enables |
| everyone to understand the great part Lord Kitchener |
| has played in recent history." |
| --THE FIELD. |
+-----------------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration: SIR JOHN JELLICOE AS CAPTAIN]
ADMIRAL JELLICOE
by
ARTHUR APPLIN
London
C. Arthur Pearson Ltd.
Henrietta Street, W.C.
1915
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE BOY AND THE MAN
II. EARLY DAYS ON THE "BRITANNIA"
III. CADET--MIDSHIPMAN--LIEUTENANT
IV. THE SINKING OF THE "VICTORIA"
V. THE BOXER RISING IN CHINA
VI. THE SPIRIT OF DRAKE
VII. AS ORGANISER
VIII. VICE-ADMIRAL
IX. 1911-1913
X. SUPREME ADMIRAL OF THE HOME FLEETS
FOREWORD
In trying to chronicle the events in Admiral Sir John Jellicoe's life
one is faced with many difficulties, the greatest of which is that
hitherto his most important battles have been fought on land, behind
closed doors and, as far as the public is concerned, in the dark.
Although Sir John Jellicoe has seen active service in Egypt and in
China, has sailed his ships on many seas and gone down into the Valley
of the Shadow on no fewer than three occasions, he has nevertheless
managed to give valuable years to the Admiralty on shore; and it was
during the periods when he became successively Assistant Director of
Naval Ordnance, Naval Assistant to the Controller of Navy, Director of
Naval Ordnance and Controller of the Navy that his most valuable work
was done.
Another important position behind the scenes which he filled was that
of Superintendent of the building of ships of war in private as well
as in Royal Dockyards.
The object of this little book is better to acquaint the general
public with the man who stands with his hand at the helm of the Ship
of England's destiny, the ship in which we must all sink or swim.
Never since the days of Nelson has such a responsibility been vested
in one man. Never in the history, not only of our Empire, but of the
world, has the issue of the fight for sea power and supremacy been so
vital, so tremendous.
What our ships and sailors have accomplished in the past gives us hope
for the future, and courage to wait in the silence of the long night
that now hides England and her defenders from one another.
But above all we are confident, because we have faith in the man who
was sent us with the hour; the man on whom the cloak of the Emir of
the Sea--"Emir-al-Bahr"--has fallen.
That this brief sketch of the Sea Lord and his career is altogether
unworthy of him I am quite aware. My apology for offering it to the
public must be that it is the first attempt to give any coherent
account of his life that has been made. A life, as I have already
pointed out, which has been lived behind the scenes, devoted to duty,
careless of opinion, fearful of applause.
For the details of his career and a brief outline of the work he has
done I am indebted to his wife, Lady Jellicoe, who most kindly placed
at my disposal the few chronicles she possessed of his services, and
gave me all the help she could in my task even to the extent of
reading the MSS. of the volume before it was set up in type.
A. A.
ADMIRAL JELLICOE
CHAPTER I
THE BOY--AND THE MAN
If Admiral Sir John Jellicoe had been born in 1858 instead of a year
later, he would have first opened his eyes on this now sorely troubled
world on the Centenary of Nelson's natal day.
But the gods timed his arrival exactly one hundred and one years
later, and it was on the cold and blustering dawn of December the 5th,
1859, that Captain John H. Jellicoe was informed of the happy event.
How happy for the Empire, as well as for himself and his wife, the
gallant Captain little dreamed at the time.
Southampton was Jellicoe's birthplace, and he came of the race that
the sea breeds. His father, who only died in the autumn of 1914 at the
age of ninety, was Commodore of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company
until he retired from active service at the age of seventy
years--still a young man. He then became a director of the Company and
took an active part in its affairs almost until the day of his death.
Though as British as the seas which christened the Admiral of the
Fleet and the Guardian of our Empire, Sir John Jellicoe's name is
derived from the French, and it is probable that the family originally
was of French extraction:--"Admiral Sir John Jellicoe serait, paraite
il d'origine francaise, et descendrait d'une famille protestante
emigree a la Revocation de l'edit de Nantes, et son Nom indiquerait son
origine. Jellicoe serait une sorte de contraction de Angelycois, nom
des habitants de St. Jean d'Angely."
Gentilcorps--anglicized Noblebody--would be the modern French
equivalent. There is an English surname somewhat similar,
"Handsomebody," a name that was found on the Honours List some five or
six years ago. Jellicorse is another form of Sir John's name, and it
is doubtless from this that one of the nicknames has been derived
which is popular among the men of the Fleet--Jellymould.
Admiral Patton, Second Sea Lord at the time of the Battle of
Trafalgar, was Jellicoe's great grandfather; it is something of a
coincidence that at the outbreak of the present World-War Admiral
Jellicoe was also Second Sea Lord. Jellicoe's youngest daughter is
called Prudence Patton, and Prudence Patton served King Charles II.
faithfully in the troubles and wars that filled that unfortunate
monarch's reign.
Like all popular men in the Service--with the sole exception of
Admiral May, who, though loved and respected by everyone, has, like
the Springtime, been always "May"--Sir John can boast a multitude of
nicknames.
"Jacky-Oh!" "Hell Fire Jack!" (owing to the revolution he made in
Naval gunnery), "All-Jelly" (reminiscent of Epsom Race Course on Derby
Day, but again due probably to the deadly effect of his ship's
gunnery), "The Little Admiral" (this in polite society), "Silent Jack"
and "Dreadnought Jack."
Jellicoe, as everyone | 578.502062 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.7202350 | 870 | 11 |
Produced by Greg Bergquist and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE SPIRIT OF AMERICA
[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO
DALLAS. SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE SPIRIT OF AMERICA
BY
HENRY VAN <DW18>
Professor of English at Princeton University
Hyde Lecturer, University of Paris, 1908-9
Hon. LL.D., University of Geneva
Hon. F.R.S.L., London
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1912
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1910,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1910.
Reprinted March, October, 1910; February, 1912.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
TO MADAME
ELISABETH SAINTE-MARIE PERRIN, _NEE_ BAZIN
To inscribe your name upon this volume, dear Madame, is to recall
delightful memories of my year in France. Your sympathy encouraged me in
the adventurous choice of a subject so large and simple for a course of
lectures at the Sorbonne. While they were in the making, you acted as an
audience of one, in the long music-room at Hostel and in the forest of
St. Gervais, and gave gentle counsels of wisdom in regard to the points
likely to interest and retain a larger audience of Parisians in the
_Amphitheatre Richelieu_. Then, the university adventure being ended
without mishap, your skill as a translator admirably clothed the
lectures in your own lucid language, and sent them out to help a little
in strengthening the ties of friendship between France and America.
Grateful for all the charming hospitality of your country, which made my
year happy and, I hope, not unfruitful, I dedicate to you this book on
the Spirit of America, because you have done so much to make me
understand, appreciate, and admire the true Spirit of France.
HENRY VAN <DW18>.
PREFACE
This book contains the first seven of a series of twenty-six
_conferences_, given in the winter of 1908-1909, on the Hyde Foundation,
at the University of Paris, and repeated in part at other universities
of France. They were delivered in English, and afterward translated into
French and published under the title of _Le Genie de l'Amerique_. In
making this American edition it has not seemed worth while to attempt to
disguise the fact that these chapters were prepared as lectures to be
given to a French audience, and that their purpose, in accordance with
the generous design of the founder of the chair, was to promote an
intelligent sympathy between France and the United States. If the book
finds readers among my countrymen, I beg them, as they read, to remember
its origin. Perhaps it may have an interest of its own, as a report,
made in Paris, of the things that seem vital, significant, and creative
in the life and character of the American people.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xi
THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE 3
SELF-RELIANCE AND THE REPUBLIC 31
FAIR PLAY AND DEMOCRACY 71
WILL-POWER, WORK, AND WEALTH 113
COMMON ORDER AND SOCIAL COOPERATION | 578.740275 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.7203340 | 11 | 8 |
Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, Barry | 578.740374 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.8144290 | 890 | 7 |
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
OAK OPENINGS
By James Fennimore Cooper
PREFACE.
It ought to be matter of surprise how men live in the midst of marvels,
without taking heed of their existence. The slightest derangement of
their accustomed walks in political or social life shall excite all
their wonder, and furnish themes for their discussions, for months;
while the prodigies that come from above are presented daily to their
eyes, and are received without surprise, as things of course. In a
certain sense, this may be well enough, inasmuch as all which comes
directly from the hands of the Creator may be said so far to exceed the
power of human comprehension, as to be beyond comment; but the truth
would show us that the cause of this neglect is rather a propensity to
dwell on such interests as those over which we have a fancied control,
than on those which confessedly transcend our understanding. Thus is it
ever with men. The wonders of creation meet them at every turn, without
awakening reflection, while their minds labor on subjects that are not
only ephemeral and illusory, but which never attain an elevation higher
than that the most sordid interests can bestow.
For ourselves, we firmly believe that the finger of Providence is
pointing the way to all races, and colors, and nations, along the path
that is to lead the east and the west alike to the great goal of
human wants. Demons infest that path, and numerous and unhappy are
the wanderings of millions who stray from its course; sometimes in
reluctance to proceed; sometimes in an indiscreet haste to move faster
than their fellows, and always in a forgetfulness of the great rules of
conduct that have been handed down from above. Nevertheless, the main
course is onward; and the day, in the sense of time, is not distant,
when the whole earth is to be filled with the knowledge of the Lord, "as
the waters cover the sea."
One of the great stumbling-blocks with a large class of well-meaning,
but narrow-judging moralists, are the seeming wrongs that are permitted
by Providence, in its control of human events. Such persons take a
one-sided view of things, and reduce all principles to the level of
their own understandings. If we could comprehend the relations which the
Deity bears to us, as well as we can comprehend the relations we bear
to him, there might be a little seeming reason in these doubts; but when
one of the parties in this mighty scheme of action is a profound mystery
to the other, it is worse than idle, it is profane, to attempt to
explain those things which our minds are not yet sufficiently cleared
from the dross of earth to understand. Look at Italy, at this very
moment. The darkness and depression from which that glorious peninsula
is about to emerge are the fruits of long-continued dissensions and an
iron despotism, which is at length broken by the impulses left behind
him by a ruthless conqueror, who, under the appearance and the phrases
of Liberty, contended only for himself. A more concentrated egotism than
that of Napoleon probably never existed; yet has it left behind it seeds
of personal rights that have sprung up by the wayside, and which are
likely to take root with a force that will bid defiance to eradication.
Thus is it ever, with the progress of society. Good appears to arise
out of evil, and the inscrutable ways of Providence are vindicated by
general results, rather than by instances of particular care. We leave
the application of these remarks to the intelligence of such of our
readers as may have patience to peruse the work that will be found in
the succeeding pages.
We have a few words of explanation to say, in connection with the
machinery of our tale. In the first place, we would remark, that the
spelling of "burr-oak," as given in this book, is less our own than
an office spelling. We think it should be "bur-oak," and this for the
simple reason | 578.834469 |
2023-11-16 18:26:42.9141550 | 1,833 | 15 |
Produced by Col Choat and Stuart Kidd
whitespace; small checks; italics; poetry; dashes
A COMPLETE ACCOUNT OF THE SETTLEMENT AT PORT JACKSON
by Watkin Tench
PREFACE
When it is recollected how much has been written to describe the Settlement
of New South Wales, it seems necessary if not to offer an apology, yet to
assign a reason, for an additional publication.
The Author embarked in the fleet which sailed to found the establishment at
Botany Bay. He shortly after published a Narrative of the Proceedings and
State of the Colony, brought up to the beginning of July, 1788, which
was well received, and passed through three editions. This could not
but inspire both confidence and gratitude; but gratitude, would be badly
manifested were he on the presumption of former favour to lay claim
to present indulgence. He resumes the subject in the humble hope of
communicating information, and increasing knowledge, of the country, which
he describes.
He resided at Port Jackson nearly four years: from the 20th of January,
1788, until the 18th of December, 1791. To an active and contemplative
mind, a new country is an inexhaustible source of curiosity and
speculation. It was the author's custom not only to note daily occurrences,
and to inspect and record the progression of improvement; but also, when
not prevented by military duties, to penetrate the surrounding country in
different directions, in order to examine its nature, and ascertain its
relative geographical situations.
The greatest part of the work is inevitably composed of those materials
which a journal supplies; but wherever reflections could be introduced
without fastidiousness and parade, he has not scrupled to indulge them, in
common with every other deviation which the strictness of narrative would
allow.
When this publication was nearly ready for the press; and when many of
the opinions which it records had been declared, fresh accounts from Port
Jackson were received. To the state of a country, where so many anxious
trying hours of his life have passed, the author cannot feel indifferent.
If by any sudden revolution of the laws of nature; or by any fortunate
discovery of those on the spot, it has really become that fertile and
prosperous land, which some represent it to be, he begs permission to add
his voice to the general congratulation. He rejoices at its success: but
it is only justice to himself and those with whom he acted to declare, that
they feel no cause of reproach that so complete and happy an alteration did
not take place at an earlier period.
CHAPTER I.
A Retrospect of the State of the Colony of Port Jackson, on the Date of my
former Narrative, in July, 1788.
Previous to commencing any farther account of the subject, which I am about
to treat, such a retrospection of the circumstances and situation of the
settlement, at the conclusion of my former Narrative, as shall lay its
state before the reader, seems necessary, in order to connect the present
with the past.
The departure of the first fleet of ships for Europe, on the 14th of July,
1788, had been long impatiently expected; and had filled us with anxiety,
to communicate to our friends an account of our situation; describing the
progress of improvement, and the probability of success, or failure, in
our enterprise. That men should judge very oppositely on so doubtful and
precarious an event, will hardly surprise.
Such relations could contain little besides the sanguineness of hope, and
the enumeration of hardships and difficulties, which former accounts had
not led us to expect. Since our disembarkation in the preceding January,
the efforts of every one had been unremittingly exerted, to deposit the
public stores in a state of shelter and security, and to erect habitations
for ourselves. We were eager to escape from tents, where a fold of canvas,
only, interposed to check the vertic beams of the sun in summer, and the
chilling blasts of the south in winter. A markee pitched, in our finest
season, on an English lawn; or a transient view of those gay camps, near
the metropolis, which so many remember, naturally draws forth careless and
unmeaning exclamations of rapture, which attach ideas of pleasure only, to
this part of a soldier's life. But an encampment amidst the rocks and wilds
of a new country, aggravated by the miseries of bad diet, and incessant
toil, will find few admirers.
Nor were our exertions less unsuccessful than they were laborious. Under
wretched covers of thatch lay our provisions and stores, exposed to
destruction from every flash of lightning, and every spark of fire. A few
of the convicts had got into huts; but almost all the officers, and the
whole of the soldiery, were still in tents.
In such a situation, where knowledge of the mechanic arts afforded the
surest recommendation to notice, it may be easily conceived, that attention
to the parade duty of the troops, gradually diminished. Now were to be
seen officers and soldiers not "trailing the puissant pike" but felling the
ponderous gum-tree, or breaking the stubborn clod. And though "the broad
falchion did not in a ploughshare end" the possession of a spade, a
wheelbarrow, or a dunghill, was more coveted than the most refulgent arms
in which heroism ever dazzled. Those hours, which in other countries are
devoted to martial acquirements, were here consumed in the labours of the
sawpit, the forge and the quarry*.
[* "The Swedish prisoners, taken at the battle of Pultowa, were transported
by the Czar Peter to the most remote parts of Siberia, with a view to
civilize the natives of the country, and teach them the arts the Swedes
possessed. In this hopeless situation, all traces of discipline and
subordination, between the different ranks, were quickly obliterated. The
soldiers, who were husbandmen and artificers, found out their superiority,
and assumed it: the officers became their servants." VOLTAIRE.]
Of the two ships of war, the 'Sirius' and 'Supply', the latter was
incessantly employed in transporting troops, convicts, and stores, to
Norfolk Island; and the 'Sirius' in preparing for a voyage to some port,
where provisions for our use might be purchased, the expected supply from
England not having arrived. It is but justice to the officers and men of
both these ships to add, that, on all occasions, they fully shared every
hardship and fatigue with those on shore.
On the convicts the burden fell yet heavier: necessity compelled us to
allot to them the most slavish and laborious employments. Those operations,
which in other countries are performed by the brute creation, were here
effected by the exertions of men: but this ought not to be considered
a grievance; because they had always been taught to expect it, as the
inevitable consequence of their offences against society. Severity was
rarely exercised on them; and justice was administered without partiality
or discrimination. Their ration of provisions, except in being debarred
from an allowance of spirits, was equal to that which the marines received.
Under these circumstances I record with pleasure, that they behaved better
than had been predicted of them--to have expected sudden and complete
reformation of conduct, were romantic and chimerical.
Our cultivation of the land was yet in its infancy. We had hitherto tried
only the country contiguous to Sydney. Here the governor had established
a government-farm; at the head of which a competent person of his own
household was placed, with convicts to work under him. Almost the whole of
the officers likewise accepted of small tracts of ground, for the purpose
of raising grain and vegetables: but experience proved to us, that the soil
would produce neither without manure; and as this was not to be procured,
our vigour soon slackened; and most of the farms (among which was the one
belonging to government) were successively abandoned.
With the natives we were very little more acquainted than on our arrival
in the country. Our intercourse with them was neither frequent or cordial.
They seemed studiously to avoid us, either from fear, jealousy, or hatred.
When they met with unarmed stragglers, they sometimes killed, and | 578.934195 |
2023-11-16 18:26:43.2142070 | 1,339 | 26 |
Produced by Ruth Hart
[Note: for this online edition I have moved the Table of Contents to
the beginning of the text.]
THE ENJOYMENT OF ART
BY
CARLETON NOYES
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY CARLETON NOYES
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published, March, 1903_
To
ROBERT HENRI
AND
VAN D. PERRINE
This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at
the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit _When we become the enfolders of
those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every
thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?_
And my spirit said _No, we but level that lift to pass and
continue beyond._
WALT WHITMAN
CONTENTS
Preface
I. The Picture and the Man i
II. The Work of Art as Symbol 19
III. The Work of Art as Beautiful 41
IV. Art and Appreciation 67
V. The Artist 86
PREFACE
The following pages are the answer to questions which a young man
asked himself when, fresh from the university, he found himself
adrift in the great galleries of Europe. As he stood helpless and
confused in the presence of the visible expressions of the spirit of
man in so many ages and so many lands, one question recurred
insistently: _Why_ are these pictures? What is the meaning of all
this striving after expression? What was the aim of these men who
have left their record here? What was their moving impulse? Why,
why does the human spirit seek to manifest itself in forms which we
call beautiful?
He turned to histories of art and to biographies of artists, but he
found no answer! to the "Why?" The philosophers with their
theories of aesthetics helped him little to understand the dignity and
force of this portrait or the beauty of that landscape. In the
conversation of his artist friends there was no enlightenment, for
they talked about "values" and "planes of modeling" and the
mysteries of "tone." At last he turned in upon himself: What does
this canvas mean to me? And here he found his answer. This work
of art is the revelation to me of a fuller beauty, a deeper harmony,
than I have ever seen or felt. The artist is he who has experienced
this new wonder in nature and who wants to communicate his joy, in
concrete forms, to his fellow men.
The purpose of this book is to set forth in simple, untechnical
fashion the nature and the meaning of a work of art. Although the
illustrations of the underlying principles are drawn mainly from
pictures, yet the conclusions apply equally to books and to music. It
is true that the manifestations of the art-impulse are innumerable,
embracing not only painting, sculpture, literature, music, and
architecture, but also the handiwork of the craftsman in the
designing of a rug or in the fashioning of a cup or a candlestick; it is
true that each art has its special province and function, and that each
is peculiarly adapted to the expression of a certain order of emotion
or idea, and that the distinctions between one art and another are not
to be inconsiderately swept aside or obscured. Yet art is one. It is
possible, without confusing the individual characteristics essential to
each, to discuss these principles under the comprehensive rubric of
Art.
The attempt is made here to reduce the supposed mysteries of art
discussion to the basis of practical, every-day intelligence and
common sense. What the ordinary man who feels himself in any
way attracted; towards art needs is not more and constantly more
pictures to look at, not added lore about them, not further knowledge
of the men and the times that have produced them; but rather what
he needs is some understanding of what the artist has aimed to
express, and, as reinforcing that understanding, the capacity rightly
to appreciate and enjoy.
It is hoped that in this book the artist may find expressed with
simplicity and justice his own highest aims; and that the appreciator
and the layman may gain some insight into the meaning of art
expression, and that they may be helped a little on their way to the
enjoyment of art.
HARVARD COLLEGE, _December tenth, 1902._
I
THE PICTURE AND THE MAN
At any exhibition of paintings, more particularly at some public
gallery or museum, one can hardly fail to reflect that an interest in
pictures is unmistakably widespread. People are there in
considerable numbers, and what is more striking, they seem to
represent every station and walk in life. It is evident that pictures, as
exhibited to the public, are not the cult of an initiated few; their
appeal is manifestly to no one class; and this popular interest is as
genuine as it is extended.
Thus reflectively scanning the crowd, the observer asks himself:
What has attracted these numbers to that which might be supposed
not to be understood of the many? And what are the pictures that in
general draw the popular attention?
A few persons have of course drifted into the exhibition out of
curiosity or from lack of something better to do. So much is evident
at once, for these file past the walls listlessly, seldom stopping, and
then but to glance at those pictures which are most obviously like
the familiar object they pretend to represent,--such as the bowl of
flowers which the beholder can almost smell, the theatre-checks and
five-dollar note pasted on a wall which tempt him to finger them, or
the panel of game birds which puzzles him to determine whether the
birds are real or not. These visitors, however, are not the most
numerous. With the great majority it is not enough that the picture
be a clever piece of imitation or illusion: transferring their interest
from the mere execution, they demand further that the subjects
represented shall be pleasing. The crowd pause before a sunny
landscape, | 579.234247 |
2023-11-16 18:26:43.2142670 | 935 | 10 |
Produced by David Widger
SERAPIS, Complete
By Georg Ebers
Translated from the German by Clara Bell
SERAPIS.
CHAPTER I.
The busy turmoil of the town had been hushed for some hours; the moon
and stars were keeping silent watch over Alexandria, and many of the
inhabitants were already in the land of dreams. It was deliciously
fresh--a truly gracious night; but, though peace reigned in the streets
and alleys, even now there was in this pause for rest a lack of the
soothing calm which refreshes and renews the spirit of man. For some few
weeks there had been an oppressive and fevered tension in the repose
of night. Every house and shop was closed as securely as though it were
done, not only to secure slumber against intrusion, but to protect life
and property from the spoiler; and instead of tones of jollity and mirth
the sleeping city echoed the heavy steps and ringing arms of soldiers.
Now and again, when the Roman word of command or the excited cry of some
sleepless monk broke the silence, shops and doors were cautiously opened
and an anxious face peered out, while belated wanderers shrunk into
gateways or under the black shadow of a wall as the watch came past. A
mysterious burden weighed on the Heart of the busy city and clicked its
pulses, as a nightmare oppresses the dreamer.
On this night of the year of our Lord 391, in a narrow street leading
from the commercial harbor known as Kibotus, an old man was slinking
along close to the houses. His clothes were plain but decent, and he
walked with his head bent forward looking anxiously on all sides; when
the patrol came by he shrank into the shadow; though he was no thief
he had his reasons for keeping out of the way of the soldiery, for the
inhabitants, whether natives or strangers, were forbidden to appear in
the streets after the harbor was closed for the night.
He stopped in front of a large house, whose long, windowless wall
extended from one side street to the next, and pausing before the great
gate, he read an inscription on which the light fell from a lamp above:
"The House of the Holy Martyr. His widow here offers shelter to all who
need it. He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord."
"At how much per cent I wonder?" mattered the old man and a satirical
smile curled his beardless lips. A heavy thud with the knocker rang
through the silent street, and after a few short questions from within
and equally curt replies from without, a small door was opened in the
great gate. The stranger was on the point of crossing the vestibule when
a human creature crept up to him on all fours, and clutched his ankle
with a strong hand, exclaiming in a hoarse voice: "As soon as the door
is shut--an entrance fee; for the poor, you know."
The old man flung a copper piece to the gatekeeper who tried it, and
then, holding on to the rope by which he was tied to a post like a
watch-dog, he whined out "Not a drop to wet a Christian's lips?"
"It has not rained for some time," retorted the stranger, who proceeded
to open a second door which led into a vast court-yard open to the blue
vault of heaven. A few torches stuck against the pillars and a small
fire on the pavement added thin smoky, flickering light to the clear
glory of the stars, and the whole quadrangle was full of a heavy,
reeking atmosphere, compounded of smoke and the steam of hot food.
Even in the street the wanderer had heard the dull buzz and roar which
now met his ear as a loud medley of noises and voices, rising from
hundreds of men who were encamped in the wide space before him--in
groups or singly, sleeping and snoring, or quarrelling, eating, talking
and singing as they squatted on the ground which was strewn with straw.
The inn was full, and more than half of the humble guests were monks
who, during the last two days, had flowed into the city from every
Cenoby, Laura and hermitage in the desert, and | 579.234307 |
2023-11-16 18:26:43.4184560 | 2,049 | 13 |
Produced by David Widger, from page images generously
provided by Google Books
THE EIGHTH YEAR
A Vital Problem Of Married Life
By Philip Gibbs
New York
The Devin-Adair Company 437 Fifth Avenue
1913
“_The Eighth Year is the most dangerous year in the adventure of
marriage._”
Sir Francis Jeune (afterwards Lord St. Helier). President of the Divorce
Court.
PART I--THE ARGUMENT
CHAPTER I
It was Sir Francis Jeune, afterwards Lord St. Helier, and President
of the Divorce Court, who first called attention to the strange
significance of the Eighth Year of married life. “The Eighth Year,” he
said, “is the most dangerous year in the adventure of marriage.”
Afterwards, in the recent Royal Commission on Divorce, this curious
fact was again alluded to in the evidence, and it has been shown by
statistics of domestic tragedy, by hundreds of sordid little dramas,
that at this period in the partnership of husbands and wives there
comes, in many cases, a great crisis, leading often to moral disaster.
It is in the Eighth Year, or thereabouts, that there is the tug-of-war
between two temperaments, mated by the law, but not mated, perhaps, in
ideals, in ambitions, or in qualities of character. The man and woman
pull against each other, tugging at each other’s heartstrings. The
Eighth Year is the fatal year, when if there is no give-and-take, no
working compromise, no new pledges of loyalty and comradeship, the
foundations of the home are shattered, and the hopes with which it was
first built lie in ruins like a house of cards knocked down by a gust of
wind.
But why the Eighth Year? Why not the twelfth, fourteenth, or eighteenth
year? The answer is not to be found in any old superstition. There
is nothing uncanny about the number eight. The problem is not to be
shrugged off by people who despise the foolish old tradition which
clings to thirteen, and imagine this to be in the same class of folly.
By the law of averages and by undeniable statistics it has been proved
that it brings many broken-hearted men and women to the Divorce Court.
For instance, taking the annual average of divorces in England between
1904 and 1908, one finds that there were only six divorces between
husbands and wives who had been married less than a year, and only
eighteen divorces between those married less than two years. Between
the second and the fifth years the number increases to a hundred and
seventeen. Then there is a tremendous jump, and the numbers between the
fifth and tenth years are two hundred and ninety-two. The period of
the Eighth Year is the most productive of divorce. The figures are more
startling and more significant when they cover a longer period. But
apart from statistics and apart altogether from the Divorce Court,
which is only one house of trouble, by using one’s own eyes in one’s
own circle of friends one may see that young married couples who started
happily enough show signs of stress and strain as this year approaches.
The fact is undeniable. What is the cause behind the fact?
There is not one cause, there are many causes, all leading up from
the first day of marriage, inevitably, with the unswerving, relentless
fatality of Greek Tragedy to the Eighth Year. They are causes which lie
deep in the social system of our modern home life; in the little order
of things prevailing, at this time, in hundreds of thousands of small
households and small flats, inhabited by the middle-classes. It is
mainly a middle-class problem, because the rich and the poor are, for
reasons which I will show later in this argument, exempt in a large
measure from the fatality of the Eighth Year. But all the influences
at work among the middle-classes, in this strange age of intellectual
disturbance, and of blind gropings forward to new social and moral
conditions, have a close hearing upon this seeming mystery. The
economic position of this class, its social ambitions, its intellectual
adventures, its general education, its code of morality, its religion or
lack of religion, its little conventional cults, the pressure of outside
influences, thrusting inwards to the hidden life in these little
homes, bringing dangerous ideas through the front doors, or through the
keyholes, and all the mental and moral vibrations that are “in the
air” to-day, especially in the air breathed by the middle-classes,
produce--the Eighth Year.
Let us start with the first year of marriage so that we may see how the
problem works out from the beginning.
Here we have, in the first year, a young man and woman who have come
together, not through any overmastering force of passion, but as
middle-class men and women are mostly brought together, by the accidents
of juxtaposition, and by a pleasant sentiment. They met, before
marriage, at tennis parties, at suburban dances, at evening At Homes. By
the laws of natural selection, aided a little by anxious mothers, this
young man and this young woman find out, or think they find out, that
they are “suited” to each other. That is to say, the young man thrills
in a pleasant way in the presence of the girl, and she sees the timidity
in his eyes when she looks at him, and she knows that her laughter,
the touch of her hand, the little tricks and graces she has learnt from
girl-friends, or from actresses in musical comedy, or from instinct,
attract him to her. She leads him on, by absurd little tiffs, artfully
arranged, by a pretence of flirtation with other boys, by provocative
words, by moments of tenderness changing abruptly to sham indifference,
or followed by little shafts of satire which wound his pride, and sting
him into desire for her. He pursues her, not knowing that he is pursued,
so that they meet half-way. This affair makes him restless, ill at
ease. It interrupts his work and his ambitions. Presently it becomes an
obsession, and he knows that he has “fallen in love.” He makes his plans
accordingly.
In the middle-classes love still presupposes marriage (though the idea
is not so fast-rooted as in the old days), but how the dickens is he to
manage it? He is just starting his career as Something in the City, or
as a solicitor, barrister, journalist, artist, doctor. His income is
barely sufficient for himself, according to his way of life, which
includes decent clothes, a club, a game of golf when he feels like it,
a motor-cycle or a small car, a holiday abroad, theatres, a bachelor
dinner now and again--the usual thing. He belongs to the younger
generation, with wider interests, larger ideas, higher ambitions than
those with which his father and mother started life.
He could not start on their level. Times have changed. He remembers his
father’s reminiscences of early struggles, of the ceaseless anxiety to
make both ends meet, of the continual stinting and scraping to keep the
children “decent,” to provide them with a good education, to give them
a fair start in life. He remembers his mother in his own childhood. She
was always mending stockings. There was always a litter of needlework on
the dining-room table after supper.
There were times when she “did” without a maid, and exhausted herself
with domestic drudgery. There were no foreign holidays then, only a
week or two at the seaside once a year. There was precious little pocket
money for the boys. They were conscious of their shabby gentility, and
hated it.
The modern young man looks with a kind of horror upon all this domestic
squalor, as he calls it. He couldn’t stand it. If marriage means that
for him he will have none of it. But need it mean that? He and Winifred
will scheme out their lives differently. They will leave out the baby
side of the business--until they can afford to indulge in it. They will
live in a little flat, and furnish it, if necessary, on the hire system.
They will cut out the domestic drudgery. They will enjoy the fun of
life, and shelve the responsibilities until they are able to pay for
them. After all it will not be long before he is earning a good income.
He has got his feet on the first rang of the ladder, and, with a little
luck----
So he proposes to the girl, and she pretends to be immensely surprised,
though she has been eating her heart out while he hesitated, and
delayed, and pondered. They pledge each other, “till death do us part,”
and the girl, who has been reading a great many novels lately, is very
happy because her own plot is working out according to the rules of
romance.
They live in a world of romance before the marriage day. The man seems
to walk on air when he crosses London Bridge on his way to the City.
Or if he is a barrister he sees the beauty of his girl’s face in his
brief--and is in danger of losing his case. Or if a journalist he curses
his irregular hours which keep him from the little house in Tulse Hill | 579.438496 |
2023-11-16 18:26:43.6187240 | 1,833 | 12 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
The History of Chivalry
or
Knighthood and its times.
By CHARLES MILLS, Esqr.
Author of the History of the Crusades
IN TWO VOLUMES.
Vol: I.
[Illustration: Engraved by A. Le Petit
from a sketch by R. W. Sievier.]
London.
Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green
MDCCCXXV.
PREFACE.
The propriety of my writing a History of Chivalry, as a companion to my
History of the Crusades, was suggested to me by a friend whose
acquaintance with middle-age lore forms but a small portion of his
literary attainments, and whose History of Italy shows his ability of
treating, as well as his skill in discovering, subjects not hitherto
discussed with the fulness which their importance merits.[1]
The works of Menestrier and Colombiere sleep in the dust of a few ancient
libraries; and there are only two other books whose express and entire
object is a delineation of the Institutions of chivalry. The first and
best known is the French work called "Memoires sur l'ancienne Chevalerie;
consideree comme un Etablissement Politique et Militaire. Par M. de la
Curne de Sainte Palaye, de l'Academie Francoise," &c. 2 tom. 12mo. Paris,
1759. The last half, however, of the second volume does not relate to
chivalry, and therefore the learned Frenchman cannot be charged with
treating his subject at very great length.[2] It was his purpose to
describe the education which accomplished the youth for the distinction of
knighthood, and this part of his work he has performed with considerable
success. But he failed in his next endeavour, that of painting the martial
games of chivalry, for nothing can be more unsatisfactory than his account
of jousts and tournaments. As he wished to inform his readers of the use
which was made in the battle field of the valour, skill, and experience of
knights, a description of some of the extraordinary and interesting
battles of the middle ages might have been expected. Here also
disappointment is experienced; neither can any pleasure be derived from
perusing his examination of the causes which produced the decline and
extinction of chivalry, and his account of the inconveniences which
counterbalanced the advantages of the establishment.
Sainte Palaye was a very excellent French antiquarian; but the limited
scope of his studies disqualified him from the office of a general
historian of chivalry. The habits of his mind led him to treat of
knighthood as if it had been the ornament merely of his own country. He
very rarely illustrates his principles by the literature of any other
nation, much less did he attempt to trace their history through the
various states of Europe. He has altogether kept out of sight many
characteristic features of his subject. Scarcely any thing is advanced
about ancient armour; not a word on the religious and military orders; and
but a few pages, and those neither pleasing nor correct, on woman and
lady-love. The best executed part of his subject regards, as I have
already observed, the education of knights; and he has scattered up and
down his little volume and a half many curious notices of ancient manners.
The other work is written in the German language, and for that reason it
is but very little known in this country. It is called Ritterzeit und
Ritterwesen, (two volumes octavo, Leipzig, 1823,) and is the substance of
a course of lectures on chivalry delivered by the author, Mr. Buesching, to
his pupils of the High School at Breslau. The style of the work is the
garrulous, slovenly, ungrammatical style which lecturers, in all
countries, and upon all subjects, think themselves privileged to use. A
large portion of the book is borrowed from Sainte Palaye; much of the
remainder relates to feudalism and other matters distinct from chivalry:
but when the writer treats of the state of knighthood in Germany I have
found his facts and observations of very great value.
Attention to the subjects of the middle ages of Europe has for many years
been growing among us. It was first excited by Warton's history of our
national verse, and Percy's edition of the Relics of ancient English
Poetry. The romances of chivalry, both in prose and metre, and the
numberless works on the Troubadour, and every other description of
literature during the middle ages which have been published within the
last few years, have sustained the interest. The poems of Scott convinced
the world that the chivalric times of Europe can strike the moral
imagination as powerfully and pleasingly in respect of character, passion,
and picturesqueness of effect, as the heroic ages of Greece; and even very
recently the glories of chivalry have been sung by a poetess whom Ariosto
himself would have been delighted to honour.[3] Still, however, no attempt
has been hitherto made to describe at large the institutions of
knighthood, the foundation of all that elegant superstructure of poetry
and romance which we admire, and to mark the history of chivalry in the
various countries of Europe. Those institutions have, indeed, been allowed
a few pages in our Encyclopaedias; and some of the sketches of them are
drawn with such boldness and precision of outline that we may regret the
authors did not present us with finished pictures. Our popular historians
have but hastily alluded to the subject; for they were so much busied with
feudalism and politics, that they could afford but a small space for the
play of the lighter graces of chivalry.
For a description, indeed, of antique manners, our materials are not so
ample as for that of their public lives. But still the subject is not
without its witnesses. The monkish chroniclers sometimes give us a glimpse
of the castles of our ancestors. Many of the knights in days of yore had
their biographers; and, for the most interesting time of chivalry, we
possess an historian, who, for vividness of delineation, kindliness of
feeling, and naivete of language, is the Herodotus of the middle ages.
"Did you ever read Froissart?"
"No," answered Henry Morton.
"I have half a mind," rejoined Claverhouse, "to contrive that you should
have six months' imprisonment, in order to procure you that pleasure. His
chapters inspire me with more enthusiasm than even poetry itself."
Froissart's[4] history extends from the year 1316 to 1400. It was begun by
him when he was twenty years old, at the command of his dear lord and
master, Sir Robert of Namur, Lord of Beaufort. The annals from 1326 to
1356 are founded on the Chronicles compiled by him whom he calls "The
Right Reverend, discreet, and sage Master John la Bele, sometime canon in
St. Lambertis of Liege, who with good heart and due diligence did his true
devoir in writing his book; and heard of many fair and noble adventures
from his being well beloved, and of the secret counsel of the Lord Sir
John of Hainault." Froissart corrected all this borrowed matter on the
information of the barons and knights of his time regarding their
families' gestes and prowesses. He is the chronicler both of political
events and of chivalric manners. Of his merits in the first part of his
character it falls not within my province to speak. For the office of
historian of chivalry no man could present such fair pretensions. His
father being a herald-painter, he was initiated in his very early years
into that singular form of life which he describes with such picturesque
beauty. "Well I loved," as he says of his youth, in one of his poems, "to
see dances and carolling, and to hear the songs of min | 579.638764 |
2023-11-16 18:26:43.7154740 | 3,714 | 11 | (OF 3) ***
Produced by Al Haines.
*THE ROMANCE OF WAR:*
OR,
THE HIGHLANDERS IN SPAIN
BY
JAMES GRANT, ESQ.
_Late 62nd Regiment._
"In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
From the heath-covered mountains of Scotia we come;
Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain,
And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain."
_Lt.-Gen. Erskine._
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1846.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY MAURICE AND CO., HOWFORD BUILDINGS,
FENCHURCH STREET.
*CONTENTS*
Chapter
I. Hostilities--A Love Letter
II. The Ball.--The Bull-Fight.--An Adventure
III. The Skirmish of Fuente Duenna. The Leaguer of Alba de Tormes
IV. Angus Mackie
V. An Adventure. A Highland Legend
VI. A Battle
VII. An Out-Picquet Adventure
VIII. Pass of Maya.--Pyrenees
IX. The Block-house. Mina
X. The Chatelet
XI. Passage of the Nive
*THE ROMANCE OF WAR.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*HOSTILITIES--A LOVE LETTER.*
"Were not my right hand fetter'd by the thought,
That slaying thee were but a double guilt
In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom ever
Stepp'd forth to trip a measure with his bride
More joyfully than I, young man, would rush
To meet thy challenge."
_Macduff's Cross_, p. 26.
Boiling with rage at Louis's insulting defiance, Ronald returned to his
quarters in the Alcanzar, determined at day-break to summon him forth,
to fight or apologize. He often repeated the words, "Her heart has
never wandered from you." Ah! if this should indeed be the case, and
that Alice loved him after all! But from Louis, his honour demanded a
full explanation and ample apology, either of which he feared the proud
spirit of the other would never stoop to grant. Yet, to level a deadly
weapon against the brother of Alice,--against him to whom he had been a
constant friend and companion in childhood and maturer youth, and
perhaps by a single shot to destroy him, the hopes and the peace of his
amiable father and sister, he felt that should this happen, he never
could forgive himself. But there was no alternative: it was death or
dishonour.
Two ways lay before him,--to fight or not to fight; and his sense of
injured honour made him, without hesitation, choose the first, and he
waited in no ordinary anxiety for the dawn, when Alister Macdonald, who
was absent on duty, would return to the quarters of the regiment.
Next morning, when the grey daylight was beginning faintly to show the
dark courts and gloomy arcades of the Alcanzar, he sprung from his
couch, which had been nothing else than his cloak laid on the polished
floor tiles; and undergoing a hasty toilette, he was about to set forth
in search of Macdonald, when Lieutenant Chisholm, one of the officers,
entered.
"What! up already, Stuart?" said he; "I hope you are not on any duty?"
"No. Why?"
"Because Lisle has asked me to wait upon you."
"Upon _me_?" asked Ronald, with a frown of surprise. "Upon me,
Chisholm?"
"Yes: of course you will remember what occurred in the cathedral last
night?"
"How could I ever forget? Mr. Lisle, under its roof, insulted me most
grossly," replied Ronald, his lips growing white with anger. "I was
just about to seek Macdonald to give him a message, but Mr. Lisle has
anticipated me."
"For Heaven's sake, Stuart, let us endeavour to settle this matter
amicably! Think of the remorse which an honourable survivor must always
feel. A hundred men slain in action are nothing to one life lost in a
duel."
"Address these words to your principal,--they are lost on me; but you
are an excellent fellow, Chisholm!"
"It is long since we have had an affair of this sort among us, and
Cameron is quite averse to this mode of settling disputes."
"I shall not consult his opinion, or that of any other man, in defence
of my own honour," said Ronald haughtily.
"As you please," replied the other, with an air of pique. "Lisle and
you have long been on very distant terms, and the officers have always
predicted that the matter would terminate in this way."
"Curse their impertinent curiosity! And so Lisle calls me out in
consequence of the high words we exchanged in the cathedral last night?"
"That is one reason--the least one, I believe. He mentioned that his
sister, Miss Lisle--"
"Stay, Chisholm! I will hear no more of this," cried Stuart; then
suddenly changing his mind added, "Ah! well; his sister--Miss Alice
Lisle. Go on."
"Faith, Stuart, you seem confoundedly confused. Do settle this matter in
peace. Lisle has told me the story, in confidence, and I think you have
been to blame,--indeed you have. Send Lisle an apology, for I assure
you he is boiling with passion, and will not yield a hair's breadth."
"Chisholm, then how in the devil's name can you suppose that I will?"
exclaimed Ronald, his anger getting the better of his confusion.
"Never, by Heaven! never will I apologize when I have suffered the
indignity. He has challenged me, and fate must now decide. I will meet
him."
"Well, then, time presses; we march at sunrise. Who is your friend?"
"Alister Macdonald, if he has returned; if not, I shall have Logan."
"Macdonald returned about midnight with some stragglers from Torrijos,
and will not relish being disturbed so early."
"Never mind that; an hour's sleep less or more is scarcely to be
considered when lives are in jeopardy. Where is the meeting place?"
"The bridge of Toledo. You will barely be in time. Six is the hour; it
wants fifteen minutes of it by my watch."
"Well, you may leave me now."
Knowing it was needless to say any more about a reconciliation Chisholm
departed; and Ronald, after buckling on his sword and dirk, stood for a
few minutes holding his bonnet in his hand irresolutely, while he sunk
into a reverie of deep and bitter reflections, of what his affectionate
old sire and faithful dependants at Lochisla would feel should he die by
the hand of Lisle, whose very name they regarded with so much jealousy
and distrust. He also thought of Alice and Lord Lisle, what their
sentiments would be if the reverse was the case, and the one lost a dear
brother--the other a beloved son, who was the only heir and hope of an
ancient house, and the successor to its title. He remembered also the
words of Louis. Could it be that Alice might yet love him? But no; that
was impossible! He threw his cloak around him, and rushed from the
chamber to seek that of Macdonald, who was ready to attend him in a
moment. Suddenly remembering that he had no pistols, he urned into an
apartment occupied by Major Campbell, to request the loan of his.
It was a spacious and splendid room, with a ceiling twenty feet in
height. A colonnade supported the roof, the carved beams of which
stretched across from the gilded cornices on each side. The ceiling and
walls were covered with frescoes, but the plaster and the once bright
and gorgeous gilding were miserably faded and dilapidated by time and
neglect. Rolled in his cloak, and coiled up in a corner of this vast and
empty hall, the bulky frame of Campbell lay on the tessellated pavement,
and no doubt he found it a bed somewhat cold and hard. His pillow was
formed by his long Andrea and favourite _rung_, with a plaid rolled
round them. His dirk and steel Highland pistols lay on one side of him,
and an empty pigskin on the other. Very desolate indeed he appeared,
lying in a corner of that huge apartment, which was totally destitute of
furniture. Ronald shook him by the shoulder.
"If that is you, Serjeant Macildhui," said he, speaking very crossly
beneath the cape of his cloak, "I must beg leave to inform you, that I
have nothing to do now with No. 1 company. I am done with all that sort
of dirty work, as you will see by the last Gazette. Apply to Mr.
Kennedy, and take yourself off till the drum beats. I wish the infernal
Horse Guards would order six halting days every week, instead of only
Sunday and Thursday."
"Look up, major! 'Tis I--Stuart."
"What is the matter?" cried the other, bolting up, and showing that the
contents of the borachio skin were operating still on his brain; "what
is the matter now? It is very hard that a field-officer, and one too
that has seen the fields of Alexandria, Egmont-op-Zee, and the onslaught
of Copenhagen, should be so pestered by subalterns. How this hard bed
makes my bones ache! I have slept softer on the hot yellow sand in
Egypt. They tell me this was the bed-room of Don Alfonso the First,
king of Castile. Devil mend him! I suppose he did not sleep on the
pavement with a claymore for a pillow, like Colin Campbell of
Craigfianteoch, in Lorne, a better man--for what is any Castilian don
when compared to a duine-wassal of Argyle?" The major snapped his
fingers, and it was evident he was very tipsy. "But what do you want,
Ronald, my boy?" he added.
"The loan of your pistols, major, for ten minutes only. I have a very
disagreeable affair to adjust this morning."
"I regret to hear it; but it is with none of ours, I hope, my knight of
Santiago?"
"This is no time for jesting. 'Tis with a Portuguese of Colonel
Campbell's brigade," said Ronald, colouring at the necessary falsehood.
"Pah! only a Portuguese,--a dirty garlic-eating devil. There are the
pistols; and remember, always level low, and fire the instant the word
is given. I hope your arm is steady. A little hartshorn-water or Eau
de Cologne are excellent things to rub it with. I am sorry I never keep
any of these things about me: Egypt cured me of them. Take Stewart the
assistant-surgeon with you, and come back when the tulzie is over, and
give me an account of it."
"You forget, major. I may never come back."
"And your opponent a Portuguese! Who is your second?"
"Macdonald,--Macdonald of Inchkenneth. These pistols are very
handsome," observed Ronald, with affected carelessness, as he examined
the stones with which they were studded, and surveyed the flints and
locks.
"Ah! they are indeed handsome. My grandfather took them out of the Duke
of Douglas's belt, after he had unhorsed him at Shirramuir. They did
some execution at Culloden, too."
"On the right side, of course?"
"Yes; in the army of the Prince. Use this one, with the cairn-gorum on
the butt. The other throws high, and you would need to level to the
boot to hit the belt. It happened so with me at Grand Cairo, when
firing at a Turkish thief. I aimed at his sash, and the ball knocked
off his turban. I would tell you all the story, but there is no time.
I have no fear of you; so be off, my lad. God bless you! and steady
your hand. Do not let it be said that a Portuguese gained and kept the
ground before a Scotsman, and one of the Gordon Highlanders."
At the gate of the Alcanzar he met Macdonald, and wrapping themselves up
in their cloaks, as the morning air was cold and chilly, they hurried
towards the bridge of Toledo. The streets appeared gloomy and dull in
the grey light of the morning; and save their own foot-falls, no other
sound broke the silence. The most public places were absolutely
deserted. The shops under the piazzas of the Plaza, the stalls in the
market-place, the _cafes_ and _tabernas_ were still all closed. Two or
three halberdiers stood at the gate of El Medico's residence, and these
were all they met, save a cloaked cavalier, who by a ladder of ropes
suddenly descended from the window into the street, and disappeared.
On reaching the bridge which spans the Tagus, immediately beneath the
cannon and battlements of the city, they found Lisle and Chisholm
awaiting them. A pistol-case lay on the parapet over which they were
leaning, watching the smooth waters of the river as they hurried on
between rocky ledges, banks overhung with foliage, and willow trees that
flourished amidst the stream. A thick white mist was beginning to curl
up from the bed of the river, exhaled by the increasing heat of the
morning sun, whose rays were tinging the east with red, and the cross on
the beautiful spire of the cathedral, from one of the towers of which
waved a broad and crimson banner, bearing the arms of Toledo--the
imperial crown of Spain.
"A very disagreeable business this, Macdonald," whispered Chisholm, as
he took the arm of the other, and led him aside to the parapet of the
bridge, where they communed for a few seconds, leaving the principals,
awkwardly enough, to stare at each other or admire the scenery, which
ever they chose.
Another attempt at an amicable arrangement was made, but without
success; both parties were too much exasperated to yield in the least
degree. "Once more I ask you, Stuart," said Chisholm, coming forward,
"cannot this unhappy affair be adjusted without recourse to arms?"
"You are a good-hearted fellow, Chisholm, and I fully appreciate your
good intentions, but your words are lost upon me; I refer you to Mr.
Lisle for an answer. Mine was the insult, and any apology should
therefore come from him."
"It shall not!" exclaimed Lisle bitterly; "I will rather die than
apologize. Stuart, you _shall_ fight me; and if not--"
"Lisle,--Lisle! your behaviour is very violent and most unjustifiable."
"I am the best judge, Mr. Macdonald. I fight in the cause of another,
and not for myself," said Louis; and he turned haughtily on his heel,
and again walked to the parapet.
"I am perfectly disposed to accept of an apology," observed Ronald to
the seconds in a subdued voice; "but as one will not be given, on
Lisle's own head will rest the guilt of the blood shed this morning.
This quarrel has been of his own seeking, not mine. Heaven knows how
loath I am to fight with him, but there is no alternative now. Measure
the ground, and give us our weapons."
"Then, Macdonald," said Chisholm, "all hopes of an accommodation are at
an end?"
"Quite: your principal is much to blame. But we must be
expeditious,--see how red the horizon is; the drums will beat in ten
minutes."
During the measuring of the ground and the loading of the pistols,
Ronald fixed his eyes on the saffron east, where the sun was about to
rise in all its splendour above the mountains of Castile. Appearing
black between him and the glowing sky rose the grassy height, crowned by
the black old ruins of the castle of San Servan, | 579.735514 |
2023-11-16 18:26:43.7156560 | 730 | 75 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from images made available by the HathiTrust
Digital Library.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ:
A BOOK OF LYRICS:
BY
BLISS CARMAN
[Illustration: logo]
CHARLES L. WEBSTER AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK MDCCCXCIII
COPYRIGHT, 1893,
BY BLISS CARMAN.
(_All rights reserved._)
PRESS OF
JENKINS & MCCOWAN,
NEW YORK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The poems in this volume have been collected with reference to their
similarity of tone. They are variations on a single theme, more or less
aptly suggested by the title, _Low Tide on Grand Pré_. It seemed better
to bring together between the same covers only those pieces of work
which happened to be in the same key, rather than to publish a larger
book of more uncertain aim.
B. C.
_By Grand Pré, September, 1893._
CONTENTS
PAGE
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ 11
WHY 15
THE UNRETURNING 18
A WINDFLOWER 19
IN LYRIC SEASON 21
THE PENSIONERS 23
AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD 27
WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM 31
SEVEN THINGS 44
A SEA CHILD 47
PULVIS ET UMBRA 48
THROUGH THE TWILIGHT 61
CARNATIONS IN WINTER 63
A NORTHERN VIGIL 65
THE EAVESDROPPER 73
IN APPLE TIME 77
WANDERER 79
AFOOT 89
WAYFARING 94
THE END OF THE TRAIL 103
THE VAGABONDS 111
WHITHER 118
TO
S. M. C.
_Spiritus haeres sit patriae quae tristia nescit._
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ
The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such unelusive glories fall,
I almost dream they yet will bide
Until the coming of the tide.
And yet I know that not for us,
By any ecstasy of dream,
He lingers to keep luminous
A little while the grievous stream,
Which frets, uncomforted of dream—
A grievous stream, that to and fro
Athrough the fields of Acadie
Goes wandering, as if to know
Why one beloved face should be
So long from home and Acadie.
Was it a year or lives ago
We took the grasses in our hands,
And caught the summer flying low
Over the waving meadow lands,
And held it there between our hands?
The while the river at our feet—
A drowsy inland meadow stream | 579.735696 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.0162080 | 2,727 | 15 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "WILL HE COME?"
_From the Painting by Marcus Stone, R.A._
_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W._]
* * * * *
The
HARMSWORTH
MONTHLY PICTORIAL
MAGAZINE.
VOLUME 1, 1898-9. No 2.
* * * * *
My travelling companion
A COMPLETE STORY
BY CATHERINE CHILDAR.
_Illustrated by Fred. Pegram._
It was a miserable day in November--the sort of day when, according to
the French, splenetic Englishmen flock in such crowds to the Thames, in
order to drown themselves, that there is not standing room on the
bridges. I was sitting over the fire in our dingy dining-room; for
personally I find that element more cheering than water under depressing
circumstances.
My eldest sister burst upon me with a letter in her hand: "Here, Tommy,
is an invitation for you," she cried.
My name is Charlotte; but I am generally called Tommy by my
unappreciative family, who mendaciously declare it is derived from the
expression "tom-boy."
"Oh, bother invitations," was my polite answer. "I don't want to go
anywhere. Why, it's a letter from Mysie Sutherland! How came you to open
it?"
"If she will address it to Miss Cornwall, of course I shall open it.
I've read it, too--it's very nice for you."
"Awfully jolly," put in Dick, who had followed my sister Lucy into the
room.
"Oh, I don't want to go a bit."
"Well, then, you'll just have to. It's disgraceful of you, Tom; why, you
may never get such a chance again. You'll meet lots of people in a big
country house like that, and perhaps--who knows?--marry a rich
Scotchman."
"I declare, Lucy, you are quite disgusting with your perpetual talk
about marrying! Why, I shan't have the time to get fond of anyone!"
"You're asked for a month; and if that isn't time enough, I don't know
what is."
"Time enough to be married and divorced again," cried Dick.
"But I shan't come to that; and besides, I have no clothes fit to be
seen."
"Oh, never mind; I'll lend you my white silk for evenings." And my
sister, who was always good-natured, carried me off to ransack her
wardrobe.
There was no help for it; remonstrances were useless; I had to go. The
invitation was from a schoolfellow of mine, Mysie Sutherland by name.
She lived near Inverness, and asked me to go and stay a month with her.
The idea filled me with apprehension. She was the only daughter, and
lived in style in a large house: I was one of a numerous family herded
together in a small house in Harley Street. Her father was a wealthy
landed proprietor: mine was a struggling doctor. Altogether I was shy
and nervous, and would much have preferred to remain at home; but Lucy
and Dick had decided I should go, and I knew there was no appeal.
A few days afterwards I was at Euston Station, on my way to the North.
My mother and sister had come to see me off, and stood at the carriage
door, passing remarks upon the people.
A knot of young men standing by the bookstall attracted our attention,
from their constant bursts of laughter. There was evidently a good joke
amongst them, and they were enjoying it to the full. The time was up,
and the train was just about to start, when one of them rushed forward
and jumped into my carriage. The guard slammed the door, his friends
threw some papers after him in at the window, and we were off.
For some time we sat silent, then a question about the window or the
weather opened a conversation. My companion was a good-looking young
man, with thick, curly brown hair. He had neither moustache, beard, nor
whiskers, which gave him a boyish appearance, and made me think he might
be an actor. His eyes were peculiar--they were kind eyes, honest eyes,
laughing eyes, but there was something about them that I could not make
out. As he sat nearly opposite to me I had every opportunity of studying
them, but not till we had travelled at least a hundred miles did I
discover what it was. They were not quite alike. There was no cast--not
the slightest suspicion of a squint--no, nothing of that kind; only they
were not a pair--one eye was hazel, the other grey; and yet the
difference in colour varied so much that sometimes I thought I must be
mistaken. At one moment, in the sunlight, the difference was striking;
but when next I saw them, in shadow, the difference was hardly
perceptible. Yet there it was, and it gave a peculiar but agreeable
expression to the face.
He was extremely kind and pleasant, and I must own that when an old
gentleman got in at Rugby I was sorry our _tete-a-tete_ should be
interrupted. We had been talking over all sorts of subjects, from
pitch-and-toss to manslaughter, exclusive--for those two subjects had
not yet been discussed. (I know it is a very vulgar expression, and I
ought not to use it, only I am always with the boys and I am a "Tommy"
myself.)
The old gentleman, however, did not trouble us long, for he had made a
mistake and had got into the wrong train. He hobbled out much quicker
than he got in, and my friend the actor was most polite in helping him
and handing out his parcels.
When that was over we settled down again comfortably. By the time we got
to Crewe we were like old friends, and chatted together over my
sandwiches, or at least while I ate them, for he had his lunch at
Preston, as Bradshaw informed us the passengers were expected to do.
I fully expected we should get an influx of companions here, for the
platform was crowded, but my carriage door was locked and I noticed the
guard hovering near; he seemed particularly anxious to direct people
elsewhere. Perhaps he thought that as I was an unprotected female I
should prefer to be quite alone, and I was busy concocting a little
speech about "a gentleman coming back," in case he should refuse to let
my actor come into the carriage. It was quite unnecessary, however, as
directly he caught sight of him in the distance he opened the door with
an obsequious bow. I began to wonder if he knew him. Perhaps he was a
celebrated actor, and when actors are celebrated nowadays they are
celebrated indeed. I felt quite elated at having anything to do with a
member of such a fashionable profession, and looked at him with more
interest than ever.
I was dreadfully sorry when we reached Carlisle, for there my journey
ended--for that day at least. I was to spend the night with a maiden
aunt, living near Carlisle, and go on to Inverness the next morning. The
station came in sight only too soon. My companion had been telling me
some mountaineering experiences which had been called to his mind by the
scenery we had been passing through, and the train pulled up in the
middle of a most exciting story. I had to leave him clinging to a bare
wall of rock in a blinding snowstorm, while I went off to spend the
night with my Aunt Maria. There was no help for it. My aunt, a thin,
quaint old lady, stood waiting on the platform. She wore a huge
coalscuttle bonnet, which in these days of smaller head coverings looked
strange and out of proportion, a short imitation sealskin jacket, and a
perfectly plain skirt, which exposed her slender build in the most
uncompromising (or perhaps I ought to say compromising) fashion.
I recognised her at once, and felt secretly ashamed of my poor relation.
It was horrid of me, and I hated myself for it; but at that moment I
really did feel ashamed of her appearance, and actually comforted myself
with the thought that my companion had seen my fashionable and befrilled
sister at Euston.
I was pleased to find that he was as sorry to part as I was. He broke
off his story with an exclamation of disgust. "I thought you said you
were going to Scotland," he cried.
"So I am," I answered; "but not till to-morrow."
Here Aunt Maria came forward. I had to get out and be folded in the
embrace of two bony arms. My companion (I had not found out his name)
had, in the meantime, put my bag and my bundles upon the platform, and
was standing, cap in hand, bowing a farewell.
He looked so pleasant, and Aunt Maria so forbidding, that my heart sank
at the thought that he was going away, and that in all probability I
should never see him again. Involuntarily I stretched out my hand to bid
him a more friendly good-bye. Perhaps it was forward of me--Lucy always
says I have such queer manners--but really I could not help it; I felt
so sorry that our pleasant acquaintance should come to an end so soon.
[Illustration: "PERHAPS IT WAS FORWARD OF ME."]
Mysie Sutherland met me at Inverness. A pompous-looking footman came
forward and condescended to carry my bag; one porter took my box to a
cart in waiting, another put my rugs into the carriage, and Mysie and I
went off at the rate of ten miles an hour. The pleasure of meeting her,
the speed of the motion, the comfort of the well-stuffed cushions, quite
raised my spirits. How different from trudging along with cross Aunt
Maria!
We soon arrived at Strathnasheen House, and a very fine place it looked
as we drove through the park. I began to get a little nervous again at
the thought of meeting strangers; but Mysie comforted me, saying that
her mother was just an angel, and her father very nice when you got used
to him. As I had never been intimate with angels, and hardly expected to
be there long enough to get used to an old man's peculiarities, I still
trembled.
[Illustration: "I WALKED IN TO DINNER ON SIR ALEXANDER'S ARM."]
We had reached the porch. The pompous footman got down and executed a
fantasia with elaborate "froisture" upon the knocker. The butler, who
must have been waiting in the hall in a stunned condition till the
performance was over, flung open the door, and I entered Strathnasheen
House. The pompous one clung to my bag as a dainty trifle he could
carry without loss of dignity. The butler stood motionless, content with
"existing beautifully," the more so as a second footman, with powdered
hair, plush breeches, and unimpeachable calves, rushed forward to our
assistance. He was such a magnificent and unexpected apparition that I
gazed in wonder, and eventually in horror.
[Illustration: THE NEW FOOTMAN SPILT THE GRAVY OVER MY WHITE SILK
DRESS.]
It was my travelling companion of the day before!
I never knew how I got through the dreaded introduction to Sir Alexander
and Lady Sutherland. I have a faint recollection of going up to a tall
old man in spectacles, and answering his polite inquiries in a dazed,
bewildered way. I recollect, also, that Lady Sutherland made an
impression of softness and warmth, and that she said something about
"changing my feet," which I looked upon as a mysterious and
uncomplimentary suggestion.
Then Mysie carried me off to show me my room. There was a blazing fire,
which was very inviting, and I was glad to plead fatigue and sit down
till dinner.
Tired I certainly was, but that was nothing to my mental condition. My
hero a footman! What would Lucy say to me? And Dick? Well, they | 580.036248 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.2143800 | 2,437 | 6 |
Transcribed from the 1918 Martin Secker edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
THE JOLLY CORNER
by Henry James
CHAPTER I
"Every one asks me what I 'think' of everything," said Spencer Brydon;
"and I make answer as I can--begging or dodging the question, putting
them off with any nonsense. It wouldn't matter to any of them really,"
he went on, "for, even were it possible to meet in that stand-and-deliver
way so silly a demand on so big a subject, my 'thoughts' would still be
almost altogether about something that concerns only myself." He was
talking to Miss Staverton, with whom for a couple of months now he had
availed himself of every possible occasion to talk; this disposition and
this resource, this comfort and support, as the situation in fact
presented itself, having promptly enough taken the first place in the
considerable array of rather unattenuated surprises attending his so
strangely belated return to America. Everything was somehow a surprise;
and that might be natural when one had so long and so consistently
neglected everything, taken pains to give surprises so much margin for
play. He had given them more than thirty years--thirty-three, to be
exact; and they now seemed to him to have organised their performance
quite on the scale of that licence. He had been twenty-three on leaving
New York--he was fifty-six to-day; unless indeed he were to reckon as he
had sometimes, since his repatriation, found himself feeling; in which
case he would have lived longer than is often allotted to man. It would
have taken a century, he repeatedly said to himself, and said also to
Alice Staverton, it would have taken a longer absence and a more averted
mind than those even of which he had been guilty, to pile up the
differences, the newnesses, the queernesses, above all the bignesses, for
the better or the worse, that at present assaulted his vision wherever he
looked.
The great fact all the while, however, had been the incalculability;
since he _had_ supposed himself, from decade to decade, to be allowing,
and in the most liberal and intelligent manner, for brilliancy of change.
He actually saw that he had allowed for nothing; he missed what he would
have been sure of finding, he found what he would never have imagined.
Proportions and values were upside-down; the ugly things he had expected,
the ugly things of his far-away youth, when he had too promptly waked up
to a sense of the ugly--these uncanny phenomena placed him rather, as it
happened, under the charm; whereas the "swagger" things, the modern, the
monstrous, the famous things, those he had more particularly, like
thousands of ingenuous enquirers every year, come over to see, were
exactly his sources of dismay. They were as so many set traps for
displeasure, above all for reaction, of which his restless tread was
constantly pressing the spring. It was interesting, doubtless, the whole
show, but it would have been too disconcerting hadn't a certain finer
truth saved the situation. He had distinctly not, in this steadier
light, come over _all_ for the monstrosities; he had come, not only in
the last analysis but quite on the face of the act, under an impulse with
which they had nothing to do. He had come--putting the thing
pompously--to look at his "property," which he had thus for a third of a
century not been within four thousand miles of; or, expressing it less
sordidly, he had yielded to the humour of seeing again his house on the
jolly corner, as he usually, and quite fondly, described it--the one in
which he had first seen the light, in which various members of his family
had lived and had died, in which the holidays of his overschooled boyhood
had been passed and the few social flowers of his chilled adolescence
gathered, and which, alienated then for so long a period, had, through
the successive deaths of his two brothers and the termination of old
arrangements, come wholly into his hands. He was the owner of another,
not quite so "good"--the jolly corner having been, from far back,
superlatively extended and consecrated; and the value of the pair
represented his main capital, with an income consisting, in these later
years, of their respective rents which (thanks precisely to their
original excellent type) had never been depressingly low. He could live
in "Europe," as he had been in the habit of living, on the product of
these flourishing New York leases, and all the better since, that of the
second structure, the mere number in its long row, having within a
twelvemonth fallen in, renovation at a high advance had proved
beautifully possible.
These were items of property indeed, but he had found himself since his
arrival distinguishing more than ever between them. The house within the
street, two bristling blocks westward, was already in course of
reconstruction as a tall mass of flats; he had acceded, some time before,
to overtures for this conversion--in which, now that it was going
forward, it had been not the least of his astonishments to find himself
able, on the spot, and though without a previous ounce of such
experience, to participate with a certain intelligence, almost with a
certain authority. He had lived his life with his back so turned to such
concerns and his face addressed to those of so different an order that he
scarce knew what to make of this lively stir, in a compartment of his
mind never yet penetrated, of a capacity for business and a sense for
construction. These virtues, so common all round him now, had been
dormant in his own organism--where it might be said of them perhaps that
they had slept the sleep of the just. At present, in the splendid autumn
weather--the autumn at least was a pure boon in the terrible place--he
loafed about his "work" undeterred, secretly agitated; not in the least
"minding" that the whole proposition, as they said, was vulgar and
sordid, and ready to climb ladders, to walk the plank, to handle
materials and look wise about them, to ask questions, in fine, and
challenge explanations and really "go into" figures.
It amused, it verily quite charmed him; and, by the same stroke, it
amused, and even more, Alice Staverton, though perhaps charming her
perceptibly less. She wasn't, however, going to be better-off for it, as
_he_ was--and so astonishingly much: nothing was now likely, he knew,
ever to make her better-off than she found herself, in the afternoon of
life, as the delicately frugal possessor and tenant of the small house in
Irving Place to which she had subtly managed to cling through her almost
unbroken New York career. If he knew the way to it now better than to
any other address among the dreadful multiplied numberings which seemed
to him to reduce the whole place to some vast ledger-page, overgrown,
fantastic, of ruled and criss-crossed lines and figures--if he had
formed, for his consolation, that habit, it was really not a little
because of the charm of his having encountered and recognised, in the
vast wilderness of the wholesale, breaking through the mere gross
generalisation of wealth and force and success, a small still scene where
items and shades, all delicate things, kept the sharpness of the notes of
a high voice perfectly trained, and where economy hung about like the
scent of a garden. His old friend lived with one maid and herself dusted
her relics and trimmed her lamps and polished her silver; she stood oft,
in the awful modern crush, when she could, but she sallied forth and did
battle when the challenge was really to "spirit," the spirit she after
all confessed to, proudly and a little shyly, as to that of the better
time, that of _their_ common, their quite far-away and antediluvian
social period and order. She made use of the street-cars when need be,
the terrible things that people scrambled for as the panic-stricken at
sea scramble for the boats; she affronted, inscrutably, under stress, all
the public concussions and ordeals; and yet, with that slim mystifying
grace of her appearance, which defied you to say if she were a fair young
woman who looked older through trouble, or a fine smooth older one who
looked young through successful indifference with her precious reference,
above all, to memories and histories into which he could enter, she was
as exquisite for him as some pale pressed flower (a rarity to begin
with), and, failing other sweetnesses, she was a sufficient reward of his
effort. They had communities of knowledge, "their" knowledge (this
discriminating possessive was always on her lips) of presences of the
other age, presences all overlaid, in his case, by the experience of a
man and the freedom of a wanderer, overlaid by pleasure, by infidelity,
by passages of life that were strange and dim to her, just by "Europe" in
short, but still unobscured, still exposed and cherished, under that
pious visitation of the spirit from which she had never been diverted.
She had come with him one day to see how his "apartment-house" was
rising; he had helped her over gaps and explained to her plans, and while
they were there had happened to have, before her, a brief but lively
discussion with the man in charge, the representative of the building
firm that had undertaken his work. He had found himself quite "standing
up" to this personage over a failure on the latter's part to observe some
detail of one of their noted conditions, and had so lucidly argued his
case that, besides ever so prettily flushing, at the time, for sympathy
in his triumph, she had afterwards said to him (though to a slightly
greater effect of irony) that he had clearly for too many years neglected
a real gift. If he had but stayed at home he would have anticipated the
inventor of the sky-scraper. If he had but stayed at home he would have
discovered his genius in time really to start some new variety of awful
architectural hare and run it till it burrowed in a gold mine. He was to
remember these words, while the weeks elapsed, for the small silver ring
they had sounded over the queerest and deepest of his own lately most
disguised and most muffled vibrations.
It had begun to be present to him after the first fortnight, it had
broken out with the oddest abruptness, this particular wanton wonderment:
it met him there--and this was | 580.23442 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.4186700 | 1,347 | 7 |
Project Gutenberg Etext of The Two Noble Kinsmen by Shakespeare
PG has multiple editions of William Shakespeare's Complete Works
Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!
Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below. We need your donations.
The Two Noble Kinsmen
by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher [Apocrypha]
November, 1998 [Etext #1542]
Project Gutenberg Etext of The Two Noble Kinsmen by Shakespeare
******This file should be named 1542.txt or 1542.zip******
This etext was prepared by Christopher Hapka, Sunnyvale, CA.
Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT! keep
these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an
up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes
in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has
a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a
look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a
new copy has at least one byte more or less.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text
files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+
If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the
total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users.
At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly
from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an
assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few
more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we
don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person.
We need your donations more than ever!
All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are
tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie-
Mellon University).
For these and other matters, please mail to:
Project Gutenberg
P. O. Box 2782
Champaign, IL 61825
When all other email fails...try our Executive Director:
Michael S. Hart <[email protected]>
[email protected] forwards to [email protected] and archive.org
if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on....
We would prefer to send you this information by email.
******
To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser
to view http://promo.net/pg. This site lists Etexts by
author and by title, and includes information about how
to get involved with Project Gutenberg. You could also
download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here. This
is one of our major sites, please email [email protected],
for a more complete list of our various sites.
To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any
Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror
sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed
at http://promo.net/pg).
Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better.
Example FTP session:
ftp sunsite.unc.edu
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
cd etext90 through etext99
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files...set bin for zip files]
GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]
***
**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print | 580.43871 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.5790620 | 2,457 | 13 |
Produced by D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE DAY OF HIS YOUTH
By
ALICE BROWN
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
M DCCC XCVII
COPYRIGHT, 1897
BY ALICE BROWN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U.S.A.
ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.
THE DAY OF HIS YOUTH
The life of Francis Hume began in an old yet very real tragedy. His
mother, a lovely young woman, died at the birth of her child: an event
of every-day significance, if you judge by tables of mortality and the
probabilities of being. She was the wife of a man well-known among
honored American names, and her death made more than the usual ripple
of nearer pain and wider condolence. To the young husband it was an
afflicting calamity, entirely surprising even to those who were
themselves acquainted with grief. He was not merely rebellious and
wildly distraught, in the way of mourners. He sank into a cold
sedateness of change. His life forsook its accustomed channels. Vividly
alive to the one bright point still burning in the past, toward the
present world he seemed absolutely benumbed. Yet certain latent
conceptions of the real values of existence must have sprung up in him,
and protested against days to be thereafter dominated by artificial
restraints. He had lost his hold on life. He had even acquired a sudden
distaste for it; but his previous knowledge of beauty and perfection
would not suffer him to shut himself up in a cell of reserve, and
isolate himself thus from his kind. He could become a hermit, but only
under the larger conditions of being. He had the firmest conviction
that he could never grow any more; yet an imperative voice within bade
him seek the highest out-look in which growth is possible. He had
formed a habit of beautiful living, though in no sense a living for any
other save the dual soul now withdrawn; and he could not be satisfied
with lesser loves, the makeshifts of a barren life. So, turning from
the world, he fled into the woods; for at that time Nature seemed to
him the only great, and he resolved that Francis, the son, should be
nourished by her alone.
One spring day, when the boy was eight years old, his father had said
to him:--
"We are going into the country to sleep in a tent, catch our own fish,
cook it ourselves, and ask favors of no man."
"Camping!" cried the boy, in ecstasy.
"No; living."
The necessities of a simple life were got together, and supplemented by
other greater necessities,--books, pictures, the boy's violin,--and
they betook themselves to a spot where the summer visitor was yet
unknown, the shore of a lake stretching a silver finger toward the
north. There they lived all summer, shut off from human intercourse
save with old Pierre, who brought their milk and eggs and constituted
their messenger-in-ordinary to the village, ten miles away. When autumn
came, Ernest Hume looked into his son's brown eyes and asked,--
"Now shall we go back?"
"No! no! no!" cried the boy, with a child's passionate cumulation of
accent.
"Not when the snow comes?"
"No, father."
"And the lake is frozen over?"
"No, father."
"Then," said Hume, with a sigh of great content, "we must have a
log-cabin, lest our bones lie bleaching on the shore."
Next morning he went into the woods with Pierre and two men hastily
summoned from the village, and there they began to make axe-music, the
requiem of the trees. The boy sat by, dreaming as he sometimes did for
hours before starting up to throw himself into the active delights of
swimming, leaping, or rowing a boat. Next day, also, they kept on
cutting into the heart of the forest. One dryad after another was
despoiled of her shelter; one after another, the green tents of the
bird and the wind were folded to make that sacred tabernacle--a home.
Sometimes Francis chopped a little with his hatchet, not to be left out
of the play, and then sat by again, smoothing the bruised fern-forests,
or whistling back the squirrels who freely chattered out their opinions
on invasion. Then came other days just as mild winds were fanning the
forest into gold, when the logs went groaning through the woods, after
slow-stepping horses, to be piled into symmetry, tightened with
plaster, and capped by a roof. This, windowed, swept and garnished,
with a central fireplace wherein two fires could flame and roar, was
the log-cabin. This was home. The hired builders had protested against
its primitive form; they sighed for a snug frame house, French roof and
bay windows. "'Ware the cold!" was their daily croak.
"We'll live in fur and toughen ourselves," said Ernest Hume. And
turning to his boy that night, when they sat together by their own
fire, he asked,--
"Shall we fashion our muscles into steel, our skin into armor? Shall we
make our eyes strong enough to face the sun by day, and pure enough to
meet the chilly stars at night? Shall we have Nature for our only love?
Tell me, sir!"
And Francis, who hung upon his father's voice, even when the words were
beyond him, answered, "Yes, father, please!" and went on feeding birch
strips to the fire, where they turned from vellum to mysterious missals
blazoned by an unseen hand.
The idyl continued unbroken for twelve years. Yet it was not wholly
idyllic, for, even with money multiplying for them out in the world,
there were hard personal conditions against which they had to fight.
Ernest Hume delighted in the fierceness of the winter wind, the cold
resistance of the snow; cut off, as he honestly felt himself to be,
from spiritual growth, he had great joy in strengthening his physical
being until it waxed into insolent might. Francis, too, took so happily
to the stern yet lovely phases of their life that his father never
thought of possible wrong to him in so shaping his early years. As for
Ernest Hume, he had bound himself the more irrevocably to right living
by renouncing artificial bonds. He had removed his son from the world,
and he had thereby taken upon himself the necessity of becoming a
better world. Therefore he did not allow himself in any sense to rust
out. He did a colossal amount of mental burnishing; and, a gentleman by
nature, he adopted a daily purity of speech and courtesy of manner
which were less like civilized life than the efflorescence of chivalry
at its best. He had chosen for himself a part; by his will, a Round
Table sprang up in the woods, though two knights only were to hold
counsel there.
The conclusion of the story--so far as a story is ever concluded--must
be found in the words of Francis Hume. Before he was twenty, his
strength began stirring within him, and he awoke, not to any definite
discontent, but to that fever of unrest which has no name. Possibly a
lad of different temperament might not have kept housed so long; but he
was apparently dreamy, reflective, in love with simple pleasures, and,
though a splendid young animal, inspired and subdued by a thrilling
quality of soul. And he woke up. How he awoke may be learned only from
his letters.
These papers have, by one of the incredible chances of life, come into
my hands. I see no possible wrong in their publication, for now the
Humes are dead, father and son; nay, even the name adopted here was not
their own. They were two slight bubbles of being, destined to rise, to
float for a time, and to be again resolved into the unknown sea. Yet
while they lived, they were iridescent; the colors of a far-away sun
played upon them, and they sent him back his gleams. To lose them
wholly out of life were some pain to those of us who have been
privileged to love them through their own written confessions. So here
are they given back to the world which in no other way could adequately
know them.
[Sidenote: _Francis Hume to the Unknown Friend_[1]]
[1] This title is adopted by the editor that the narrative may be
at least approximately clear. The paragraphs headed thus were
scribblings on loose sheets: a sort of desultory journal.
I never had a friend! Did any human creature twenty years old ever
write that before, unless he did it in a spirit of bitterness because
he was out of humor with his world? Yet I can say it, knowing it to be
the truth. My father and I are one, the oak and its branch, the fern
and its fruitage; but for somebody to be the mirror of my own thoughts,
tantalizingly strange, intoxicatingly new, where shall I look? Ah, but
I know! I will create him from my own longings. He shall be born of the
blood and sinew of my brain and heart. Stand forth, beautiful one, made
in the image of my fancy, and I will tell thee all--all I am ashamed to
tell my father, and tired of imprisoning in my own soul. What shall I
call thee? Friend: that will be enough, all-comprehending and rich in
joy. To-day I have needed thee more than ever, though it is only to-day
that I learned to recognize the need. All the morning a sweet languor
held me, warm, like the sun, and touched with his fervor, so that I
felt within me darts of impelling fire. I sat in the woods by the
spring, my eyes on the dancing shadows at my feet, not thinking, not
willing, yet expectant. I felt as if something were coming, and that I
must be ready to meet it when the great moment should strike. Suddenly
my heart beat high in snatches of rhythm; my feet stirred, my ears woke
to the whir of wings, and my eyes to flickering shade. My whole self
was whelmed and suffocated in a wave of sweet delight. And then it was
that my heart cried out for another heart to beat beside it and make
harmony for the two; then it was that thou, dear one, wast born from my
thought. I am not disloyal in seeking companionship. My father is
myself. Let me say that over and over. When I tell him my fancies, he
smiles sadly, saying they are the buds of youth, born never to flower.
To him Nature is goddess and mother; he turns to her for sustenance by
day, and lies on her bosom at night. After death he will be content to
rest in her arms and become one flesh with her mould. But I--I! O | 580.599102 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.5798180 | 5,545 | 18 |
This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
GENERAL GORDON:
SAINT AND SOLDIER.
BY
J. WARDLE, C.C.,
A PERSONAL FRIEND.
NOTTINGHAM:
HENRY B. SAXTON, KING STREET.
1904.
{The Author: p6.jpg}
PREFACE.
Nothing but the greatest possible pressure from my many kind friends who
have heard my lecture on "General Gordon: Saint and Soldier," who knew of
my intimacy with him, and had seen some of the letters referred to, would
have induced me to narrate this little story of a noble life. I am
greatly indebted to many friends, authors, and newspapers, for extracts
and incidents, etc., etc.; and to them I beg to offer my best thanks and
humble apology. This book is issued in the hope, that, with all its
imperfections, it may inspire the young men of our times to imitate the
Christ-like spirit and example of our illustrious and noble hero, C. G.
Gordon.
J. WARDLE.
THIS BRIEF STORY
OF A
NOBLE, SAINTLY AND HEROIC LIFE,
I DEDICATE WITH MUCH AFFECTION
TO MY SON,
JOSEPH GORDON WARDLE
"If I am asked, who is the greatest man? I answer, "the best." And if
I am requested to say, who is the best, I reply: "he that deserveth
most of his fellow creatures."
--_Sir William Jones_.
INDEX.
_Chapter_ I.--Introduction--Gordon's birth, parentage and school--His
first experience of warfare in the Crimea--His display of exceptional
soldierly qualities--The storming of Sebastopol and its fall.
_Chapter_ II.--Gordon assisting to lay down frontiers in Russia, Turkey
and Armenia--Gordon in China--Burning of the Summer Palace--Chinese
rebellion and its suppression.
_Chapter_ III.--Gordon at Manchester--My experiences with him--Ragged
School work--Amongst the poor, the old, the sick--Some of his letters to
me, showing his deep solicitude for the lads.
_Chapter_ IV.--Gordon's letters--Leaflet, &c.--His work at
Gravesend--Amongst his "Kings"--His call to foreign service, and leave
taking--The public regret.
_Chapter_ V.--His first appointment as Governor General of the Soudan--His
journey to, and his arrival at Khartoum--His many difficulties--His visit
to King John of Abyssinia, and resignation.
_Chapter_ VI.--Gordon's return to Egypt and welcome by the Khedive--Home
again--A second visit to China--Soudan very unsettled--The Madhi winning
battles--Hicks Pasha's army annihilated--Gordon sent for; agrees again to
go to Khartoum.
_Chapter_ VII.--Gordon's starting for Khartoum (2nd appointment)--His
arrival and reception--Khartoum surrounded--Letter from the Madhi to
Gordon--Gordon's reply--His many and severe trials in Khartoum.
_Chapter_ VIII.--Expedition of Lord Wolseley's to relieve Gordon--Terrible
marches in the desert--Battle of Abu-Klea--Colonel Burnaby killed--Awful
scenes--The Arabs break the British Square--Victory and march to
Mettemmeh.
_Chapter_ IX.--Gordon's Boats, manned by Sir Charles Wilson, fighting up
to Khartoum--Khartoum fallen--Gordon a martyr--Mourning in all lands--Our
Queen's letter of complaint to Gladstone--Gladstone's reply and
vindication--Queen's letters to Gordon's sister--Account of the fall of
Khartoum--Acceptance by the Queen of Gordon's Bible.
CHAPTER I.
"There is nothing purer than honesty; nothing sweeter than charity;
nothing warmer than love; nothing richer than wisdom; nothing brighter
than virtue; nothing more steadfast than faith."--_Bacon_.
It has been said that the most interesting study for mankind is man; and
surely one of the grandest objects for human contemplation, is a noble
character; a lofty type of a truly great and good man is humanity's
richest heritage.
The following lines by one of our greatest poets are true--
"Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing leave behind us,
Footprints on the sands of time."
While places and things may have a special or peculiar charm, and indeed
may become very interesting, nothing stirs our hearts, or rouses our
enthusiasm so much as the study of a noble heroic life, such as that of
the uncrowned king, who is the subject of our story, and whose career of
unsullied splendour closed in the year 1885 in the beleaguered capital of
that dark sad land, where the White and Blue Nile blend their waters.
"Noble he was contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned and his soul severe,
At no man's question was he e'er dismayed,
Of no man's presence was he e'er afraid."
General Gordon was the son of a soldier who proved his gallantry on many
occasions, and who took a pride in his profession. It was said of him
that he was greatly beloved by all who served under him. He was
generous, genial and kind hearted, and strictly just in all his practices
and aims. He gave to his Queen and country a long life of devoted
service. His wife, we are told, was a woman of marked liberality;
cheerful and loving, always thoughtful of the wants of others; completely
devoid of selfishness.
The fourth son, and third soldier of this happy pair, Charles George, was
born at Woolwich in 1833. He was trained at Taunton. When about 15
years of age he was sent to the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, to
prepare for the army; a profession his father thought most worthy of the
Gordons. While here at school an incident occurred which served to show
that our young hero was no ordinary student. His tutor, with an air of
contempt, rebuked him severely for some error or failure in his lessons,
and told him sneeringly he would never make a general. This roused the
Scotch blood of the budding soldier, and in a rage he tore the epaulettes
from his shoulders, and threw them at his tutor's feet--another proof of
the correctness of the old adage, "Never prophesy unless you know." By
the time he reached the age of twenty-one, he had become every inch a
soldier, and when tested he proved to have all a soldier's
qualities--bravery, courage, heroism, patriotism, and fidelity,
characteristics of the best soldiers in our army.
Archibald Forbes, writing of him, says "The character of General Gordon
was unique. As it unfolded in its curiously varied but never
contradictory aspects, you are reminded of Cromwell, of Havelock, of
Livingstone, and of Captain Hedley Viccars. But Gordon's individuality
stood out in its incomparable blending of masterfulness and tenderness,
of strength and sweetness. His high and noble nature was made more
chivalrous by his fervent, deep and real piety. His absolute trust in
God guided him serenely through the greatest difficulties. Because of
that he was not alone in the deepest solitude. He was not depressed in
the direst extremity. He had learned the happy art of leaning upon the
Omnipotent arm."
{Gordon, the hero: p17.jpg}
Early in 1884 a leading newspaper said of him, "General Gordon is without
doubt the finest captain of irregular forces living." About the same
time Mr. Gladstone said of him, "General Gordon is no common man. It is
no exaggeration to say he is a hero. It is no exaggeration to say he is
a Christian hero." Mr. W. E. Forster also remarked of him, "I know no
other man living for whom I have a greater admiration than General
Gordon. He is utterly unselfish. He is regardless of money. He cares
nothing for fame or glory. He cares little for life or death. He is a
deeply religious man. The world to come, and God's government over this,
are to him the greatest of life's realities. True heroism has been said
to be a sacrifice of self for the benefit of others. If this is true,
Gordon has well won the appellation, "The Hero of the Soudan." His
soldierly qualities were first tested in the Crimea, where we find him in
1854 and 1855. Here for the first time in his military career he was
brought face to face with all the horrors of actual war, and here for the
first time he saw friend and foe lie locked like brothers in each other's
arms. Here he got his first baptism of fire; and here he showed the
splendid qualities which in after years made him so famous and so
beloved. An old soldier who served under him during this terrible
campaign says "I shall never forget that remarkable figure and form,
which was an inspiration to all who knew him, and saw him on the field of
carnage and blood."
He was utterly unconcerned in the midst of dangers and death. He would
twirl his cane and good humouredly say "Now boys, don't fear, I see no
danger." On one occasion when engaged in the very thick of a most awful
struggle he said, "Now my boys, I'm your officer, I lead, you follow,"
and he walked literally through a shower of lead and iron with as little
concern apparently, as if he were walking across his own drawing-room;
and he came out of the conflict without a scar.
Sir E. Stanton in his dispatches home, making special reference to our
hero, says--"Young Gordon has attracted the notice of his superiors out
here, not only by his activity, but by his special aptitude for war,
developing itself amid the trenches before Sebastopol, in a personal
knowledge of the enemy's movements, such as no officer has displayed. We
have sent him frequently right up to the Russian entrenchments to find
out what new moves they are making." Amid all the excitement of war and
its dangers he never omitted writing to his mother; an example I hope my
readers, if boys, or girls, will studiously copy. He loved his mother
with the passion of his great loving heart. Soldier lads often forget
their mother's influence, their mother's prayers, and their mother's God.
Writing home to his mother he says "We are giving the Redan shells day
and night, in order to prevent the Russians from repairing it and they
repay us by sending amongst us awful missiles of death and destruction,
and it requires one to be very nimble to keep out of their way. I have
now been thirty-four times, twenty-four hours in the trenches; that is
more than a month without any relief whatever, and I assure you it gets
very tedious. Still one does not mind if any advance is being made."
An eye witness of this bloody work in the trenches and the storming of
the Malakof and the Redan, writes:--
"On that terrible 8th of September, every gun and mortar that our
people and our noble allies, the French, could bring to bear upon the
enemy's work, was raining death and destruction upon them. The
stormers had all got into their places. They consisted of about 1,000
men of the Old Light and 2nd Division; the supports were formed up as
closely as possible to them, and all appeared in readiness. History
may well say, 'the storming of a fortress is an awful task.' There we
stood not a word being spoken; every one seemed to be full of thought;
many a courageous heart, that was destined to be still in death in one
short hour, was now beating high."
"It was about 11.15 a.m., and our heavy guns were firing in such a way
as I have never heard before. The batteries fired in volleys or
salvoes as fast as they could load and fire, the balls passing a few
feet above our heads, while the air seemed full of shell. The enemy
were not idle; for round shot, shell, grape and musket balls were
bounding and whizzing all about us, and earth and stones were rattling
about our heads like hail. Our poor fellows fell fast, but still our
sailors and artillery men stuck to it manfully. We knew well that
this could not last long, but many a brave soldier's career was cut
short long before we advanced to the attack--strange some of our older
hands were smoking and taking not the slightest notice of this 'dance
of death.' Some men were being carried past dead, and others limping
to the rear with mangled limbs, while their life's blood was streaming
fast away. We looked at each other with amazement for we were now
under a most terrible fire. We knew well it meant death to many of
us. Several who had gone through the whole campaign shook hands
saying, 'This is hot,' 'Good bye, old boy,' 'Write to the old folks
for me if I do not return.' This request was made by many of us. I
was close to one of our Generals, who stood watch in hand, when
suddenly at 12 o'clock mid-day the French drums and bugles sounded the
charge, and with a shout, 'Vive l'Empereur' repeated over and over
again by some 50,000 men, a shout that was enough to strike terror
into the enemy. The French, headed by the Zouaves, sprang forward at
the Malakof like a lot of cats. On they went like a lot of bees, or
rather like the dashing of the waves of the sea against a rock. We
had a splendid view of their operations, it was grand but terrible;
the deafening shouts of the advancing hosts told us they were carrying
all before them."
"They were now completely enveloped in smoke and fire, but column
after column kept advancing, pouring volley after volley into the
breasts of the defenders. They (the French) meant to have it, let the
cost be what it might. At 12.15 up went the proud flag of France,
with a shout that drowned for a time the roar of both cannon and
musketry. And now came our turn. As soon as the French were seen
upon the Malakof our stormers sprang forward, led by Colonel
Windham--the old Light Division consisting of 300 men of the 90th,
about the same number of the 97th, and about 400 of the 2nd Battalion
Rifle Brigade, and with various detachments of the 2nd and Light
Divisions, and a number of blue jackets, carrying scaling ladders. Our
men advanced splendidly, with a ringing British cheer, although the
enemy poured a terrible fire of grape, canister and musketry into
them, which swept down whole companies at a time. We, the supports,
moved forward to back up our comrades. We advanced as quickly as we
could until we came to the foremost trench, when we leaped the
parapet, then made a rush at the blood stained walls of the Redan. We
had had a clear run of over 200 yards under that murderous fire of
grape, canister and musketry. How any ever lived to pass that 200
yards seemed a miracle; for our poor fellows fell one on the top of
another; but nothing could stop us but death. On we went shouting
until we reached the redoubt. The fighting inside these works was of
the most desperate character, butt and bayonet, foot and fist; the
enemy's guns were quickly spiked: this struggle lasted about an hour
and a half. It was an awful time, about 3,000 of our brave soldiers
were slain in this short period." Our hero Gordon, tells us that on
the evening of this 8th of September--
"I heard most terrific explosions, the earth seemed to be shaken to
its very centre;--It was afterwards discovered the enemy's position
was no longer tenable, so they had fired some 300 tons of gunpowder,
which had blown up all their vast forts and magazines. O! what a
night: many of our poor fellows had been nearly buried in the
_debris_, and burning mass: the whole of Sebastopol was in flames. The
Russians were leaving it helter-skelter--a complete rout, and a heavy
but gloriously-won victory."
For his acknowledged ability, his fine heroism, and his true loyalty to
his superiors during this most trying campaign, he received the
well-earned decoration of the Legion of Honour from the French
Government, a mark of distinction very rarely conferred upon so young an
officer.
"God gives us men, a time like that demands.
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands;
Men whom the lusts of office cannot kill,
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy,
Men who possess opinions and a will,
Men who have honour, men who never lie."
We must not leave this part of our story without a brief notice of one
whose name will live in song and story, when this generation shall have
passed away. Many noble English ladies bravely went out to nurse the
suffering soldiers; but in this noble band was one whose name remains a
synonym for kindly sympathy, tenderness and peace--Miss Florence
Nightingale.
The following lines were written in her praise--
"Britain has welcomed home with open hand
Her gallant soldiers to their native land;
But one alone the Nation's thanks did shun,
Though Europe rings with all that she hath done;
For when will shadow on the wall e'er fail,
To picture forth fair Florence Nightingale:
Her deeds are blazoned on the scroll of fame,
And England well may prize her deathless name."
CHAPTER II.
"The greatness of a nation depends upon the men it can breed and
rear.--_Froude_.
The war over and peace duly established, Lieutenant Gordon (for so he was
then) accompanied General Sir Lintorn Simmons to Galatz, where, as
assistant commissioner, he was engaged in fixing the new frontiers of
Russia, Turkey and Roumania. In 1857, when his duties here were
finished, he went with the same officer to Armenia; there, in the same
capacity, he was engaged in laying down the Asiatic frontiers of Russia
and Turkey. When this work was completed he returned home and was
quartered at Chatham, and employed for a time as Field Work Instructor
and Adjutant. In 1860, now holding the rank of Captain, he joined the
Army in China, and was present at the surrender of Pekin; and for his
services he was promoted to the rank of Major.
THE BURNING OF THE SUMMER PALACE.
"On the eleventh of October," Gordon relates, "we were sent down in a
hurry to throw up earth works against the City; as the Chinese refused to
give up the gate we demanded their surrender before we could treat with
them. They were also required to give up the prisoners. You will be
sorry to hear the treatment they have suffered has been very bad. Poor
De Norman, who was with me in Asia, is one of the victims. It appears
they were tied so tight by the wrists that the flesh mortified, and they
died in the greatest torture. Up to the time that elapsed before they
arrived at the Summer Palace, they were well treated, but then the ill-
treatment began. The Emperor is supposed to have been there at the time.
But to go back to the work, the Chinese were given until twelve on the
13th, to give up the gate. We made a lot of batteries, and everything
was ready for assault of the wall, which is a battlement, forty feet
high, but of inferior masonry; at 11.30 p.m., however, the gate was
opened, and we took possession; so our work was of no avail. The Chinese
had then, until the 23rd, to think over our terms of treaty, and to pay
up ten thousand pounds (10,000 pounds) for each Englishman, and five
hundred pounds (500 pounds) for each native soldier who had died during
their captivity. This they did, and the money was paid, and the treaty
signed yesterday. I could not witness it, as all officers commanding
companies were obliged to remain in camp, owing to the ill-treatment the
prisoners experienced at the Summer Palace. The General ordered this to
be destroyed, and stuck up proclamations to say why it was ordered. We
accordingly went out, and after pillaging it, burned the whole
magnificent palace, and destroyed most valuable property, which could not
be replaced for millions of pounds.
"This Palace" (wrote the author of _Our Own Times_), "covered an area of
many miles. The Palace of Adrian, at Tivoli, might have been hidden in
one of its courts. Gardens, temples, small lodges and pagodas, groves,
grottoes, lakes, bridges, terraces, artificial hills, diversified the
vast space. All the artistic treasures, all the curiosities,
archaeological and other, that Chinese wealth and taste, such as it was,
could bring together." Gordon notes, "This palace, with its surrounding
buildings, over two hundred in number, covered an area eight by ten miles
in extent." He says, "it makes one's heart burn to see such beauty
destroyed; it was as if Windsor Palace, South Kensington Museum, and
British Museum, all in one, were in flames: you can scarcely imagine the
beauty and magnificence of the things we were bound to destroy."
"These palaces were so large, and we were so pressed for time, that we
could not plunder them carefully. Quantities of gold ornaments were
burned, considered as brass. It was wretchedly demoralizing for an army:
everybody was wild for plunder... The throne and room were lined with
ebony, carved in a wonderful manner. There were huge mirrors of all
shapes and sizes, clocks, watches, musical boxes with puppets on them,
magnificent china of every description, heaps and heaps of silks of all
colours, coral screens, large amounts of treasures, etc. The French have
smashed up everything in a most shameful way. It was a scene of utter
destruction which passes my description." This was not much in Gordon's
line.
In the following year he made a tour on horseback to the outer wall of
China at Kalgan, accompanied by Lieutenant Cardew. A Chinese lad of the
age of fourteen, who knew a little English, acted as their servant and
interpreter, while their personal luggage was conveyed in the Chinese
carts. In the course of this tour we are told they passed through
districts which had never before been visited by any European. At Kalgan
the great wall was seen, with its parapet about twenty-two feet high, and
sixteen feet broad. Both sides were solid brick, each being three times
the size of our English bricks. Gordon writes: "It is wonderful to see
the long line of wall stretching over the hills as far as the eye can
reach." From Kalgan they travelled westwards to Taitong; here they saw
huge caravans of camels laden with tea going towards Russia. Here they
were forced to have the axle trees of their carts widened, for they had
come into a great part of the country where the wheels were set wider
than in the provinces whence they came. Their carts, therefore, no
longer fitted into the deep ruts which had been worn into the terribly
bad roads. The main object of their journey was to find out if there was
in the Inner Wall any pass besides the Tchatiaou which on that side of
the country led from the Russian territory to Pekin. It was not until
they reached Taiyuen that they struck the road that led to Pekin or
Tientsin.
Their first bit of trouble on this somewhat venturesome tour occurred | 580.599858 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.5881870 | 251 | 7 |
Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note:
The following typographical errors have been corrected:
In page 58 "He was was an alien, he was supported by the guns of alien
warships,..." 'was was' corrected to 'was'.
In page 226 "I liked the end of that yarn no better than the
begining." 'begining' amended to 'beginning'.
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SWANSTON EDITION
VOLUME XVII
_Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five
Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies
have been printed, of which only Two Thousand
Copies are for sale._
_This is No._..........
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF THE BEACH OF FALESA AND NEIGHBOURING
COUNTRY]
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON
VOLUME SEVENTE | 580.608227 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.6784600 | 129 | 13 |
Produced by Sonya Schermann, Carol Brown and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
AN ACCOUNT
OF
_THE LATE IMPROVEMENTS_
IN
GALVANISM,
WITH A SERIES OF CURIOUS AND INTERESTING
_EXPERIMENTS_
PERFORMED
BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS OF THE FRENCH NATIONAL INSTITUTE,
AND REPEATED LATELY IN THE
ANATOMICAL THEAT | 580.6985 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.7141800 | 1,147 | 15 |
Produced by Turgut Dincer and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
COLONIZATION AND CHRISTIANITY.
COLONIZATION AND CHRISTIANITY:
A
POPULAR HISTORY
OF THE
TREATMENT OF THE NATIVES
BY THE EUROPEANS
IN ALL THEIR COLONIES.
BY
WILLIAM HOWITT.
Have we not all one father?—hath not one God created us?
Why do we deal treacherously every man against his brother?
_Malachi_ ii. 10.
LONDON:
LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS.
1838.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY MANNING AND SMITHSON,
IVY-LANE, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
The object of this volume is to lay open to the public the most
extensive and extraordinary system of crime which the world ever
witnessed. It is a system which has been in full operation for more
than three hundred years, and continues yet in unabating activity
of evil. The apathy which has hitherto existed in England upon this
subject has proceeded in a great measure from want of knowledge.
National injustice towards particular tribes, or particular
individuals, has excited the most lively feeling, and the most
energetic exertions for its redress,—but the whole wide field of
unchristian operations in which this country, more than any other, is
engaged, has never yet been laid in a clear and comprehensive view
before the public mind. It is no part of the present volume to suggest
particular plans of remedy. The first business is to make known the
nature and the extent of the evil,—that once perceived, in this great
country there will not want either heads to plan or hands to accomplish
all that is due to the rights of others, or the honour and interest of
England.
_West End Cottage, Esher,
June 8th, 1838._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
Introduction 1
II.
The Discovery of the New World 11
III.
The Papal Gift of all the Heathen World to the Portuguese
and Spaniards 19
IV.
The Spaniards in Hispaniola 28
V.
The Spaniards in Hispaniola and Cuba 43
VI.
The Spaniards in Jamaica and other West Indian Islands 56
VII.
The Spaniards in Mexico 62
VIII.
The Spaniards in Peru 92
IX.
The Spaniards in Peru—(_continued_) 104
X.
The Spaniards in Paraguay 119
CHAPTER XI.
The Portuguese in Brazil 145
XII.
The Portuguese in Brazil—(_continued_) 158
XIII.
The Portuguese in India 173
XIV.
The Dutch in India 185
XV.
The English in India.—System of Territorial Acquisition 202
XVI.
The English in India—(_continued_).—Treatment of the
Natives 252
XVII.
The English in India.—Treatment of the Natives—
(_continued_) 272
XVIII.
The English in India—(_continued_) 285
XIX.
The English in India—(_concluded_) 298
XX.
The French in their Colonies 312
XXI.
The English in America 330
XXII.
The English in America—Settlement of Pennsylvania 356
XXIII.
The English in America till the Revolt of the Colonies 367
XXIV.
Treatment of the Indians by the United States 386
XXV.
Treatment of the Indians by the United States—
(_continued_) 402
XXVI.
The English in South Africa 417
XXVII.
The English in South Africa—(_continued_) 443
XXVIII.
The English in New Holland and the Islands of the Pacific 469
XXIX.
Conclusion 499
COLONIZATION AND CHRISTIANITY.
CHAPTER I.
These are they, O Lord!
Who in thy plain and simple gospel see
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined,
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them
Who shed their brethren’s blood! Blind at noon-day
As owls; lynx-eyed in darkness.—_Southey._
Christianity has now been in the world upwards of ONE THOUSAND EIGHT
HUNDRED YEARS. For more than a thousand years the European nations
have arrogated to themselves the title of CHRISTIAN! some of their
monarchs, those of MOST SACRED and MOST CHRISTIAN KINGS! We have long
laid to our souls the flattering unction that we are a civilized and a
Christian people. We talk of all other nations in all other quarters of
the world, as savages, barbarians, uncivilized. We talk of the ravages
of the | 580.73422 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.7177860 | 7,436 | 12 |
Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
OLD MINES
OF
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
_Desert-Mountain-Coastal Areas_
_Including the
Calico-Salton Sea Colorado River Districts
and
Southern Counties_
1965
Frontier Book Company
Toyahvale, Texas 79786
_Reprinted From_
_The Report of The State Mineralogist
1893_
_Limited to 1000 copies_
LOS ANGELES COUNTY.
By W. H. Storms, Assistant in the Field.
The mining industry in this county is not as extensive as that of some
of the neighboring counties, but there are mines in Los Angeles County
of unquestioned value, and others which have a prospective value,
dependent to a great extent upon the success achieved in working certain
base ores, which occur in comparative abundance.
THE KELSEY MINE.
One of the most interesting mines in the county is located in the rugged
mountains about 8 miles from the town of Azusa, in the San Gabriel
Cañon. It is commonly known as the Kelsey Mine, and has become famous as
a producer of silver ore of fabulous richness.
The country is made up almost entirely of metamorphic rocks, having
schistose, gneissoid, and massive structure. Both hornblende and mica
occur in these rocks abundantly, the former being frequently altered to
chlorite, or by further change to epidote. Dikes of porphyritic rock
have been intruded into the crystalline schists. In the immediate
vicinity of the Kelsey vein are intrusions of a dark green, much
decomposed, and shattered rock, probably diorite. Faults, great and
small, are numerous throughout the region. Within a few hundred feet of
the mine is a great fault, which may be plainly seen cutting the
mountain. The displacement must reach many hundreds of feet. It has
resulted in bringing in contact on a horizontal plane rocks of entirely
different character. On the south side of the fault the rocks are made
up of quite regularly bedded micaceous sandstones, more or less
schistose, and having a prevailing buff or light gray color. These rocks
dip east at an angle of 20° to 30°. On the north side of the fault the
rocks are harder, of a dark gray color, and containing considerable
hornblende. These rocks are more gneissoid and massive than schistose.
The dip is much less regular than on the south side of the displacement.
Large, lenticular masses of quartzose and feldspathic rock are of
frequent occurrence in the hornblende gneiss, evidently the result of
the segregation of the contained minerals. On the whole there is much
more evidence of the disturbance on the north side of the fault than on
the south side. It is in this area of greatly disturbed strata that the
Kelsey vein has formed.
The vein is of the fissure type and occupies the line of a fault plane,
that at first, perhaps, was a mere crack, but which has become enlarged
by the movement upon themselves of the rock masses forming the walls,
resulting in a grinding and crushing of the rocks by the attrition and
pressure incident to this movement. Into this crevice mineral waters
found their way, carrying in solution the minerals now constituting the
vein.
[Illustration: _FAULTING AND TORSION
OF THE
KELSEY VEIN_]
_The Ore._—The silver occurs as native and as glance (argentite),
possibly partly as chloride and in combinations with sulphur, cobalt,
and arsenic. The associated minerals are cobalt bloom (erythrite), a
hydrous cobalt arsenate, nickel arsenate (annabergite), carbonate and
silicate of copper (chrysocolla), iron oxide, and black oxide of
manganese in a gangue of baryta (heavy spar), with calcite (lime spar)
and some quartz. A clay selvage usually separates the vein material from
the wall, this feature being well developed in places on the foot wall
side, as though open crevices had occurred and the finely divided
material which was carried by the percolating waters had found a resting
place when an open space was reached, the absence of any current
permitting the material to settle.
The clay may have been derived in part from the decomposition of the
overhanging wall, the fine silt settling by gravity on the foot wall
side of the vein. In places a soft, clayey gouge constitutes the entire
vein filling, suggesting that the clay selvage and gouge are also partly
due to the attrition of the walls. Galena occurs sparingly in small
disseminated crystals, but the occurrence is so infrequent as to be
scarcely worth mentioning. In width the crevice varies from a thin seam
to over 4 feet. A banded structure is not uncommon in the vein.
The rocks inclosing the vein differ in various parts of the mine. A much
decomposed rock, containing iron in the form of carbonate, occurs
frequently, while a chloritic, more or less schistose, sometimes
massive, rock, also plays an important part in this connection. The dike
of dark basic rock, resembling diorite, previously referred to, is
exposed at numerous places throughout the workings, often in contact
with the vein, or close to it. Since its formation the Kelsey vein has
been subjected to severe torsion, which has resulted in abrupt fracture
and displacement. To me it seemed very probable that the vein was the
result of chemical precipitation, and no doubt, to some extent, the
replacement of country rock along the line of a fissure or fault plane;
that subsequent to the filling in of the vein the region was subjected
to further violent disturbances, which fractured the rocks along an east
and west course, and causing the turning of a large mass of rock
formation lying south of this fault to the west. The vein being included
in the general movement, was deflected from its natural course north and
south. I came to these conclusions from close observations taken along
the surface of the ground on the course of the vein, and in all
accessible underground workings.
Most of the ore extracted from these workings has been high grade,
usually running over $200 per ton, small lots often assaying several
thousand ounces. The property, at the time of my visit last spring, was
under the management of Dr. Endlich, E.M. This gentleman was making
every effort to systematically open and recover a vein that had been as
systematically and outrageously gouged. The workings were in bad
condition and at some points were positively dangerous. The mine was
gradually assuming an improved appearance and promised to yield better
returns than ever before. A good mill has been erected at the foot of
the mountain, in the San Gabriel Cañon, where a large stream of water
flows during the entire year. An office, boarding house, stables,
corrals, etc., had been built for the accommodation of men and animals.
In addition to this I found a complete assay office and chemical
laboratory, and here Dr. Endlich was experimenting with the rich cobalt
and nickel ores. As a result of his labors in this direction he
exhibited several bars of cobalt speiss containing a very high value in
silver. The assorted ore contains from 7 to 15 per cent in cobalt, 2 to
3 per cent nickel, and from 1,000 to 1,400 ounces silver per ton.
Dr. Endlich thus describes his methods: “The ore is crushed through a
twenty-mesh sieve, mixed with sufficient litharge to produce an 8 per
cent charge, and enough borax is added to take up the gangue (quartz,
heavy spar, carbonate of lime, magnesia, and iron). Carbonate of soda
and flour are mixed with the charge. If the percentage of arsenic in the
ore is sufficiently high to produce speiss none is added; otherwise some
metallic arsenic is mixed in. Some sulphides in the ore and reduced
sulphur from the heavy spar are utilized to produce mattes. The mixture
is melted in large Dixon crucibles; the slag poured off, and the
metallic product allowed to cool. The bars obtained are composed of
lead, silver, cobalt, nickel, arsenic, and sulphur, principally; the
lead being in the form of sulphide, the cobalt and nickel in the form of
arsenides. The bars contained from 4,500 to 7,000 ounces silver per ton.
The slag contained a trace of silver, and averaged about 0.75 per cent
cobalt, which can be worked over by arsenizing, if desired, and the
cobalt obtained in the resulting speiss.”
At this writing about 560 pounds of ore has been treated in this way and
the product shipped to Balbach’s works in Newark, N. J., for refining.
THE VICTORIA MINES.
This property is situated but a short distance from the Kelsey Mine. The
Victoria Mine was operated under English management for an English
syndicate two or three years ago. Lately all operations have been
suspended. The property, whatever it may be worth, is a monument to
mismanagement of the worst sort.
THE LORDSBURG STAMPEDE.
In the month of March, 1892, the report went abroad that rich silver and
gold-bearing rock had been found in the mountains north of Lordsburg, 28
miles east of the city of Los Angeles. So glowing were these stories
that a general stampede for the new mining field ensued. Farmers left
their homes, merchants and clerks in some instances temporarily closed
their stores to join in the rush to Lordsburg. Unfortunately the stories
proved to be unfounded, and, after three weeks of excitement, all had
left the mines excepting a very few, who still had hopes of making a
find.
CEDAR MINING DISTRICT.
Fifty-five miles by rail northeast from Los Angeles, on the line of the
S. P. R. R., is the Cedar Mining District, the principal village being
about the railway station called Acton. In the low hills about Acton,
which rise out of the valley that skirts the northern base of the San
Gabriel range of mountains, are located the gold mines which have been
worked for many years by Mexicans and Americans.
THE RED ROVER.
This is the name of the principal mine in the district. It was located
and worked many years since by Mexicans, but has during the past eight
or ten years been in the hands of Americans. The vein strikes northwest
and southeast, dipping to the southwest at an angle of 50° from the
horizon. The rock is a white, fine-grained, saccharoidal quartz, showing
in places bluish bands. It contains free gold in variable amount, with
some iron sulphuret. A very large amount of quartz has been stoped from
the vein and crushed in various mills.
The Red Rover is quite extensively developed, the new vertical shaft
being down over 400 feet. The old inclined shaft, which is sunk on the
vein, is down 220 feet. Several levels are run out from both these
shafts, which are 200 feet apart. The new shaft was sunk between the
main vein and a spur which branches from it. A crosscut was run out
toward the spur, which is opened on the surface, but it was found it did
not go down. A crosscut was then run toward the main vein, which was
found intact, and a drift was carried in 60 feet on the vein.
The country rock is mostly massive metamorphic, very much broken and
faulted. Nearly every mine in the district has been displaced more or
less by these faults. For some reason the Red Rover has been shut down
for some months past. It is understood that operations are to be
resumed.
THE NEW YORK MINE
Is situated within half a mile of the Red Rover, and is similar in
character. The quartz is said to mill $10 to $25 per ton. The owner has
a five-stamp mill, which is complete and does good work. The vein is
from 1 to 3 feet in width. It has produced considerable bullion.
Other mines of the vicinity are the Topeka, Union, Escondido, King of
the West, and Santa Clara, each of which has seen better days. The first
three mentioned have been large producers, but are worked down to the
water line, and a base ore proposition now faces the owners in the form
of iron pyrites.
IN THE MAIN RANGE.
Up in the main range of the San Gabriel Mountains, on the north <DW72>s
of this rugged chain, are located a number of veins, on which
considerable work has been done. The veins are well defined, ranging
from 1 to 4 feet in width, striking northwest and southeast, and dipping
uniformly to the northeast at a high angle. All of these veins contain
gold, but all quickly run into sulphurets. All the mines are idle at
present, but something brighter is hoped for. The sulphurets are said to
contain sufficient gold to make chlorination profitable. If this is
actually the case there is an abundance of material to work upon.
LIPARITES AND TUFAS
In the region about Acton are many hills of liparite (quartz-bearing
trachyte) and tufa, which are identical with the rhyolites of the Calico
region—the same violet-brown, porphyritic liparite; the same pea-green
and buff- tufas; the same conglomerate; in fact, an exact
facsimile of the Calico range. There are no great beds of sedimentary
rock, however, and these liparite hills are comparatively small,
isolated masses. As far as my knowledge goes ores of silver have never
been found in these rocks in the Acton district. Careful prospecting may
possibly discover such ores.
PROSPECTS OF THE CAMP.
Owing to the fact that the gold mines of this district have been worked
to the water line, almost without exception, what now remains to be done
to perpetuate the prosperity of the district, is to concentrate the
sulphurets, working them by chlorination in works built in the district.
Wood and water are both obtainable at moderate cost, and the
sulphuretted ores of this district that contain but a very few dollars
per ton should pay. The cost of mining, transportation, crushing, and
concentrating should not exceed, ordinarily, $5 per ton of quartz, and
the expense of treating the concentrates should be under $10 per ton.
Base ores containing $10 per ton as it comes from the vein should
realize a profit in this district, and I am told that many of the mines
produce rock of a much better grade than that mentioned.
SAN DIEGO COUNTY; ALSO ORANGE AND SAN BERNARDINO COUNTIES.
By Harold W. Fairbanks, F.G.S.A.
The topography of this region has been quite thoroughly described by W.
A. Goodyear, in former reports of the State Mining Bureau. The structure
of San Diego County is comparatively simple. Three main divisions might
be made: the desert on the east, the Peninsula range of crystalline
rocks in the middle, and the nearly level mesa on the west. The
Peninsula range is supposed to represent the southern continuation of
the Sierra Nevadas, but in just what relation it stands to the Sierras
has been a matter of dispute. The Peninsula range in San Diego County
forms one main mountain chain. It maintains this simplicity of structure
southward, forming the backbone of the peninsula of Lower California.
Northward it becomes broader and more complex, rising in the lofty San
Jacinto and San Bernardino ranges on the east, and the Santa Ana range
on the west, while the region between is filled with mountains and
valleys irregularly disposed.
Complex as is the topography of this region, the geological problems,
though often difficult to solve, are quite simple. The higher mountains
are formed wholly of ancient crystalline schists and massive rocks,
respecting the age of which a great diversity of opinion has existed;
while the region bordering the coast consists of unaltered Cretaceous,
Tertiary, and Quaternary deposits.
Owing to the very limited time given me to prepare my field notes for
the press, they will be given substantially as they were taken in the
field, without any attempt at systematic arrangement.
The crystalline rocks of San Diego County are varied in character, and
of much interest. No opportunity has been given me to study the large
collection made, and the determinations given are simply the result of
superficial examination, and are subject to correction.
The bay of San Diego is bordered on the east by gently sloping mesas of
modern Tertiary and Quaternary age. These unaltered strata are
characteristic of the western <DW72> of the Peninsula range through its
whole extent. They sometimes rise as high as 3,000 feet; though in San
Diego County they do not exceed 1,500 feet. The upper portion of these
beds consists to a great extent of coarse, loosely cemented
conglomerates. The rivers issue from the higher mountains through narrow
valleys or cañons, and have cut valleys, often quite broad and with very
steep sides, through the mesas to the ocean.
The Otay mesa has a height of about 500 feet, the western portion being
somewhat higher than the eastern, indicating a recent elevation near the
coast. The soil of the mesa is adobe, due to the decay of porphyry
mountains to the east. Under the adobe there is a calcareous marl, often
many feet thick.
The first exposure of the older rock seen as one goes up the Otay River,
is in a hill rising through the mesa about in the center of the grant.
It is a part of the extensive porphyry intrusives, which, in southern
San Diego County, form a number of high mountains between the granite
and the mesa. To this formation belong the San Miguel and Otay peaks.
This exposure on the Otay River is a felsitic breccia. It contains a
felsite base (intimate mixture of quartz and feldspar), in which are
imbedded fragments of felsite and chlorite. No more rocks appear for
about 2 miles up the river. Then we reach the base of the long ridges
which lead up to the Otay Peak. Some interesting rocks are exposed where
the stream issues from the cañon. The greater portion are fine dark to
greenish aphanitic rocks, with green chloritic or epidotic nodules.
Bunches and dikes of coarse to fine grained porphyritic rocks
occasionally appear. They probably belong to the diorite porphyrites.
The rock continues very much the same for several miles farther east; at
times it is almost wholly feldspar. In the cañon above El Nido Post
Office it changes to a light green feldspar porphyry. Near the western
edge of the Jamul grant a dark- porphyry takes its place, and a
little farther east it becomes jet black, with small white feldspar
crystals, producing a very pretty effect.
The mesa conglomerates extend along the top of the low hills bordering
the valley nearly to the eastern edge of the Jamul grant. A great
variety of rocks appear along the Campo road between the Jamul grant and
Sheckler’s, on the Cottonwood. Near the eastern end of the grant the
porphyry is followed by fine-grained granitic rock, frequently becoming
schistose. Numerous dikes and bunches of dark diorite cut through this
rock. As Dulzura Post Office is approached, these rocks change to mica
and hornblende schists, and are filled with intruded dikes of diorite
porphyrites. Bodies of massive syenite and coarse granite were also
seen. About Dulzura many of the dikes have the appearance of diabase.
Between Dulzura and Sheckler’s the country rock is largely micaceous and
chloritic schists. Massive granite forms the high, rugged mountains
east, extending in an arm westerly across the road. The schists have a
northwest strike, vertical dip, and are evidently of metamorphic origin.
They form a strip of country extending in the line of strike from near
Sheckler’s to the Sweetwater River, and are situated between the wide
belt of porphyry on the west and the coarse intrusive granites on the
east, which rise to form Lyon’s Peak and other rugged mountains.
The first rock met east of Sheckler’s, on the Campo road, is coarse
hornblendic granite, so decomposed that a fresh specimen could not be
obtained. Dikes of fine-grained granite intersect it in every direction.
Three miles west of Potrero, mountains of olivinitic diabase rise on the
north side of the road. This rock is very similar to many large bodies
of intrusives through the mountains between Julian and the Tia Juana
River. It has evidently been intruded into the granite, for dikes extend
out, intersecting the latter rock.
Potrero is located in a valley of several hundred acres in extent, and
surrounded by granite mountains. It has an elevation of 2,400 feet.
South of Potrero, along the boundary line, the mountains show large
areas of the dark dioritic and diabasic rocks. The hills immediately
south of the valley consist of hornblendic gneiss; strike east and west.
Eastward, toward Campo, the rock is chiefly a coarse white granite, very
easily decomposed. It shows a slightly gneissoid structure for a number
of miles. It does not seem to represent the bedding of a sedimentary
rock, but of parallelism of the constituents, induced in the magma by
movement or pressure. Long, drawn out, lenticular inclusions are often
present, and are arranged parallel to the schistose structure. These
consist largely of hornblende, with little feldspar.
In the vicinity of Campo the topography of the country changes from that
of high mountains and deep, narrow valleys, to an elevated mountain
plateau with meadows and rounded granite ridges. The mountains are
covered with brush, while live oaks are numerous in the valleys. The
country maintains these features while gradually rising to the divide 8
miles east of Campo. The granite is so deeply decomposed along the
summit region that no good samples could be obtained. Campo has an
elevation of 2,600 feet. The bare, rounded ridges closely resemble those
left by glacial action, but their <DW72> is produced simply by the
cleaving off successively of the more angular portions in great slabs.
Many fine examples of this manner of decay appear about Campo. The
corners are decomposed faster than the smooth surfaces, and thus finally
a shelly concentric structure results. The fresh massive central portion
weathers out like water-worn bowlders. The presence of rugged angular
ridges results either from a less inherent tendency to decay, or to a
comparative freedom from crushing. Four miles northeast of Campo is an
outcrop of coarse hornblendic granite, with large six-sided mica scales
and numerous yellow crystals of titanite. The height of the divide is
3,800 feet. Near the summit the rocky ridges all disappear and the
country becomes covered with granitic sand. Erosion here is evidently
very slight. The country descends gradually on the east to Jacumba
Valley, being sandy for some distance. This finally gives place to bare,
rocky ridges and cañons. Veins of fine granite, and others of feldspar
and quartz, are abundant on the eastern <DW72>.
Before reaching Jacumba Valley a body of mica and hornblende schist is
encountered. The schists do not form a regularly defined belt, but often
appear as inclusions in the granite. These inclusions have a very
variable strike, and from their relation to the granite it is evident
that the latter is intrusive.
Jacumba Valley empties northward into the desert through a narrow gorge.
It has an elevation of 2,600 feet, the same as that of Campo. It is
several square miles in extent, the greater part of which is in Lower
California. The warm springs here are considered quite medicinal. The
schists just described occupy a large area west and north of the cañon
through which the valley empties. They are cut in every direction by
dikes of granite and others, consisting of a very coarse aggregate of
quartz and feldspar with a little muscovite mica. A high mountain
several miles north of the valley is distinctly ribbed all over by them.
The schists extend northward toward those which outcrop on the eastern
<DW72> of the Laguna Mountains and at Julian, but are cut off by a body
of intrusive granite. They undoubtedly belong to the same series.
Gold-bearing veins have been found in them a little north of Jacumba
Valley.
At the north end of Jacumba Valley, and on the west side of the outlet,
is an area of volcanic rock, probably basalt. It forms a table-land,
gently sloping toward the valley, and rising 600 or 700 feet at its
northern end. It is underlaid by gravels and conglomerates. Just east of
this is a black butte, rising perfectly symmetrical to the same height.
It consists of bedded lavas, with tufa at the bottom. In spite of the
fact that it is shaped like a crater, its structure is different, and it
is probably a remnant of the flow which once covered the outlet to the
valley.
The high range of mountains between Jacumba Valley and the desert has an
altitude of something over 4,000 feet, but where the road crosses it, it
is only 3,100 feet. Basalt outcrops also on the eastern side of the
valley. North of the road to Mountain Springs it forms a series of
plateaus, the highest of which reaches a height of 3,900 feet. It forms
the summit of the range, being 800 feet above the granite forming the
pass. South of the pass several miles the granite rises much higher and
the lava lies along its western <DW72>, extending an unknown distance
below the line.
Large deposits of water-worn bowlders and gravels lie along the eastern
<DW72> of Jacumba Valley. Among them are pebbles of porphyries, black
quartz, and others not seen in place in this part of the county. A short
distance west of the summit they are found in beds with gravel and
sandstone, dipping southwest. These late Tertiary deposits are overlaid
by the volcanic beds. The volcanic plateau which rises so high north of
the pass has a thickness of 500 to 600 feet. Massive and bedded lavas
form the upper half of this thickness, the lower portion consisting of a
volcanic breccia. The beds lie nearly horizontal. On the west are two
lower terraces, also capped with lava and abutting against the higher.
The whole is underlaid by sand rock of granitic origin. It is nearly
level in places, in others it dips to the southwest. It is very strange
that these lava beds, with nearly level flowage lines, should be found
at such greatly varying elevations about Jacumba Valley, and be
underlaid everywhere by such similar tuffs and sandstones. My
investigations disclosed no volcanic vent, and it is possible that the
lava issued from fissures, as was noticed elsewhere in the county.
Another interesting question is the origin of the sandstones and
conglomerates. The sandstone underneath the high plateau is higher than
the divide at that spot, and the only granite within miles that exceeds
it in height, is the narrow ridge which rises on the southeast. The
erosion must have been very great along the ridges since the sandstones
were deposited, but the valley cannot have changed much. There may have
been great elevation along the crest of the range bordering the desert
since the deposition of sandstone, tilting up the sandstone and lava on
the eastern <DW72>, but elevating without great disturbance those near
the summit. Southeast of Mountain Springs is a body of bedded tufas
reaching an elevation of 2,300 feet, and dipping to the east away from
the range at a considerable angle.
The presence of these modern sandstones at so great an elevation nearly
on the crest of the Peninsula range is a very interesting fact. Either
Jacumba Valley was a lake, or a great elevation has taken place in
comparatively recent times, raising the valley from the sea-level.
Appearances indicate that during late Tertiary times this range was
almost submerged beneath the sea.
The rocks between the summit and Mountain Springs are chiefly gneissoid,
at times granitic. They contain bodies of fine dark mica schist, and
many dikes of very coarse muscovite granite. The descent to the desert
is very abrupt over bare granite ridges. Mountain Springs, an old stage
station, is located on the side of the mountain at an elevation of 2,300
feet. From the springs the road descends along the dry bed of an arroyo
to the desert. The most of the distance is through a rocky cañon, where
there is an excellent opportunity to study the relations of the gneiss
and granite. For some distance down from the springs the rocks continue
to be gneissoid, but through the lower end of the cañon they become more
massive and coarse, and all the veins characteristic of the gneisses of
the higher mountain region disappear. At the upper end of the cañon is a
dike of very coarse granite, with large biotite crystals instead of
muscovite. This is the only instance in which biotite was seen in one of
these coarse dikes. Banded gneiss, varying from very thin to very thick
bedded, alternate with other rocks, to all appearances massive granites,
but in surface decay the latter break up into slabs of varying
thickness, parallel to the schistose structure of the gneisses. The
banding is caused by an excess of mica or hornblende, chiefly the
latter, arranged in parallel layers. These strata are often very thin,
varying from one fourth to one half inch and upwards in thickness. They
are very regular, but often discontinuous; stop, and in course of a few
feet begin again. These features are generally supposed to indicate
metamorphic origin, but at one spot a body of dark mica schist is cut by
a dike a foot wide or more of this dark banded gneissose rock. This dike
cuts across the stratification of the mica schist, showing conclusively
the intrusive nature of at least a part of these gneisses; and it is
quite possible that the inclusions of mica schist are the only really
sedimentary rocks present. In places the rocks which show this banding
have the constituents arranged in the bands independent of any
direction. At one spot a distinct, well-defined mass of mica schist, 15
feet across, is imbedded in a granitic rock. At one side this gneissoid
structure extends through the inclosing rock and abuts sharply against
the mica schist. The banding shows no constant direction; in the cañon
it is northeast. The bands sometimes become wavy.
As the cañon opens out to the desert, hills appear on either side formed
of volcanic tuffs. They dip northeast 30°. Underneath is a sandstone
wholly unconsolidated and dipping in the same direction 40°. This
contains no lava pebbles. The fragments of the tuff are quite varied in
character and generally quite angular. They are imbedded in a volcanic
mud, free from granitic detritus. In some of the strata appear thin beds
of lava, seeming to represent a flow. These tufa hills extend
northwesterly along the base of the granite mountains for 10 miles or
more. It is not known how far they go in a southerly direction. In
places they form mountains of considerable size high up on the side of
the range. The range of mountains between this point and Carrizo Creek
appears also to have some volcanic beds on its southern <DW72>. The open
desert at the foot of the mountains has an elevation of 1,200 feet. It
<DW72>s gently for miles in an easterly direction and consists largely of
loose sand.
Between Mountain Springs and the summit is another illustration of the
fact that lamination in a crystalline rock is no proof of its
sedimentary origin. A small dike less than 2 inches thick cuts across a
coarse biotite gneiss at an angle of 30°. It is separated from the
gneiss by a thin layer of quartz and feldspar. It is made up of the same
constituents as the gneiss, arranged so as to show a well-pronounced
gneissoid structure. This is very similar to the large dikes seen in the
cañon.
The road was followed back to Campo, and from there the Laguna Mountains
were climbed. The road ascends a long, narrow cañon on the southern
<DW72>. At the entrance to the cañon, 4 miles southeast of Buckman’s
Springs, the mountains are high and rocky, being formed of thin-bedded
gneisses, which, in many places, blend into mica schists | 580.737826 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.7821820 | 2,256 | 9 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "HOW GOOD OF YOU TO COME!" SHE EXCLAIMED. BESSIE SAW SHE
HAD BEEN CRYING.]
OUR BESSIE
BY
ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY
AUTHOR OF "MERLE'S CRUSADE," "NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS,"
"ONLY THE GOVERNESS," ETC.
THE MERSHON COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J. NEW YORK
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
BESSIE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE 1
CHAPTER II.
"HERE IS OUR BESSIE" 16
CHAPTER III.
HATTY 31
CHAPTER IV.
A COSY MORNING 46
CHAPTER V.
THE OATLANDS POST-MARK 61
CHAPTER VI.
LITTLE MISS MUCH-AFRAID 74
CHAPTER VII.
IN THE KENTISH LANES 87
CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE GRANGE 101
CHAPTER IX.
RICHARD SEFTON 115
CHAPTER X.
BESSIE IS INTRODUCED TO BILL SYKES 129
CHAPTER XI.
EDNA HAS A GRIEVANCE 148
CHAPTER XII.
THE FIRST SUNDAY AT THE GRANGE 156
CHAPTER XIII.
WHITEFOOT IN REQUISITION 171
CHAPTER XIV.
BESSIE SNUBS A HERO 183
CHAPTER XV.
"SHE WILL NOT COME" 197
CHAPTER XVI.
A NOTE FROM HATTY 209
CHAPTER XVII.
"TROUBLE MAY COME TO ME ONE DAY" 222
CHAPTER XVIII.
"FAREWELL, NIGHT" 236
CHAPTER XIX.
"I MUST NOT THINK OF MYSELF" 249
CHAPTER XX.
"BESSIE'S SECOND FLITTING" 263
CHAPTER XXI.
ON THE PARADE 276
CHAPTER XXII.
BESSIE BUYS A JAPANESE FAN 289
CHAPTER XXIII.
MRS. SEFTON HAS ANOTHER VISITOR 303
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE COOMBE WOODS 318
OUR BESSIE.
CHAPTER I.
BESSIE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.
It was extremely tiresome!
It was vexatious; it was altogether annoying!
Most people under similar circumstances would have used stronger
expressions, would have bemoaned themselves loudly, or at least
inwardly, with all the pathos of self-pity.
To be nearly at the end of one's journey, almost within sight and sound
of home fires and home welcomes, and then to be snowed up, walled,
imprisoned, kept in durance vile in an unexpected snowdrift--well, most
human beings, unless gifted with angelic patience, and armed with
special and peculiar fortitude, would have uttered a few groans under
such depressing circumstances.
Fortunately, Bessie Lambert was not easily depressed. She was a cheerful
young person, an optimist by nature; and, thanks to a healthy
organization, good digestion, and wholesome views of duty, was not
given to mental nightmares, nor to cry out before she was hurt.
Bessie would have thought it faint-hearted to shrink at every little
molehill of difficulty; she had plenty of what the boys call pluck (no
word is more eloquent than that), and a fund of quiet humor that tided
her safely over many a slough of despond. If any one could have read
Bessie's thoughts a few minutes after the laboring engine had ceased to
work, they would have been as follows, with little staccato movements
and pauses:
"What an adventure! How Tom would laugh, and Katie too! Katie is always
longing for something to happen to her; but it would be more enjoyable
if I had some one with me to share it, and if I were sure father and
mother would not be anxious. An empty second-class compartment is not a
particularly comfortable place on a cold afternoon. I wonder how it
would be if all the passengers were to get out and warm themselves with
a good game of snowballing. There is not much room, though; we should
have to play it in a single file, or by turns. Supposing that, instead
of that, the nice, white-haired old gentleman who got in at the last
station were to assemble us all in the third-class carriage and tell us
a story about Siberia; that would be nice and exciting. Tom would
suggest a ghost story, a good creepy one; but that would be too dismal.
The hot-water tin is getting cold, but I have got a rug, I am thankful
to say, so I shall not freeze for the next two hours. If I had only a
book, or could go to sleep--oh!" in a tone of relief, as the guard's
face was suddenly thrust in at the open window.
"I beg your pardon, miss; I hope I did not startle you; but there is a
young lady in the first-class compartment who, I take it, would be the
better for a bit of company; and as I saw you were alone, I thought you
might not object to change your carriage."
"No, indeed; I shall be delighted to have a companion," returned Bessie
briskly. "How long do you think we shall be detained here, guard?"
"There is no knowing, miss; but one of our men is working his way back
to the signals. We have not come more than three miles since we left
Cleveley. It is only a bit of a drift that the snow-plow will soon
clear, and it will be a matter of two or three hours, I dare say; but it
has left off snowing now."
"Will they telegraph to Cliffe the reason of the delay?" asked Bessie, a
little anxiously.
"Oh, yes, they will do that right enough; you needn't be uneasy. The
other young lady is in a bit of a fuss, too, but I told her there was no
danger. Give a good jump, miss; there, now you are all right. I will
take care of your things. Follow me, please; it is only a step or so."
"This is more of an adventure than ever," thought Bessie, as she
followed the big, burly guard. "What a kind man he is! Perhaps he has
daughters of his own." And she thanked him so warmly and so prettily as
he almost lifted her into the carriage, that he muttered, as he turned
away:
"That's a nice, pleasant little woman. I like that sort."
The first-class compartment felt warm and snug. Its only tenant was a
fair, pretty-looking girl, dressed very handsomely in a mantle trimmed
with costly fur, and a fur-lined rug over her knees.
"Oh, thank you! How good of you to come!" she exclaimed eagerly; and
Bessie saw at once that she had been crying. "I was feeling so
frightened and miserable all by myself. I got it into my head that
another train would run into us, and I was quite in a panic until the
guard assured me there was no danger. He told me that there was another
young lady alone, and that he would bring her to me."
"Yes, that was so nice of him; and of course it is pleasanter to be able
to speak to somebody," returned Bessie cheerfully; "and it is so much
warmer here."
"Take some of my rug; I do not need it all myself; and we may as well be
as comfortable as we can, under the miserable circumstances."
"Well, do you know I think it might be worse?"
"Worse! how can you talk so?" with a shudder.
"Why, it can hardly be a great hardship to sit for another two hours in
this nice warm carriage, with this beautiful rug to cover us. It
certainly was a little dull and cold in the other compartment, and I
longed to get out and have a game of snowballing to warm myself." But
here her companion gave a little laugh.
"What a funny idea! How could you think of such a thing?" And here she
looked, for the first time, rather scrutinizingly at Bessie. Oh, yes,
she was a lady--she spoke nicely and had good manners; but how very
shabbily she was dressed--at least, not shabbily; that was not the right
word--inexpensively would have been the correct term.
Bessie's brown tweed had evidently seen more seasons than one; her
jacket fitted the trim figure, but was not made in the last fashion; and
the brown velvet on her hat was decidedly worn. How was the young lady
to know that Bessie was wearing her oldest things from a sense of
economy, and that her new jacket and best hat--a very pretty one--were
in the neat black box in the luggage-van?
Certainly the two girls were complete opposites. Bessie, who, as her
brother Tom often told her, was no beauty, was, notwithstanding, a
bright, pleasant-looking girl, with soft gray eyes that could express a
great deal of quiet sympathy on occasions, or could light up with fun.
People who loved her always said Bessie's face was better than a
beautiful one, for it told nothing but the truth about itself. It did
not say, "Come, admire me," as some faces say, but, "Come, trust me if
you can."
The fashionably dressed young stranger had a very different type of
face. In the first place, it was undeniably pretty; no one ever thought
of contradicting that fact, though a few people might have thought it a
peculiar style of beauty, for she had dark-brown eyes and fair
hair--rather an uncommon combination.
She was small, too, and very pale, and yet not fragile-looking; on the
contrary, she had a clear look of health | 580.802222 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.7885380 | 1,008 | 23 |
Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
AMAZING GRACE
[Illustration: I took up the first one]
AMAZING GRACE
_Who Proves That Virtue Has Its Silver Lining_
By
KATE TRIMBLE SHARBER
_Author of_
THE ANNALS OF ANN, AT THE AGE OF EVE, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
R. M. CROSBY
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1914
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
TO
LAURA NORVELL ELLIOTT
WHO HAS THE OLD LETTERS--
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I STRAINED RELATIONS 1
II A GLIMPSE OF PROMISED LAND 26
III NIP AND TUCK 40
IV THE QUALITY OF MERCY 59
V ET TU, BRUTE! 82
VI FLAG DAY 99
VII STRAWS POINT 115
VIII LONGEST WAY HOME 128
IX MAITLAND TAIT 141
X IN THE FIRELIGHT 157
XI TWO MEN AND A MAID 168
XII AN ASSIGNMENT 186
XIII JILTED! 211
XIV THE SKIES FALL 230
XV THE JOURNEY 244
XVI LONDON 278
XVII HOUSE OF A HUNDRED DREAMS 312
AMAZING GRACE
AMAZING GRACE
CHAPTER I
STRAINED RELATIONS
Some people, you will admit, can absorb experience in gentle little
homeopathic doses, while others require it to be shot into them by
hypodermic injections.
Certainly my Dresden-china mother up to the time of my birth had been
forced to take this bitter medicine in every form, yet she had never
been known to profit by it. She would not, it is true, fly in the very
face of Providence, but she _would_ nag at its coat tails.
"You might as well name this child 'Praise-the-Lord,' and be done with
it!" complained the rich Christie connection (which mother had always
regarded as outlaws as well as in-laws), shaking its finger across the
christening font into mother's boarding-school face on the day of my
baptism. "Of course all the world knows you're _glad_ she's
posthumous, but--"
"But with Tom Christie only six weeks in spirit-land it isn't decent!"
Cousin Pollie finished up individually.
"Besides, good families don't name their children for abstract
things," Aunt Hannah put in. "It--well, it simply isn't done."
"A woman who never does anything that isn't done, never does anything
worth doing," mother answered, through pretty pursed lips.
"But, since you must be freakish, why not call her Prudence, or
Patience--to keep Oldburgh from wagging its tongue in two?" Aunt
Louella suggested.
Oldburgh isn't the town's name, of course, but it's a descriptive
alias. The place itself is, unfortunately, the worst overworked
southern capital in fiction. It is one of the Old South's "types,"
boasting far more social leaders than sky-scrapers--and you can't
suffer a blow-out on _any_ pike near the city's limits that isn't
flanked by a college campus.
"Oldburgh knows how I feel," mother replied. "If this baby had been a
boy I should have named him Theodore--gift of God--but since she's a
girl, her name is _Grace_."
She said it smoothly, I feel sure, for her Vere de Vere repose always
jutted out like an iceberg into a troubled sea when there was a family
squall going on.
"_All_ right!" pronounced two aunts, simultaneously and acidly.
"All _right_!" chorused another two, but Cousin Pollie hadn | 580.808578 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.7894590 | 7,435 | 6 |
Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
The Dawn Patrol
And other Poems of an Aviator
PAUL BEWSHER, R.N.A.S., D.S.C.
"A new domain has been won for poetry by the war--that of the air. This
is of greater importance than the bare statement suggests.... 'The Dawn
Patrol' marks so notable a departure in English literature that it will
in after years be eagerly sought by collectors.... Mr. Bewsher's most
considerable triumph is to have been the first airman-poet to regard
humanity from the detached standpoint of the sky."--_Daily Graphic._
"The fable of Pegasus is come true.... Mr Bewsher never strains for
effect.... The strongest impression his poems leave is of a sincere and
ingenuous nature devoted to duty, but of keen sensibilities."--_The
Times._
LONDON, W.C. 1: ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD.
Second Impression: One Shilling and Sixpence net.
THE DAWN PATROL
Paul Bewsher, R.N.A.S.
_To My Father;
My Best Friend,
My Best Critic._
_P.B._
SEPT., 1917.
The Dawn Patrol
And Other Poems of an Aviator
By
PAUL BEWSHER, R.N.A.S.
ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD.,
MALORY HOUSE, FEATHERSTONE
BUILDINGS, LONDON, W.C. 1
_All rights reserved._
_Copyright in the United States of America by
Erskine MacDonald, Ltd._
_First Published November, 1917._
_Second Impression, February, 1918._
Printed by Harrison, Jehring & Co., Ltd., 11-15, Emerald St. W.C. 1.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE DAWN PATROL 7
THE JOY OF FLYING 9
THE CRASH 11
THE NIGHT RAID 13
DESPAIR 18
THE HORRORS OF FLYING 19
DREAMS OF AUTUMN 24
TO CARLTON BERRY 25
LONDON IN MAY 26
A FALLEN LEAF 27
THE STAR 28
ISLINGTON 29
THE COUNTRY BEAUTIFUL 30
CHELSEA 31
K. L. H. 32
THE FRINGE OF HEAVEN 33
THREE TRIOLETS 34
CLOUD THOUGHTS 35
AUTUMN REGRETS 36
TO HILDA 38
CLOUDS 39
_The Dawn Patrol_
Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea,
Where, underneath, the restless waters flow--
Silver, and cold, and slow.
Dim in the East there burns a new-born sun,
Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run,
Save where the mist droops low,
Hiding the level loneliness from me.
And now appears beneath the milk-white haze
A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie
In clustered company,
And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep,
Although the day has long begun to peep,
With red-inflamed eye,
Along the still, deserted ocean ways.
The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face
As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly,
And watch the seas glide by.
Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies,
And far removed from warlike enterprise--
Like some great gull on high
Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space.
Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone,
High in the virgin morn, so white and still,
And free from human ill:
My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints--
As though I sang among the happy Saints
With many a holy thrill--
As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne.
My flight is done. I cross the line of foam
That breaks around a town of grey and red,
Whose streets and squares lie dead
Beneath the silent dawn--then am I proud
That England's peace to guard I am allowed;--
Then bow my humble head,
In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home.
_Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917._
_The Joy of Flying_
When heavy on my tired mind
The world, and worldly things, do weigh,
And some sweet solace I would find,
Into the sky I love to stray,
And, all alone, to wander round
In lone seclusion from the ground.
Ah! Then what solitude is mine--
From grovelling mankind aloof!
Their road is but a thin-drawn line:
Their busy house a scarce-seen roof.
That little stain of red and brown
They boast about!--It is their town!
How small their petty quarrels seem!
Poor, crawling multitudes below;
Which, like the ants, in feverish stream
From place to place move to and fro!
Like ants they work: like ants they fight,
Assuming blindly they are right.
Soon their existence I forget,
In joy that on these flashing wings
I cleave the skies--O! let them fret--
Now know I why the skylark sings
Untrammelled in the boundless air--
For mine it is his bliss to share!
Now do I mount a billowy cloud,
Now do I sail low o'er a hill,
And with a seagull's skill endowed
Circle, and wheel, and drop at will--
Above the villages asleep,
Above the valleys, shadowed deep,
Above the water-meadows green
Whose streams, which intermingled flow,
Like silver lattice-work are seen
A-gleam upon the plain below--
Above the woods, whose naked trees
Move new-born buds upon the breeze.
And far away above the haze
I see white mountain-summits rise,
Whose snow with sunlight is ablaze
And shines against the distant skies.
Such thoughts those towering ranges bring
That I float on a-wondering!
So do I love to travel on
Through lonely skies, myself alone;
For then the feverish fret is gone
Which on this earth I oft have known.
Kind is the God who lets me fly
In sweet seclusion through the sky!
_France, 1917._
_The Crash_
The rich, red blood
Doth stain the fair, green grass, and daisies white
In generous flood...
This sun-drowsed day for me is darkest night.
O! wreck of splintered wood and twisted wire,
What blind, unmeasured hatred you inspire
Because yours was the power that life to end...
Of him, who was my friend!
This morn we lay upon the grass,
And watched the languid hours pass;
A lark, deep in the sky's blue sea,
Sang ecstasies to him and me.
And with the daisies did he play,
As on the waving grass we lay,
And made a little daisy chain
To bring his childhood back again.
And while he watched the clouds above
He drifted into thoughts of love.
He said, "I know why skylarks sing--
Because they love, and it is Spring.
And if I had a voice as they,
So would I sing this golden May,
Because I love, and loved am I,
And when I wander through the sky,
I wish I had a skylark's voice,
And with such singing could rejoice.
Oh, happy, happy, are these days!
My heart is full of deep-felt praise,
And thanks to God who brings this bliss!
Oh! what a happiness is this--
To lie upon the grass and know
In two short days that I shall go
And see my Love's fair face again,
And wander in some flowery lane,
Forgetting all the world around,
And only knowing I have found
A Spring enchantment, which is mine
Through God's sweet sympathy divine,...
May these two days now swiftly pass!"
He laughed upon the sunlit grass.
The days have passed, but passed, alas! how slow!
See down the road a sad procession go!
Oh! hear the wailing music moan!
Why? Why such grief am I to know?
Dear God! I wish I were alone.
For by the grave a girl with streaming eyes
Doth make mine dim.
While high among the sunny springtime skies,
The larks still hymn.
_France, 1917._
_The Night Raid_
Around me broods the dim, mysterious Night,
Star-lit and still.
No whisper comes across the Plain,
Asleep beneath the breezes light,
Which scarcely stir the growing grain.
Slow chimes the quiet midnight hour
In some unseen and distant tower,
While round me broods the vague, mysterious Night,
Star-lit, and cool, and still.
And I must desecrate this silent time
Of drowsy dreams!
On mighty wings towards the sky,
Towards the stars, I have to climb
And o'er the sleeping country fly,
And such far-echoing clamour make
That all the villages must wake.
So must I desecrate this quiet time
Of soft and drowsy dreams!
The hour comes... soon must I say farewell
To this fair earth.
Then to my little room I go
Where I perhaps no more shall dwell.
Shall I return?--The Gods but know.
Perchance again I shall not sleep
On that white bed in silence deep.
For soon the hour comes to say farewell
To this fair, friendly earth.
I stand there long, before into the gloom
I take my way.
There are the pictures of my friends
And all the treasures of my room
On which my lamp soft radiance sends.
And long with lingering gaze I look
Upon each much beloved book.
I stand, and dream--before into the gloom
I sadly take my way.
And now I gain the field whence I must part
Upon my quest.
My Pegasus of wood and steel
Is ready straining at the start.
The governor is at the wheel--
And, with an ever-growing roar,
Across the hidden fields we soar.
So, with one envious look from Earth I part
Upon my midnight quest.
Beneath me lies the sleeping countryside
Hazy and dim,
And here and there a little gleam,
Like stars upon the heavens wide,
Speaks of some wretch who cannot dream--
But on his bed all night must toss
And hear me as I pass across,
In droning flight above the countryside,
Hazy, and huge, and dim.
And in the great blue night I ever rise
Towards the stars,
As to the hostile lands I sail
High in the dark and cloudless skies
Whose gloom our gloomy wings doth veil.
Beneath, a scarce-seen ribbon shows
Where through the woods a river flows,
As in the shadowy night I ever rise
Towards the scattered stars.
Now high above War's frontiers do I sit--
Above the lines.
Great lights, like flowers, rise and fall:
On either side red flashes spit
Hot death at those poor souls which crawl
On secret errands. O, how grim
Must be that midnight slaughter dim!
And happy am I that so high I sit
Above those cruel lines!
Each man beneath me now detests my race
With iron hate.
Each tiny light I see must shine
Upon some grim, unfriendly face,
Who curses England's name and mine,
And would be glad if both were gone--
But steadily must I fly on,
Though every soul beneath me loathes my race
With stern, unceasing hate.
I see a far-flung City all ablaze
With jewelled lamps:
I trace its quays, its roads, its squares,
And all its intermingled ways,
And, as I wonder how it dares
To flaunt itself,--the City dies,
And in an utter darkness lies,
For I have terrified that town ablaze
With twinkling, jewelled lamps.
But, see!--the furnace with its ruddy breath
Which I must wreck!
The searchlights sweep across the sky--
Long-fingered ministers of Death--
I look deep in their cold blue eye,
Incessant shells with blinding light
Show every wire, clear and white!
There is the furnace with its ruddy breath
Which I must wreck;--
It lies beneath--my time has come at last
To do my work!
I wait--O! will you never stop
Your fearful shells, that burst so fast?--
And then--I hear destruction drop
Behind my back as I release
Such fearful death with such great ease.
Burst on, you shells! My time has come at last
To do my deadly work.
Then do I turn, and hurry swiftly back
Towards my home.
I gladly leave that place behind!
No more I hear the shrapnel's crack--
No more my eyes the searchlights blind.
I cross the lines with lightening breast
And sail into the friendly West.
How glad am I to hurry swiftly back
Towards my peaceful home!
I reach the field--and then I softly land.
My work is o'er!
I leave my hot and panting steed,
And clasp a comrade's outstretched hand,
And with him to my bedroom speed.
Then, over steaming beakers set,
The night's fierce menace soon forget.
How great a welcome waits me when I land--
When all my work is o'er!
But ere I search shy sleep on my white bed
I greet the dawn,
And think, with heart weighed down with grief,
How cruel this dawn to those whose dead
Lie shattered, torn--whom, like a thief
At darkest midnight, I have slain.
Poor, unknown victims!--real my pain!
What widows, orphans, sweethearts see their dead
This cruel, hopeless dawn?
_France, 1917._
_Despair_
The long and tedious months move slowly by
And February's chill has fled away
Before the gales of March, and now e'en they
Have died upon the peaceful April sky:
And still I sadly wander, still I sigh,
And all the splendour of each Springtime day
Is dyed, for me, one melancholy grey,
And all its beauty can but make me cry.
For thou art silent, Oh! far distant friend,
And not one word has come to cheer my heart
Through these sad months, which seem to have no end,
So distant seems the day which bade us part!
Oh speak! dear fair-haired angel! Spring has smiled,
And I despair--a broken-hearted child.
FRANCE, 1917.
_The Horrors of Flying_
The day is cold; the wind is strong;
And through the sky great cloud-banks throng,
While swathes of snow lie on the ground
O'er which I walk without a sound,
But I have vowed to fly to-day
Though winds are fierce, and clouds are grey.
My aeroplane is on the field;
So I must fly--my fate is sealed,
And no excuses can I make;
Within its back my place I take.
I strap myself inside the seat
And press the rudder with my feet,
And hold the wheel with nervous grip
And gaze around my little ship--
For on its wire-rigging taut
Depends my life--which will be short
If it should fail me in the air;
Swift then my fall, and short my prayer,
And these my wings would be my pyre--
So well I scrutinise each wire!
Then out across the field I go
In shaking progress,--noisy--slow;
And turn, until the wind I face,
Then do I look around a space;
For fear to-day is at my heart
And nervously I fear to start.
The field is clear--the skies are bare--
Mine is the freedom of the air!
And yet I sit and hesitate,
Although each moment that I wait
Brings to my soul a greater fear.
To me the grass seems very dear--
Dear seems the hut where dreams have crept
To me each midnight as I slept--
Dear seems the river, by whose brink
I oft have watched brown pebbles sink
Deep in the crumbling bridge's shade,
Where in the evening I have strayed!
My restless hands hold fast the wheel;
Once more the wing-controls I feel.
I move the rudder with my feet,
And settle firmly in the seat.
I start, and o'er the snowy grass
In ever quicker progress pass:
On either side the ground streaks by,
And soon above the grass I fly.
I feel the air beneath the wings;
At first a greater ease it brings--
But soon the stormy strife begins,
And if I lose, 'tis Death who wins.
The winds a thousand devils hold,
Who grasp my wings with fingers bold,
And keep me ceaselessly a-rock--
I seem to hear those devils mock
As I am thrown from side to side
In unseen eddies, terrified--
As suddenly I start to drop,
And when my plunging fall I stop,
Up am I swiftly thrown once more!
Like no great eagle do I soar,
But like a sparrow tempest-tost
I struggle on! My faith is lost:
My former confidence is dead,
And whispering fear has come instead.
Death ever dogs me close behind--
My frightened soul no peace can find.
I feel a torture in each nerve,
As to the right or left I swerve.
And now Imagination brings
Its evil thoughts--I watch the wings,
And wonder if those wings will break--
The tight-stretched wires seem to shake.
I see the ghastly, headlong rush,
And picture how the fall would crush
My helpless body on the ground.
With haggard eyes I turn around,
And contemplate the rocking tail,--
My drawn and sweating cheeks are pale.
Fear's clammy hands clutch at my heart!
I try, with unavailing art,
To summon thoughts of peaceful hours
Spent in some sunny field of flowers
When my half-opened eyes would look
On some old dream-inspiring book,
And not on this accursed wheel,
And on this box of wood and steel
In which at pitch-and-toss with Death,
I play, and wonder if each breath
I tensely draw, will be my last.
The happy thoughts are swiftly past--
My frightened brain forbids them stay.
Dear London seems so far away,
And far away my well-loved friends!
Each second my existence ends
In my disordered mind, whose pace
I cannot check--its cog-wheels race,
Like some ungoverned, whirring clock,
When, frenziedly, it runs amok.
I have resolved that I will climb
A certain height--how slow seems time
As on its sluggish pivot creeps
The laggard finger-point, which keeps
The truthful record. O, how slow
Towards the clouds I seem to go!
And then ambition gains its mark at last!
The little finger o'er the point has passed!
I can descend again. With conscience clear
And end this battle with persistent fear!
The engine's clamour dies--there is no sound
Save whistling wires--as towards the ground
I gently float. My agony is gone.
What peace is mine as I go gliding on!
Calm after storm--contentment after pain--
Soft sleep to some tempestuous, burning brain--
The soothing harbour after foamy seas--
The gentle feeling of a perfect ease--
All, all are mine--though yet by gusts distressed!
Near is the ground, and with the ground comes rest.
Above the trees I glide--above the grass,
Above the snow-besprinkled earth I pass.
I touch the ground, run swift along, and stop--
Above the wheel my tired shoulders drop.
I leave my seat, and slowly move away...
Cold is the wind: the clouds are grey,
I only wish my room to gain,
And in some book forget my pain,
And lose myself in fancied dreams
Across Titania's golden streams.
_France, 1917._
_Dreams of Autumn_
When through the heat of some long afternoon
In blazing August, on the grass I lie,
And watch the white clouds move across the sky,
On whose azure is faintly etched the moon,
That, when the evening deepens, will be soon
The brightest figure of those hosts on high,
My heart is discontented, and I sigh,
For Autumn and its vapours; till I swoon
Upon the vision of October days
In dreaming London, when each mighty tree
Sheds daily more brown showers through the haze,
Which lends each street Romance and Mystery--
When pallid silver Sunshine only gleams
On that grey Lovers' City of Sweet Dreams.
_Isle of Grain, 1916._
_To Carlton Berry_
KILLED IN AN AEROPLANE ACCIDENT, JULY, 1916
It was Thy will, O God. And so he died!
For seventeen sweet years he was a child
Upon whose grace Thy loving-kindness smiled,
For he was clean, and full of youthful pride;
And, when his years drew on, then Thou denied
That he by man's estate should be defiled,
And so Thou call'st him to Thy presence mild
To be with Thee for ever, by Thy side.
Nor is he dead! He lives in three great spheres.
His soul is with Thee in Thy home above:
His influence,--with friends of former years:
His memory with those he used to love.
He is an emblem of that Trinity
With whom he lives in happy ecstasy.
_Isle of Grain, 1916._
_London in May_
Two long, full years have passed since I have smelt
Sweet London in this happy month of May!
Last year relentless War bore me away
To Imbros Isle, where six sad months I dwelt
Beneath a burning sun--nor ever felt
One breath of gentle Spring blow o'er the bay
Between whose sun-dried hills so long I lay
A restless captive. Now has Fortune dealt
More kindly with me: once again I know
The drowsy languor of the afternoons:
The soft white clouds: the may-tree's whiter snow:
The star-bound evenings, and the ivory moons.
My heart, dear God! leaps up till it is pain
With thanks to Thee that I am here again.
_London._
_A Fallen Leaf_
When Death has crossed my name from out the roll
Of dreaming children serving in this War;
And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more
Upon sweet England's grace--perhaps my soul
Will visit streets down which I used to stroll
At sunset-charmed dusks, when London's roar
Like ebbing surf on some Atlantic shore
Would trance the ear. Then may I hear no toll
Of heavy bells to burden all the air
With tuneless grief: for happy will I be!--
What place on earth could ever be more fair
Than God's own presence?--Mourn not then for me,
Nor write, I pray, "_He gave_"--upon my clod--
"_His life to England_," but "_his soul to God_."
_Isle of Sheppey, 1917._
_The Star_
I stood, one azure dusk, in old Auxerre
Before the grey Cathedral's towering height,
And in the Eastern darkness, very fair
I saw a little star that twinkled bright;
How small it looked beside the mighty pile,
Whose stone was rosy with the Western glow--
A little star--I pondered for a while,
And then the solemn truth began to know.
That tiny star was some enormous sphere,
The great cathedral was an atomy--
So often when grey trouble looms so near
That God shines in our minds but distantly,--
If we but thought, our grief would seem so small
That we would see that God's great love was all.
_France, 1917._
_Islington_
Here slow decay with creeping finger peels
The yellow plaster from the grimy walls,
Like leprous lichen, day by day which falls,
And, day by day, more rotting stone reveals!
Here are old mournful squares through which there steals
No cheerful music, or the heedless calls
Of laughing children; and the smoke, which crawls
Across the sky, the heavy silence seals!
Lean, blackened trees stretch up their withered boughs
Behind the rusty railings, prison-bound,
In vain they seek the summer sunlight's gold
In which their long-dead fathers used to drowse:
For pallid terraces lie far around,
In gloomy sadness ever growing old.
_Ochey-les-Bains, 1917._
_The Country Beautiful_
I love the little daisies on the lawn
Which contemplate with wide and placid eyes
The blue and white enamel of the skies--
The larks which sing their mattin-song at dawn,
High o'er the earth, and see the new Day born,
All stained with amethyst and amber dyes.
I love the shadowy woodland's hidden prize
Of fragrant violets, which the dewy morn
Doth open gently underneath the trees
To cast elusive perfume on each hour--
The waving clover, full of drowsy bees,
That take their murmurous way from flower to flower.
Who could but think--deep in some sun-flecked glade--
How God must love these things that He has made?
_Eastchurch, 1916._
_Chelsea_
How many of those youths who consecrate
Their lives to art, and worship at her shrine,
And sacrifice their early hours and late
In serving her exacting whims divine
Have gathered in old Chelsea's shaded peace,
Whose faint, elusive charm, and gentle airs,
Bring inspiration fresh, and sweet release
From Trouble's haunting shapes and goblin cares?
O! tree-embowered hamlet, whose demesne
Sleeps in the arms of London quietly,
Whose sparrow-haunted roads, and squares serene,
From all the stress of life seem ever free--
O! are you more than just a passing dream
Beside the city's slim and lovely stream?
_Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917._
_K.L.H._
DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED AT THE DARDANELLES.
Where stern grey busts of gods and heroes old
Frown down upon the corridors' chill stone,
On which the sunbeam's amber pale is thrown
From leaf-fringed windows, one of quiet mould
Gazed long at those white chronicles which told
Of honours that the stately School had known.
He read the names: and wondered if his own
Would ever grace the walls in letters bold.
He knew not that he for the School would gain
A greater honour with a greater price--
That, no long years of work, but bitter pain
And his rich life, he was to sacrifice--
Not in a University's grey peace,
But on the hilly sun-baked Chersonese.
_H.M.S. "Manica,"
Dardanelles, 1915._
_The Fringe of Heaven_
Now have I left the world and all its tears,
And high above the sunny cloud-banks fly,
Alone in all this vast and lonely sky--
This limpid space in which the myriad spheres
Go thundering on, whose song God only hears
High in his heavens. Ah! how small seem I,
And yet I know he hears my little cry
Down there among Mankind's cruel jest and sneers.
And I forget the grief which I have known,
And I forgive the mockers and their jest,
And in this mightly solitude alone,
I taste the joys of everlasting rest,
Which I shall know when I have passed away
To live in Heaven's never-fading day.
_Written in the Air._
_Three Triolets_
COLOURS.
How bright is Earth's rich gown
None but an Airman knows
Yellow, and green, and brown--
How bright is Earth's rich gown!
I see, as I gaze down,
Its purple, cream, and rose.
How bright is Earth's rich gown
None but an Airman knows!
THE SEA.
Sad is the lonely sea--
So vast, and smooth, and grey
It stretches far from me.
Sad is the lonely sea!
Its cheerful colours flee
Before the fading day.
Sad is the lonely sea
So vast, and smooth, and grey!
DISILLUSION.
You mortals see the sky--
I only see the ground,
As through the air I fly.
You mortals see the sky,
And yet with envy sigh
Because to earth you're bound!
You mortals see the sky--
_I_ only see the ground!
_Written in the Air._
_Cloud Thoughts_
Above the clouds I sail, above the clouds,
And wish my mind
Above its clouds could climb as well,
And leave behind
The world and all its crowds,
And ever dwell
In such a calm and limpid solitude
With ne'er a breath unkind or harsh or rude
To break the spell--
With ne'er a thought to drive away
The golden splendour of the day.
Alone and lost beneath the tranquil blue,
My God! With you!
_Written in an Aeroplane._
_Autumn Regrets_
That I were Keats! And with a golden pen
Could for all time preserve these golden days
In rich and glowing verse, for poorer men,
Who felt their wonder, but could only gaze
With silent joy upon sweet Autumn's face,
And not record in any wise its grace!
Alas! But I am even dumb as they--
I cannot bid the fleeting hours stay,
Nor chain one moment on a page's space.
That I were Grieg! Then, with a haunting air
Of murmurs soft, and swelling, grand refrains
Would I express my love of Autumn fair
With all its wealth of harvest, and warm rains:
And with fantastic melodies inspire
A memory of each mad sunset's fire
In which the day goes slowly to its death
As through the fragrant woods dim Evening's breath
Doth soothe to sleep the drowsy songbirds' choir.
That I were Corot! Then September's gold
Would I store up in painted treasuries
That, when the world seemed grey I could behold
Its blazing colour with sweet memories,
And each elusive colour would be mine
That decorates these afternoons benign.
Ah! Then I could enshrine each fleeting hue
Which dyes the woodland, and enslave the blue
Of sky and haze, with genius divine.
How sad these wishes! When I have no art
Of poetry, or music, or of brush,
With which to calm the swelling of my heart
By capturing the misty country's hush
In muted violins; I cannot hymn
The shadowy silence of the copses dim;
Nor can I paint September's sky-crowned hills.
Gone then, the wonder which my vision fills,
When all the earth is bound by Winter grim!
WESTGATE.
_To Hilda_:
ON HER SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY.
Now has rich time brought you a gift of gold--
A long sweet year which you can shape at will,
And deck with roses warm, or with the chill
And heartless lilies--GOD gives strength to mould
Our days, and lives, with fingers firm and bold,
And make them noble, straight and clean from ill,
Though few are willing, and their years they fill
With dross which they regret when they are old.
| 580.809499 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.8156800 | 1,347 | 6 |
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading team
PRINCE HAGEN
By Upton Sinclair
CHARACTERS (In order of appearance)
Gerald Isman: a poet.
Mimi: a Nibelung.
Alberich: King of the Nibelungs.
Prince Hagen: his grandson.
Mrs. Isman.
Hicks: a butler.
Mrs. Bagley-Willis: mistress of Society.
John Isman: a railroad magnate.
Estelle Isman: his daughter.
Plimpton: the coal baron.
Rutherford: lord of steel.
De Wiggleston Riggs: cotillon leader.
Lord Alderdyce: seeing America.
Calkins: Prince Hagen's secretary.
Nibelungs: members of Society.
ACT I
SCENE I. Gerald Isman's tent in Quebec.
SCENE 2. The Hall of State in Nibelheim.
ACT II
Library in the Isman home on Fifth Avenue: two years later.
ACT III
Conservatory of Prince Hagen's palace on Fifth Avenue. The wind-up
of the opening ball: four months later.
ACT IV
Living room in the Isman camp in Quebec: three months later.
ACT I
SCENE I
[Shows a primeval forest, with great trees, thickets in background,
and moss and ferns underfoot. A set in the foreground. To the left is a
tent, about ten feet square, with a fly. The front and sides are rolled
up, showing a rubber blanket spread, with bedding upon it; a rough
stand, with books and some canned goods, a rifle, a fishing-rod, etc.
Toward centre is a trench with the remains of a fire smoldering in it,
and a frying pan and some soiled dishes beside it. There is a log, used
as a seat, and near it are several books, a bound volume of music lying
open, and a violin case with violin. To the right is a rocky wall, with
a cleft suggesting a grotto.]
[At rise: GERALD pottering about his fire, which is burning badly,
mainly because he is giving most of his attention to a bound volume
of music which he has open. He is a young man of twenty-two, with wavy
auburn hair; wears old corduroy trousers and a grey flannel shirt,
open at the throat. He stirs the fire, then takes violin and plays the
Nibelung theme with gusto.]
GERALD. A plague on that fire! I think I'll make my supper on prunes and
crackers to-night!
[Plays again.]
MIMI. [Enters left, disguised as a pack-peddler; a little wizened up
man, with long, unkempt grey hair and beard, and a heavy bundle on his
back.] Good evening, sir!
GERALD. [Starts.] Hello!
MIMI. Good evening!
GERALD. Why... who are you?
MIMI. Can you tell me how I find the road, sir?
GERALD. Where do you want to go?
MIMI. To the railroad.
GERALD. Oh, I see! You got lost?
MIMI. Yes, sir.
GERALD. [Points.] You should have turned to the right down where the
roads cross.
MIMI. Oh. That's it!
[Puts down burden and sighs.]
GERALD. Are you expecting to get to the railroad to-night?
MIMI. Yes, sir.
GERALD. Humph! You'll find it hard going. Better rest. [Looks him over,
curiously.] What are you--a peddler?
MIMI. I sell things. Nice things, sir. You buy?
[Starts to open pack.]
GERALD. No. I don't want anything.
MIMI. [Gazing about.] You live here all alone?
GERALD. Yes... all alone.
MIMI. [Looking of left.] Who lives in the big house?
GERALD. That's my father's camp.
MIMI. Humph! Nobody in there?
GERALD. The family hasn't come up yet.
MIMI. Why don't you live there?
GERALD. I'm camping out--I prefer the tent.
MIMI. Humph! Who's your father?
GERALD. John Isman's his name.
MIMI. Rich man, hey?
GERALD. Why... yes. Fairly so.
MIMI. I see people here last year.
GERALD. Oh! You've been here before?
MIMI. Yes. I been here. I see young lady. Very beautiful!
GERALD. That's my sister, I guess.
MIMI. Your sister. What you call her?
GERALD. Her name's Estelle.
MIMI. Estelle! And what's your name?
GERALD. I'm Gerald Isman.
MIMI. Humph! [Looking about, sees violin.] You play music, hey?
GERALD. Yes.
MIMI. You play so very bad?
GERALD. [Laughs.] Why... what makes you think that?
MIMI. You come 'way off by yourself!
GERALD. Oh! I see! No... I like to be alone.
MIMI. I hear you playing... nice tune.
GERALD. Yes. You like music?
MIMI. Sometimes. You play little quick tune... so?
[Hums.]
GERALD. [Plays Nibelung theme.] This?
MIMI. [Eagerly.] Yes. Where you learn that?
GERALD. That's the Nibelung music.
MIMI. Nibelung music! Where you hear it?
GERALD. Why... it's in an opera.
MIMI. An opera?
GERALD. It's by a composer named Wagner.
MIMI. Where he hear it?
GERALD. [Laughs.] Why... I guess he made it up.
MIMI. What's it about? Hey?
GERALD. It | 580.83572 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.8166900 | 893 | 10 |
Produced by David Widger.
THE SNOW-IMAGE
AND
OTHER TWICE-TOLD TALES
JOHN INGLEFIELD'S THANKSGIVING
By
Nathaniel Hawthorne
On the evening of Thanksgiving day, John Inglefield, the blacksmith, sat
in his elbow-chair, among those who had been keeping festival at his
board. Being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw
its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening his rough
visage, so that it looked like the head of an iron statue, all aglow,
from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned on his own
anvil. At John Inglefield's right hand was an empty chair. The other
places round the hearth were filled by the members of the family, who all
sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their
shadows danced on the wall behind then. One of the group was John
Inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was now a student of
theology at Andover. There was also a daughter of sixteen, whom nobody
could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost blossomed. The only
other person at the fireside was Robert Moore, formerly an apprentice of
the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and who seemed more like an own
son of John Inglefield than did the pale and slender student.
Only these four had kept New England's festival beneath that roof. The
vacant chair at John Inglefield's right hand was in memory of his wife,
whom death had snatched from him since the previous Thanksgiving. With a
feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereaved
husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often
did his eye glance thitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold
grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for
that one evening. Thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to him.
But there was another grief which he would fain have torn from his heart;
or, since that could never be, have buried it too deep for others to
behold, or for his own remembrance. Within the past year another member
of his household had gone from him, but not to the grave. Yet they kept
no vacant chair for her.
While John Inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with
the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened,
and a light footstep came along the passage. The latch of the inner door
was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in, wearing a
cloak and hood, which she took off, and laid on the table beneath the
looking-glass. Then, after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she
approached, and took the seat at John Inglefield's right hand, as if it
had been reserved on purpose for her.
"Here I am, at last, father," said she. "You ate your Thanksgiving
dinner without me, but I have come back to spend the evening with you."
Yes, it was Prudence Inglefield. She wore the same neat and maidenly
attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work
was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow, in the
simple and modest fashion that became her best of all. If her cheek
might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with
a healthful bloom. If she had spent the many months of her absence in
guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on her gentle
aspect. She could not have looked less altered, had she merely stepped
away from her father's fireside for half an hour, and returned while the
blaze was quivering upwards from the same brands that were burning at her
departure. And to John Inglefield she was the very image of his buried
wife, such as | 580.83673 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.9801030 | 1,429 | 9 |
Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THE YOUNG SURVEYOR;
OR,
JACK ON THE PRAIRIES.
BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE
AUTHOR OF "JACK HAZARD AND HIS FORTUNES," ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._
BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.
1875.
Copyright, 1875.
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGE.
[Illustration: HOW THE BOYS WENT TO THE RIVER FOR WATER.]
CONTENTS.
I. "NOTHING BUT A BOY"
II. OLD WIGGETT'S SECTION CORNER
III. THE HOMEWARD TRACK
IV. A DEER HUNT, AND HOW IT ENDED
V. THE BOY WITH ONE SUSPENDER
VI. "LORD BETTERSON'S"
VII. JACK AT THE "CASTLE"
VIII. HOW VINNIE MADE A JOURNEY
IX. VINNIE'S ADVENTURE
X. JACK AND VINNIE IN CHICAGO
XI. JACK'S NEW HOME
XII. VINNIE'S FUTURE HOME
XIII. WHY JACK DID NOT FIRE AT THE PRAIRIE CHICKEN
XIV. SNOWFOOT'S NEW OWNER
XV. GOING FOR A WITNESS
XVI. PEAKSLOW GETS A QUIRK IN HIS HEAD
XVII. VINNIE MAKES A BEGINNING
XVIII. VINNIE'S NEW BROOM
XIX. LINK'S WOOD-PILE
XX. MORE WATER THAN THEY WANTED
XXI. PEAKSLOW SHOWS HIS HAND
XXII. THE WOODLAND SPRING
XXIII. JACK'S "BIT OF ENGINEERING"
XXIV. PREPARING FOR THE ATTACK
XXV. THE BATTLE OF THE BOUNDARY FENCE
XXVI. VICTORY
XXVII. VINNIE IN THE LION'S DEN
XXVIII. AN "EXTRAORDINARY" GIRL
XXIX. ANOTHER HUNT, AND HOW IT ENDED
XXX. JACK'S PRISONER
XXXI. RADCLIFF
XXXII. AN IMPORTANT EVENT
XXXIII. MRS. WIGGETT'S "NOON-MARK"
XXXIV. THE STRANGE CLOUD
XXXV. PEAKSLOW IN A TIGHT PLACE.--CECIE
XXXVI. "ON THE WAR TRAIL"
XXXVII. THE MYSTERY OF A PAIR OF BREECHES
XXXVIII. THE MORNING AFTER
XXXIX. FOLLOWING UP THE MYSTERY
XL. PEAKSLOW'S HOUSE-RAISING
XLI. CONCLUSION
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
SETTING THE STAKES
JACK AND THE STRANGE YOUTH
UP-HILL WORK
"LORD BETTERSON"
TOO OBLIGING BY HALF
LINK DOESN'T CARE TO BE KISSED
SHOT ON THE WING
THE AMIABLE MR. PEAKSLOW
VINNIE'S STRATAGEM
LINK'S WOOD-PILE
HOW THE BOYS WENT TO THE RIVER FOR WATER
TESTING THE LEVEL
OLD WIGGETT
"STOP, OR I'LL SHOOT!"
RETURNING IN TRIUMPH
THE END OF THE CHASE
JACK AND HIS JOLLY PRISONER
THE TORNADO COMING
PEAKSLOW REAPPEARS
FOLLOWING THE WAR TRAIL UNDER DIFFICULTIES
THE WATER QUESTION SETTLED
THE YOUNG SURVEYOR.
CHAPTER I.
"NOTHING BUT A BOY."
[Illustration]
A young fellow in a light buggy, with a big black dog sitting composedly
beside him, enjoying the ride, drove up, one summer afternoon, to the
door of a log-house, in one of the early settlements of Northern
Illinois.
A woman with lank features, in a soiled gown trailing its rags about her
bare feet, came and stood in the doorway and stared at him.
"Does Mr. Wiggett live here?" he inquired.
"Wal, I reckon," said the woman, "'f he ain't dead or skedaddled of a
suddent."
"Is he at home?"
"Wal, I reckon."
"Can I see him?"
"I dunno noth'n' to hender. Yer, Sal! run up in the burnt lot and fetch
your pap. Tell him a stranger. You've druv a good piece," the woman
added, glancing at the buggy-wheels and the horse's white feet, stained
with black prairie soil.
"I've driven over from North Mills," replied the young fellow, regarding
her pleasantly, with bright, honest features, from under the shade of
his hat-brim.
"I 'lowed as much. Alight and come into the house. Old man'll be yer in
a minute."
He declined the invitation to enter; but, to rest his limbs, leaped down
from the buggy. Thereupon the dog rose from his seat on the
wagon-bottom, jumped down after him, and shook himself.
"All creation!" said the woman, "what a pup that ar is! Yer, you young
uns! Put back into the house, and hide under the bed, or he'll eat ye up
like ye was so much cl'ar soap-grease!"
At that moment the dog stretched his great mouth open, with a formidable
yawn. Panic seized the "young uns," and they scampered; their bare legs
and exceedingly scanty attire (only three shirts and a half to four
little barbarians) seeming to offer the dog unusual facilities, had he
chosen to regard them as soap-grease and to regale himself on that sort
of diet. But he was too well-bred and good-natured an animal to think of
snapping up a little Wiggett or two for his luncheon; and the fugitives,
having first run under the bed and looked out, ventured back to the
door, and peeped with scared faces from behind their mother's gown.
To | 581.000143 |
2023-11-16 18:26:44.9875830 | 1,019 | 6 |
Produced by Bruce Albrecht, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: Patty]
When Patty Went to College
By
Jean Webster
With Illustrations
by C. D. Williams
[Illustration]
New York
The Century Co.
1903
Copyright, 1903, by
THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1901, 1902, by TRUTH CO.
* * * * *
_Published March, 1903_
* * * * *
THE DEVINNE PRESS
TO
234 MAIN AND THE GOOD
TIMES WE HAVE HAD THERE
Contents
PAGE
I PETERS THE SUSCEPTIBLE 1
II AN EARLY FRIGHT 21
III THE IMPRESSIONABLE MR. TODHUNTER 39
IV A QUESTION OF ETHICS 57
V THE ELUSIVE KATE FERRIS 73
VI A STORY WITH FOUR SEQUELS 89
VII IN PURSUIT OF OLD ENGLISH 103
VIII THE DECEASED ROBERT 121
IX PATTY THE COMFORTER 133
X "PER L'ITALIA" 147
XI "LOCAL COLOR" 177
XII THE EXIGENCIES OF ETIQUETTE 203
XIII A CRASH WITHOUT 215
XIV THE MYSTERY OF THE SHADOWED SOPHOMORE 237
XV PATTY AND THE BISHOP 257
List of Illustrations
FACING PAGE
Patty _Frontispiece_
Men know such a lot about such things! 18
Mr. Algernon Vivian Todhunter, gingerly sitting on the
edge of a chair 54
What's the matter, Patty? 110
Olivia Copeland 172
I have just run away from you, Bishop Copeley 266
I
Peters the Susceptible
"Paper-weights," observed Patty, sucking an injured thumb, "were
evidently not made for driving in tacks. I wish I had a hammer."
This remark called forth no response, and Patty peered down from the top
of the step-ladder at her room-mate, who was sitting on the floor
dragging sofa-pillows and curtains from a dry-goods box.
"Priscilla," she begged, "you aren't doing anything useful. Go down and
ask Peters for a hammer."
Priscilla rose reluctantly. "I dare say fifty girls have already been
after a hammer."
"Oh, he has a private one in his back pocket. Borrow that. And,
Pris,"--Patty called after her over the transom,--"just tell him to
send up a man to take that closet door off its hinges."
Patty, in the interval, sat down on the top step and surveyed the chaos
beneath her. An Oriental rush chair, very much out at the elbows,
several miscellaneous chairs, two desks, a divan, a table, and two
dry-goods boxes radiated from the center of the room. The floor, as it
showed through the interstices, was covered with a grass-green carpet,
while the curtains and hangings were of a not very subdued crimson.
"One would scarcely," Patty remarked to the furniture in general, "call
it a symphony in color."
A knock sounded on the door.
"Come in," she called.
A girl in a blue linen sailor-suit reaching to her ankles, and with a
braid of hair hanging down her back, appeared in the doorway. Patty
examined her in silence. The girl's eyes traveled around the room in
some surprise, and finally reached the top of the ladder.
"I--I'm a freshman," she began.
"My dear," murmured Patty, in a deprecatory tone, "I should have taken
you for a senior; but"--with a wave of her hand toward the nearest
dry-goods box--"come in and sit down. I need your advice. Now, there are
shades of green," she went on, as if continuing a conversation, "which
are not so bad with red; but I ask you frankly if _that_ shade of green
would go with anything?"
The freshman looked at Patty, and looked at the carpet, and smiled
dubiously. "No," she admitted; "I don't believe it would."
"I knew you would say that!" | 581.007623 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.0813150 | 954 | 10 |
E-text prepared by Chuck Greif and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team from page images generously provided by the
Internet Archive Million Book Project
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 15604-h.htm or 15604-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/0/15604/15604-h/15604-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/6/0/15604/15604-h.zip)
PIANO MASTERY
Talks with Master Pianists and Teachers
and
an Account of a Von Buelow Class, Hints on Interpretation, by Two
American Teachers (Dr. William Mason and William H. Sherwood) and a
Summary by the Author
by
HARRIETTE BROWER
Author of _The Art of the Pianist_
With Sixteen Portraits
Frederick A. Stokes Company
The Musical Observer Company
1915
[Illustration: Photo Copyright By Marran IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI]
CONTENTS
PRELUDE
IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI
ERNEST SCHELLING.....The Hand of a Pianist
ERNESTO CONSOLO.....Making the Piano a Musical Instrument
SIGISMOND STOJOWSKI.....Mind in Piano Study.
RUDOLPH GANZ.....Conserving Energy in Piano Practise
TINA LERNER.....An Audience the Best Teacher
ETHEL LEGINSKA.....Relaxation the Keynote of Modern Piano Playing
BERTHA FIERING TAPPER.....Mastering Piano Problems
CARL M. ROEDER.....Problems of Piano Teachers
KATHARINE GOODSON.....An Artist at Home
MARK HAMBOURG.....Form, Technic, and Expression
TOBIAS MATTHAY.....Watching the Artist Teacher at Work
HAROLD BAUER.....The Question of Piano Tone
RAOUL PUGNO.....Training the Child
THUEL BURNHAM.....The "Melody" and "Coloratura" Hand
EDWIN HUGHES.....Some Essentials of Piano Playing
FERRUCCIO BUSONI.....An Artist at Home
ADELE AUS DER OHE.....Another Artist at Home
ELEANOR SPENCER.....More Light on Leschetizky's Ideas
ARTHUR HOCHMAN.....How the Pianist Can Color Tone with Action and
Emotion
TERESA CARRENO.....Early Technical Training
WILHELM BACHAUS.....Technical Problems Discussed
ALEXANDER LAMBERT.....American and European Teachers
FANNIE BLOOMFIELD ZEISLER.....The Scope of Piano Technic
AGNES MORGAN.....Simplicity in Piano Teaching
EUGENE HEFFLEY.....Modern Tendencies
GERMAINE SCHNITZER.....Modern Methods in Piano Study
OSSIP GABRILOWITSCH.....Characteristic Touch on the Piano
HANS VON BUeLOW.....Teacher and Interpreter
WILLIAM H. SHERWOOD AND DR. WILLIAM MASON.....Hints on Interpretation
POSTLUDE.....Vital Points in Piano Playing
ILLUSTRATIONS
Ignace Jan Paderewski
Sigismond Stojowski
Rudolph Ganz
Katharine Goodson
Mark Hambourg
Tobias Matthay
Harold Bauer
Raoul Pugno
Ferruccio Busoni
Eleanor Spencer
Teresa Carreno
Wilhelm Bachaus
Fannie Bloomfield Zeisler
Ossip Gabrilowitsch
Hans von Buelow
Dr. William Mason
PRELUDE
TO AMERICAN PIANO TEACHERS AND STUDENTS
The following "Talks" were obtained at the suggestion of the Editor of
_Musical America_, and have all, with one or two exceptions, appeared in
that paper. They were secured with the hope and intention of benefiting
the American teacher and student.
Requests have come from all over the country, asking that the interviews
be issued in book form. In this event it was the author's intention to
ask each artist to enlarge and add to his own talk. This, however, has
been practicable only in certain cases; in others the articles remain
very nearly as they at first appeared.
The summer of 1913 in Europe proved to | 581.101355 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.0814340 | 6,633 | 10 |
Produced by David Clarke, JoAnn Greenwood and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
MORE TALES BY POLISH
AUTHORS
TALES BY POLISH AUTHORS.
Translated by ELSE BENECKE.
Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d. net.
"This is a book to be bought and read; it
cannot fail to be remembered.... The whole
book is full of passionate genius.... It is
delightfully translated."--_The Contemporary
Review._
OXFORD
B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD ST.
MORE TALES BY
POLISH AUTHORS
TRANSLATED BY
ELSE C. M. BENECKE
AND
MARIE BUSCH
OXFORD
B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET
1916
NOTE
The translators' thanks are due to MM. Szymanski and Zeromski for
allowing their stories to appear in English; and to Mr. Nevill Forbes,
Reader in Russian in the University of Oxford, Mr. Retinger, and Mr.
Stefan Wolff, for granting permission on behalf of the three other
authors (or their representatives) whose works are included in this
volume; also to Miss Repszowa for much valuable help.
CONTENTS
PAGE
MACIEJ THE MAZUR. By Adam Szymanski 1
TWO PRAYERS. By Adam Szymanski 52
THE TRIAL. By W. St. Reymont 86
THE STRONGER SEX. By Stefan Zeromski 112
THE CHUKCHEE. By W. Sieroszewski 146
THE RETURNING WAVE. By Boleslaw Prus 186
POLISH PRONUNCIATION
cz = English _ch_.
sz = English _sh_.
l = English _w_.
o = English _o_ in "who."
a = French "on."
e = French _in_ as in "vin."
rz and z = French _j_ in "jour."
(rz and z after _k_, _p_, _t_, _ch_ = English _sh_.)
ch = Scotch _ch_ in "loch."
c = _ts_.
Pan = Mr.
Pani = Mrs.
Panna = Miss.
MACIEJ THE MAZUR
BY ADAM SZYMANSKI
After leaving Yakutsk I settled in X----, a miserable little town
farther up the Lena. The river is neither so cold nor so broad here,
but wilder and gloomier. Although the district is some thousands of
versts nearer the civilized world, it contains few colonies. The
country is rocky and mountainous, and the taiga[1] spreads over it in
all directions for hundreds and thousands of versts. It would
certainly be difficult to find a wilder or gloomier landscape in any
part of the world than the vast tract watered by the Lena in its upper
course, almost as far as Yakutsk itself. Taiga, gloomy, wild, and
inaccessible, taiga as dense as a wall, covers everything
here--mountains, ravines, plains, and caverns. Only here and there a
grey, rocky cliff, resembling the ruin of a huge monument, rises
against this dark background; now and then a vulture circles
majestically over the limitless wilderness, or its sole inhabitant, an
angry bear, is heard growling.
The few settlements to be found nestle along the rocky banks of the
Lena, which is the only highway in this as in all parts of the Yakutsk
district. Continual intercourse with Nature in her wildest moods has
made the people who live in these settlements so primitive that they
are known to the ploughmen in the broad valleys along the Upper Lena,
and to the Yakutsk shepherds, as "the Wolves."
The climate is very severe here, and, although the frosts are not as
sharp and continuous as in Yakutsk, this country, on account of being
the nearest to the Arctic regions, is exposed to the cruel Yakutsk
north wind. This is so violent that it even sweeps across to the
distant Ural Mountains.
At the influx of the great tributary of the Lena there is a large
basin; it was formed by the common agency of the two rivers, and
subsequently filled up with mud. This basin is surrounded on every
side by fairly high mountains, at times undulating, at times steep.
Its north-eastern outlet is enclosed by a very high and rocky range,
through which both rivers have made deep ravines. X----, the capital
of the district inhabited by the "Wolf-people," lies in this
north-eastern corner of the basin, partly on a small low rock now
separated from the main chain by the bed of the Lena, partly at the
foot of the rock between the two rivers. The high range of mountains
forming the opposite bank of the Lena rises into an enormous rocky
promontory almost facing the town. Flat at the top and overgrown by a
wood, the side towards the town stands up at a distance of several
hundred feet as a perpendicular wall planed smooth with ice, thus
narrowing the horizon still more. As though to increase the wildness
of the scenery presented by the mountains and rocks surrounding the
dark taiga, a fiendish kind of music is daily provided by the furious
gales--chiefly north--which prevail here continually, and bring the
early night frosts in summer, and ceaseless Yakutsk frosts and
snowstorms in winter. The gale, caught by the hills and resounding
from the rocks, repeats its varied echoes within the taiga, and fills
the whole place with such howling and moaning that it would be easy
for you to think you had come by mistake into the hunting-ground of
wolves or bears.
* * * * *
It was somewhere about the middle of November, a month to Christmas.
The gale was howling in a variety of voices, as usual, driving forward
clouds of dry snow and whirling them round in its mad dance. No one
would have turned a dog into the street. The "Wolf-people" hid
themselves in their houses, drinking large quantities of hot tea in
which they soaked barley or rye bread, while the real wolves provided
the accompaniment to the truly wolfish howling of the gale. I waited
for an hour to see if it would abate; however, as this was not the
case, I set out from the house, though unwillingly.
I had promised Stanislaw Swiatelki some days beforehand that I would
go to him one day in the course of the week to write his home letters
for him--"very important letters," as he said. It was now Saturday, so
I could postpone it no longer. Stanislaw was lame, and, on account of
both his lameness and his calling, he rarely left the house. He came
from the district of Cracow--from Wislica, as far as I recollect--and
prided himself on belonging to one of the oldest burgher families of
the Old Town, a family which, as far as fathers' and grandfathers'
memories could reach, had applied itself to the noble art of
shoemaking. Stanislaw, therefore, was also a shoemaker, the last in
his family; for although the family did not become extinct in him,
nevertheless, as he himself expressed it, "Divine Providence had
ordained" that he should not hand down his trade to his son.
"God has brought him up, sir, and it seems to have been His will that
the shoemaker Swiatelkis should come to an end in me," Stanislaw used
to say. He had a habit of talking quickly, as if he were rattling peas
on to a wall. Only at very rare moments, when something gave him
courage and no strangers were present, he would add: "Though His
judgments are past finding out.... What does it matter? Why, my
grandson will be a shoemaker!" He would then grow pale from having
expressed his secret thought, turn round quickly, as though looking for
something, shift uneasily, and--as I noticed sometimes--unconsciously
spit and whisper to himself: "Not in an evil hour be it spoken, Lord!"
thereby driving away the spell from his dearest wish.
He was of middle height, fair, but nearly grey, and had lost all his
teeth. He wore a beard, and had a broad, shapeless nose and large,
hollow eyes; it was difficult to say what kind of person he was as
long as he sat silent. But only let him move--which, notwithstanding
the inseparable stick, he always did hastily, not to say
feverishly--only let him pour out his quick words with a tongue moving
like a spinning-wheel, and no one who had ever seen a burgher of pure
Polish blood could fail to recognize him as a chip of the old block.
Stanislaw had not long carried on his trade in X----. Having scraped
together some money as foreman, he had started a small shop; but he
was chiefly famous in the little town as the one maker of good Polish
sausages. He had a house next door to the shop, consisting of one room
and a tiny kitchen. He did not keep a servant; a big peasant, known as
Maciej, prepared his meals and gave him companionship and efficient
protection. Hitherto, however, I had known very little of this man.
I did not often visit Swiatelki, and as a rule only when I wanted to
buy something. So we had chatted in the shop, and I had only seen
Maciej in passing. But I had noticed him as something unusually large.
He was, indeed, huge; not only tall, but, as rarely happens, broad in
proportion. It was this which gave his whole figure its special
characteristics, and made it seem imposing rather than tall.
A house calculated for ordinary people he found narrow. Furniture
standing far enough apart to suit the average man hampered Maciej. He
could not take two steps in the house without knocking against
something. He trod cautiously and very slowly, continually looking
round; and he always had the ashamed air of a man who feels himself
out of place and is persuaded that his strongest efforts will not save
him from doing absurd things. I had seen Maciej a few times when, in
Swiatelki's absence, he had taken his place in the shop, where the
accommodation was fairly limited. An expression almost of suffering
was depicted on his broad face, and especially noticeable when, on
approaching the passage between the shelves and the counter, he stood
still a moment and measured the extent of the danger with an anxious
look. That it existed was undoubted, for the shelves were full of
glasses and jugs of all kinds, so that one push could do no little
harm. It was a real Scylla and Charybdis for him. He looked
indescribably comical, and was so much worried that after a few
minutes the drops of perspiration ran off his forehead. Once I found
him there in utter misery, waiting for someone to come. For he had
fancied, when going through this passage after settling with a
customer, that he had knocked against something behind him, and, not
being able to ascertain what it was, he stood and waited, afraid to
move until someone came.
"God be praised that you've come!" he exclaimed with delight. "I am
fixed here as sure as a Jew comes to a wedding. _He's_ gone away and
doesn't mean to come back! Good Lord! how little room there is here!
I've knocked against some teapot or other, and can't move either way.
The devil take all these shelves!" He continued his lamentations when
I had set him free. "It's always like this; it's a real misfortune,
this want of room. But what does it matter to him? He fits in here;
though he has to help himself with a stick, he can spin round like a
top."
"He" was, of course, the shoemaker, for Maciej's stupidity caused
frequent bickerings, which, however, never became serious between
them. Maciej's unwieldiness and awkwardness irritated the nervous,
agile shoemaker; while, on the other hand, Maciej could not understand
the shoemaker's quickness. But this was not their only cause of
contention. The shoemaker, a burgher, was to a certain extent a man
of position, with a deep sense of his higher rank; he wore a coat, and
had needs which Maciej regarded as entirely superfluous--in fact,
those of a gentleman. In addition, the shoemaker was the owner of the
house, and Maciej's employer.
Apart from all this, however, the antagonism revealed in their mutual
relations was not deep-seated, but in reality superficial. The
shoemaker grumbled at Maciej, and sometimes made fun of him; but he
always did it as if he were on equal terms with him, observing the
respect due to a peasant of some standing--that is, he always used the
form "you," and not "thou," in addressing him. Maciej usually received
the shoemaker's grumbling in silence, but sometimes answered his
taunts pretty sharply. Besides their common fate and present equality
in the eyes of the law, other weighty reasons had an influence in
making bearable the relations between people of different classes in
one small room.
In comparison with Maciej, the shoemaker possessed intelligence of
which the latter could never even have dreamt. The shoemaker could
read, and--what gave him a special charm, and no little authority in
Maciej's eyes--he could scrawl the eighteen letters of his Christian
and surname, although slowly, and always with considerable difficulty.
To Maciej's credit, on the other hand, besides his physical
strength--that brute force which impresses even those who are not
lame--stood the fact that he took service more from motives of
comradeship than of necessity. For he possessed capital of his own,
having made several hundred roubles, which were deposited at present
at the shoemaker's house. Moreover--the most important thing of
all--he was a conscientious and honest man. When, before knowing this,
I asked the shoemaker in conversation if he could trust Maciej
completely, since he lived alone with him and often left him in the
shop, he repeated my question with so much astonishment that I at once
realized its thorough inappropriateness. He repeated it, and, not
speaking quickly, as usual, but slowly and emphatically, he gave me
this answer: "Maciej, sir, is a man--of gold."
* * * * *
Immediately on my arrival the shop was closed and we went into the
house. A small table with a chair on either side stood under the only
window of the little room. Close behind the chairs there was a bed
along one wall, and a small wooden sofa along the other. A narrow
opening opposite the table led to the kitchen where Maciej lived. We
sat down to consult what to write. Not only the shoemaker, but even
Maciej, was in an extremely serious mood; both evidently attached no
little importance to the writing of letters. The shoemaker fetched
from a trunk a large parcel tied up in a sheet of paper, and, having
taken out the last letters from his wife and son, handed them
carefully to me. Maciej squeezed himself into the kitchen, and did not
return to us. A moment later, however, his head with the large red
face--but his head only--showed like the moon against the dark
background of the opening.
"Why do you go so far away, Maciej?" I asked.
"Eh, you see, sir, it's not comfortable sitting in there. I've knocked
a bench together here that's a bit stronger."
The shoemaker mumbled something about breaking the chairs, but Maciej
busied himself with his pipe and did not hear, or pretended not to
hear.
We began to read the letters. The letter from his wife contained the
usual account of daily worries, interspersed with wishes for his
return and the hope of yet seeing him. The letter from his son, who
had finished his apprenticeship as journeyman joiner half a year ago,
was sufficiently frivolous. After telling his father that he was now
free, he wrote that, as he could not always get work, he was unable to
make the necessary amount of money to buy himself a watch, and he
begged his father to send him thirteen roubles or more for this
purpose. I finished reading this, and looked at the shoemaker, who was
carefully watching the impression the letter was making on me. I
tried to look quite indifferent; whether I succeeded to any extent I
do not know, for I did not look straight at him. But I was convinced
after a moment that my efforts had been vain, for I heard the anxious
question: "Well, and what else, sir?" It was clear that his son's
letter was very painful to him, even more so than I had supposed.
"Here am I, trying and working all I can, so that in case I return
there may be something to live upon and I mayn't have to beg in my old
age, and that fool----"
We both began to remonstrate with him that it was unnecessary to take
this to heart, and that his son was probably--in fact, certainly--a
very good lad, only perhaps a little spoilt, especially if he was the
only child.
"Of course he is the only one, for I have never even seen him."
"How--never?"
"Yes, really never; because--I remember it as if it were to-day--it
was five o'clock in the evening. I was doing something in the
backyard, when my neighbour, Kwiatkowski, called out to me from behind
the wooden fence: 'God help you, Stanislaw, for they are coming after
you!' I only had time to run up to the window and call out: 'Good-bye,
Basia; remember St. Stanislaw will be his patron!' That's all I said.
Basia was confined shortly after, but I didn't see her again. So it
was a good thing I said it, for now there'll always be something to
remember me by."
"God be praised that it's so! but if it hadn't been a son----"
Maciej did not finish his sentence, however, for the offended
shoemaker began to reprimand him sternly.
"You are talking nonsense, Maciej, and it is not for the first time!
Does not the Church also give the name of St. Stanislawa? Besides,
though I am a sinner as every man is, couldn't I guess that a word
spoken at a moment like that would carry weight with the Almighty?
Isn't everything in God's hand?"
Maciej looked down, and a deep sigh was the only testimony to the
shoemaker's eloquence.
Stanislaw's explanation of the circumstances lightened our task very
much, and when he had remembered that the mother never complained of
her son--on the contrary, was always satisfied with him--we succeeded
in calming his excessive anxiety concerning the fate of his only
child. In order to settle the matter thoroughly, it was decided to ask
some responsible and enlightened person to examine the lad as he
should think fit and to keep an eye on him in future, reporting the
result of the examination to the father. This was arranged because the
mother, being a simple and uneducated woman, was thought to be
possibly much too fond of her only son, and an over-indulgent and
blind judge. The only question was the choice of the individual--a
sufficiently difficult matter; this one had died, that one had grown
rich, the other had lately taken to drink. We meditated long, and
would have meditated still longer, if finally the shoemaker had not
said firmly, with the air of a man persuaded that he is speaking to
the point:
"We will write to the priest!" And when Maciej, glad that the
troublesome deliberation was over--possibly, also, in order to regain
his position after having just said a stupid thing--hastily supported
this with, "Yes, the priest will be best," I conceded to the majority.
Certain difficulties arose from the fact that the priest was not
personally known to Swiatelki, and that, as Maciej put it, "the priest
couldn't be approached just anyhow." These difficulties were overcome
by the business-like shoemaker, who began by ordering a solemn Requiem
Mass for the souls of his parents, for which he sent the priest ten
roubles, and in this way commended his son to the kind consideration
of his benefactor.
I began to write the letters, of which there were to be three: to his
wife, to his son, and to the priest. In the course of my stay in
Siberia I had written so many similar letters that I had gained no
little facility in this kind of composition. I therefore wrote
quickly, only asking for a few particulars. The shoemaker crept from
the bed, on which he had hitherto been sitting, to the chair standing
by the table, and bending over this followed the movement of my pen
attentively, ready to answer any questions. Maciej cleaned out his
pipe in silence. I finished the letters, and proceeded to read them.
Stanislaw sent his wife fifty roubles. As he retained a most
affectionate remembrance of his faithful Basia, loved her possibly
more now than twenty years ago, and could never speak of her without
deep emotion, the letter to her corresponded to the feelings of his
youth. He was paler than usual as he listened to it, and he tried to
say something, but his lips trembled and the words caught in his
throat. When the reading was finished, however, Stanislaw wriggled in
the way peculiar to him, and, after blowing his nose several times,
finally articulated: "Now I will sign." Having discovered his
spectacles in the table drawer and duly fixed them on his nose, the
shoemaker pointed to the place where the signature was to be put, and
began:
"Es, tee." He had already opened his mouth to pronounce the third
letter, when the incautious Maciej, who had behaved most properly
while I was writing, unexpectedly interrupted with:
"If you would also----"
He burst in with this, but of course did not finish. The shoemaker
laid down the pen, lifted his head high, so as to look through his
spectacles at Maciej--who without doubt was already regretting his
ill-timed remark--and said drily:
"Maciej, you are hindering me."
Maciej grew very red, and, naturally, did not utter another word. The
shoemaker finished writing his name without further interruption, and
took out the money. In order to avoid mistakes, he at once enclosed it
with the letter in an addressed envelope.
However much Stanislaw had wished during our consultation to "pull the
silly fellow's ears," the letter to his son was indulgent rather than
stern. It was easy to guess what that yet unseen son, the one hope of
the old burgher family, was to Swiatelki. He had worked perseveringly
and honestly for so many years, and had overcome all kinds of
difficulties; lonely and neglected, he had passed victoriously through
the temptations to enrich himself easily with which Siberia beguiles
the unsuspecting novice. Doubtless he owed all this in a certain
degree to the honest principles he had brought from his home and
country, as well as to his character, but, without any doubt, equally
to that son in whose very birth he saw the Hand of God. It was clear
that the poor fellow dreamt of standing before his beloved child as an
ascetic dreams of appearing at the Judgment-Seat. The thought that he
would be able to tell him--openly and fearlessly--"I have nothing to
bring you, my son, but a name unstained by a past full of the gravest
temptations," was the lodestar of his life. Taking this into
consideration, therefore, I did not scold the "silly fool," but
explained to him in an affectionate way what the money was the father
was sending to the family--money he had earned by working extremely
hard, and frequently by pinching himself. I told the lad what he ought
to be and might become, being strong and healthy, and that on this
account his wish for money to spend on trifles gave his father pain. I
wrote large and distinctly, adapting myself to the young joiner's
powers of comprehension, and at the end fervently blessed him in his
new walk in life.
The reading of this letter was carried on with constant interruptions,
as I stopped to ascertain if I had interpreted the father's feelings
and wishes rightly. From the beginning I was sure that this was the
case, and became all the more certain of it as I read on. Each time I
looked at him inquiringly, Stanislaw answered me hastily: "Yes, yes,
yes, that's just as I wanted it!" But the farther I read the shorter
and quicker became the "Yes, yes." In the middle of the letter, it is
true, he opened his lips once more, but I only saw that they were
moving, for they did not utter a sound. I looked up again: his chin
was resting on the table, and the tears were flowing down his pale
cheeks. He did not make the restless movements peculiar to him when
his feelings overflowed. He did not scrape his throat or blow his
nose. He merely rested his chin on the table, and, sitting near me by
the candle, with its light falling upon him, he quietly cried before
us. He did not quiver or sob, but the tears, which had certainly not
flowed from those hollow eyes for a long time, streamed from them now.
When he was calm he looked at me with his large, intelligent eyes, and
thanked me without raising his head. "May the Lord repay you--may the
Lord repay you!" But Maciej, having already expressed his satisfaction
by ejaculations and indistinct mumbling, now took courage at a longer
pause to make quite a speech.
"H'm--that's fine! I've listened to lots of letters, because in the
gold-mines different people wrote letters for me and others. And even
here, though Z---- no doubt writes very well, he writes so learnedly,
like a printed book, that you don't understand a word when you listen
to it. For he puts in so many words folks don't use, you can see in a
moment that he comes from a Jewish or a big family, and that he has
never had much to do with the people. Now, your letter goes straight
to one's heart, for it's human. Oh, poor fellow! He'll cry like an old
woman at a sermon when he reads it. If you would also--but I daren't
ask"--and his voice sounded really very shy--"if you would write a
short letter like that to my people too, oh how my old woman would
cry,--she would cry!"
While I read the letter to the priest, Maciej kept quiet, listening
and possibly also beginning to consider what I was to write to his
wife, if I answered to the hopes he had placed in me. But when I came
to the passage in which I asked the priest about the Mass for the
shoemaker's dead parents, there was a violent crash in the entrance to
the kitchen, and Maciej stood before us in all his impressiveness. His
appearance was so unexpected, and made with so much noise, that we
looked at him in astonishment. Maciej was strangely altered, and even
seemed to me to be trembling all over. He came out in silence, and
standing just in front of us, with his feet wide apart as usual, he
began to search for his pocket; but whether it was difficult to find
in the folds of his baggy trousers, or whether for some other reason,
he was a long time about it. Having found it, he drew out a small
purse, and, after a long process of untying, for which he also used
his teeth, he took out a crumpled three-rouble note. He stood a while
holding this. At last he laid it on the table with a shaking hand, and
began in an imploring, broken voice:
"If that's so--when he says the Mass, let him pray for us unhappy
folks too: write that, sir. Let him pray to Almighty God and to the
Holy Virgin--if it's only to bring our bones back there--and
perhaps--perhaps They'll have mercy."
"Perhaps They'll have mercy," the shoemaker repeated like an echo, as
he stood beside Maciej.
They stood before me--these two old men grown grey in adversity--as
small children stand before a stern father, feeling their
helplessness; the lame shoemaker with the hollow eyes, leaning on his
stick, and that huge peasant with his hands hanging down and head
bowed humbly, imploring this in a quiet whisper.
* * * * *
We should certainly have sat there a long while in painful musing if
it had not been for the shoemaker. Stanislaw was the first to rouse
himself from the lethargy into which we had fallen.
"What the devil are we doing! Maciej, bestir yourself! The sausages
are burning in there, | 581.101474 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.0815690 | 7,435 | 15 |
Produced by Mark C. Orton, Linda McKeown, Barbara Tozier
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
THE MAKING OF BOBBY BURNIT
[Illustration: I'm in for some of the severest drubbings of my life]
THE MAKING OF BOBBY BURNIT
Being a Record of the Adventures of a Live American Young Man
_By GEORGE RANDOLPH CHESTER_
AUTHOR OF
"Get Rich Quick Wallingford," "The Cash Intrigue," Etc.
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG AND F. R. GRUGER
_A. L. BURT COMPANY_
_Publishers New York_
COPYRIGHT 1908
THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1909
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
JUNE
DEDICATION
To the Handicapped Sons of Able
Fathers, and the Handicapped
Fathers of Able Sons,
with Sympathy for
each, and a
Smile for
both
THE MAKING OF BOBBY BURNIT
CHAPTER I
BOBBY MAKES SOME IMPORTANT PREPARATIONS FOR A COMMERCIAL LIFE
"I am profoundly convinced that my son is a fool," read the will of
old John Burnit. "I am, however, also convinced that I allowed him to
become so by too much absorption in my own affairs and too little in
his, and, therefore, his being a fool is hereditary; consequently, I
feel it my duty, first, to give him a fair trial at making his own
way, and second, to place the balance of my fortune in such trust that
he can not starve. The trusteeship is already created and the details
are nobody's present business. My son Robert will take over the John
Burnit Store and personally conduct it, as his only resource, without
further question as to what else I may have left behind me. This is my
last will and testament."
That is how cheerful Bobby Burnit, with no thought heretofore above
healthy amusements and Agnes Elliston, suddenly became a business man,
after having been raised to become the idle heir to about three
million. Of course, having no kith nor kin in all this wide world, he
went immediately to consult Agnes. It is quite likely that if he had
been supplied with dozens of uncles and aunts he would have gone first
to Agnes anyhow, having a mighty regard for her keen judgment, even
though her clear gaze rested now and then all too critically upon
himself. Just as he came whirling up the avenue he saw Nick Allstyne's
white car, several blocks ahead of him, stop at her door, and a figure
which he knew must be Nick jump out and trip up the steps. Almost
immediately the figure came down again, much more slowly, and climbed
into the car, which whizzed away.
"Not at home," grumbled Bobby.
It was like him, however, that he should continue straight to the
quaint old house of the Ellistons and proffer his own card, for,
though his aims could seldom be called really worth while, he
invariably finished the thing he set out to do. It seemed to be a sort
of disease. He could not help it. To his surprise, the Cerberus who
guarded the Elliston door received him with a smile and a bow, and
observed:
"Miss Elliston says you are to walk right on up to the Turkish alcove,
sir."
While Wilkins took his hat and coat Bobby paused for a moment
figuratively to hug himself. At home to no one else! Expecting him!
"I'll ask her again," said Bobby to himself with determination, and
stalked on up to the second floor hall, upon which opened a delightful
cozy corner where Aunt Constance Elliston permitted the more
"family-like" male callers to smoke and loll and be at mannish ease.
As he reached the landing the door of the library below opened, and in
it appeared Agnes and an unusually well-set-up young man--a new one,
who wore a silky mustache and most fastidious tailoring. The two were
talking and laughing gaily as the door opened, but as Agnes glanced up
and saw Bobby she suddenly stopped laughing, and he almost thought
that he overheard her say something in an aside to her companion. The
impression was but fleeting, however, for she immediately nodded
brightly. Bobby bowed rather stiffly in return, and continued his
ascent of the stairs with a less sprightly footstep. Crestfallen, and
conscious that Agnes had again closed the door of the library without
either herself or the strange visitor having emerged into the hall, he
strode into the Turkish alcove and let himself drop upon a divan with
a thump. He extracted a cigar from his cigar-case, carefully cut off
the tip and as carefully restored the cigar to its place. Then he
clasped his interlocked fingers around his knee, and for the next ten
minutes strove, like a gentleman, not to listen.
When Agnes came up presently she made no mention whatever of her
caller, and, of course, Bobby had no excuse upon which to hang
impertinent questions, though the sharp barbs of them were darting
through and through him. Such fuming as he felt, however, was
instantly allayed by the warm and thoroughly honest clasp she gave him
when she shook hands with him. It was one of the twenty-two million
things he liked about her that she did not shake hands like two ounces
of cold fish, as did some of the girls he knew. She was dressed in a
half-formal house-gown, and the one curl of her waving brown hair that
would persistently straggle down upon her forehead was in its
accustomed place. He had always been obsessed with a nearly
irresistible impulse to put his finger through that curl.
"I have come around to consult you about a little business matter,
Agnes," he found himself beginning with sudden breathlessness, his
perturbation forgotten in the overwhelming charm of her. "The
governor's will has just been read to me, and he's plunged me into a
ripping mess. His whole fortune is in the hands of a trusteeship,
whatever that is, and I'm not even to know the trustees. All I get is
just the business, and I'm to carry the John Burnit Store on from its
present blue-ribbon standing to still more dazzling heights, I
suppose. Well, I'd like to do it. The governor deserves it. But, you
see, I'm so beastly thick-headed. Now, Agnes, you have perfectly
stunning judgment and all that, so if you would just----" and he came
to an abrupt and painful pause.
"Have you brought along the contract?" she asked demurely. "Honestly,
Bobby, you're the most original person in the world. The first time, I
was to marry you because you were so awkward, and the next time
because your father thought so much of me, and another time because
you wanted us to tour Norway and not have a whole bothersome crowd
along; then you were tired living in a big, lonely house with just you
and your father and the servants; now, it's an advantageous business
arrangement. What share of the profits am I to receive?"
Bobby's face had turned red, but he stuck manfully to his guns.
"All of them," he blurted. "You know that none of those is the real
reason," he as suddenly protested. "It is only that when I come to
tell you the actual reason I rather choke up and can't."
"You're a mighty nice boy, Bobby," she confessed. "Now sit down and
behave, and tell me just what you have decided to do."
"Well," said he, accepting his defeat with great philosophy, since he
had no reason to regard it as final, "of course, my decision is made
for me. I'm to take hold of the business. I don't know anything about
it, but I don't see why it shouldn't go straight on as it always has."
"Possibly," she admitted thoughtfully; "but I imagine your father
expected you to have rather a difficult time of it. Perhaps he wants
you to, so that a defeat or two will sting you into having a little
more serious purpose in life than you have at present. I'd like,
myself, to see you handle, with credit to him and to you, the splendid
establishment he built up."
"If I do," Bobby wanted to know, "will you marry me?"
"That makes eleven times. I'm not saying, Bobby, but you never can
tell."
"That settles it. I'm going to be a business man. Let me use your
'phone a minute." It was one of the many advantages of the
delightfully informal Turkish alcove that it contained a telephone,
and in two minutes Bobby had his tailors. "Make me two or three
business suits," he ordered. "Regular business suits, I mean, for real
business wear--you know the sort of thing--and get them done as
quickly as you can, please. There!" said he as he hung up the
receiver. "I shall begin to-morrow morning. I'll go down early and
take hold of the John Burnit Store in earnest."
"You've made a splendid start," commented Agnes, smiling. "Now tell me
about the polo tournament," and she sat back to enjoy his enthusiasm
over something about which he was entirely posted.
He was good to look at, was Bobby, with his clean-cut figure and his
clean-cut face and his clean, blue eyes and clean complexion, and she
delighted in nothing more than just to sit and watch him when he was
at ease; he was so restful, so certain to be always telling the truth,
to be always taking a charitably good-humored view of life, to turn on
wholesome topics and wholesome points of view; but after he had gone
she smiled and sighed and shook her head.
"Poor Bobby," she mused. "There won't be a shred left of his tender
little fleece by the time he gets through."
One more monitor Bobby went to see that afternoon, and this was Biff
Bates. It required no sending in of cards to enter the presence of
this celebrity. One simply stepped out of the elevator and used one's
latch-key. It was so much more convenient. Entering a big, barnlike
room he found Mr. Bates, clad only in trunks and canvas shoes,
wreaking dire punishment upon a punching-bag merely by way of
amusement; and Mr. Bates, with every symptom of joy illuminating his
rather horizontal features--wide brows, wide cheek-bone, wide nose,
wide mouth, wide chin, wide jaw--stopped to shake hands most
enthusiastically with his caller without removing his padded glove.
"What's the good news, old pal?" he asked huskily.
He was half a head shorter than Bobby and four inches broader across
the shoulders, and his neck spread out over all the top of his torso;
but there was something in the clear gaze of the eyes which made the
two gentlemen look quite alike as they shook hands, vastly different
as they were.
"Bad news for you, I'm afraid," announced Bobby. "That little
partnership idea of the big gymnasium will have to be called off for a
while."
Mr. Bates took a contemplative punch or two at the still quivering
bag.
"It was a fake, anyway," he commented, putting his arm around the top
of the punching-bag and leaning against it comfortably; "just like
this place. You went into partnership with me on this joint--that is,
you put up the coin and run in a lot of your friends on me to be
trained up--squarest lot of sports I ever saw, too. You fill the place
with business and allow me a weekly envelope that makes me tilt my
chin till I have to wear my lid down over my eyes to keep it from
falling off the back of my head, and when there's profits to split up
you shoves mine into my mitt and puts yours into improvements. You put
in the new shower baths and new bars and traps, and the last thing,
that swimming-tank back there. I'm glad the big game's off. I'm so
contented now I'm getting over-weight, and you'd bilk me again. But
what's the matter? Did the bookies get you?"
"No; I'll tell you all about it," and Bobby carefully explained the
terms of his father's will and what they meant.
Mr. Bates listened carefully, and when the explanation was finished he
thought for a long time.
"Well, Bobby," said he, "here's where you get it. They'll shred you
clean. You're too square for that game. Your old man was a fine old
sport and _he_ played it on the level, but, say, he could see a marked
card clear across a room. They'll double-cross you, though, to a
fare-ye-well."
The opinion seemed to be unanimous.
CHAPTER II
PINK CARNATIONS APPEAR IN THE OFFICE OF THE JOHN BURNIT STORE
Bobby gave his man orders to wake him up early next morning, say not
later than eight, and prided himself very much upon his energy when,
at ten-thirty, he descended from his machine in front of the old and
honored establishment of John Burnit, and, leaving instructions for
his chauffeur to call for him at twelve, made his way down the long
aisles of white-piled counters and into the dusty little office where
old Johnson, thin as a rail and with a face like whittled chalk,
humped over his desk exactly as he had sat for the past thirty-five
years.
"Good-morning, Johnson," observed Bobby with an affable nod. "I've
come to take over the business."
He said it in the same untroubled tone he had always used in asking
for his weekly check, and Johnson looked up with a wry smile.
Applerod, on the contrary, was beaming with hearty admiration. He was
as florid as Johnson was colorless, and the two had rubbed elbows and
dispositions in that same room almost since the house of Burnit had
been founded.
"Very well, sir," grudged Johnson, and immediately laid upon the
time-blackened desk which had been old John Burnit's, a closely
typewritten statement of some twenty pages. On top of this he placed a
plain gray envelope addressed:
_To My Son Robert,
Upon the Occasion of His Taking Over the Business_
Upon this envelope Bobby kept his eyes in mild speculation, while he
leisurely laid aside his cane and removed his gloves and coat and hat;
next he sat down in his father's jerky old swivel chair and lit a
cigarette; then he opened the letter. He read:
"Every business needs a pessimist and an optimist, with ample
opportunities to quarrel. Johnson is a jackass, but honest. He
is a pessimist and has a pea-green liver. Listen to him and
the business will die painlessly, by inches. Applerod is also
a jackass, and I presume him to be honest; but I never tested
it. He suffers from too much health, and the surplus goes into
optimism. Listen to him and the business will die in horrible
agony, quickly. But keep both of them. Let them fight things
out until they come almost to an understanding, then take the
middle course."
That was all. Bobby turned squarely to survey the frowning Johnson and
the still beaming Applerod, and with a flash of clarity he saw his
father's wisdom. He had always admired John Burnit, aside from the
fact that the sturdy pioneer had been his father, had admired him much
as one admires the work of a master magician--without any hope of
emulation. As he read the note he could seem to see the old gentleman
standing there with his hands behind him, ready to stretch on tiptoe
and drop to his heels with a thump as he reached a climax, his
spectacles shoved up on his forehead, his strong, wrinkled face stern
from the cheek-bones down, but twinkling from that line upward, the
twinkle, which had its seat about the shrewd eyes, suddenly
terminating in a sharp, whimsical, little up-pointed curl in the very
middle of his forehead. To corroborate his warm memory Bobby opened
the front of his watch-case, where the same face looked him squarely
in the eyes. Naturally, then, he opened the other lid, where Agnes
Elliston's face smiled up at him. Suddenly he shut both lids with a
snap and turned, with much distaste but with a great show of energy,
to the heavy statement which had all this time confronted him. The
first page he read over laboriously, the second one he skimmed
through, the third and fourth he leafed over; and then he skipped to
the last sheet, where was set down a concise statement of the net
assets and liabilities.
"According to this," observed Bobby with great show of wisdom, "I take
over the business in a very flourishing condition."
"Well," grudgingly admitted Mr. Johnson, "it might be worse."
"It could hardly be better," interposed Applerod--"that is, without
the extensions and improvements that I think your father would have
come in time to make. Of course, at his age he was naturally a bit
conservative."
"Mr. Applerod and myself have never agreed upon that point," wheezed
Johnson sharply. "For my part I considered your father--well, scarcely
reckless, but, say, sufficiently daring! Daring is about the word."
Bobby grinned cheerfully.
"He let the business go rather by its own weight, didn't he?"
Both gentlemen shook their heads, instantly and most emphatically.
"He certainly must have," insisted Bobby. "As I recollect it, he only
worked up here, of late years, from about eleven fifty-five to twelve
every other Thursday."
"Oftener than that," solemnly corrected the literal Mr. Johnson. "He
was here from eleven until twelve-thirty every day."
"What did he do?"
It was Applerod who, with keen appreciation, hastened to advise him
upon this point.
"Said 'yes' twice and 'no' twelve times. Then, at the very last
minute, when we thought that he was through, he usually landed on a
proposition that hadn't been put up to him at all, and put it clear
out of the business."
"Looks like good finessing to me," said Bobby complacently. "I think I
shall play it that way."
"It wouldn't do, sir," Mr. Johnson replied in a tone of keen pain.
"You must understand that when your father started this business it
was originally a little fourteen-foot-front place, one story high. He
got down here at six o'clock every morning and swept out. As he got
along a little further he found that he could trust somebody else with
that job--_but he always knew how to sweep_. It took him a lifetime to
simmer down his business to just 'yes' and 'no.'"
"I see," mused Bobby; "and I'm expected to take that man's place! How
would you go about it?"
"I would suggest, without meaning any impertinence whatever, sir,"
insinuated Mr. Johnson, "that if you were to start clerking----"
"Or sweeping out at six o'clock in the morning?" calmly interrupted
Bobby. "I don't like to stay up so late. No, Johnson, about the only
thing I'm going to do to show my respect for the traditions of the
house is to leave this desk just as it is, and hang an oil portrait of
my father over it. And, by the way, isn't there some little side room
where I can have my office? I'm going into this thing very earnestly."
Mr. Johnson and Mr. Applerod exchanged glances.
"The door just to the right there," said Mr. Johnson, "leads to a room
which is at present filled with old files of the credit department. No
doubt those could be moved somewhere else."
Bobby walked into that room and gaged its possibilities. It was a
little small, to be sure, but it would do for the present.
"Just have that cleared out and a 'phone put in. I'll get right down
to business this afternoon and see about the fittings for it." Then he
looked at his watch once more. "By George!" he exclaimed, "I almost
forgot that I was to see Nick Allstyne at the Idlers' Club about that
polo match. Just have one of your boys stand out at the curb along
about twelve, will you, and tell my chauffeur to report at the club."
Johnson eyed the closed door over his spectacles.
"He'll be having blue suits and brass buttons on us two next," he
snorted.
"He don't mean it at all that way," protested Applerod. "For my part,
I think he's a fine young fellow."
"I'll give you to understand, sir," retorted Johnson, violently
resenting this imputed defection, "that he is the son of his father,
and for that, if for nothing else, would have my entire allegiance."
Bobby, meanwhile, feeling very democratic and very much a man of
affairs, took a street-car to the Idlers', and strode through the
classic portals of that club with gravity upon his brow. Flaxen-haired
Nick Allstyne, standing by the registry desk, turned to dark Payne
Winthrop with a nod.
"You win," he admitted. "I'll have to charge it up to you, Bobby. I
just lost a quart of the special to Payne that since you'd become
immersed in the cares of business you'd not be here."
Bobby was almost austere in his reception of this slight.
"Don't you know," he demanded, "that there is nobody who keeps even
his social engagements like a business man?"
"That's what I gambled on," returned Payne confidentially, "but I
wasn't sure just how much of a business man you'd become. Nick, don't
you already seem to see a crease in Bobby's brow?"
"No, that's his regular polo crease," objected lanky Stanley Rogers,
joining them, and the four of them fell upon polo as one man. Their
especially anxious part in the tournament was to be a grinding match
against Willie Ashler's crack team, and the point of worry was that so
many of their fellows were out of town. They badly needed one more
good player.
"I have it," declared Bobby finally. It was he who usually decided
things in this easy-going, athletic crowd. "We'll make Jack Starlett
play, but the only way to get him is to go over to Washington after
him. Payne, you're to go along. You always keep a full set of regalia
here at the club, I know. Here, boy!" he called to a passing page.
"Find out for us the next two trains to Washington."
"Yes, sir," said the boy with a grin, and was off like a shot. They
had a strict rule against tipping in the Idlers', but if he happened
to meet Bobby outside, say at the edge of the curb where his car was
standing, there was no rule against his receiving something there.
Besides, he liked Bobby, anyhow. They all did. He was back in a
moment.
"One at two-ten and one at four-twenty, sir."
"The two-ten sounds about right," announced Bobby. "Now, Billy,
telephone to my apartments to have my Gladstone and my dress-suit togs
brought down to that train. Then, by the way, telephone Leatherby and
Pluscher to send up to my place of business and have Mr. Johnson show
their man my new office. Have him take measurements of it and fit it
up at once, complete. They know the kind of things I like. Really,
fellows," he continued, turning to the others, after he had patiently
repeated and explained his instructions to the foggy but willing
Billy, "I'm in serious earnest about this thing. Up to me, you know,
to do credit to the governor, if I can."
"Bobby, the Boy Bargain Baron," observed Nick. "Well, I guess you can
do it. All you need to do is to take hold, and I'll back you at any
odds."
"We'll all put a bet on you," encouraged Stanley Rogers. "More, we'll
help. We'll all get married and send our wives around to open accounts
with you."
In spite of the serious business intentions, the luncheon which
followed was the last the city saw of Bobby Burnit for three days. Be
it said to his credit that he had accomplished his purpose when he
returned. He had brought reluctant Jack Starlett back with him, and
together they walked into the John Burnit Store.
"New office fitted up yet, Johnson?" asked Bobby pleasantly.
"Yes, sir," replied Johnson sourly. "Just a moment, Mr. Burnit," and
from an index cabinet back of him he procured an oblong gray envelope
which he handed to Bobby. It was inscribed:
_To My Son,
Upon the Fitting-Out of New Offices_
With a half-embarrassed smile, Bobby regarded that letter thoughtfully
and carried it into the luxurious new office. He opened it and read
it, and, still with that queer smile, passed it over to Starlett. This
was old John Burnit's message:
"I have seen a business work up to success, and afterward add
velvet rugs and dainty flowers on the desk, but I never saw a
successful business start that way."
Bobby looked around him with a grin. There _was_ a velvet rug on the
floor. There were no flowers upon the mahogany desk, but there _was_ a
vase to receive them. For just one moment he was nonplussed; then he
opened the door leading to the dingy apartment occupied by Messrs.
Johnson and Applerod.
"Mr. Johnson," said he, "will you kindly send out and get two dozen
pink carnations for my room?"
Quiet, big Jack Starlett, having loaded and lit and taken the first
long puff, removed his pipe from his lips.
"Bully!" said he.
CHAPTER III
OLD JOHN BURNIT'S ANCIENT ENEMY POINTS OUT THE WAY TO GRANDEUR
Mr. Johnson had no hair in the very center of his head, but, when he
was more than usually vexed, he ran his fingers through what was left
upon both sides of the center and impatiently pushed it up toward a
common point. His hair was in that identical condition when he knocked
at the door of Bobby's office and poked in his head to announce Mr.
Silas Trimmer.
"Trimmer," mused Bobby. "Oh, yes; he is the John Burnit Store's chief
competitor; concern backs up against ours, fronting on Market Street.
Show him in, Johnson."
Jack Starlett, who had dropped in to loaf a bit, rose to go.
"Sit down," insisted Bobby. "I'm conducting this thing all open and
aboveboard. You know, I think I shall like business."
"They tell me it's the greatest game out," commented Starlett, and
just then Mr. Trimmer entered.
He was a little, wiry man as to legs and arms, but fearfully rotund as
to paunch, and he had a yellow leather face and black eyes which,
though gleaming like beads, seemed to have a muddy cast. Bobby rose to
greet him with a cordiality in no degree abashed by this appearance.
"And what can we do for you, Mr. Trimmer?" he asked after the usual
inanities of greeting had been exchanged.
"Take lunch with me," invited Mr. Trimmer, endeavoring to beam, his
heavy, down-drooping gray mustache remaining immovable in front of the
deeply-chiseled smile that started far above the corners of his nose
and curved around a display of yellow teeth. "I have just learned that
you have taken over the business, and I wish as quickly as possible to
form with the son the same cordial relations which for years I enjoyed
with the father."
Bobby looked him contemplatively in the eye, but had no experience
upon which to base a picture of his father and Mr. Trimmer enjoying
perpetually cordial relations with a knife down each boot leg.
"Very sorry, Mr. Trimmer, but I am engaged for lunch."
"Dinner, then--at the Traders' Club," insisted Mr. Trimmer, who never
for any one moment had remained entirely still, either his foot or his
hand moving, or some portion of his body twitching almost incessantly.
Inwardly Bobby frowned, for, so far, he had found no points about his
caller to arouse his personal enthusiasm; and yet it suddenly occurred
to him that here was doubtless business, and that it ought to have
attention. His father, under similar circumstances, would find out
what the man was after. He cast a hesitating glance at his friend.
"Don't mind me, Bobby," said Starlett briskly. "You know I shall be
compelled to take dinner with the folks to-night."
"At about what time, Mr. Trimmer?" Bobby asked.
"Oh, suit yourself. Any time," responded that gentleman eagerly. "Say
half-past six."
"The Traders'," mused Bobby. "I think the governor put me up there
four or five years ago."
"I seconded you," the other informed him; "and I had the pleasure of
voting for you just the other day, on the vacancy made by your father.
You're a full-fledged member now."
"Fine!" said Bobby. "Business suit or----"
"Anything you like." With again that circular smile behind his
immovable mustache, Mr. Trimmer backed out of the room, and Bobby,
dropping into a chair, turned perplexed eyes upon his friend.
"What do you suppose he wants?" he inquired.
"Your eye-teeth," returned Jack bluntly. "He looks like a mucker to
me."
"Oh, I don't know," returned Bobby, a trifle uneasily. "You see, Jack,
he isn't exactly our sort, and maybe we can't get just the right angle
in judging him. He's been nailed down to business all his life, you
know, and a fellow in that line don't have a chance, as I take it, to
cultivate all the little--well, say artificial graces."
"Your father wasn't like him. He was as near a thoroughbred as I ever
saw, Bobby, and he was nailed down, as you put it, all _his_ life."
"Oh, you couldn't expect them all to be like the governor," responded
Bobby instantly, shocked at the idea. "But this chap may be no end of
a good sort in his style. No doubt at all he merely came over in a
friendly way to bid me a sort of welcome into the fraternity of
business men," and Bobby felt quite a little thrill of pride in that
novel idea. "By George! Wait a minute," he exclaimed as still another
brilliant thought struck him, and going into the other room he said to
Johnson: "Please give me the letter addressed: 'To My Son Robert, Upon
the Occasion of Mr. Trimmer's First Call.'"
For the first time in days a grin irradiated Johnson's face.
"Nothing here, sir," he replied.
"Let me go through that file."
"Strictly against orders, sir," said Johnson.
"Indeed," responded Bobby quizzically; "I don't like to press the bet,
Johnson, but really I'd like to know who has the say here."
"You have, sir, over everything except my private affairs; and that
letter file is my private property and its contents my private
trusteeship."
"I can still take my castor oil like a little man, if I have to,"
Bobby resignedly observed. "I remember that when I was a kiddy the
governor once undertook to teach me mathematics, and he never would
let me see the answers. More than ever it looks like it was up to
Bobby," and whistling cheerfully he walked back into his private
office.
Johnson turned to Applerod with a snarl.
"Mr. Applerod," said he, "you know that I almost never swear. I am now
about to do so. Darn it! It's a shame that Trimmer calls here again on
that old scheme about which he deviled this house for years, and we
forbidden to give Mr. Robert a word of advice unless he asks for it."
"Why is it a shame?" demanded Applerod. "I always have thought that
Trimmer's plan was a great one."
So, all unprepared, Bobby went forth that evening, to become
acquainted with the great plan.
At the restless Traders' Club, where the precise corridors and columns
and walls and ceilings of white marble were indicative of great
formality, men with creases in their brows wore their derbies on the
backs of their heads and ceaselessly talked shop. Mr. Trimmer, more
creased of brow than any of them, was drifting from group to group
with his eyes turned anxiously toward the door until Bobby came in.
Mr. Trimmer was most effusively glad to see the son of his old friend
once again, and lost no time in seating him at a most secluded table,
where, by the time the oysters came on, he was deep in a catalogue of
the virtues | 581.101609 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.0848800 | 6,694 | 9 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
CONTRIBUTIONS FROM
THE MUSEUM OF HISTORY AND TECHNOLOGY:
PAPER 8
THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHY OF
WILLIAM GILBERT AND HIS PREDECESSORS
_W. James King_
By W. James King
THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHY OF
WILLIAM GILBERT
AND HIS PREDECESSORS
Until several decades ago, the physical sciences were
considered to have had their origins in the 17th
century--mechanics beginning with men like Galileo Galilei
and magnetism with men like the Elizabethan physician and
scientist William Gilbert.
Historians of science, however, have traced many of the 17th
century's concepts of mechanics back into the Middle Ages.
Here, Gilbert's explanation of the loadstone and its powers
is compared with explanations to be found in the Middle Ages
and earlier.
From this comparison it appears that Gilbert can best be
understood by considering him not so much a herald of the new
science as a modifier of the old.
THE AUTHOR: W. James King is curator of electricity, Museum
of History and Technology, in the Smithsonian Institution's
United States National Museum.
The year 1600 saw the publication by an English physician, William
Gilbert, of a book on the loadstone. Entitled _De magnete_,[1] it has
traditionally been credited with laying a foundation for the modern
science of electricity and magnetism. The following essay is an
attempt to examine the basis for such a tradition by determining what
Gilbert's original contributions to these sciences were, and to make
explicit the sense in which he may be considered as being dependent
upon earlier work. In this manner a more accurate estimate of his
position in the history of science may be made.
[1] William Gilbert, _De magnete, magneticisque corporibus
et de magno magnete tellure; physiologia nova, plurimis &
argumentis, & experimentis, demonstrata_, London, 1600, 240
pp., with an introduction by Edward Wright. All references to
Gilbert in this article, unless otherwise noted, are to the
American translation by P. Fleury Mottelay, 368 pp.,
published in New York in 1893, and are designated by the
letter M. However, the Latin text of the 1600 edition has
been quoted wherever I have disagreed with the Mottelay
translation.
A good source of information on Gilbert is Dr. Duane H. D.
Roller's doctoral thesis, written under the direction of Dr.
I. B. Cohen of Harvard University. Dr. Roller, at present
Curator of the De Golyer Collection at the University of
Oklahoma, informed me that an expanded version of his
dissertation will shortly appear in book form. Unfortunately
his researches were not known to me until after this article
was completed.
One criterion as to the book's significance in the history of science
can be applied almost immediately. A number of historians have pointed
to the introduction of numbers and geometry as marking a watershed
between the modern and the medieval understanding of nature. Thus
A. Koyre considers the Archimedeanization of space as one of the
necessary features of the development of modern astronomy and
physics.[2] A. N. Whitehead and E. Cassirer have turned to measurement
and the quantification of force as marking this transition.[3]
However, the obvious absence[4] of such techniques in _De magnete_
makes it difficult to consider Gilbert as a founder of modern
electricity and magnetism in this sense.
[2] Alexandre Koyre, _Etudes galileennes_, Paris, 1939.
[3] Alfred N. Whitehead, _Science and the modern world_, New
York, 1925, ch. 3; Ernst Cassirer, _Das Erkenntnisproblem_,
ed. 3, Berlin, 1922, vol. 1, pp. 314-318, 352-359.
[4] However, see M: pp. 161, 162, 168, 335.
[Illustration: Figure 1.--WILLIAM GILBERT'S BOOK ON THE LOADSTONE,
TITLE PAGE OF THE FIRST EDITION, FROM A COPY IN THE LIBRARY OF
CONGRESS. (_Photo courtesy of the Library of Congress._)]
There is another sense in which it is possible to contend that
Gilbert's treatise introduced modern studies in these fields. He has
frequently been credited with the introduction of the inductive method
based upon stubborn facts, in contrast to the methods and content of
medieval Aristotelianism.[5] No science can be based upon faulty
observations and certainly much of _De magnete_ was devoted to the
destruction of the fantastic tales and occult sympathies of the
Romans, the medieval writers, and the Renaissance. However, let us
also remember that Gilbert added few novel empirical facts of a
fundamental nature to previous observations on the loadstone.
Gilbert's experimental work was in large part an expansion of Petrus
Peregrinus' _De magnete_ of 1269,[6] and a development of works like
Robert Norman's _The new attractive_,[7] in which the author discussed
how one could show experimentally the declination and inclination of a
magnetized needle, and like William Borough's _Discourse on the
variation of the compass or magnetized needle_,[8] in which the author
suggested the use of magnetic declination and inclination for
navigational purposes but felt too little was known about it. That
other sea-going nations had been considering using the properties of
the magnetic compass to solve their problems of navigation in the same
manner can be seen from Simon Stevin's _De havenvinding_.[9]
[5] For example, William Whewell, _History of the inductive
sciences_, ed. 3, New York, 1858, vol. 2, pp. 192 and 217;
Charles Singer, _A short history of science to the nineteenth
century_, Oxford, 1943, pp. 188 and 343; and A. R. Hall, _The
scientific revolution_, Boston, 1956, p. 185.
[6] _Petri Peregrini maricurtenis, de magnete, seu rota
perpetui motus, libellus_, a reprint of the 1558 Angsburg
edition in J. G. G. Hellmann, _Rara magnetica_, Berlin, 1898,
not paginated. A number of editions of Peregrinus, work, both
ascribed to him and plagiarized from him, appeared in the
16th century (see Heinz Balmer, _Beitraege zur Geschichte der
Erkenntnis des Erdmagnetismus_, Aarau, 1956, pp. 249-255).
[7] Hellmann, _ibid._, Robert Norman, _The newe attractive,
containyng a short discourse of the magnes or lodestone, and
amongest other his vertues, of a newe discovered secret and
subtill propertie, concernyng the declinyng of the needle,
touched therewith under the plaine of the horizon. Now first
founde out by Robert Norman Hydrographer_. London, 1581. The
possibility is present that Norman's work was a direct
stimulus to Gilbert, for Wright's introduction to _De
magnete_ stated that Gilbert started his study of magnetism
the year following the publication of Norman's book.
[8] Hellman, _ibid._, William Borough, _A discourse of the
variation of the compasse, or magneticall needle. Wherein
is mathematically shewed, the manner of the observation,
effects, and application thereof, made by W. B. And is to
be annexed to the newe attractive of R. N._ London, 1596.
[9] Hellman, _ibid._, Simon Stevin, _De havenvinding_,
Leyden, 1599. It is interesting to note that Wright
translated Stevin's work into English.
Instead of new experimental information, Gilbert's major contribution
to natural philosophy was that revealed in the title of his book--a
new philosophy of nature, or physiology, as he called it, after the
early Greeks. Gilbert's attempt to organize the mass of empirical
information and speculation that came from scholars and artisans, from
chart and instrument makers, made him "the father of the magnetic
Philosophy."[10]
[10] As Edward Wright was to call him in his introduction.
Gilbert's _De magnete_ was not the first attempt to determine the
nature of the loadstone and to explain how it could influence other
loadstones or iron. It is typical of Greek philosophy that one of the
first references we have to the loadstone is not to its properties but
to the problem of how to explain these properties. Aristotle[11]
preserved the solution of the first of the Ionian physiologists:
"Thales too... seems to suppose that the soul is in a sense the cause
of movement, since he says that a stone has a soul because it causes
movement to iron." Plato turned to a similar animistic explanation in
his dialogue, _Ion_.[12] Such an animistic solution pervaded many of
the later explanations.
[11] Aristotle, _On the soul_, translated by W. S. Hett, Loeb
Classical Library, London, 1935, 405a20 (see also 411a8:
"Some think that the soul pervades the whole universe, whence
perhaps came Thales' view that everything is full of gods").
[12] Plato, _Ion_, translated by W. R. M. Lamb, Loeb
Classical Library, London, 1925, 533 (see also 536).
That a mechanical explanation is also possible was shown by Plato
in his _Timaeus_.[13] He argued that since a vacuum does not exist,
there must be a plenum throughout all space. Motion of this plenum
can carry objects along with it, and one could in this manner explain
attractions like that due to amber and the loadstone.
[13] Plato, _Timaeus_, translated by R. G. Bury, Loeb
Classical Library, London, 1929, 80. It is difficult to
determine which explanation Plato preferred, for in both
cases the speaker may be only a foil for Plato's opinion
rather than an expression of these opinions.
Another mechanical explanation was based upon a postulated tendency
of atoms to move into a vacuum rather than upon the latter's
non-existence. Lucretius restated this Epicurean explanation in his
_De rerum natura_.[14] Atoms from the loadstone push away the air and
tend to cause a vacuum to form outside the loadstone. The structure of
iron is such that it, unlike other materials, can be pushed into this
empty space by the thronging atoms of air beyond it.
[14] Lucretius, _De rerum natura_, translated by W. H. D.
Rouse, Loeb Classical Library, London, 1924, bk. VI, lines
998-1041.
Galen[15] returned to a quasi-animistic solution in his denial of
Epicurus' argument, which he stated somewhat differently from
Lucretius. One can infer that Galen held that all things have, to a
greater or lesser degree, a sympathetic faculty of attracting its
specific, or proper, quality to itself.[16] The loadstone is only an
inanimate example of what one finds in nutritive organs in organic
beings.
[15] Galen, _On the natural faculties_, translated by A. S.
Brock, Loeb Classical Library, London, 1916, bk. 1 and bk. 3.
A view similar to this appeared in Plato, _Timaeus_, 81 (see
footnote 13).
[16] This same concept was to reappear in the Middle Ages as
the _inclinatio ad simile_.
One of the few writers whose explanations of the loadstone Gilbert
mentioned with approval is St. Thomas Aquinas. Although the medieval
scholastic philosophy of St. Thomas seems foreign to our way of
thinking, it formed a background to many of Gilbert's concepts, as
well as to those of his predecessors, and it will assist our
discussion to consider briefly Thomist philosophy and to make its
terminology explicit at this point.[17]
[17] The background for much of the following was derived
from Annaliese Maier, _An der Grenze von Scholastik und
Naturwissenchaft_, ed 2, Rome, 1952.
In scholastic philosophy, all beings and substances are a coalescence
of inchoate matter and enacting form. Form is that which gives being
to matter and which is responsible for the "virtus" or power to cause
change, since matter in itself is inert. Moreover, forms can be
grasped intellectually, whence the nature of a being or a substance
can be known. Any explanation of phenomena has to be based upon these
innate natures, for only if the nature of a substance is known can
its properties be understood. Inanimate natures are determined by
observation, abstraction, and induction, or by classification.[18]
[18] St. Thomas' epistemology for the natural inanimate world
was based upon Aristotle's dictum: that which is in the mind
was in the senses first.
The nature of a substance is causally prior to its properties; while
the definition of the nature is logically prior to these properties.
Thus, what we call the theory of a substance is expressed in its
definition, and its properties can be deduced from this definition.
The world of St. Thomas is not a static one, but one of the
Aristotelian motions of quantity (change of size), of quality
(alteration), and of place (locomotion). Another kind of change is
that of substance, called generation and corruption, but this is a
mutation, occurring instantly, rather than a motion, that requires
time. In mutation the essential nature is replaced by a new
substantial form.
All these changes are motivated by a causal hierarchy that extends
from the First Cause, the "Dator Formarum," or Creator, to separate
intellectual substances that may be angels or demons, to the celestial
bodies that are the "generantia" of the substantial forms of the
elements and finally to the four prime qualities (dry and wet, hot and
cold) of the substantial forms. Accidental forms are motivated by the
substantial forms through the instrumentality of the four prime
qualities, which can only act by material contact.
The only causal agents in this hierarchy that are learned through the
senses are the tangible qualities. Usually the prime qualities are not
observed directly, but only other qualities compounded of them. One of
the problems of scholastic philosophy was the incorporation, into this
system of efficient agents, of other qualities, such as the qualities
of gravity and levity that are responsible for upward and downward
motion.
Besides the causal hierarchy of forms, the natural world of St. Thomas
existed in a substantial and spatial hierarchy. All substances whether
an element or a mixture of elements have a place in this hierarchy by
virtue of their nature. If the material were removed from its proper
place, it would tend to return. In this manner is obtained the natural
downward motion of earth and the natural upward motion of fire.
Local motion can also be caused by the "virtus coeli" generating a new
form, or through the qualitative change of alteration. Since each
element and mixture has its own natural place in the hierarchy of
material substances, and this place is determined by its nature,
changes of nature due to a change of the form can produce local
motion. If before change the substance is in its natural place, it
need not be afterwards, and if not, would then tend to move to its
new natural place.
It will be noted that the scholastic explanation of inanimate motion
involved the action and passion of an active external mover and a
passive capacity to be moved. Whence the definition of motion that
Descartes[19] was later to deride, "motus est actus entis in potentia
prout quod in potentia."
[19] Rene Descartes, _Oeuvres_, Charles Adam and Paul
Tannery, Paris, 1897-1910, vol. 2, p. 597 (letter to
Mersenne, 16 Oct., 1639), and vol. 11 (Le Monde), p. 39. The
original definition can be found in Aristotle, _Physics_,
translated by P. H. Wickstead and F. M. Cornford, Loeb
Classical Library, London, 1934, 201a10. Aquinas rephrases
the definition as "_Motus est actus existentis in potentia
secundum quod huius modi._" See St. Thomas Aquinas, _Opera
omnia_, Antwerp, 1612, vol. 2, _Physicorum Aristotelis
expositio_, lib. 3, lect. 2, cap. a, p. 29.
We have seen above that the "motor essentialis" for terrestial change
is the "virtus coeli." Thus the enacting source of all motion and
change is the heavens and the heavenly powers, while the earth and its
inhabitants becomes the focus or passive recipient of these actions.
In this manner the scholastic restated in philosophical terms the
drama of an earth-centered universe.
Although change or motion is normally effected through the above
mentioned causal hierarchy, it is not always necessary that
actualization pass from the First Cause down through each step of the
hierarchy to terminate in the qualities of the individual being. Some
of the steps could be by-passed: for instance man's body is under the
direct influence of the celestial bodies, his intellect under that of
the angels and his will under God.[20] Another example of effects
not produced through the tangible prime qualities is that of the
tide-producing influence of the moon on the waters of the ocean or the
powers of the loadstone over iron. Such causal relations, where some
members of the normal causal chain have been circumvented, are called
occult.[21]
[20] St. Thomas Aquinas, _op. cit._ (footnote 19), vol. 9,
_Summa contra gentiles_, lib. 3, cap. 92 (Quo modo dicitur
aliquis bene fortunatus et quo modo adjuvatur <DW25> ex
superioribus causis), p. 343.
[21] St. Thomas Aquinas, op. cit. (footnote 19), vol. 17
_Opuscula, De operationibus occultis naturae ad queindam
militem ultramontem_, pp. 213-224.
While St. Thomas referred to the loadstone in a number of places as
something whose nature and occult properties are well known, it was
always as an example or as a tangential reference. One does not find
a systematic treatment of the loadstone in St. Thomas, but there are
enough references to provide a fairly explicit statement of what he
considered to be the nature of the magnet.
In one of his earliest writings, St. Thomas argued that the magnet
attracts iron because this is a necessary consequence of its
nature.[22]
Respondeo dicendum, quod omnibus rebus naturaliter insunt
quaedam principia, quibus non solum operationes proprias
efficere possunt, sed quibus etiam eas convenientes fini suo
reddant, sive sint actiones quae consequantur rem aliquam ex
natura sui generis, sive consequantur ex natura speciei, ut
magneti competit ferri deorsum ex natura sui generis, et
attrahere ferrum ex natura speciei. Sicut autem in rebus
agentibus ex necessitate naturae sunt principia actionum
ipsae formae, a quibus operationes proprie prodeunt
convenientes fini....
Due to its generic form, the loadstone is subject to natural motion
of place of up and down. However, the "virtus" of its specific form
enabled it to produce another kind of motion--it could draw iron to
itself.
Normally the "virtus" of a substance is limited to those contact
effects that could be produced by the form operating through the
active qualities of one substance, on the relatively passive qualities
of another. St. Thomas asserted the loadstone to be one of these
minerals, the occult powers of whose form goes beyond those of the
prime qualities.[23]
Forma enim elementi non habet aliquam operationem nisi quae
fit per qualitates activas et passivas, quae sunt
dispositiones materiae corporalis. Forma autem corporis
mineralis habet aliquam operationem excedentem qualitates
activas et passivas, quae consequitur speciem ex influentia
corporis coelestis, ut quod magnes attrahit ferrum, et quod
saphirus curat apostema.
That this occult power of the loadstone is a result of the direct
influence of the "virtus coeli" was expounded at greater length in
his treatise on the soul.[24]
Quod quidem ex propriis formarum operationibus perpendi
potest. Formae enim elementorum, quae sint infimae et
materiae propinquissime, non habent aliquam operationem
excedentem qualitates activas et passivas, ut rarum et
densum, et aliae huiusmodi, qui videntur esse materiae
dispositiones. Super has autem sunt formae mistorum quae
praeter praedictas operationes, habent aliquam operationem
consequentem speciem, quam fortiuntur ex corporibus
coelestibus; sicut quod magnes attrahit ferrum non propter
calorem aut frigiis, aut aliquid huiusmodi; sed ex quadam
participatione virtutis coelestis. Super has autem formas
sint iterum animae plantarum, quae habent similitudinem non
solum ad ipsa corpora coelestia, sed ad motores corporum
coelestium, inquantum sunt principia cuiusdam motus,
quibusdam seipsa moventibus. Super has autem ulterius sunt
animae brutorum, quae similitudinem iam habent ad substantiam
moventem coelestia corpora, non solum in operatione qua
movent corpora, sed etiam in hoc quod in seipsis
cognoscitivae sunt, licet brutorum cognitio sit materialium
tantum et materialiter....
St. Thomas placed the form of the magnet and its powers in the
hierarchy of forms intermediate between the forms of the inanimate
world and the forms of the organic world with its hierarchy of plant,
animal and rational souls. The form of the loadstone is then superior
to that of iron, which can only act through its active and passive
qualities, but inferior to the plant soul, that has the powers of
growth from the "virtus coeli." This is similar to Galen's comparison
of the magnet's powers to that of the nutritive powers of organic
bodies.
In his commentary on Aristotle's _Physics_, St. Thomas explained how
iron is moved to the magnet. It is moved by some quality imparted to
the iron by the magnet.[25]
Illud ergo trahere dicitur, quod movet alterum ad seipsum.
Movere autem aliquid secundum locum ad seipsum contingit
tripliciter. Uno modo sicut finis movet; unde et finis
dicitur trahere, secundum illud poetate: "trahit sua quemque
voluptas": et hoc modo potest dici quod locus trahit id, quod
naturaliter movetur ad locum. Alio modo potest dici aliquid
trahere, quia movet illud ad seipsum alterando aliqualiter,
ex qua alteratione contingit quod alteratum moveatur secundum
locum: et hoc modo magnes dicitur trahere ferrum. Sicut enim
generans movet gravia et levia, inquantum dat eis formarum
per quam moventur ad locum, ita et magnes dat aliquam
qualitatem ferro, per quam movetur ad ipsum. Et quod hoc sit
verum patet ex tribus. Primo quidem quia magnes non trahit
ferrum ex quacumque distantia, sed ex propinquo; si autem
ferrum moveretur ad magnetem solum sicut ad finem, sicut
grave ad suum locum, ex qualibet distantia tenderet ad ipsum.
Secundo, quia, si magnes aliis perungatur, ferrum attrahere
non potest; quasi aliis vim alterativam ipsius impedientibus,
aut etiam in contrarium alterantibus. Tertio, quia ad hoc
quod magnes attrahat ferrum, oportet prius ferrum liniri cum
magnete, maxime si magnes sit parvus; quasi ex magnete
aliquam virtutem ferrum accipiat ut ad eum moveatur. Sic
igitur magnes attrahit ferrum non solum sicut finis, sed
etiam sicut movens et alterans. Tertio modo dicitur aliquid
attrahere, quia movet ad seipsum motu locali tantum. Et sic
definitur hic tractio, prout unum corpus trahit alteram, ita
quod trahens simul moveatur cum eo quod trahitur.
As the "generans" of terrestrial change moves what is light and heavy
to another place by implanting a new form in a substance, so the
magnet moves the iron by impressing upon it the quality by which it is
moved. By virtue of the new quality, the iron is not in its natural
place and moves accordingly. St. Thomas proved that the loadstone acts
as a secondary "generans" in three ways: (1) the loadstone produces an
effect not from any distance but only from a nearby position (showing
that this motion is due to more than place alone), (2) rubbing the
loadstone with garlic acts as if it impedes or alters the "virtus
magnetis," and (3) the iron must be properly aligned with respect to
the loadstone in order to be moved, especially if the loadstone is
small. Thus the iron is moved by the magnet not only to a place, but
also by changing and altering it: one has not only the change of
locomotion but that of alteration. Moreover the source of this
alteration in the iron is not the heavens but the loadstone.
Accordingly the loadstone could cause change in another substance
because it could influence the nature of the other substance.
[22] St. Thomas Aquinas, _op. cit._ (footnote 19), vol 7,
_Scriptum in quartum librum sententiarum magistri Petri
Lombardi_, lib. 4, disq. 33 (De diversis coniugii legibus),
art. 1 (Utrum habere plures uxores sit contra legem naturae),
p. 168. The same statement occurs in one of his most mature
works, _op. cit._ vol. 20, _Summa theologica_, pars 3
(supplementum), quaestio 65 (De pluralitate uxorum in quinque
articulos divisa), art. 1 (Utrum habere plures uxores sit
contra legem naturae), p. 107.
[23] St. Thomas Aquinas, _op. cit._ (footnote 19), vol. 8,
_Quaestio unica: de spiritualibus creaturis_, art. 2 (Utrum
substantia spiritualis possit uniri corpori), p. 404. See
also vol. 9, _Summa contra gentiles_, lib. 3, cap. 92
(Quomodo dicitur aliquis bene fortunatus, et quomodo
adjuvatur <DW25> ex superioribus causis), p. 344; and vol. 17,
_Opuscula, De operationibus occultis naturae ad queindam
militem ultramontem_, pp. 213-214.
[24] St. Thomas Aquinas, _op. cit._ (footnote 19), vol. 8,
_Quaestio unica: de anima_, art. 1 (Utrum anima humana possit
esse forma et hoc aliquid), p. 437. See also vol. 8,
_Quaestio: De veritate_, quaestio 5 (De providentia), art. 10
(Utrum humani actus a divina providentia gubernentur mediis
corporibus coelestibus), p. 678.
[25] St. Thomas Aquinas, _op. cit._ | 581.10492 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.1775980 | 1,125 | 9 |
Produced by David Edwards, Donalies and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Notes
Italic markup is enclosed within _underscores_.
Bold markup is enclosed within =equal signs=.
Additional notes appear at the end of the file.
ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE.
THE
AMATEUR
DRAMA.
GENTLEMEN
OF THE JURY
BOSTON:
GEO. M. BAKER & CO.,
149 Washington Street.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873 by GEORGE M.
BAKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
SPENCER’S UNIVERSAL STAGE.
_A Collection of COMEDIES, DRAMAS, and FARCES, adapted to either Public
or Private Performance. Containing a full description of all the
necessary Stage Business._
_PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. No Plays exchanged._
1. =Lost in London.= A Drama in Three Acts. 6 Male, 4 Female
characters.
2. =Nicholas Flam.= A Comedy in Two Acts. By J. B. Buckstone. 5 Male, 3
Female characters.
3. =The Welsh Girl.= A Comedy in One Act. By Mrs. Planche. 3 Male, 2
Female characters.
4. =John Wopps.= A Farce in One Act. By W. E. Suter. 4 Male, 2 Female
characters.
5. =The Turkish Bath.= A Farce in One Act. By Montague Williams and
F. C. Burnand. 6 Male, 1 Female character.
6. =The Two Puddifoots.= A Farce in One Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 Male, 3
Female characters.
7. =Old Honesty.= A Comic Drama in Two Acts. By J. M. Morton. 5 Male, 2
Female characters.
8. =Two Gentlemen in a Fix.= A Farce in One Act. By W. E. Suter. 2 Male
characters.
9. =Smashington Goit.= A Farce in One Act. By T. J. Williams. 5 Male, 3
Female characters.
10. =Two Heads Better than One.= A Farce in One Act. By Lenox Horne. 4
Male, 1 Female character.
11. =John Dobbs.= A Farce in One Act. By J. M. Morton. 5 Male, 2 Female
characters.
12. =The Daughter of the Regiment.= A Drama in Two Acts. By Edward
Fitzball. 6 Male, 2 Female characters.
13. =Aunt Charlotte’s Maid.= A Farce in One Act. By J. M. Morton. 3
Male, 3 Female characters.
14. =Brother Bill and Me.= A Farce in One Act. By W. E. Suter. 4 Male,
3 Female characters.
15. =Done on Both Sides.= A Farce in One Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 Male,
2 Female characters.
16. =Dunducketty’s Picnic.= A Farce in One Act. By T. J. Williams. 6
Male, 3 Female characters.
17. =I’ve written to Browne.= A Farce in One Act. By T. J. Williams. 4
Male, 3 Female characters.
18. =Lending a Hand.= A Farce in One Act. By G. A. A’Becket. 3 Male, 2
Female characters.
19. =My Precious Betsy.= A Farce in One Act. By J. M. Morton. 4 Male, 4
Female characters.
20. =My Turn Next.= A Farce in One Act. By T. J. Williams. 4 Male, 3
Female characters.
21. =Nine Points of the Law.= A Comedy in One Act. By Tom Taylor. 4
Male, 3 Female characters.
22. =The Phantom Breakfast.= A Farce in One Act. By Charles Selby. 3
Male, 2 Female characters.
23. =Dandelions Dodges.= A Farce in One Act. By T. J. Williams. 4 Male,
2 Female characters.
24. =A Slice of Luck.= A Farce in One Act. By J. M. Morton. 4 Male, 2
Female characters.
25. =Always Intended.= A Comedy in One Act. By Horace Wigan. 3 Male, 3
Female characters.
26. =A Bull in a China Shop.= A Comedy in Two Acts. By Charles
Matthews. 6 Male, 4 Female characters.
27. =Another Glass.= A Drama in One Act. | 581.197638 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.1776510 | 1,020 | 6 |
Produced by Melissa McDaniel, RichardW, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
TRACED AND TRACKED
OR
_Memoirs of a City Detective_.
BY JAMES M^cGOVAN,
AUTHOR OF “BROUGHT TO BAY,” “HUNTED DOWN,” AND
“STRANGE CLUES.”
SEVENTH EDITION.
EDINBURGH:
JOHN MENZIES & COMPANY
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
1886.
_All rights reserved._
_WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
BROUGHT TO BAY;
OR,
_EXPERIENCES OF A CITY DETECTIVE_.
THIRTEENTH EDITION.
HUNTED DOWN;
OR,
_RECOLLECTIONS OF A CITY DETECTIVE_.
ELEVENTH EDITION.
STRANGE CLUES;
OR,
_CHRONICLES OF A CITY DETECTIVE_.
NINTH EDITION.
The above are uniform in size and price with “TRACED AND TRACKED,”
and the four works form the complete set of M^cGovan’s Detective
Experiences.
To
JOHN LENG, ESQ.,
KINBRAE, NEWPORT, FIFE
This Book
IS INSCRIBED, IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF HIS
LOVING-KINDNESS DURING A CRITICAL
ILLNESS OF THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
The gratifying success of my former experiences—25,000 copies having
already been sold, and the demand steadily continuing—has induced
me to put forth another volume. In doing so, I have again to thank
numerous correspondents, as well as the reviewers of the public
press, for their warm expressions of appreciation and approval.
I have also to notice a graceful compliment from Berlin, in the
translation of my works into German, by H. Ernst Duby; and another
from Geneva, in the translation of a selection of my sketches into
French, by the Countess Agènor de Gasparin.
A severe and unexpected attack of hæmorrhage of the lungs has
prevented me revising about a third of the present volume. I trust,
therefore, that any trifling slips or errors will be excused on that
account.
In conclusion, I would remind readers and reviewers of the words
of Handel, when he was complimented by an Irish nobleman on having
amused the citizens of Dublin with his _Messiah_. “Amuse dem?” he
warmly replied; “I do not vant to amuse dem only; I vant to make dem
petter.”
JAMES M^cGOVAN.
EDINBURGH, _October 1884_.
CONTENTS.
A PEDESTRIAN’S PLOT, • 1
BILLY’S BITE, • 13
THE MURDERED TAILOR’S WATCH, • 24
THE STREET PORTER’S SON, • 44
A BIT OF TOBACCO PIPE, • 57
THE BROKEN CAIRNGORM, • 68
THE ROMANCE OF A REAL CREMONA, • 79
THE SPIDER AND THE SPIDER-KILLER, • 104
THE SPOILT PHOTOGRAPH, • 115
THE STOLEN DOWRY, • 127
M^cSWEENY AND THE MAGIC JEWELS, • 139
BENJIE BLUNT’S CLEVER ALIBI, • 150
JIM HUTSON’S KNIFE, • 161
THE HERRING SCALES, • 174
ONE LESS TO EAT, • 185
THE CAPTAIN’S CHRONOMETER, • 196
THE TORN TARTAN SHAWL, • 207
A LIFT ON THE ROAD, • 218
THE ORGAN-GRINDER’S MONEY-BAG, • 229
THE BERWICK BURR, • 240
THE WRONG UMBRELLA, • 252
A WHITE SAVAGE, • 263
THE BROKEN MISSIONARY, • 274
A MURDERER’S MISTAKE, • 285
A HOUSE-BREAKER’S WIFE, • 297
M^cSWEENY AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP, • 308
THE FAMILY BIBLE, • 320
CONSCIENCE MONEY, • 332
A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING, • 343
TRACED AND TRACKED.
A PEDESTRIAN’S PLOT.
I have alluded to the | 581.197691 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.1834450 | 1,119 | 9 |
Produced by Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
THE OVERALL BOYS IN SWITZERLAND
_The_ OVERALL BOYS IN SWITZERLAND
_By EULALIE OSGOOD GROVER_
_Author of "The Sunbonnet Babies' Primer," "The Overall Boys,"
The "Outdoor Primer," "The Sunbonnet Babies in Holland"_
ILLUSTRATED BY
BERTHA CORBETT MELCHER
_The "Mother of the Sunbonnet Babies and the Overall Boys"_
[Illustration]
RAND McNALLY & COMPANY
NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO
Printed in U. S. A.
_Copyright, 1916, by_
EULALIE OSGOOD GROVER
All rights reserved
_Entered at Stationers' Hall_
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Made in U. S. A.]
[Illustration: To
Graham Grover
A Real Little Overall Boy]
[Illustration: THE CONTENTS.]
PAGE
THREE CHEERS FOR EUROPE 9
ON THE RIVER RHINE 14
THE BEAR CITY 22
ABOVE THE CLOUDS 34
ON MOUNT RIGI 40
SHOPPING IN LUCERNE 50
SATURDAY EVENING ON LAKE LUCERNE 58
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY 66
WILLIAM TELL AND HIS LITTLE SON 78
A VISIT TO TELL'S COUNTRY 88
OVER AND THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS 100
REAL TRAMPERS 108
ON THE TRAIL 118
THE HERDSMAN'S CABIN 126
A SUMMER BLIZZARD 136
EXPLORING A GLACIER 144
AUF WIEDERSEHEN 150
_A Letter_ 156
_A List of Difficult Words_ 159
[Illustration: THREE CHEERS FOR EUROPE.]
[Illustration: _A map showing the places the Overall Boys visited in
Switzerland_]
[Illustration]
THE OVERALL BOYS IN SWITZERLAND
THREE CHEERS FOR EUROPE
It was the first day of summer, and it was the last day of the ocean
trip.
Jack and Joe, two Overall Boys, had crossed the big Atlantic. They were
now sailing into a strange city, in a strange country, with a strange
language.
The city was Antwerp. The country was Belgium, and the language
was--well, almost anything one cared to speak, French or German or
Dutch or English.
Jack said he should try English first. Then, if people did not
understand him, he should use the Dutch words which the Sunbonnet
Babies had taught him. But if people did not understand him then, he
should have to keep still, or talk with his hands.
"Oh! I shall not keep still," said Joe. "I shall speak everything all
at once, French and German and Dutch and English. You just watch me!"
"Ho! ho!" laughed Jack. "We _will_ watch you, and so will all the
people in Antwerp. But now watch that great houseboat. I believe it is
like the boat Molly and May's Uncle Dirk owns. A family is living on
it. They have a canary bird and a dog and a cat and flowers, just as
they have on Uncle Dirk's boat."
"I should rather go to Holland than to Switzerland," said Joe. "Let's
ask the people on that houseboat to take us up to their Water Land."
"No, sir! I want to go to Switzerland," said Jack. "I want to see the
great mountains all covered with snowbanks and forests and flowers.
There is not a mountain in the whole of Holland."
"Look!" shouted Joe. "I see the first castle! We are sailing right up
beside it. I wonder if a really, truly King and Queen are living in it."
"Of course," said Jack, "unless they have been killed and their castle
turned into a prison or a museum."
"Do you suppose it has a dark dungeon under it?" asked Joe. "How I
should like to see a real dungeon!"
"Come on, father is calling us," said Jack. "Our boat has stopped. It
is time to get off."
"Oh! Perhaps father will take us into that old castle, Jack. Then we
can see if it really has a dungeon under it," cried Joe.
So the Overall Boys said good-by to their friends on the ocean steamer.
They said good-by to the Captain. They said good-by to the Cook.
The Cook and the Captain were their _special_ friends and they were
_specially_ sorry to leave them.
But the boys had something very important in their minds.
When the heavy plank was pulled over from the dock | 581.203485 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.2169620 | 3,001 | 8 |
Produced by Demian Katz, Chris Whitehead and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
[Illustration]
ON AN
IRISH JAUNTING CAR
Through Donegal and Connemara
BY SAMUEL G BAYNE
[Illustration: "THE REAL THING"]
On An
Irish Jaunting-Car
Through Donegal and Connemara
BY S. G. BAYNE
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1902, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published November, 1902.
PREFACE
In the compiling of this little book, I am deeply indebted for
historical data, etc., to John Cooke, M.A., the Messrs. Black, Lord
Macaulay, the _Four Masters_, and many others, from whose writings I
have made extracts; and for photographs to Messrs. W. Lawrence, T.
Glass, and Commissioner Walker.
I sincerely hope I may be forgiven for the shortcomings and errors
which can doubtless be found in this brief sketch of a few weeks' tour
through the north, west, and south of Ireland.
S. G. BAYNE.
NEW YORK CITY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
NEW YORK TO LONDONDERRY 1
LONDONDERRY TO PORT SALON 9
PORT SALON TO DUNFANAGHY 14
DUNFANAGHY TO FALLCARRAGH 23
FALLCARRAGH TO GWEEDORE 36
GWEEDORE TO GLENTIES 40
GLENTIES TO CARRICK 46
CARRICK TO DONEGAL 49
DONEGAL TO BALLYSHANNON 53
BALLYSHANNON TO SLIGO 57
SLIGO TO BALLINROBE 65
BALLINROBE TO LEENANE 67
LEENANE TO RECESS 70
ACHILL ISLAND 78
RECESS TO GALWAY 92
ARAN ISLANDS 106
LIMERICK 117
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 128
ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE REAL THING" _Frontispiece_
RATHMULLEN ABBEY, COUNTY DONEGAL _Facing p._ 10
CARNISK BRIDGE AND SALMON-LEAP
(IN LOW WATER), NEAR RAMELTON,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 12
OUR FIRST CAR " 14
IN THE GREAT ARCH, "SEVEN
ARCHES," PORT SALON, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 16
DUNREE FORT, LOUGH SWILLY,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 18
TEMPLE ARCH, HORN HEAD, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 24
"MCSWINE'S GUN," HORN HEAD,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 26
GLEN VEIGH, COUNTY DONEGAL " 34
A TURF BOG " 38
NATIVES OF COUNTY DONEGAL " 44
A TURF CREEL, CARRICK, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 50
DONEGAL CASTLE " 54
SALMON-LEAP, BALLYSHANNON, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 60
GOING TO THE BOG FOR TURF, BUNDORAN,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 62
LORD ARDILAUN'S CASTLE, CONG,
COUNTY MAYO " 66
CONG ABBEY, COUNTY MAYO " 68
WATER-FALL IN THE MARQUIS OF
SLIGO'S DEMESNE, WESTPORT,
COUNTY MAYO " 72
KYLEMORE CASTLE AND PRIVATE
CHAPEL, COUNTY GALWAY " 74
DEVIL'S MOTHER MOUNTAIN, AASLEAGH
FALLS, AND SALMON-LEAP
ON ERRIFF RIVER, COUNTY GALWAY " 76
THE FISHERY, ACHILL ISLAND,
SLIEVEMORE IN THE DISTANCE " 78
CATHEDRAL CLIFFS AT MENAWN,
ACHILL ISLAND " 81
ACHILL HEAD, COUNTY MAYO " 88
BOYS FISHING, NEAR RECESS, COUNTY
GALWAY " 94
A CONNEMARA TINKER " 102
THE LANDING OF THE COW, ARAN
ISLANDS " 106
ON OUR WAY TO DUN AENGUS, ARAN
ISLANDS " 108
"WE TAKE TO THE WATER IN A
CURRAGH." ARAN ISLANDS " 112
CURRAGHS, ARAN ISLANDS " 114
THE CLOISTERS, ADARE ABBEY,
COUNTY LIMERICK " 126
SHE SAT AND DROVE ON A LOW-BACK
CAR " 134
THE KETTLE IS BOILING FOR OUR
TEA " 136
ON AN IRISH JAUNTING-CAR
THROUGH DONEGAL AND CONNEMARA
NEW YORK TO LONDONDERRY
At New York, on the 26th of June, we boarded the SS. _Columbia_, the
new twin-screw steamer of the Anchor Line. Every berth was taken, and
as the passengers were a bright set, "on pleasure bent," there was an
entire absence of formality and exclusiveness. They sang, danced, and
amused themselves in many original ways, while the _Columbia_ reeled
off the knots with a clock-like regularity very agreeable to the
experienced travellers on board.
As our destination was Londonderry, we took a northerly course, which
brought us into floating ice-fields and among schools of porpoises and
whales; in fact, it was an uneventful day on which some passenger
could not boast of having seen "a spouter, just a few minutes ago!"
We celebrated the morning of the Fourth of July in a very pretentious
way with a procession of the nations in costume and burlesques on
the conditions of the day. The writer was cast to represent the Beef
Trust, and at two hundred and twenty-five pounds the selection met with
popular approval; but he found a passenger of thirty-five pounds more
in the foreground, and thereupon retired to the side-lines. Attorney
Grant, of New York, made a striking "Rob Roy," with his colossal
Corinthian pillars in their natural condition. A long list of games
and a variety of races for prizes gave us a lively afternoon, and the
evening wound up with a "grand" concert, at which Professor Green, of
Yale, made an excellent comic oration.
W. A. Ross, of New York, was my companion on the trip; A. B. Hepburn,
ex-Comptroller of the Currency, intended going with us, but was
prevented at the last moment by a pressure of business, which we very
much regretted.
The steamer soon sighted Tory Island, rapidly passed Malin Head, and
then turned in to Lough Foyle. When a few miles inside the mouth
of the latter, we stopped at Moville and the passengers for Ireland
were sent up to Londonderry on a tender. We were so far north and the
date was so near the longest day that we could easily read a paper at
midnight, and as we did not get through the custom-house until 4 A.M.,
we did not go to bed, but went to a hotel and had breakfast instead.
The custom-house examination at Derry, conducted under the _personal_
direction of a collector, is perhaps the most exasperating ordeal of
its kind to be found in any port in existence. The writer has passed
through almost all the important custom-houses in the world, and has
never seen such a display of inherent meanness as was shown by this
"collector." He seized with glee and charged duty upon a single package
of cigarettes belonging to a passenger, and he "nabbed" another man
with a quarter-pound of tobacco, thereby putting an extra shilling
into his King's pocket. He was an Irish imitation Englishman, and his
h's dropped on the dock like a shower of peas when he directed his
understrappers in a husky squeak how best to trap the passengers.
The owner of the quarter-pound of tobacco poured out the vials of
his wrath on the "collector" afterwards at the hotel: "I would give
a five-pound note to get him in some quiet place and pull his parrot
nose," was the way he wound up his invective. Neither were the ladies
allowed to escape, their clothing being shaken out in quest of tobacco
and spirits, since those are about the only articles on which duty is
charged. The very last cigar was extracted by long and bony fingers
from its cosey resting-place in the vest-pocket of a passenger who
shall be nameless--hence these tears! All other ports in Europe vie
with one another in liberal treatment of the tourist; they want his
gold. The writer landed both at Southampton and Dover last summer, and
at the latter place, although there were over five hundred trunks and
satchels on the steamer, not one was opened, nor was a single passenger
asked a question. Smuggling means the sale at a profit of goods brought
into port for that purpose; nothing from America can be sold at a
profit, unless it be steel rails, and they are much too long to carry
in a trunk.
We are now in "Derry," as it is called in Ireland, and every man in it
is "town proud"; and well he may be, as Derry has a historical record
second to but few cities in any country, and its siege is perhaps
the most celebrated in history. At this writing it has a population
of thirty-three thousand and is otherwise prosperous. Saint Columba
started it in 546 A.D. by building his abbey. Then came the deadly Dane
invader, swooping down on this and other Foyle settlements and glutting
his savage appetite for plunder. Out of the ruins left by the Danes
arose in 1164 the "Great Abbey of Abbot O'Brolchain," who was at that
time made the first bishop of Derry. The English struggled and fought
for centuries to gain a foothold in this part of Ireland, but to no
purpose until Sir Henry Docrora landed, about 1600 A.D., on the banks
of the Foyle with a force of four thousand men and two hundred horse.
He restored Fort Culmore and took Derry, destroyed all the churches,
the stones of which he used for building fortifications, and left
standing only the tower of the cathedral, which remained until after
the siege.
In 1608 Sir Cahir O'Doherty, of Inishowen, who at first had favored the
settlement, rebelled, took Culmore fort, and burned Derry. His death,
and the "flight of the earls" Tyrone and Tyrconnell to France, left
Derry and other vast possessions to English confiscation, over two
hundred thousand acres alone falling to the citizens of London. The
walls were built in 1609, and still remain in good condition, being
used as a promenade; the original guns bristle from loop-holes at
intervals, and "Roaring Meg" will always have a place in history for
the loud crack she made when fired on the enemy. She sits at the base
of Walker's monument now, silent, but still ugly. This monument is
erected on a column ninety feet high, starting from a bastion on the
wall, and has a statue of Walker on its summit. One of the earliest
feats in sight-seeing which the writer ever accomplished was to climb
to its top, up a narrow flight of spiral stairs. (There would not be
room enough for him in it now.)
James I. granted a new charter of incorporation to Derry in 1613, and
changed the name from Derrycolumcille to Londonderry. James II. laid
siege to the town in person in 1689, but failed to capture it. It was
defended for one hundred and five days by its citizens under George
Walker, but two thousand of them lost their lives from wounds and
starvation. On the 28th of July, the ships _Mountjoy_ and _Phoenix_,
by gallantly rushing in concert against the iron boom laid across
the Foyle, broke it, and relieved the starving people with plenty of
provisions; and so the siege was ended.
There are seven gates in the walls of Derry--viz., Bishop's Gate,
Shipquay Gate, Butchers' Gate, New Gate, Ferryquay Gate, Castle Gate,
and the Northern Gate, a recent addition. Those favorites of fortune
who live near New York know that | 581.237002 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.2170140 | 3,652 | 24 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Settlers at Home, by Harriet Martineau.
________________________________________________________________________
This shortish novel first appeared in 1841, and was published in a
collection of the author's four short 1841 novels, "The Playfellow".
The scene is set in Lincolnshire, a part of England much of which is
flat and prone to flooding by the sea. It was drained in the 1600s by
Dutch engineers by the creation of drains and sea defences. To this day
part of the county is called Holland. After the draining the land was
leased by the King to various settlers from overseas, among whom were
the Linacres, the hero-family of this book. The King's enemies break
down the sea defences, and the land is flooded, with haystacks, mills
and barns floating away, farm animals drowning, and everyone in great
peril. By various mishaps the three Linacre children and a boy from a
roguish nomadic family, are deprived of the Linacre mother and father
just when they most need them, and find themselves in the care of
Ailwin, the strong and sturdy maid-of-all-work. Before they can get
reunited with the parents, Geordie, the weakly two-year-old, dies, and
they have various struggles for survival, with foul water killing many
of the animals they would rely on for food. At last help comes in the
form of the local pastor, who has enlisted the aid of some men to row
him to wherever he is needed.
This book is pretty strong reading, and probably more of a tragedy than
any other category.
________________________________________________________________________
THE SETTLERS AT HOME, BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE SETTLERS AT HOME.
Two hundred years ago, the Isle of Axholme was one of the most
remarkable places in England. It is not an island in the sea. It is a
part of Lincolnshire--a piece of land hilly in the middle, and
surrounded by rivers. The Trent runs on the east side of it; and some
smaller rivers formerly flowed round the rest of it, joining the Humber
to the north. These rivers carried down a great deal of mud with them
to the Humber, and the tides of the Humber washed up a great deal of
sea-sand into the mouths of the rivers; so that the waters could not for
some time flow freely, and were at last prevented from flowing away at
all: they sank into the ground, and made a swamp of it--a swamp of many
miles round the hilly part of the Isle of Axholme.
This swamp was long a very dismal place. Fish, and water-birds, and
rats inhabited it: and here and there stood the hut of a fowler; or a
peat-stack raised by the people who lived on the hills round, and who
obtained their fuel from the peat-lands in the swamp. There were also,
sprinkled over the district, a few very small houses--cells belonging to
the Abbey of Saint Mary, at York. To these cells some of the monks from
Saint Mary's had been fond of retiring, in old times, for meditation and
prayer, and doing good in the district round; but when the soil became
so swampy as to give them the ague as often as they paid a visit to
these cells, the monks left off their practice of retiring hither; and
their little dwellings stood empty, to be gradually overgrown with green
moss and lank weeds, which no hand cleared away.
At last a Dutchman, having seen what wonders were done in his own
country by good draining, thought he could render this district fit to
be inhabited and cultivated; and he made a bargain with the king about
it. After spending much money, and taking great pains, he succeeded.
He drew the waters off into new channels, and kept them there by
sluices, and by carefully watching the embankments he had raised. The
land which was left dry was manured and cultivated, till, instead of a
reedy and mossy swamp, there were fields of clover and of corn, and
meadows of the finest grass, with cattle and sheep grazing in large
numbers. The dwellings that were still standing were made into
farm-houses, and new farmhouses were built. A church here, and a chapel
there was cleaned, and warmed, and painted, and opened for worship; and
good roads crossed the district into all the counties near.
Instead of being pleased with this change, the people of the country
were angry and discontented. Those who lived near had been long
accustomed to fishing and fowling in the swamp, without paying any rent,
or having to ask anybody's leave. They had no mind now to settle to the
regular toilsome business of farming,--and to be under a landlord, to
whom they must pay rent. Probably, too, they knew nothing about
farming, and would have failed in it if they had tried. Thus far they
were not to be blamed. But nothing can exceed the malignity with which
they treated the tenants who did settle in the isle, and the spiteful
spirit which they showed towards them, on every occasion.
These tenants were chiefly foreigners. There was a civil war in England
at that time: and the Yorkshire and Lincolnshire people were so much
engaged in fighting for King Charles or for the Parliament, that fewer
persons were at liberty to undertake new farms than there would have
been in a time of peace. When the Dutchman and his companions found
that the English were not disposed to occupy the Levels (as the drained
lands were called), they encouraged some of their own countrymen to come
over. With them arrived some few Frenchmen, who had been driven from
France into Holland, on account of their being Protestants. From first
to last, there were about two hundred families, Dutch and French,
settled in the Levels. Some were collected into a village, and had a
chapel opened, where a pastor of their own performed service for them.
Others were scattered over the district, living just where their
occupations required them to settle.
All these foreigners were subject to bad treatment from their
neighbours; but the stragglers were the worst off; because it was
easiest to tease and injure those who lived alone. The disappointed
fishers and fowlers gave other reasons for their own conduct, besides
that of being nearly deprived of their fishing and fowling. These
reasons were all bad, as reasons for hating always are. One excuse was
that the new settlers were foreigners--as if those who were far from
their own land did not need particular hospitality and kindness.
Another plea was that they were connected with the king, by being
settled on the lands which he had bargained to have drained: so that all
who sided with the parliament ought to injure the new tenants, in order
to annoy the king. If the settlers had tried to serve the king by
injuring his enemies, this last reason might have passed in a time of
war. But it was not so. It is probable that the foreigners did not
understand the quarrel. At any rate, they took no part in it. All they
desired was to be left in peace, to cultivate the lands they paid rent
for. But instead of peace, they had little but persecution.
One of these settlers, Mr Linacre, was not himself a farmer. He
supplied the farmers of the district with a manure of a particular kind,
which suited some of the richest soils they cultivated. He found, in
the red soil of the isle, a large mass of that white earth, called
gypsum, which, when wetted and burnt, makes plaster of Paris; and which,
when ground, makes a fine manure for some soils, as the careful Dutchmen
well knew. Mr Linacre set up a windmill on a little eminence which
rose out of the Level, just high enough to catch the wind; and there he
ground the gypsum which he dug from the neighbouring patch or quarry.
He had to build some out-houses, but not a dwelling-house; for, near his
mill, with just space enough for a good garden between, was one of the
largest of the old cells of the monks of Saint Mary's, so well built of
stone, and so comfortably arranged, that Mr Linacre had little to do
but to have it cleaned and furnished, and the windows and doors made
new, to fit it for the residence of his wife and children, and a
servant.
This building was round, and had three rooms below, and three over them.
A staircase of stone was in the very middle, winding round, like a
corkscrew,--leading to the upper rooms, and out upon the roof, from
which there was a beautiful view,--quite as far as the Humber to the
north-east, and to the circle of hills on every other side. Each of the
rooms below had a door to the open air, and another to the staircase;--
very unlike modern houses, and not so fit as they to keep out wind and
cold. But for this, the dwelling would have been very warm, for the
walls were of thick stone; and the fire-places were so large, that it
seemed as if the monks had been fond of good fires. Two of these lower
rooms opened into the garden; and the third, the kitchen, into the
yard;--so that the maid, Ailwin, had not far to go to milk the cow and
feed the poultry.
Mrs Linacre was as neat in the management of her house as people from
Holland usually are; and she did not like that the sitting-room, where
her husband had his meals, and spent his evenings, should be littered by
the children, or used at all by them during her absence at her daily
occupation, in the summer. So she let them use the third room for their
employments and their play. Her occupation, every summer's day, was
serving out the waters from a mineral spring, a good deal frequented by
sick people, three miles from her house, on the way to Gainsborough.
She set off, after an early breakfast, in the cool of the morning, and
generally arrived at the hill-side where the spring was, and had
unlocked her little shed, and taken out her glasses, and rinsed them,
before any travellers passed. It was rarely indeed that a sick person
had to wait a minute for her appearance. There she sat, in her shed
when it rained, and under a tree when it was fine, sewing or knitting
very diligently when no customers appeared, and now and then casting a
glance over the Levels to the spot where her husband's mill rose in the
midst of the green fields, and where she almost fancied sometimes that
she could see the children sitting on the mill-steps, or working in the
garden. When customers appeared, she was always ready in a moment to
serve them; and her smile cheered those who were sick, and pleased those
who came merely from curiosity. She slipped the halfpence she received
into a pocket beneath her apron; and sometimes the pocket was such a
heavy one to carry three miles home, that she just stepped aside to the
village shop at Haxey, or into a farm-house where the people would be
going to market next day, to get her copper exchanged for silver. Since
the times had become so troubled as they were now, however, she had
avoided showing her money anywhere on the road. Her husband's advice
was that she should give up attending the spring altogether; but she
gained so much money by it, and it was so likely that somebody would
step into her place there as soon as she gave it up, so that she would
not be able to regain her office when quieter times should come, that
she entreated him to allow her to go on while she had no fears. She
took the heavy gold ear-rings out of her ears, wore a plainer cap, and
left her large silver watch at home; so that she looked like a poor
woman whom no needy soldier or bold thief would think of robbing. She
guessed by the sun what was the right time for locking up her glasses
and going home; and she commonly met her husband, coming to fetch her,
before she had got half-way.
The three children were sure to be perched on the top of the quarry
bank, or on the mill-steps, or out on the roof of the house, at the top
of the winding staircase. Little George himself, though only two years
old, knew the very moment when he should shout and clap his hands, to
make his mother wave her handkerchief from the turn of the road. Oliver
and Mildred did not exactly feel that the days were too long while their
mother was away, for they had plenty to do; but they felt that the best
part of the day was the hour between her return and their going to bed:
and, unlike people generally, they liked winter better than summer,
because at that season their mother never left them, except to go to the
shop, or the market at Haxey.
Though Oliver was only eleven, and Mildred nine, they were not too young
to have a great deal to do. Oliver was really useful as a gardener; and
many a good dish of vegetables of his growing came to table in the
course of the year. Mildred had to take care of the child almost all
day; she often prepared the cabbage, and cut the bacon for Ailwin to
broil. She could also do what Ailwin could not,--she could sew a
little; and now and then there was an apron or a handkerchief ready to
be shown when Mrs Linacre came home in the evening. If she met with
any difficulty in her job, the maid could not help her, but her father
sometimes could; and it was curious to see Mildred mounting the mill
when she was at any loss, and her father wiping the white plaster off
his hands, and taking the needle or the scissors in his great fingers,
rather than that his little girl should not be able to surprise her
mother with a finished piece of work. Then, both Oliver and Mildred had
to learn their catechism, to say to Pastor Dendel on Sunday; and always
a copy or an exercise on hand, to be ready to show him when he should
call; and some book to finish that he had lent them to read, and that
others of his flock would be ready for when they had done.
Besides all this, there was an occupation which both boy and girl
thought more of than of all others together. Among the loads of gypsum
that came to the mill, there were often pieces of the best kind,--lumps
of real, fine alabaster. Alabaster is so soft as to be easily worked.
Even a finger-nail will make a mark upon it. Everybody knows how
beautiful vases and little statues, well wrought in alabaster, look on a
mantelpiece, or a drawing-room table. Oliver had seen such in France,
where they are very common: and his father had carried one or two
ornaments of this kind into Holland, when he had to leave France. It
was a great delight for Oliver to find, on settling in Axholme, that he
could have as much alabaster as he pleased, if he could only work it.
With a little help from Pastor Dendel and his father, he soon learned to
do so; and of all his employments, he liked this the best. Pastor
Dendel brought him a few bowls and cups of pretty shapes and different
sizes, made of common wood by a turner, who was one of his flock; and
Oliver first copied these in clay, and then in alabaster. By degrees he
learned to vary his patterns, and at last to make his clay models from
fancies of his own,--some turning out failures, and others prettier than
any of his wooden cups. These last he proceeded to carve out of
alabaster.
Mildred could not help watching him while he was about his favourite
work, though it was difficult to keep little George from tossing the
alabaster about, and stamping on the best pieces, or sucking them. He
would sometimes give his sister a few minutes' peace and quiet by
rolling the | 581.237054 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.3144460 | 1,150 | 6 |
Produced by John Hamm
THE OCTOPUS
A Story of California
by Frank Norris
BOOK 1
CHAPTER I
Just after passing Caraher's saloon, on the County Road that ran south
from Bonneville, and that divided the Broderson ranch from that of Los
Muertos, Presley was suddenly aware of the faint and prolonged blowing
of a steam whistle that he knew must come from the railroad shops near
the depot at Bonneville. In starting out from the ranch house that
morning, he had forgotten his watch, and was now perplexed to know
whether the whistle was blowing for twelve or for one o'clock. He hoped
the former. Early that morning he had decided to make a long excursion
through the neighbouring country, partly on foot and partly on his
bicycle, and now noon was come already, and as yet he had hardly
started. As he was leaving the house after breakfast, Mrs. Derrick had
asked him to go for the mail at Bonneville, and he had not been able to
refuse.
He took a firmer hold of the cork grips of his handlebars--the road
being in a wretched condition after the recent hauling of the crop--and
quickened his pace. He told himself that, no matter what the time was,
he would not stop for luncheon at the ranch house, but would push on
to Guadalajara and have a Spanish dinner at Solotari's, as he had
originally planned.
There had not been much of a crop to haul that year. Half of the wheat
on the Broderson ranch had failed entirely, and Derrick himself had
hardly raised more than enough to supply seed for the winter's sowing.
But such little hauling as there had been had reduced the roads
thereabouts to a lamentable condition, and, during the dry season of the
past few months, the layer of dust had deepened and thickened to such
an extent that more than once Presley was obliged to dismount and trudge
along on foot, pushing his bicycle in front of him.
It was the last half of September, the very end of the dry season, and
all Tulare County, all the vast reaches of the San Joaquin Valley--in
fact all South Central California, was bone dry, parched, and baked
and crisped after four months of cloudless weather, when the day seemed
always at noon, and the sun blazed white hot over the valley from the
Coast Range in the west to the foothills of the Sierras in the east.
As Presley drew near to the point where what was known as the Lower Road
struck off through the Rancho de Los Muertos, leading on to Guadalajara,
he came upon one of the county watering-tanks, a great, iron-hooped
tower of wood, straddling clumsily on its four uprights by the roadside.
Since the day of its completion, the storekeepers and retailers of
Bonneville had painted their advertisements upon it. It was a landmark.
In that reach of level fields, the white letters upon it could be read
for miles. A watering-trough stood near by, and, as he was very thirsty,
Presley resolved to stop for a moment to get a drink.
He drew abreast of the tank and halted there, leaning his bicycle
against the fence. A couple of men in white overalls were repainting
the surface of the tank, seated on swinging platforms that hung by hooks
from the roof. They were painting a sign--an advertisement. It was all
but finished and read, "S. Behrman, Real Estate, Mortgages, Main Street,
Bonneville, Opposite the Post Office." On the horse-trough that stood
in the shadow of the tank was another freshly painted inscription: "S.
Behrman Has Something To Say To You."
As Presley straightened up after drinking from the faucet at one end of
the horse-trough, the watering-cart itself laboured into view around
the turn of the Lower Road. Two mules and two horses, white with dust,
strained leisurely in the traces, moving at a snail's pace, their limp
ears marking the time; while perched high upon the seat, under a yellow
cotton wagon umbrella, Presley recognised Hooven, one of Derrick's
tenants, a German, whom every one called "Bismarck," an excitable little
man with a perpetual grievance and an endless flow of broken English.
"Hello, Bismarck," said Presley, as Hooven brought his team to a
standstill by the tank, preparatory to refilling.
"Yoost der men I look for, Mist'r Praicely," cried the other, twisting
the reins around the brake. "Yoost one minute, you wait, hey? I wanta
talk mit you."
Presley was impatient to be on his way again. A little more time wasted,
and the day would be lost. He had nothing to do with the management
of the ranch, and if Hooven wanted any advice from him, it was so much
breath wasted. These uncouth brutes of farmhands and petty ranchers,
grimed with the soil they worked upon, were odious to him beyond words.
Never could he feel in sympathy with them, nor with their lives, their
ways, their marriages, deaths | 581.334486 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.3826310 | 2,307 | 20 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, David Garcia, Charles Franks,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE JEW AND OTHER STORIES
BY IVAN TURGENEV
_Translated from the Russian_
_By CONSTANCE GARNETT_
TO THE MEMORY OF STEPNIAK
WHOSE LOVE OF TURGENEV
SUGGESTED THIS TRANSLATION
INTRODUCTION
In studying the Russian novel it is amusing to note the childish
attitude of certain English men of letters to the novel in general,
their depreciation of its influence and of the public's 'inordinate'
love of fiction. Many men of letters to-day look on the novel as a mere
story-book, as a series of light-, amusing pictures for their
'idle hours,' and on memoirs, biographies, histories, criticism, and
poetry as the age's _serious_ contribution to literature. Whereas
the reverse is the case. The most serious and significant of all
literary forms the modern world has evolved is the novel; and brought to
its highest development, the novel shares with poetry to-day the honour
of being the supreme instrument of the great artist's literary skill.
To survey the field of the novel as a mere pleasure-garden marked out
for the crowd's diversion--a field of recreation adorned here and there
by the masterpieces of a few great men--argues in the modern critic
either an academical attitude to literature and life, or a one-eyed
obtuseness, or merely the usual insensitive taste. The drama in all but
two countries has been willy-nilly abandoned by artists as a coarse
playground for the great public's romps and frolics, but the novel can
be preserved exactly so long as the critics understand that to exercise
a delicate art is the one _serious_ duty of the artistic life. It
is no more an argument against the vital significance of the novel that
tens of thousands of people--that everybody, in fact--should to-day
essay that form of art, than it is an argument against poetry that for
all the centuries droves and flocks of versifiers and scribblers and
rhymesters have succeeded in making the name of poet a little foolish in
worldly eyes. The true function of poetry! That can only be vindicated
in common opinion by the severity and enthusiasm of critics in stripping
bare the false, and in hailing as the true all that is animated by the
living breath of beauty. The true function of the novel! That can only
be supported by those who understand that the adequate representation
and criticism of human life would be impossible for modern men were the
novel to go the way of the drama, and be abandoned to the mass of vulgar
standards. That the novel is the most insidious means of mirroring human
society Cervantes in his great classic revealed to seventeenth-century
Europe. Richardson and Fielding and Sterne in their turn, as great
realists and impressionists, proved to the eighteenth century that the
novel is as flexible as life itself. And from their days to the days of
Henry James the form of the novel has been adapted by European genius to
the exact needs, outlook, and attitude to life of each successive
generation. To the French, especially to Flaubert and Maupassant, must
be given the credit of so perfecting the novel's technique that it has
become the great means of cosmopolitan culture. It was, however,
reserved for the youngest of European literatures, for the Russian
school, to raise the novel to being the absolute and triumphant
expression by the national genius of the national soul.
Turgenev's place in modern European literature is best defined by saying
that while he stands as a great classic in the ranks of the great
novelists, along with Richardson, Fielding, Scott, Balzac, Dickens,
Thackeray, Meredith, Tolstoi, Flaubert, Maupassant, he is the greatest
of them all, in the sense that he is the supreme artist. As has been
recognised by the best French critics, Turgenev's art is both wider in
its range and more beautiful in its form than the work of any modern
European artist. The novel modelled by Turgenev's hands, the Russian
novel, became _the_ great modern instrument for showing 'the very
age and body of the time his form and pressure.' To reproduce human life
in all its subtlety as it moves and breathes before us, and at the same
time to assess its values by the great poetic insight that reveals man's
relations to the universe around him,--that is an art only transcended
by Shakespeare's own in its unique creation of a universe of great human
types. And, comparing Turgenev with the European masters, we see that if
he has made the novel both more delicate and more powerful than their
example shows it, it is because as the supreme artist he filled it with
the breath of poetry where others in general spoke the word of prose.
Turgenev's horizon always broadens before our eyes: where Fielding and
Richardson speak for the country and the town, Turgenev speaks for the
nation. While Balzac makes defile before us an endless stream of human
figures, Turgenev's characters reveal themselves as wider apart in the
range of their spirit, as more mysteriously alive in their inevitable
essence, than do Meredith's or Flaubert's, than do Thackeray's or
Maupassant's. Where Tolstoi uses an immense canvas in _War and
Peace_, wherein Europe may see the march of a whole generation,
Turgenev in _Fathers and Children_ concentrates in the few words of
a single character, Bazarov, the essence of modern science's attitude to
life, that scientific spirit which has transformed both European life
and thought. It is, however, superfluous to draw further parallels
between Turgenev and his great rivals. In England alone, perhaps, is it
necessary to say to the young novelist that the novel can become
anything, can be anything, according to the hands that use it. In its
application to life, its future development can by no means be gauged.
It is the most complex of all literary instruments, the chief method
to-day of analysing the complexities of modern life. If you love your
art, if you would exalt it, treat it absolutely seriously. If you would
study it in its highest form, the form the greatest artist of our time
has perfected--remember Turgenev.
EDWARD GARNETT.
November 1899.
CONTENTS
THE JEW
AN UNHAPPY GIRL
THE DUELLIST
THREE PORTRAITS
ENOUGH
THE JEW
...'Tell us a story, colonel,' we said at last to Nikolai Ilyitch.
The colonel smiled, puffed out a coil of tobacco smoke between his
moustaches, passed his hand over his grey hair, looked at us and
considered. We all had the greatest liking and respect for Nikolai
Ilyitch, for his good-heartedness, common sense, and kindly indulgence
to us young fellows. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, stoutly-built man;
his dark face, 'one of the splendid Russian faces,' [Footnote: Lermontov
in the _Treasurer's Wife_.--AUTHOR'S NOTE.] straight-forward,
clever glance, gentle smile, manly and mellow voice--everything about
him pleased and attracted one.
'All right, listen then,' he began.
It happened in 1813, before Dantzig. I was then in the E---- regiment of
cuirassiers, and had just, I recollect, been promoted to be a cornet. It
is an exhilarating occupation--fighting; and marching too is good enough
in its way, but it is fearfully slow in a besieging army. There one sits
the whole blessed day within some sort of entrenchment, under a tent, on
mud or straw, playing cards from morning till night. Perhaps, from
simple boredom, one goes out to watch the bombs and redhot bullets
flying.
At first the French kept us amused with sorties, but they quickly
subsided. We soon got sick of foraging expeditions too; we were
overcome, in fact, by such deadly dulness that we were ready to howl for
sheer _ennui_. I was not more than nineteen then; I was a healthy
young fellow, fresh as a daisy, thought of nothing but getting all the
fun I could out of the French... and in other ways too... you
understand what I mean... and this is what happened. Having nothing to
do, I fell to gambling. All of a sudden, after dreadful losses, my luck
turned, and towards morning (we used to play at night) I had won an
immense amount. Exhausted and sleepy, I came out into the fresh air, and
sat down on a mound. It was a splendid, calm morning; the long lines of
our fortifications were lost in the mist; I gazed till I was weary, and
then began to doze where I was sitting.
A discreet cough waked me: I opened my eyes, and saw standing before me
a Jew, a man of forty, wearing a long-skirted grey wrapper, slippers,
and a black smoking-cap. This Jew, whose name was Girshel, was
continually hanging about our camp, offering his services as an agent,
getting us wine, provisions, and other such trifles. He was a thinnish,
red-haired, little man, marked with smallpox; he blinked incessantly
with his diminutive little eyes, which were reddish too; he had a long
crooked nose, and was always coughing.
He began fidgeting about me, bowing obsequiously.
'Well, what do you want?' I asked him at last.
'Oh, I only--I've only come, sir, to know if I can't be of use to your
honour in some way...'
'I don't want you; you can go.'
'At your honour's service, as you desire.... I thought there might be,
sir, something....'
'You bother me; go along, I tell you.'
'Certainly, sir, certainly. But your honour must permit me to
congratulate you on your success....'
'Why, how did you know?'
'Oh, I know, to be sure I do.... An immense sum... immense....Oh! how
immense....'
Girshel spread out his fingers and wagged | 581.402671 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.4179360 | 2,439 | 9 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, David Garcia and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. XIV, NO. 407.] DECEMBER 24, 1829. [PRICE 2d.
CONTAINING
ORIGINAL ESSAYS
HISTORICAL NARRATIVES; BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS; SKETCHES OF
SOCIETY; TOPOGRAPHICAL DESCRIPTIONS; NOVELS
AND TALES; ANECDOTES;
SELECT EXTRACTS
FROM
NEW AND EXPENSIVE WORKS;
_POETRY, ORIGINAL AND SELECTED;_
The Spirit of the Public Journals;
DISCOVERIES IN THE ARTS AND SCIENCES;
_USEFUL DOMESTIC HINTS;_
_&c. &c. &c._
========
VOL. XIV.
========
London,
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. LIMBIRD, 143, STRAND,
(_Near Somerset House_.)
____
1829
PREFACE
Wassailing, prefaces, and waits, are nearly at a stand-still; and in
these days of universality and everything, we almost resolved to leave
this page blank, and every reader to write his own preface, had we not
questioned whether the custom would be more honoured in the breach than
the observance.
My Public--that is, our readers--we have served you seven years, through
fourteen volumes; in each renewing our professions of gratitude, and
study for your gratification; and we hope we shall not presume on your
liberal disposition by calculating on your continued patronage. We have
endeavoured to keep our engagements with you--_to the letter_[1]--as
they say in weightier matters; and, as every man is bound to speak of
the fair as he has found his market in it, we ought to acknowledge the
superabundant and quick succession of literary novelties for the present
volume. There is little of our own; because we have uniformly taken Dr.
Johnson's advice in life--"to play for much, and stake little" This will
extenuate our assuming that "from castle to cottage we are regularly
taken in:" indeed, it would be worse than vanity to suppose that price
or humble pretensions should exclude us; it would be against the very
economy of life to imagine this; and we are still willing to abide by
such chances of success.
[1] This is not intended exclusively for the _new type_ of the
present volume.
Cheap Books, we hope, will never be an evil; for, as "the same care and
toil that raise a dish of peas at Christmas, would give bread to a whole
family during six months;" so the expense of a gay volume at this season
will furnish a moderate circle with amusive reading for a twelvemonth.
We do not draw this comparison invidiously, but merely to illustrate the
advantages of literary economy.
The number _Seven_--the favourite of Swift, (and how could it be
otherwise than odd?) has, perhaps, led us into this rambling monologue
on our merits; but we agree with Yorick in thinking gravity an errant
scoundrel.
A proportionate Index will guide our accustomed readers to any
particular article in the present volume; but for those of shorter
acquaintance, a slight reference to its principal points may be useful.
Besides, a few of its delights may have been choked by weeds and
crosses, and their recollection lost amidst the lights and shadows
of busy life.
The zeal of our Correspondents is first entitled to honourable mention;
and many of their contributions to these pages must have cost them much
time and research; for which we beg them to accept our best thanks.
Of the Selections, generally, we shall only observe, that our aim has
been to convey information and improvement in the most amusing form.
When we sit down to the pleasant task of cutting open--not cutting
_up_--a book, we say, "If this won't turn out something, another will;
no matter--'tis an essay upon human nature. (We) get (our) labour for
(our) pains--'tis enough--the pleasure of the experiment has kept (our)
senses, and the best part of (our) blood awake, and laid the gross to
sleep." In this way we find many good things, and banish the rest;
we attempt to "boke something new," and revive others. Thus we have
described the Siamese Twins in a single number; and in others we
have brought to light many almost forgotten antiquarian rarities.
Of Engravings, Paper, and Print, we need say but little: each speaks
_prima facie,_ for itself. Improvement has been studied in all of
them; and in the Cuts, both interest and execution have been cardinal
points. Milan Cathedral; Old Tunbridge Wells and its Old Visitors;
Clifton; Gurney's Steam Carriage; and the Bologna Towers; are perhaps
the best specimens: and by way of varying architectural embellishments,
a few of the Wonders of Nature have been occasionally introduced.
Owen Feltham would call this "a cart-rope" Preface: therefore, with
promises of future exertion, we hope our next Seven Years may be as
successful as the past.
143, _Strand, Dec._ 24, 1829.
[Illustration: Thomas Campbell, Esq.]
* * * * *
MEMOIR OF THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.
Of the subject of this memoir, it has been remarked, "that he has not,
that we know of, written one line, which, dying, he could wish to blot."
These few words will better illustrate the fitness of Mr. Campbell's
portrait for our volume, than a laudatory memoir of many pages. He has
not inaptly been styled the Tyrtaeus of modern English poetry, and one
of the most chaste and tender as well as original of poets. He owes less
than any other British poet to his predecessors and contemporaries.
He has lived to see his lines quoted like those of earlier poets in the
literature of his day, lisped by children, and sung at public festivals.
The war-odes of Campbell have scarcely anything to match them in-the
English language for energy and fire, while their condensation and the
felicitous selection of their versification are in remarkable harmony.
Campbell, in allusion to Cymon, has been said to have "conquered both
on land and sea," from his Naval Odes and "Hohenlinden" embracing both
scenes of warfare.
Scotland gave birth to Thomas Campbell. He is the son of a second
marriage, and was born at Glasgow, in 1777. His father was born in 1710,
and was consequently nearly seventy years of age when the poet, his son,
was ushered into the world. He was sent early to school, in his native
place, and his instructor was Dr. David Alison, a man of great celebrity
in the practice of education. He had a method of instruction in the
classics purely his own, by which he taught with great facility, and
at the same time rejected all harsh discipline, substituting kindness
for terror, and alluring rather than compelling the pupil to his duty.
Campbell began to write verse when young; and some of his earliest
attempts at poetry are yet extant among his friends in Scotland. For his
place of education he had a great respect, as well as for the memory of
his masters, of whom he always spoke in terms of great affection. He was
twelve years old when he quitted school for the University of Glasgow.
There he was considered an excellent Latin scholar, and gained high
honour by a contest with a candidate twice as old as himself, by which
he obtained a bursary. He constantly bore away the prizes, and every
fresh success only seemed to stimulate him to more ambitious exertions.
In Greek he was considered the foremost student of his age; and some
of his translations are said to be superior to any before offered for
competition in the University. While there he made poetical paraphrases
of the most celebrated Greek poets; of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and
Aristophanes, which were thought efforts of extraordinary promise.
Dr. Millar at that time gave philosophical lectures in Glasgow. He was
a highly gifted teacher, and excellent man. His lectures attracted the
attention of young Campbell, who became his pupil, and studied with
eagerness the principles of sound philosophy; the poet was favoured
with the confidence of his teacher, and partook much of his society.
Campbell quitted Glasgow to remove into Argyleshire, where a situation
in a family of some note was offered and accepted by him. It was in
Argyleshire,[2] among the romantic mountains of the north, that his
poetical spirit increased, and the charms of verse took entire
possession of his mind. Many persons now alive remember him wandering
there alone by the torrent, or over the rugged heights of that wild
country, reciting the strains of other poets aloud, or silently
composing his own. Several of his pieces which he has rejected in his
collected works, are handed about in manuscript in Scotland. We quote
one of these wild compositions which has hitherto appeared only in
periodical publications.
[2] For a view of this retreat, see the MIRROR No. 337.
* * * * *
DIRGE OF WALLACE.
They lighted a taper at the dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright
Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord;
And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board,
To tell of her warrior's doom!
Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here!
For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep:
The lord of my bosom is doomed to die:
His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,
For Wallace of Elderslie!
Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping was there when his bosom bled--
And his heart was rent in twain!
Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn;
And the hosts of a thousand were scatter'd | 581.437976 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.5171710 | 4,524 | 12 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
CATS: Their Points and Characteristics.
[Illustration: "SHIPMATES."]
"CATS:"
THEIR POINTS AND CHARACTERISTICS,
WITH CURIOSITIES OF CAT LIFE,
AND A CHAPTER ON FELINE AILMENTS.
BY _W. GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M., R.N._,
AUTHOR OF
"MEDICAL LIFE IN THE NAVY," "WILD ADVENTURES IN THE FAR NORTH,"
THE "NEWFOUNDLAND AND WATCH DOG," IN WEBB'S BOOK ON DOGS,
ETC. ETC.
LONDON: DEAN & SON,
ST. DUNSTAN'S BUILDINGS, 160A, FLEET STREET, E.C.
CONTENTS.
VOL. I.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. APOLOGETIC 1
II. PUSSY ON HER NATIVE HEARTH 3
III. PUSSY'S LOVE OF CHILDREN 26
IV. PUSSY "POLL" 36
V. SAGACITY OF CATS 44
VI. A CAT THAT KEEPS THE SABBATH 61
VII. HONEST CATS 64
VIII. THE PLOUGHMAN'S "MYSIE" 70
IX. TENACITY OF LIFE IN CATS 74
X. NOMADISM IN CATS 87
XI. "IS CATS TO BE TRUSTED?" 94
XII. PUSSY AS A MOTHER 109
XIII. HOME TIES AND AFFECTIONS 125
XIV. FISHING EXPLOITS 141
XV. THE ADVENTURES OF BLINKS 151
XVI. HUNTING EXPLOITS 190
XVII. COCK-JOCK AND THE CAT 200
XVIII. NURSING VAGARIES 209
XIX. PUSSY'S PLAYMATES 221
XX. PUSSY AND THE HARE 230
XXI. THE MILLER'S FRIEND. A TALE 235
ADDENDA. CONTAINING THE NAMES AND ADDRESSES OF THE
VOUCHERS FOR THE AUTHENTICITY OF THE
ANECDOTES 267
VOL. II.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. ORIGIN AND ANTIQUITY OF THE DOMESTIC CAT 278
II. CLASSIFICATION AND POINTS 285
III. PUSSY'S PATIENCE AND CLEANLINESS 307
IV. TRICKS AND TRAINING 319
V. CRUELTY TO CATS 329
VI. PARLIAMENTARY PROTECTION FOR THE DOMESTIC CAT 356
VII. FELINE AILMENTS 366
VIII. ODDS AND ENDS 387
IX. THE TWO "MUFFIES." A TALE 410
X. BLACK TOM, THE SKIPPER'S IMP. A TALE 440
ADDENDA. CONTAINING THE NAMES AND ADDRESSES OF THE
VOUCHERS FOR THE AUTHENTICITY OF THE
ANECDOTES 479
SPRATT'S PATENT
CAT FOOD.
[Illustration: TRADE MARK.]
It has long been considered that the food given to that useful domestic
favourite, the CAT, is the sole cause of all the diseases it suffers from;
nearly all Cats in towns are fed on boiled horseflesh, in many cases
diseased and conveying disease.
This Food is introduced to entirely supersede the present unwholesome
practice; it is made from pure fresh beef and other sound materials, not
from horseflesh or other deleterious substances. It will be found the
cheapest food to preserve the health and invigorate the constitution,
prolong the existence, and extend the usefulness, gentleness, and
cleanliness of the Cat.
_Sold in 1d. Packets only. Each Packet contains sufficient to feed a Cat
for two days. The wrapper of every Packet is the same in colour, and bears
the Trade Mark as above, and the name of the Patentee, and no other Packet
is genuine._
DIRECTIONS FOR USE.
Mix the food with a little milk or water, making it crumbly moist, not
sloppy.
SPRATT'S PATENT MEAT FIBRINE DOG CAKES, 22_s._ per cwt., Carriage Paid.
SPRATT'S PATENT POULTRY FOOD, 22_s._ per cwt., Carriage Paid.
SPRATT'S PATENT GRANULATED PRAIRIE MEAT CRISSEL, 28_s._ per cwt., Carriage
Paid.
_Address--SPRATT'S PATENT_,
HENRY STREET, BERMONDSEY STREET, TOOLEY STREET, S.E.
TO
LADY MILDRED BERESFORD-HOPE,
AND
LADY DOROTHY NEVILL,
THIS WORK
Is dedicated
With feelings of regard and esteem,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
CAT MEDICINE CHEST,
_Beautifully fitted up with everything necessary
to keep Pussy in Health, or to Cure her when Ill._
The Medicines are done up in a new form, now
introduced for the first time, are easy to
administer, and do not soil the fur.
A NICELY FINISHED ARTICLE,
HIGHLY SUITABLE FOR A PRESENT.
PRICE, with Synopsis of Diseases of Cats and their
Treatment, 21s.
LONDON: DEAN & SON,
FACTORS, PUBLISHERS,
Valentine, Birthday, Christmas, and Easter Card
Manufacturers,
ST. DUNSTAN'S BUILDINGS, 160A, FLEET STREET.
CATS.
CHAPTER I.
[_See Note A, Addenda._]
APOLOGETIC.
"If ye mane to write a preface to your book, sure you must put it in the
end entoirely."
Such was the advice an Irish friend gave me, when I talked of an
introductory chapter to the present work on cats. I think it was a good
one. Whether it be owing to our style of living now-a-days, which tends
more to the development of brain than muscle; or whether it be, as Darwin
says, that we really are descended from the ape, and, as the years roll
on, are losing that essentially animal virtue--patience; certainly it is
true that we cannot tolerate prefaces, preludes, and long graces before
meat, as our grandfathers did. A preface, like Curacoa--and--B, before
dinner, ought to be short and sweet: something merely to give an edge to
appetite, or it had as well be put in the "end entoirely," or better
still, in the fire.
I presume, then, the reader is fond of the domestic cat; if only for the
simple reason that God made it. Yes; God made it, and man mars it. Pussy
is an ill-used, much persecuted, little understood, and greatly slandered
animal. It is with the view, therefore, of gaining for our little fireside
friend a greater meed of justice than she has hitherto obtained, of
removing the ban under which she mostly lives, and making her life a more
pleasant and happy one, that the following pages are written; and I shall
deem it a blessing if I am _in any way_ successful. I have tried to paint
pussy just as she is, without the aid of "putty and varnish;" and I have
been at no small pains to prove the authenticity of the various anecdotes,
and can assure the reader that they are all _strictly true_.
CHAPTER II.
[_See Note B, Addenda._]
PUSSY ON HER NATIVE HEARTH.
"It wouldn't have surprised me a bit, doctor," said my gallant captain to
me, on the quarter-deck of the saucy _Pen-gun_,--"It wouldn't have
surprised me a bit, if they had sent you on board, minus the head. A nice
thing that would have been, with so many hands sick."
"And rather unconvenient for me," I added, stroking my neck.
I had been explaining to the gentleman, that my reason for not being off
the night before, was my finding myself on the desert side of the gates of
Aden after sun-down. A strange motley cut-throat band I had found myself
among, too. Wild Somalis, half-caste Indian Jews, Bedouin Arabs, and burly
Persian merchants, all armed with sword and spear and shield, and long
rifles that, judging by their build, seemed made to shoot round corners.
Strings of camels lay on the ground; and round each camp-fire squatted
these swarthy sons of the desert, engaged in talking, eating, smoking, or
quarrelling, as the case might be. Unless at Falkirk tryst, I had never
been among such a parcel of rogues in my life. I myself was armed to the
teeth: that is, I had nothing but my tongue wherewith to defend myself. I
could not help a feeling of insecurity taking possession of me; there
seemed to be a screw that wanted tightening somewhere about my neck. Yet I
do not now repent having spent that night in the desert, as it has
afforded me the opportunity of settling that long-disputed question--the
origin of the domestic cat.
Some have searched Egyptian annals for the origin of their pet, some
Persian, and some assert they can trace its descent from the days of Noah.
I can go a long way beyond that. It is difficult to get over the flood,
though; but I suppose my typical cat belonged to some one of the McPherson
clan. McPhlail was telling McPherson, that he could trace his genealogy
from the days of Noah.
"And mine," said the rival clansman, "from nine hundred years before
that."
"But the flood, you know?" hinted the McPhlail.
"And did you ever hear of a Phairson that hadn't a boat of his own?" was
the indignant retort.
In the midst of a group of young Arabs, was one that attracted my special
attention. He was an old man who looked, with his snow-white beard, his
turban and robes, as venerable as one of Dore's patriarchs. In sonorous
tones, in his own noble language, he was reading from a book in his lap,
while one arm was coiled lovingly round a beautiful long-haired cat.
Beside this man I threw myself down. The fierceness of his first glance,
which seemed to resent my intrusion, melted into a smile as sweet as a
woman's, when I began to stroke and admire his cat. Just the same story
all the world over,--praise a man's pet and he'll do anything for you;
fight for you, or even lend you money. That Arab shared his supper with
me.
"Ah! my son," he said, "more than my goods, more than my horse, I love my
cat. She comforts me. More than the smoke she soothes me. Allah is great
and good; when our first mother and father went out into the mighty desert
alone, He gave them two friends to defend and comfort them--the dog and
the cat. In the body of the cat He placed the spirit of a gentle woman; in
the dog the soul of a brave man. It is true, my son; the book hath it."
After this I remained for some time speculatively silent.
The old man's story may be taken--according to taste--with or without a
grain of salt; but we must admit it is as good a way of accounting for
domestic pussy's origin as any other.
There really is, moreover, a great deal of the woman's nature in the cat.
Like a woman, pussy prefers a settled home to leading a roving life. Like
a true woman, she is fond of fireside comforts. Then she is so gentle in
all her ways, so kind, so loving, and so forgiving. On your return from
business, the very look of her honest face, as she sits purring on the
hearth-rug, with the pleasant adjuncts of a bright fire and hissing
tea-urn, tends to make you forget all the cares of the day. When you are
dull and lonely, how often does her "punky humour," her mirth-provoking
attitudes and capers banish ennui. And if you are ill, how carefully she
will watch by your bedside and keep you company. How her low song will
lull you, her soft caresses soothe you, giving you more real consolation
from the looks of concern exhibited on her loving little face, than any
language could convey.
On the other hand, like a woman, she is prying and curious. A locked
cupboard is often a greater source of care and thought to pussy, than the
secret chamber was to the wife of Blue Beard. I'm sure it is only because
she cannot read that she refrains from opening your letters of a morning,
and only because she cannot speak that she keeps a secret. Like a woman,
too, she dearly loves a gossip, and will have it too, even if it be by
night on the tiles, at the risk of keeping the neighbours awake. Oh! I'm
far from sure that the Arab isn't right, after all.
Pussy, from the very day she opens her wondering eyes and stares vacantly
around her, becomes an object worthy of study and observation. Indeed,
kittens, even before their eyes are opened, will know your voice or hand,
and spit at a stranger's. The first year of pussy's existence is certainly
the happiest. No creature in the world is so fond of fun and mischief as a
kitten. Everything that moves or is movable, from its mother's tail to the
table-cloth, must minister to its craze for a romp; but what pen could
describe its intense joy, its pride and self-satisfaction, when, for the
first time it has caught a real live mouse? This is as much an episode in
the life of a kitten, as her first ball is to a young lady just out. Nor
do well-trained and properly-fed cats ever lose this innate sense of fun,
and love of the ridiculous. They lose their teeth first. I have seen
demure old cats, of respectable matronly aspect,--cats that ought to have
known better,--leave their kittens when only a day old, and gambol
round the room after a cork till tired and giddy.
[Illustration: BLACK and WHITE.
First Prize--Owned by J. BRADDEN, ESQ.]
[Illustration: WILD CAT (Half-Bred).
First Prize--Owned by A. H. SEAGER, ESQ.]
Cats of the right sort never fail to bring their kittens up in the way
they should go, and soon succeed in teaching them all they know
themselves. They will bring in living mice for them, and always take more
pride in the best warrior-kitten than in the others. They will also
inculcate the doctrine of cleanliness in their kits, so that the carpet
shall never be wet. I have often been amused at seeing my own cat bringing
kitten after kitten to the sand-box, and showing it how to use it, in
action explaining to them what it was there for. When a little older, she
entices them out to the garden.
Cats can easily be taught to be polite and well-mannered. It depends upon
yourself, whether you allow your favourite to sit either on your shoulder
or on the table at meal-times, or to wait demurely on the hearth till you
have finished. In any case, her appetite should never get the better of
her good manners.
"We always teach our cats," writes a lady to me, "to wait patiently while
the family are at their meals, after which they are served. Although we
never keep a dish for them standing in a corner, as some people do, yet we
never had a cat-thief. Our Tom and Topsy used to sit on a chair beside my
brother, near the table, with only their heads under the level of it. They
would peep up occasionally to see if the meal were nearly over; but on
being reminded that their time had not come, they would immediately close
their eyes and feign to be asleep.
"Poor old Tom knew the time my brother came in from business, and if five
or ten minutes past his time, he would go to the door and listen, then
come back to the fireside showing every symptom of impatience and anxiety.
He knew the footsteps of every member of the family, and would start up,
before the human ear could detect a sound, and hasten to the door to
welcome the comer. He knew the knock of people who were frequent visitors,
and would greet the knock of a stranger with an angry growl.
"Tom would never eat a mouse until he had shown it to some member of the
family, and been requested to eat it; and although brought up in a country
village, made himself perfectly at home in Glasgow, although living on the
third floor. But poor faithful fellow, after sticking to us through all
the varied changes of fourteen years, one wintry morning--he had been out
all night--when I drew up the window to call him, he answered me with such
a plaintive voice, that I at once hastened down to see what was the
matter. He was lying helpless and bleeding among the snow, with one leg
broken. He died."
Cats will often attach themselves to some one member of a family in
preference to all others. They are as a rule more fond of children than
grown-up people, and usually lavish more affection on a woman than a man.
They have particular tastes too, as regards some portions of the house in
which they reside, often selecting some room or corner of a room which
they make their "sanctum sanctorum."
Talking of her cats, a lady correspondent says:--"Toby's successor was a
black and white kitten we called Jenny. Jenny was considered my father's
cat, as she followed him and no one else. Our house and that of an aunt
were near to each other, and on Sabbath mornings it was my father's
invariable custom to walk in the garden, closely followed by Jenny,
afterwards going in to visit his sister before going to church. Jenny
enjoyed those visits amazingly; every one was so fond of her, and she was
so much admired, that she began to pay them visits of her own accord upon
weekdays. I am sorry to say that Jenny eventually abused the hospitality
thus held out to her. For, as time wore on, pussy had, unknown to us, been
making her own private arrangements for an event of great interest which
was to occur before very long. And this is how it was discovered when it
did come off. Some ladies had been paying my aunt a visit, and the
conversation not unnaturally turned on dress.
"'Oh! but,' said my aunt, 'you must have a sight of my new velvet
bonnet,--so handsome,--one pound fifteen shillings,--and came from
London. I do trust it won't rain on Sunday. Eliza, go for the box under
the dressing-table in the spare bedroom.'
"Although the door of this room was kept constantly shut, the window was
opened by day to admit the fresh air. It admitted more,--it admitted
Jenny,--and Jenny did not hesitate to avail herself of the convenience of
having her kittens in that room.
"Eliza had not been gone five minutes, when she returned screaming,--'Oh,
murther! murther!' that is all she said. She just ran back again,
screaming the same words, and my aunt and friends hastened after her. The
sight that met their gaze was in no way alarming: it was only Jenny cosily
ensconced in the box--the bonnet altered in shape to suit
circumstances--looking the picture of innocence and joy as she sung to six
blind kittens.
"Summary and condign was the punishment that fell on the unlucky Jenny.
The kittens were ordered to be instantly drowned,--we managed to save just
one,--and | 581.537211 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.5803850 | 2,736 | 6 |
The Irish Ecclesiastical Record
Volume 1
July 1865
CONTENTS
Judge Keogh And Catholic Doctrines.
The See Of Killaloe In The Sixteenth Century.
The Sacrament Of Penance In The Early Irish Church.
Richard Fitz-Ralph, Archbishop Of Armagh.
Purgatory Of St. Patrick In Lough Derg.
Liturgical Questions.
Notices Of Books.
Footnotes
JUDGE KEOGH AND CATHOLIC DOCTRINES.
We have read the address of Mr. Justice Keogh(1) with feelings of surprise
and sorrow. It is un-Catholic in its language, it is un-Catholic in its
spirit, it is un-Catholic in its principles. If it had come from a member
of a hostile sect, we could well afford to let it pass unnoticed; to let
it live its short life, and die a natural death. But when the calumnies,
the sneers, the sarcasms of our enemies are turned against us by one who
is enrolled under the banner of Catholic faith, we can no longer remain
silent in safety. The weapons which are powerless in the hands of a
declared enemy, are dangerous indeed when they are wielded by a traitor in
the camp.
Mr. Justice Keogh is no ordinary man. His mind is adorned with talents
well fitted to amuse, to delight, to instruct an audience. In his short
but brilliant career as an orator and a statesman, he won for himself a
great name at the bar and in the senate. And now he is lifted up above his
fellows, and placed in a position of high trust and extensive influence.
When such a man comes forward, with forethought and preparation, as one of
the instructors of the age, he is a conspicuous object of interest and
attraction. He is looked upon, by those who are not acquainted with his
antecedents, as the exponent of Catholic views, the representative of
Catholic intelligence and education. We are therefore compelled, in
self-defence, to declare that the opinions he has expressed are not the
opinions of the Catholic Church, and the language he has thought fit to
use cannot be regarded, by the Catholic people of Ireland, but as
offensive and insulting.
His lecture contains little originality of thought or novelty of argument.
It does but reflect the spirit of the age in which we live. The opinions
and the views which it sets forth have long been familiar to our ears:
they pervade the shallow current literature of England, of Germany, of
Italy, of France. Intellectual freedom, unbounded, unrestrained; freedom
of thought in the search after truth, without any regard to authority;
freedom of speech in the circulation of every view and opinion; freedom to
pull down old theories, freedom to build up new theories; freedom to roam
at large without any guide over the vast fields of speculation, adopting
that which private judgment commends, rejecting that which human reason
disapproves; these are the popular dogmas of the present day; and these
are the topics which Mr. Justice Keogh proposes to illustrate and to
enforce by the life and writings of our great English poet.
Now, we are not the enemies of freedom. The Catholic Church is not the
enemy of freedom. But we should expect that one who comes forward to
enlighten the world on this important subject, would tell us _how far_
human reason is to be left without restraint in the search after truth. It
is easy to talk of intolerance, persecution, narrow-minded bigotry; but
these words have no meaning unless we first clearly understand what that
freedom is--in thought, in word, in action--which is the natural right of
all men; which it is intolerance to deny, which it is tyranny to
extinguish. First of all, if the fact of a Divine Revelation be once
admitted, it is clear that human reason is not exempt from _all
restraint_: it must be controlled at least by the Word of God. We are
surely bound to believe what God has taught: and when reason would lead us
to conclusions contrary to His teaching, as may sometimes happen, we are
bound to check our reason and to abandon those conclusions. For, reason
_may_ be deceived, but God can _not_. This is what we understand by the
words of St. Paul when he speaks of "bringing into captivity every
understanding unto the obedience of Christ"--II. _Cor._, x. 5.
With this preliminary remark we shall now submit to our readers the
opinions of Mr. Justice Keogh:--
"Could words of mine prevail to induce you to devote a small
portion of your leisure hours, stolen though it be from the
pleasure paths of sensational or periodical literature, to those
great productions of John Milton, in which the staunchest friend
of freedom and of truth that ever lived has made the most
successful war against tyranny and falsehood--in which he has
proclaimed in tones not unworthy of the Apostle of the
Gentiles,(2) that education really free is the only source of
political and individual liberty, the only true safeguard of
states and bulwark of their renown--in which he has for ever
'justified the ways of God to man', by asserting the right of all
men to exercise unrestrained their intellectual faculties upon all
the gifts of God--to determine for themselves what is truth and
what is falsehood--to circulate their thoughts from one to another,
from land to land, from tribe to tribe, from nation to nation,
free as 'the winds that from four quarters blow'--to raise their
thoughts and to pour forth their words above the level of vulgar
superstition, unrestricted by any illiberal or illiterate
licenser--then you will find that he has risen, as mortal man never
did before, to the height of greatest argument, and proclaimed in
language which is affecting the fate of millions, even at this
hour, on the banks of the Mississippi, and in the remote forests
of the far west, that He who has made 'of one blood all nations of
men to dwell on all the face of the earth, willeth not that men
shall any longer hold in bondage as a property the bodies or the
souls of men, but that all alike shall have, unobstructed by any
ordinance, a free book, a free press, a free conscience'. If any
words of mine shall tempt you to approach these considerations, to
ponder upon them as they are to be found in the tractates of
Milton, in a tranquil, in a large and comprehensive spirit, and
when you have done so, to make their fit application not only at
home but abroad, not only abroad but at home, then we shall not
have met in vain in this assembly".
We do not propose to offer any remarks on the subject of political
liberty. But the principles here enunciated are of universal application.
Milton waged the "successful war" of freedom not less in matters of
religion than in matters of state. And Mr. Justice Keogh adopts his
principles without any limitation. He asserts with Milton "the right of
all men to exercise _unrestrained their intellectual faculties upon all
the gifts of God_--to determine for themselves what is truth and what is
falsehood". If we take these words literally as they stand, they are
inconsistent not with the Catholic religion only, but with every system of
Christianity that has ever existed. Luther, the great champion of
intellectual freedom, though he shook off the yoke of church authority,
set up in its stead the authority of the Bible. Even he was willing to
admit that the wanderings of the human mind should be restricted by the
teaching of the Word of God. It is clearly contrary to the common
principles of Christianity to assert that in metaphysics, in ethics, in
psychology, in any human science, the mind is at liberty to embrace
opinions incompatible with the truths which God has revealed. And if it be
not at liberty to do so, then it is not "unrestrained".
It may be said, however, that the author of this address does not really
intend to assert what his words seem to convey. How then are we to guess
at his meaning? He insists upon "the right of all men to exercise
_unrestrained_ their intellectual faculties" in the pursuit of truth. If
he does not mean this, what _does_ he mean? If he does not wish to exclude
_all restraint_ on the "intellectual faculties" of men, what restraint is
he willing to admit? Upon this point there seem to be just two opinions
between which he has to choose: the one is the common doctrine of all
Catholics; the other is the fundamental principle of the Protestant
Church. Let us pause for a moment to examine these two systems.
According to Catholic faith, our Divine Lord has established in His Church
an infallible tribunal, to pronounce, in matters of religion, what is true
and what is false. Hence, it is never lawful, whether there be question of
religious belief or of human science, to adopt opinions at variance with
the teaching of this infallible tribunal. Here indeed is a check upon
intellectual freedom, but a check which must, of necessity, be admitted by
all who belong to the Catholic Church. And surely it is no great sacrifice
to submit our finite understanding, so frail and erring, to the authority
of God's Word, explained by a tribunal which He has Himself established,
and to which He has promised His never-failing help.
Protestants, on the other hand, maintain the right of each one to
interpret for himself, according to the best of his private judgment, the
Revelation which God has given to man. The liberty of the human mind is
therefore unfettered by any human authority. In this all sects are agreed.
Some, indeed, believe that the Church has authority to teach, and some
reject this opinion; but all maintain that there is no obligation in
conscience to accept her teaching. She has not the gift of infallibility.
Just as individuals may fall into error, so too may the Church herself
fall into error. Her teaching may be true, or it may be false; each one is
to judge for himself. The only check upon the freedom of thought is the
Divine Message sent to us from on High, and recorded in the pages of Holy
Writ.
We maintain, of course, that the Catholic system which we have just
explained is true, and the Protestant system false. If we were engaged in
controversy with a Protestant, it would be our duty at once to establish
and to defend our doctrine; to demonstrate that the Church of Christ is
infallible, and that the right of private judgment is contrary alike to
the teaching of Scripture and to the dictates of common sense. But in the
case before us, there is no call for proof: Mr. Justice Keogh is a
Catholic. It remains then only to examine if the language of his address
is not calculated to convey an opinion quite inconsistent with the faith
which he professes.
The question we wish to raise is simply this: "Does the address before us
admit that the human mind in the pursuit of truth should be restrained by
the authoritative definitions of the Catholic Church, or does it rather
exclude this restraint?" Now, in the first place, it is to be remembered
that this restriction of intellectual freedom is denied by all Protestants
in this country, and maintained by all Catholics. When a lecturer, then,
addressing a mixed audience, in a written discourse, tells them that "all
men have a right to exercise their intellectual faculties _unrestrained_",
do not the circumstances of the case fix upon his words a Protestant
signification? Will not his hearers naturally say that he has chosen the
Protestant side of the controversy, and not the Catholic? Again, according
to the Protestant doctrine, each one is at liberty to construct a system
of religious belief for himself: according to the Catholic doctrine, every
one should accept the tenets of his faith on the authority of the Church.
Now we are told in the address, that all men have "_a right to determine
for themselves_ what is truth and what is falsehood". Has this phraseology
a Catholic or a Protestant complexion? Lastly, the lecturer exhorts his
hearers to go themselves to the pages of Milton, there to learn the
doctrine of intellectual freedom. It will, therefore, naturally be
supposed, that the doctrine is defended by | 581.600425 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.5806900 | 131 | 7 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Frontispiece by
Walter King Stone
THE LOG OF THE SUN
A Chronicle of Nature's Year
By WILLIAM BEEBE
Garden City Publishing Co., Inc.
Garden City, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1906,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO MY
Mother and Father
WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT AND SYMPATHY
| 581.60073 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.6175180 | 2,728 | 15 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Story of the Nations
A Series of Historical Studies intended to present
in graphic narratives the stories of the different
nations that have attained prominence in history.
In the story form the current of each national life is distinctly
indicated, and its picturesque and noteworthy periods and episodes
are presented for the reader in their philosophical relations to
each other as well as to universal history.
12º, Illustrated, cloth, each net $1.50
FOR FULL LIST SEE END OF THIS VOLUME.
[Illustration: CAPE HORN.
_Frontispiece_ [From a steel engraving.]]
THE STORY OF THE NATIONS
THE SOUTH AMERICAN
REPUBLICS
BY
THOMAS C. DAWSON
Secretary of the United States Legation to Brazil
IN TWO PARTS
_PART I_
ARGENTINA, PARAGUAY, URUGUAY, BRAZIL
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
COPYRIGHT 1903
BY
THOMAS C. DAWSON
Eighth Printing
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO MY WIFE
I DEDICATE THIS STUDY OF THE HISTORY
OF HER NATIVE CONTINENT
PREFACE
The question most frequently asked me since I began my stay in South
America has been: "Why do they have so many revolutions there?" Possibly
the events recounted in the following pages may help the reader to
answer this for himself. I hope that he will share my conviction that
militarism has already definitely disappeared from more than half the
continent and is slowly becoming less powerful in the remainder.
Constitutional traditions, inherited from Spain and Portugal, implanted
a tendency toward disintegration; Spanish and Portuguese tyranny bred
in the people a distrust of all rulers and governments; the war of
independence brought to the front military adventurers; civil disorders
were inevitable, and the search for forms of government that should be
final and stable has been very painful. On the other hand, the generous
impulse that prompted the movement toward independence has grown into an
earnest desire for ordered liberty, which is steadily spreading among
all classes. Civic capacity is increasing among the body of South
Americans and immigration is raising the industrial level. They are
slowly evolving among themselves the best form of government for their
special needs and conditions, and a citizen of the United States must
rejoice to see that that form is and will surely remain republican.
It is hard to secure from the tangle of events called South American
history a clearly defined picture. At the risk of repetition I have
tried to tell separately the story of each country, because each has its
special history and its peculiar characteristics. All of these states
have, however, had much in common and it is only in the case of the
larger nations that social and political conditions have been described
in detail. A study of either Argentina, Brazil, Chile, or Venezuela
is likely to throw most light on the political development of the
continent, while Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia are more interesting to the
seeker for local colour and the lover of the dramatic.
The South American histories so far written treat of special periods,
and few authorities exist for post-revolution times. Personal
observations through a residence of six years in South America;
conversations with public men, scholars, merchants, and proprietors;
newspapers and reviews, political pamphlets, books of travel, and
official publications, have furnished me with most of my material for
the period since 1825. The following books have been of use in the
preparation of the first volume, and are recommended to those who care
to follow up the subject:
ARGENTINA: Mitre's _Historia de Belgrano and Historia de San Martin_,
in Spanish; Torrente's _Revolucion Hispano-Americano_, in Spanish;
Lozano's _Conquista del Paraguay, La Plata y Tucuman_, in Spanish;
Funes's _Historia de Buenos Aires y Tucuman_, in Spanish; Lopez's
_Manuel de Historia Argentina_, in Spanish; Page's _La Plata_, in
English; Graham's _A Vanished Arcadia_, in English.
PARAGUAY: All of the above and Thompson's _Paraguayan War_, in English;
Washburn's _History of Paraguay_, in English; Fix's _Guerra de
Paraguay_, in Portuguese.
URUGUAY: Bauza's _Dominacion Espanola_, in Spanish; Berra's _Bosquejo
Historico_, in Spanish; Saint-Foix's _L'Uruguay_, in French.
BRAZIL: Southey's _History of the Brazil_, in English; Varnhagem's
_Historia do Brasil_, in Portuguese; Pereira da Silva's _Fundacao do
Imperio, Segundo Periodo, Historia do Brasil, e Historia do Meu Tempo_,
in Portuguese; Nabuco's _Estadista do Imperio_, in Portuguese; Rio
Branco's sketch in _Le Bresil en 1889_, in French; Oliveira Lima's
_Pernambuco_, in Portuguese.
All of the above books may be found in the Columbian Memorial Library of
the Bureau of American Republics at Washington, which, taken as a whole,
is one of the best collections on South America in existence.
T. C. D.
WASHINGTON, January 22, 1903.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTORY: THE DISCOVERIES AND THE CONQUEST 3
_ARGENTINA_
I. THE ARGENTINE LAND 37
II. THE SPANISH COLONIAL SYSTEM 47
III. THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 58
IV. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 70
V. THE BEGINNINGS OF THE REVOLUTION 80
VI. COMPLETION OF THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE 97
VII. THE ERA OF CIVIL WARS 115
VIII. CONSOLIDATION 130
IX. THE MODERN ARGENTINE 141
_PARAGUAY_
I. PARAGUAY UNTIL 1632 165
II. THE JESUIT REPUBLIC AND COLONIAL PARAGUAY 177
III. FRANCIA'S REIGN 188
IV. THE REIGN OF THE ELDER LOPEZ 198
V. THE WAR 206
VI. PARAGUAY SINCE 1870 220
_URUGUAY_
I. INTRODUCTION 227
II. PORTUGUESE AGGRESSIONS AND THE SETTLEMENT OF THE COUNTRY 239
III. THE REVOLUTION 247
IV. INDEPENDENCE AND CIVIL WAR 259
V. CIVIL WAR AND ARGENTINE INTERVENTION 265
VI. COLORADOS AND BLANCOS 272
_BRAZIL_
I. PORTUGAL 287
II. DISCOVERY 295
III. DESCRIPTION 305
IV. EARLY COLONISATION 316
V. THE JESUITS 326
VI. FRENCH OCCUPATION OF RIO 333
VII. EXPANSION 342
VIII. THE DUTCH CONQUEST 350
IX. EXPULSION OF THE DUTCH 361
X. THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 371
XI. GOLD DISCOVERIES--REVOLTS--FRENCH ATTACKS 378
XII. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 386
XIII. THE PORTUGUESE COURT IN RIO 401
XIV. INDEPENDENCE 411
XV. REIGN OF PEDRO I. 421
XVI. THE REGENCY 436
XVII. PEDRO II. 449
XVIII. EVENTS OF 1849 TO 1864 458
XIX. THE PARAGUAYAN WAR 468
XX. REPUBLICANISM AND EMANCIPATION 478
XXI. THE REVOLUTION--THE DICTATORSHIP--THE ESTABLISHMENT OF
THE REPUBLIC 492
INDEX 513
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
CAPE HORN _Frontispiece_
_From a steel engraving._
FERDINAND, KING OF SPAIN 6
_Redrawn from an old print._
FRANCISCO PIZARRO 9
_From Montain's "America."_
THE AUTHENTIC PORTRAIT OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS 11
MINING SCENE 16
_Redrawn from Gottfriedt's "Neue Welt."_
A YOUNG GAUCHO 28
_From a lithograph._
FOREST SCENE IN ARGENTINA 39
_From a steel print._
DOCKS AT BUENOS AIRES 44
AN OLD SPANISH CORNER IN BUENOS AIRES 76
MANUEL BELGRANO 95
_From an oil painting._
GENERAL SAN MARTIN 99
_From a steel engraving._
PLAZA DE MAYO AND CATHEDRAL AT BUENOS AIRES 113
_From a lithograph._
BUENOS AIRES IN 1845 127
_From a steel engraving._
BARTOLOME MITRE 139
_From a steel engraving._
JULIO ROCA 145
GATEWAY OF THE CEMETERY AT BUENOS AIRES 151
_From a lithograph._
A RIVER ROAD IN ARGENTINA 159
_From a lithograph._
ASUNCION 167
GUAYRA FALLS 179
JOSE RODRIGUEZ GASPAR FRANCIA 193
_From an old woodcut._
FRANCISCO SOLANO LOPEZ 211
_From a photograph taken in 1849._
PALM GROVES IN EL CHACO 217
HARBOUR AT MONTEVIDEO 231
MONTEVIDEO 243
_From an old print._
BRIDGE AT MALDONADO 249
GENERAL DON JOSE GERVASIO ARTIGAS 257
_From an old woodcut._
THE SOLIS THEATRE 275
THE CATHEDRAL, MONTEVIDEO 283
OLD TOWER AT LISBON WHENCE THE FLEET SAILED 296
A TUPI VILLAGE 299
A GARDEN IN PETROPOLIS 307
BAHIA 324
PADRE JOSE DE ANCHIETA 330
_From an old-woodcut._
PLANTERS GOING TO CHURCH 337
_From an old print._
A CADEIRA 340
OLD FORT AT BAHIA 353
RIO GRANDE DO SUL 387
OLD RANCH IN RIO GRANDE 390
WASHING DIAMONDS 391
BOATS ON THE RIO GRANDE 395
_From a steel print._
DOM JOHN VI. 403
_From an old woodcut._
DOM PEDRO I. 414
_From an old woodcut._
DOM JOSE BONIFACIO DE ANDRADA 418
_From a steel print._
EVARISTO FERREIRA DA VEIGA 431
_From a steel engraving._
DONNA JANUARIA 445
_From a steel engraving._
DOM PEDRO II. 447
_From a steel engraving._
| 581.637558 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.6176190 | 1,093 | 14 |
Produced by Paul Haxo from page images generously made
available by the Internet Archive and the University of
California, Berkeley and Cornell University libraries.
THE MAGISTRATE
THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO
Paper cover, 1s 6d; cloth, 2s 6d each
THE TIMES
THE PROFLIGATE
THE CABINET MINISTER
THE HOBBY-HORSE
LADY BOUNTIFUL
THE MAGISTRATE
DANDY DICK
SWEET LAVENDER
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS
THE WEAKER SEX
THE AMAZONS
*THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH
THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT
THE PRINCESS AND THE BUTTERFLY
TRELAWNY OF THE "WELLS"
+THE GAY LORD QUEX
IRIS
LETTY
A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE
HIS HOUSE IN ORDER
THE THUNDERBOLT
MID-CHANNEL
PRESERVING MR. PANMURE
THE "MIND THE PAINT" GIRL
* This Play can be had in library form, 4to, cloth,
with a portrait, 5s.
+ A Limited Edition of this play on hand-made
paper, with a new portrait, 10s net.
THE PINERO BIRTHDAY BOOK
SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY MYRA HAMILTON
With a Portrait, cloth extra, price 2s 6d.
_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_
THE MAGISTRATE
A FARCE
In Three Acts
_BY ARTHUR W. PINERO_
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
_First Impression_ 1892;
_New Impressions_ 1894,
1895, 1897, 1899, 1901,
1903, 1905, 1907, 1909,
1911; 1914
Copyright
All rights reserved
Entered at Stationers' Hall
Entered at the Library of Congress
Washington, U.S.A.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
"THE MAGISTRATE" is, after "Sweet Lavender," perhaps the most popular
of Mr. Pinero's plays, and it is particularly interesting as being the
first of his works in which his own individuality found absolutely
independent expression, and emphatically and triumphantly asserted
itself. In fact, this farce marks an epoch in the dramatist's career,
and shows him creating a really new and original order of English
comic play, the further development of which may be traced in the
successive plays which, together with "The Magistrate," formed the
famous Court series of farces, namely, "The Schoolmistress," "Dandy
Dick," and "The Cabinet Minister."
Because Mr. Pinero had previously written "The Rocket," and "In
Chancery," for Mr. Edward Terry, who has performed them times out of
number in London and the provinces with considerable success, it has
been assumed that "The Magistrate" was also written for Mr. Terry. But
this was not the case. As a matter of fact Mr. Pinero wrote the play
quite independently, and on its completion he was to have read it to
Mr. Charles Wyndham, but the necessities of the Court Theatre
intervened. The management of the late Mr. John Clayton and Arthur
Cecil was decidedly in low water in 1884 and the earlier part of 1885;
play after play had been produced without success, when at length
application was made to Mr. Pinero for a new piece. They had been
performing serious plays, and he read them "The Weaker Sex," which he
had written some little time before; but Mr. Clayton felt uncertain
about this play, which, by the way, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal have since
produced, and then Mr. Pinero, mentioning the new comic play he had
just finished, suggested that perhaps an entirely new order of
entertainment might serve to change the fortunes of the house. "The
Magistrate" was immediately accepted and produced, and his conjecture
proved correct, for the luck of the theatre promptly turned.
"The Magistrate" was produced at the Court Theatre on Saturday, March
21, 1885, with a cast, particulars of which will be found in the
following copy of the first night programme:--
ROYAL COURT THEATRE,
SLOANE SQUARE, S.W.
_Lessees and Managers:_
Mr. John Clayton and Mr. Arthur Cecil.
THIS EVENING, SATURDAY, MARCH 21,
_At a Quarter to Nine o'clock,_
WILL BE PRODUCED FOR THE FIRST TIME,
THE MAGISTRATE,
AN ORIGINAL FARCE, IN THREE ACTS,
BY
A. W. PINERO.
MR. POSKET } Magistrates of the Mulberry { Mr. ARTHUR CECIL.
MR. BULLAMY } Street Police Court { Mr. FRED CAPE.
COL | 581.637659 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.6863570 | 122 | 6 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Virginia Paque and PG Distributed
Proofreaders
POEMS;
BY
THOMAS GENT.
LONDON
1828.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Some of the Pieces in this volume have been separately published,
at different times; the indulgence, I may say favour,
with which they were individually received, has encouraged me
to collect and re-publish them. I have added many others,
which are now first printed. I shall be well satisfied, if they
find as favourable a reception as their precursors; and are
thought | 581.706397 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.7829250 | 3,338 | 9 |
Produced by Barbara Tozier, Douglas L. Alley, III, Bill
Tozier and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
ZOOLOGICAL MYTHOLOGY
OR
THE LEGENDS OF ANIMALS
BY
ANGELO DE GUBERNATIS
PROFESSOR OF SANSKRIT AND COMPARATIVE LITERATURE IN THE ISTITUTO DI STUDII
SUPERIORI E DI PERFEZIONAMENTO, AT FLORENCE
FOREIGN MEMBER OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTE OF PHILOLOGY AND ETHNOGRAPHY
OF THE DUTCH INDIES
_IN TWO VOLUMES_
VOL. I.
LONDON
TRUeBNER & CO., 60 PATERNOSTER ROW
1872
[_All rights reserved_]
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
TO
MICHELE AMARI AND MICHELE COPPINO
This Work
IS DEDICATED
AS A TRIBUTE OF LIVELY GRATITUDE AND
PROFOUND ESTEEM
BY
THE AUTHOR.
ZOOLOGICAL MYTHOLOGY;
OR
THE LEGENDS OF ANIMALS.
First Part.
THE ANIMALS OF THE EARTH.
CHAPTER I.
THE COW AND THE BULL.
SECTION I.--THE COW AND THE BULL IN THE VEDIC HYMNS.
SUMMARY.
Prelude.--The vault of Heaven as a luminous cow.--The gods and
goddesses, sons and daughters of this cow.--The vault of Heaven as a
spotted cow.--The sons and daughters of this cow, _i.e._ the winds,
Marutas, and the clouds, Pricnayas.--The wind-bulls subdue the
cloud-cows.--Indras, the rain-sending, thundering, lightening,
radiant sun, who makes the rain fall and the light return, called
the bull of bulls.--The bull Indras drinks the water of
strength.--Hunger and thirst of the heroes of mythology.--The
cloud-barrel.--The horns of the bull and of the cow are
sharpened.--The thunderbolt-horns.--The cloud as a cow, and even as
a stable or hiding-place for cows.--Cavern where the cows are shut
up, of which cavern the bull Indras and the bulls Marutas remove the
stone, and force the entrance, to reconquer the cows, delivering
them from the monster; the male Indras finds himself again with his
wife.--The cloud-fortress, which Indras destroys and Agnis sets on
fire.--The cloud-forest, which the gods destroy.--The cloud-cow; the
cow-bow; the bird-thunderbolts; the birds come out of the cow.--The
monstrous cloud-cow, the wife of the monster.--Some phenomena of
the cloudy sky are analogous to those of the gloomy sky of night and
of winter.--The moment most fit for an epic poem is the meeting of
such phenomena in a nocturnal tempest.--The stars, cows put to
flight by the sun.--The moon, a milk-yielding cow.--The ambrosial
moon fished up in the fountain, gives nourishment to Indras.--The
moon as a male, or bull, discomfits, with the bull Indras, the
monster.--The two bulls, or the two stallions, the two horsemen, the
twins.--The bull chases the wolf from the waters.--The cow
tied.--The aurora, or ambrosial cow, formed out of the skin of
another cow by the Ribhavas.--The Ribhavas, bulls and wise
birds.--The three Ribhavas reproduce the triple Indras and the
triple Vishnus; their three relationships; the three brothers,
eldest, middle, youngest; the three brother workmen; the youngest
brother is the most intelligent, although at first thought stupid;
the reason why.--The three brothers guests of a king.--The third of
the Ribhavas, the third and youngest son becomes Tritas the third,
in the heroic form of Indras, who kills the monster; Tritas, the
third brother, after having accomplished the great heroic
undertaking, is abandoned by his envious brothers in the well; the
second brother is the son of the cow.--Indras a cowherd, parent of
the sun and the aurora, the cow of abundance, milk-yielding and
luminous.--The cow Sita.--Relationship of the sun to the
aurora.--The aurora as cow-nurse of the sun, mother of the cows; the
aurora cowherd; the sun hostler and cowherd.--The riddle of the
wonderful cowherd; the sun solves the riddle proposed by the
aurora.--The aurora wins the race, being the first to arrive at the
barrier, without making use of her feet.--The chariot of the
aurora.--She who has no feet, who leaves no footsteps; she who is
without footsteps of the measure of the feet; she who has no slipper
(which is the measure of the foot).--The sun who never puts his foot
down, the sun without feet, the sun lame, who, during the night,
becomes blind; the blind and the lame who help each other, whom
Indra helps, whom the ambrosia of the aurora enables to walk and to
see.--The aurora of evening, witch who blinds the sun; the sun
Indras, in the morning, chases the aurora away; Indras subdues and
destroys the witch aurora.--The brother sun follows, as a seducer,
the aurora his sister, and wishes to burn her.--The sun follows his
daughter the aurora.--The aurora, a beautiful young girl, deliverer
of the sun, rich in treasure, awakener of the sleepers, saviour of
mankind, foreseeing; from small becomes large, from dark becomes
brilliant, from infirm, whole, from blind, seeing and protectress of
sight.--Night and aurora, now mother and daughter, now
sisters.--The luminous night a good sister; the gloomy night gives
place to the aurora, her elder or better sister, working, purifying,
cleansing.--The aurora shines only when near the sun her husband,
before whom she dances splendidly dressed; the aurora Urvaci.--The
wife of the sun followed by the monster.--The husband of the aurora
subject to the same persecution.
We are on the vast table-land of Central Asia; gigantic mountains send
forth on every side their thousand rivers; immense pasture-lands and
forests cover it; migratory tribes of pastoral nations traverse it;
the _gopatis_, the shepherd or lord of the cows, is the king; the
gopatis who has most herds is the most powerful. The story begins with
a graceful pastoral idyll.
To increase the number of the cows, to render them fruitful in milk
and prolific in calves, to have them well looked after, is the dream,
the ideal of the ancient Aryan. The bull, the _foecundator_, is the
type of every male perfection, and the symbol of regal strength.
Hence, it is only natural that the two most prominent animal figures
in the mythical heaven should be the cow and the bull.
The cow is the ready, loving, faithful, fruitful Providence of the
shepherd.
The worst enemy of the Aryan, therefore, is he who carries off the
cow; the best, the most illustrious, of his friends, he who is able to
recover it from the hands of the robber.
The same idea is hence transferred to heaven; in heaven there is a
beneficent, fruitful power, which is called the cow, and a beneficent
_foecundator_ of this same power, which is called the bull.
The dewy moon, the dewy aurora, the watery cloud, the entire vault of
heaven, that giver of the quickening and benignant rain, that
benefactress of mankind,--are each, with special predilection,
represented as the beneficent cow of abundance. The lord of this
multiform cow of heaven, he who makes it pregnant and fruitful and
milk-yielding, the spring or morning sun, the rain-giving sun (or
moon) is often represented as a bull.
Now, to apprehend all this clearly, we ought to go back, as nearly as
possible, to that epoch in which such conceptions would arise
spontaneously; but as the imagination so indulged is apt to betray us
into mere fantastical conceits, into an _a priori_ system, we shall
begin by excluding it entirely from these preliminary researches, as
being hazardous and misleading, and content ourselves with the humbler
office of collecting the testimonies of the poets themselves who
assisted in the creation of the mythology in question.
I do not mean to say anything of the Vedic myths that is not taken
from one or other of the hymns contained in the greatest of the Vedas,
but only to arrange and connect together the links of the chain as
they certainly existed in the imagination of the ancient Aryan people,
and which the _Rigvedas_, the work of a hundred poets and of several
centuries, presents to us as a whole, continuous and artistic. I shall
indeed suppose myself in the valley of Kacmira, or on the banks of the
Sindhus, under that sky, at the foot of these mountains, among these
rivers; but I shall search in the sky for that which I find in the
hymns, and not in the hymns for that which I may imagine I see in the
sky. I shall begin my voyage with a trusty chart, and shall consult it
with all the diligence in my power, in order not to lose any of the
advantages that a voyage so full of surprises has to offer. Hence the
notes will all, or nearly all, consist of quotations from my guide, in
order that the learned reader may be able to verify for himself every
separate assertion. And as to the frequent stoppages we shall have to
make by the way, let me ask the reader not to ascribe these to
anything arbitrary on my part, but rather to the necessities of a
voyage, made, as it is, step by step, in a region but little known,
and by the help of a guide, where nearly everything indeed is to be
found, but where, as in a rich inventory, it is easier to lose one's
way than to find it again.
The immense vault of heaven which over-arches the earth, as the eternal
storehouse of light and rain, as the power which causes the grass to
grow, and therefore the animals which pasture upon it, assumes in the
Vedic literature the name of Aditis, or the infinite, the inexhaustible,
the fountain of ambrosia (_amritasya nabhis_). Thus far, however, we
have no personification, as yet we have no myth. The _amritas_ is simply
the immortal, and only poetically represents the rain, the dew, the
luminous wave. But the inexhaustible soon comes to mean that which can
be milked without end--and hence also, a celestial cow, an inoffensive
cow, which we must not offend, which must remain intact.[1] The whole
heavens being thus represented as an infinite cow, it was natural that
the principal and most visible phenomena of the sky should become, in
their turn, children of the cow, or themselves cows or bulls, and that
the _foecundator_ of the great mother should also be called a bull.
Hence we read that the wind (_Vayus_ or _Rudras_) gave birth, from the
womb of the celestial cow, to the winds that howl in the tempest
(_Marutas_ and _Rudras_), called for this reason children of the cow.[2]
But, since this great celestial cow produces the tempestuous, noisy
winds, she represents not only the serene, tranquil vault of the shining
sky, but also the cloudy and tenebrous mother of storms. This great
cow, this immense cloud, that occupies all the vault of heaven and
unchains the winds, is a brown, dark, spotted (_pricnis_) cow; and so
the winds, or Marutas, her sons, are called the children of the spotted
one.[3] The singular has thus become a plural; the male sons of the
cloud, the winds, are 21; the daughters, the clouds themselves, called
the spotted ones (_pricnayas_) are also three times seven, or 21: 3 and
7 are sacred numbers in the Aryan faith; and the number 21 is only a
multiple of these two great legendary numbers, by which either the
strength of a god or that of a monster is often symbolised. If
_pricnis_, or the variegated cow, therefore, is the mother of the
Marutas, the winds, and of the variegated ones (_pricnayas_), the
clouds, we may say that the clouds are the sisters of the winds. We
often have three or seven sisters, three or seven brothers in the
legends. Now, that 21, in the _Rigvedas_ itself, involves a reference to
3, is evident, if we only observe how one hymn speaks of the 3 times 7
spotted cows who bring to the god the divine drink, while another speaks
of the spotted ones (the number not being specified) who give him three
lakes to drink.[4] Evidently here the 3, or 7, or 21 sister cows that
yield to the god of the eastern heavens their own nutritious milk, and
amidst whose milky humours the winds, now become invulnerable,
increase,[5] fulfil the pious duties of benevolent guardian fates.
But if the winds are sons of a cow, and the cows are their nurses,
the winds, or Marutas, must, as masculine, be necessarily represented
as bulls. In reality the Wind (_Vayus_), their father, is borne by
bulls--that is, by the winds themselves, who hurry, who grow, are
movable as the rays of the sun, very strong, and indomitable;[6] the
strength of the wind is compared to that of the bull or the bear;[7]
the winds, as lusty as bulls, overcome and subdue the dark ones.[8]
Here, therefore, the clouds are no longer represented as the cows that
nurse, but with the gloomy aspect of a monster. The Marutas, the winds
that howl in the tempest, are as swift as lightning, and surround
themselves with lightning. Hence they are celebrated for their
luminous vestments; and hence it is said that the reddish winds are
resplendent with gems, as some bulls with stars.[9] As such--that is,
| 581.802965 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.7844850 | 128 | 11 |
Produced by Avinash Kothare, Steve Schulze, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. This file
was produced from images generously made available by the
CWRU Preservation Department Digital Library
UMBRELLAS AND THEIR HISTORY
By William Sangster
"Munimen ad imbres."
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY
CHAPTER II.
THE ANCIENT HISTORY OF THE UMBRELLA
CHAPTER III.
THE UMBRELLA IN ENGLAND
CHAPTER IV.
THE STORY OF THE PARACHUTE
CHAPTER V.
UMBRELLA | 581.804525 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.7852830 | 1,119 | 27 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
LIFE'S HANDICAP
BEING STORIES OF MINE OWN PEOPLE
By Rudyard Kipling
1915
TO
E.K.R.
FROM
R.K.
1887-89
C.M.G.
PREFACE
In Northern India stood a monastery called The Chubara of Dhunni Bhagat.
No one remembered who or what Dhunni Bhagat had been. He had lived his
life, made a little money and spent it all, as every good Hindu should
do, on a work of piety--the Chubara. That was full of brick cells, gaily
painted with the figures of Gods and kings and elephants, where worn-out
priests could sit and meditate on the latter end of things; the paths
were brick paved, and the naked feet of thousands had worn them into
gutters. Clumps of mangoes sprouted from between the bricks; great
pipal trees overhung the well-windlass that whined all day; and hosts
of parrots tore through the trees. Crows and squirrels were tame in that
place, for they knew that never a priest would touch them.
The wandering mendicants, charm-sellers, and holy vagabonds for a
hundred miles round used to make the Chubara their place of call and
rest. Mahomedan, Sikh, and Hindu mixed equally under the trees. They
were old men, and when man has come to the turnstiles of Night all the
creeds in the world seem to him wonderfully alike and colourless.
Gobind the one-eyed told me this. He was a holy man who lived on an
island in the middle of a river and fed the fishes with little bread
pellets twice a day. In flood-time, when swollen corpses stranded
themselves at the foot of the island, Gobind would cause them to be
piously burned, for the sake of the honour of mankind, and having regard
to his own account with God hereafter. But when two-thirds of the
island was torn away in a spate, Gobind came across the river to Dhunni
Bhagat's Chubara, he and his brass drinking vessel with the well-cord
round the neck, his short arm-rest crutch studded with brass nails, his
roll of bedding, his big pipe, his umbrella, and his tall sugar-loaf hat
with the nodding peacock feathers in it. He wrapped himself up in his
patched quilt made of every colour and material in the world, sat down
in a sunny corner of the very quiet Chubara, and, resting his arm on his
short-handled crutch, waited for death. The people brought him food and
little clumps of marigold flowers, and he gave his blessing in return.
He was nearly blind, and his face was seamed and lined and wrinkled
beyond belief, for he had lived in his time which was before the English
came within five hundred miles of Dhunni Bhagat's Chubara.
When we grew to know each other well, Gobind would tell me tales in a
voice most like the rumbling of heavy guns over a wooden bridge. His
tales were true, but not one in twenty could be printed in an English
book, because the English do not think as natives do. They brood over
matters that a native would dismiss till a fitting occasion; and what
they would not think twice about a native will brood over till a fitting
occasion: then native and English stare at each other hopelessly across
great gulfs of miscomprehension.
'And what,' said Gobind one Sunday evening, 'is your honoured craft, and
by what manner of means earn you your daily bread?'
'I am,' said I, 'a kerani--one who writes with a pen upon paper, not
being in the service of the Government.'
'Then what do you write?' said Gobind. 'Come nearer, for I cannot see
your countenance, and the light fails.'
'I write of all matters that lie within my understanding, and of many
that do not. But chiefly I write of Life and Death, and men and women,
and Love and Fate according to the measure of my ability, telling the
tale through the mouths of one, two, or more people. Then by the favour
of God the tales are sold and money accrues to me that I may keep
alive.'
'Even so,' said Gobind. 'That is the work of the bazar story-teller; but
he speaks straight to men and women and does not write anything at all.
Only when the tale has aroused expectation, and calamities are about
to befall the virtuous, he stops suddenly and demands payment ere he
continues the narration. Is it so in your craft, my son?'
'I have heard of such things when a tale is of great length, and is sold
as a cucumber, in small pieces.'
'Ay, I was once a famed teller of stories when I was begging on the road
between Koshin and Etra; | 581.805323 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.7855450 | 2,733 | 12 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Haragos Pál and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE BROCHURE SERIES
The Petit Trianon: Versailles
English Carved Fireplaces
APRIL, 1900
[Illustration: PLATE XXVII CHATEAU, PETIT TRIANON]
THE
BROCHURE SERIES
OF ARCHITECTURAL ILLUSTRATION.
1900. APRIL No. 4.
THE PETIT TRIANON: VERSAILLES.
During the first years of his reign, Louis the XIV. of France resided,
as his predecessors had, at St. Germain in summer; but for some
reason--it is alleged that it was because the windows of the palace
commanded a view of St. Denis, the royal mausoleum--he conceived
a dislike to it, and resolved to build another summer palace for
himself at some spot not far from Paris. Why he chose Versailles is
incomprehensible.
Whatever may have been the motive, however, he decided to erect upon
this desolate, waterless and uninhabited site a vast palace to be
surrounded by a park.
The cost of accomplishing this project was fearful, not in money
alone (although this was more than one thousand million francs), but
in human life. In 1681 twenty-two thousand soldiers and six thousand
horses were employed on the work, and so unhealthy was the site that
the workmen died by thousands. Writing in 1767, Madame de Sévigné says:
"The King is in haste that Versailles should be finished; but it would
seem that God is unwilling. It is almost impossible to continue the
work owing to the fearful mortality among the workmen. The corpses are
fetched away by cartfuls during the night,--night being chosen that
they who still live may not be terrified into revolt by the sight." But
no difficulty, nor the pestilence, nor the ruin of the treasury was
allowed to interfere with the King's pleasure. The palace rose; the
stately gardens, peopled with statues, spread about it; and a royal
city sprang up where before had been only a desolate forest; and,
after 1682, Versailles became the permanent headquarters of the Court.
In the immense park, some three-quarters of a mile northwest from the
terraces of the palace, Louis XIV. built a little palace to gratify
Madame de Maintenon, which, from the fact that it stood on the site of
the parish of Trianon, which was demolished to make a site for it, and
because its façade was ornamented with porcelain plaques of blue and
white faience ware, was called the "Trianon de Porcelaine"; but in 1687
Louis, who had as Saint-Simon said, "a rage for building," demolished
this frail structure and replaced it with another, designed by Mansart,
which we now know as the "Grand Trianon." This building was the King's
delight for a few years, but after 1700 he wearied of the plaything,
and turned all his attention to his new château at Marly.
[Illustration: PLATE XXVIII "GROTTO" AND "BELVEDERE," PETIT TRIANON]
During the Regency the Trianon was almost abandoned; but when, under
Louis XV., the Court returned to Versailles, the building became a
favorite refuge for the King; and he later gave it to his mistress,
Madame de Pompadour, for her own. She, being at her wits' end to devise
some new scheme to distract the daily increasing melancholy of the
King, hit upon the expedient of establishing in the grounds which were
attached to the Grand Trianon, a real practical dairy and farm; and
for that purpose imported from Holland a herd of fine cows, and
collected a number of rare varieties of hens and pigeons, which Louis
amused himself for some time in breeding. But in 1754 the royal caprice
again changed, and Louis abolished the farm, and made the land into a
botanical garden. Here he established conservatories for raising fruits
out of their natural seasons, and collected a great number of exotic
trees and shrubs of every variety and species. Taking great delight
in this garden, which was some distance from the Grand Trianon, he
conceived the notion of building in the midst of it a still smaller
château, modelled upon the Grand Trianon as that itself had been a
miniature of Versailles. This château, the Little Trianon, was erected
in 1766 by the royal architect, Gabriel, and was given by the King to
the mistress who had succeeded Madame du Pompadour in his favor, Madame
Du Barry. It was while staying at the Petit Trianon that Louis was
attacked by the small-pox, of which he died.
[Illustration: "TEMPLE OF LOVE" PETIT TRIANON]
The château of the Petit Trianon is an interesting building,
architecturally, marking, as it does, the transition stage between
the styles of Louis XV. and Louis XVI.--a return to purer classical
traditions. The façade is ornamented by a portico with four detached
Corinthian columns, and the whole is surmounted by a balustrade. The
reception and billiard rooms occupied the first floor, while the second
was occupied by the private apartments.
While Marie Antoinette was still the Dauphine, she had often expressed
a desire to have a château, apart from the palace, for her own, where,
free from the intolerable restraints of Court etiquette, she might
amuse herself as she chose; and shortly after his accession to the
throne, Louis XVI. is said to have presented her with the Trianons with
the words, "They have always belonged to the King's favorites, and
should therefore now be yours." The Queen answered laughingly that she
would gladly accept the Little Trianon, but only upon the condition
that it should be unreservedly her own, and that even the King should
come there only upon her express invitation.
[Illustration: PLATE XXIX "QUEEN'S HOUSE" AND "BILLIARD HALL,"
PETIT TRIANON]
Marie Antoinette's first wish, after becoming mistress of her new
domain, was to establish there a garden after the English style. The
rage for the English garden had just then seized French society, for
it was believed to be a return to Nature--Nature which Rousseau
just then had made it the fashion to adore, and the nobility were all
for playing at rusticity, and full of sentimental admiration for the
country.
The King humored the whim, and gave orders that the gardens already
existing at the Trianon should be remodelled, that the strip of land
joining it should be added, and the whole surrounded with a wall, and
the work pushed as rapidly as possible.
The plans for the English garden were drawn by Comte de Caraman, an
officer who had already arranged such a garden in connection with his
own residence, and this garden the Queen had visited. In 1775 the new
royal architect, Mique, seconded by the painter, Hubert Robert, the
sculptor, Deschamps, and the landscape gardener, Antoine Richard,
joined in working out the plans of the Comte de Caraman, and created an
English garden after the Queen's fancy. Unhappily, however, in order
to create this new garden it became necessary to destroy a large part
of the botanical garden which had before existed; but many of the fine
exotic trees were employed in working out the new design, and these
trees still remain the finest ornaments of the park.
The plan for the English garden was comprised as follows: In the
more formal portions of the grounds near the château an artificial
grotto and a "Belvedere," and, shadowed by overhanging trees, a little
"Temple de l'Amour." Separated from these classical constructions by an
artificial lake, bordered with rustic paths and intended to represent a
bit of natural country, was erected a picturesque miniature hamlet of
nine or ten rustic cottages in which the court ladies, under the lead
of the Queen, might play at peasant life.
The grotto was a work of some elaboration, and it was said that
no less than seven relief models of it were made before the Queen
expressed herself as satisfied with the design. It is an arrangement
of artificial rocks covered with moss, through which flows the outlet
stream of the little lake. It was at one time proposed, after the then
fashion in English gardening, to build on the top of the grotto a
picturesquely contrived ruin, but this project was abandoned.
Near the grotto stands the Belvedere--a coquettish little octagonal
pavilion set on a stone platform. Four windows and four doors are set
alternately in its eight surfaces, and a balustrade surrounds the domed
roof. The interior was ornamented in delicately frescoed stucco.
The Temple of Love consists of twelve Corinthian columns supporting a
cupola. The pavement is of white blue-veined marble. In the centre is
a carved pedestal on which stands a statue of Cupid drawing his bow,
modelled by Bouchardon.
[Illustration: MANTELPIECE RESTORATION HOUSE, ROCHESTER]
The most picturesque feature of the garden was, however, the village or
hamlet, and it is here the life of the Trianon centered in the time of
the Queen.
The houses with which the hamlet was comprised were situated on the
farther shore of a small artificial lake; and were divided into two
groups separated by a running stream. The first group was made up of
the "Queen's House" and its connected "Billiard Hall," and the "Mill":
the second originally comprised five buildings;--a "Gardener's Lodge,"
a "Poultry House," a tower, called "Marlborough's Tower" with a "Dairy"
attached to it, and, at some distance from these, a "Farm House" with
its dependencies.
We have preferred in the description to adhere to the names by which
these buildings were originally called rather than to adopt the more
fanciful nomenclature given to them later by an imaginative German,
Dr. Meyer, who visited France in 1796 and who invented the story that
the Queen, playing at rural life, had entrusted the King with the
rôle of the farmer, while she became the farmer's wife and the Count
d'Artois the huntsman, the Comte de Provence the miller, and the
Cardinal de Rohan the curé of this tiny community. In accordance with
this unfounded tale the Queen's house has been nicknamed the "Maison du
Seigneur," the poultry house the "Presbytère" and so forth,--and these
nicknames have clung to them ever since.
[Illustration: PLATE XXX "QUEEN'S HOUSE," PETIT TRIANON]
The simplicity of the buildings of the hamlet makes it unnecessary
to describe them in detail. They were erected during the years 1783,
1784 and 1785 from designs by the architect Mique. The exteriors were
covered with stucco to represent old brick, weather-worn stone and
worm-eaten wood, and all of them, with the exception of the "Queen's
House" which was partly covered with tiles, were roofed with thatch.
The "Queen's House" and "Billiard Hall" were connected by a rustic
gallery, painted olive-green. The former contained a dining-room and
some private apartments. The "Billiard Hall," as its name implies, was
mainly occupied by a billiard room over which were sleeping chambers.
[Illustration: MANTELPIECE STANDISH HALL]
The "Mill" was at one time furnished with a mill-wheel and actually
and practically used to grind grain for the inhabitants of the
tiny village. The "Gardener's House" has been demolished. The
"Poultry-House" was at one time used for the care of fowls and pigeons
of which the Queen had a large number.
[Illustration: PLATE XXXI " | 581.805585 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.8185350 | 936 | 16 |
Produced by Anita Hammond, Wayne Hammond and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Transcriber's Note:
This project uses utf-8 encoded characters. If some characters are not
readable, check your settings of your text reader to ensure you have a
font installed that can display utf-8 characters.
Italics delimited by underscores.]
Never:
_A Hand-Book for the Uninitiated
and Inexperienced
Aspirants to Refined Society’s
Giddy Heights
and Glittering Attainments._
MRS. MARY J. HOLME’S NOVELS
Over a MILLION Sold
THE NEW BOOK
Queenie Hetherton
_JUST OUT_.
For Sale Everywhere
Price, $1.50.
NEVER
Never:
_A Hand-Book for the Uninitiated
and Inexperienced
Aspirants to Refined Society’s
Giddy Heights
and Glittering Attainments._
“Shoot Folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise.”
_Pope._
BY MENTOR.
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK: COPYRIGHT, 1883,
BY _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
Stereotyped by
SAMUEL STODDER,
42 DEY STREET, N. Y.
[Illustration]
_Prelude_.
[Illustration]
_This little book is cordially recommended to all parties just
hesitating on the plush-padded, gilt-edged threshold of our highest
social circles._
_In purely business affairs, it may not be as useful as_ Hoyle’s Games,
_or_ Locke on the Human Understanding, _but a careful study of its
contents cannot but prove the “Open Sesame” to that jealously-guarded
realm,--good society,--in which you aspire to circulate freely and
shine with becoming luster_.
_“It is easier for a needle to pass through a camel’s eye,” says Poor
Richard, or some one else, “than for a poor young man to enter the
mansions of the rich.” And I, the author of this code of warnings, as
truly say unto you, that a contemptuous disregard of the same will be
likely to lead you into mortification and embarrassment, if not into
being incontinently kicked out of doors._
_While intended chiefly for the young, not the less may the old, the
decrepit, and the infirm like-wise rejoice in the possession of the
rules and prohibitions herein contained, and hasten to commit them to
memory._
_But the memory is treacherous._
_It would, therefore, be well for such persons to carry the Hand Book
constantly with them, to be referred to on short notice wherever they
may chance to be--in the street-car, in the drawing-room, on the
promenade, on the ball-room floor, at table, while visiting, and so on._
_In this way the Hand Book will be like the magic ring that pricked
the wearer’s finger warningly whenever about to yield to an unworthy
impulse. Its instructively reiterated “Never” will become, indeed, a
blessing--not in disguise, but rather in guardian angel’s habiliments._
_It will be, in truth, a bosom companion in the happiest sense of the
term, a mutely eloquent monitor of deportment, a still, small voice as
to what is in good form and what is not._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Contents._
[Illustration]
PAGE
Making and Receiving Calls 11
At Breakfast 23
At Luncheon 31
At Dinner 36
While Walking 49
In the Use of Language 57
Dress and Personal Habits 73
At Public Entertainments 86
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Never.
[Illustration]
I.
Making and Receiving Calls.
Never, however formal your visit, neglect to wipe your feet on the
door-mat, in lieu of | 581.838575 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.8186020 | 875 | 18 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by the
National Library of Australia
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-90469872
(National Library of Australia)
THE RED-HEADED MAN
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
CLAUDE DUVAL OF '95
_A ROMANCE OF THE ROAD_
Some Press Opinions
Athenæm.--"The book is cleverly written and will interest the reader
who can forget its impossibilities."
Academy.--"The book is a story of modern highway robbery by a lady
instead of a gentleman of the road."
Scotsman.--"A capital story of mystery, and unravelled with an
entertaining thought."
Pall Mall Gazette.--"Mr. Fergus Hume has shown his wonted skill in
steering his reader plausibly through the pitfalls of a tangled plot
in his 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five.' The conception of a mounted and
masked highwayman in our own day is daring and original and is worked
out with great ingenuity."
Daily Graphic.--"Mr. Fergus Hume starts with a good idea in his tale
of a modern highwayman and he has crowded a variety of incidents into
the pages of his book. The story opens dramatically and with some
novelty."
Whitehall Review.--"A rattling romance of the road, well written, well
conceived and capitally told. The present book is one of absorbing
interest and it is impossible to put it aside until the last line is
reached."
Black and White.--"There is abundant action and a well-sustained
mystery in Mr. Fergus Hume's 'Claude Duval of '95."
Morning Post.--"Less characteristic than the majority of Mr. Hume's
stories this 'Romance of the Road' is one of the most entertaining
among them."
Gentlewoman.--"Mr. Hume's latest contribution to fiction 'Claude Duval
of Ninety-Five' is a good honest tale of adventure which you cannot
easily put by when you take it up."
Westminster Gazette.--"'Claude Duval of '95' is an excellent story."
Manchester Guardian.--"A female highwayman is a somewhat daring
variety in fiction of which crime and audacity is the chief merit of
Mr. Fergus Hume's latest work. Mr. Hume is a clever writer in a very
fertile vein."
Literary World.--"In 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five' we have a
recendesence of highway robbery very skilfully contrived."
Weekly Sun.--"The plot is very cleverly worked out. The book is to be
heartily commended as one of its author's masterpieces."
Literature.--"The story is novel, and is worked out into a present day
environment with real dexterity."
Yorkshire Post.--"An entertaining romance which should agree with the
prevailing mood of the libraries."
Observer.--"Mr. Hume's story will rank among the best of its type."
DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS, LONDON.
THE RED-HEADED MAN
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"_The Mystery of a Hansom Cab_," "_Claude Duval of '95_,"
"_A Masquerade Mystery_," "_The Rainbow Feather_," _etc._
London
DIGBY, LONG & CO.
18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C.
1899
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. AN EXTRAORDINARY CRIME
II. THE BLONDE LADY
III. MR. TORRY'S THEORY
IV. THE DEAD MAN'S NAME
V. "DE MORTIUS NIL NISI BONUM"
VI. THE SECRETARY
VII. EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST
VIII. THE ROBBERY
IX. CAPTAIN MANUEL
X. DONNA MARIA
XI. UNEXPECTED | 581.838642 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.8826240 | 82 | 6 |
Produced by David Widger
MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA de SEINGALT 1725-1798
ADVENTURES IN THE SOUTH, Volume 4a--DEPART SWITZERLAND
THE RARE UNABRIDGED LONDON EDITION OF 1894 TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR MACHEN TO
WHICH HAS BEEN | 581.902664 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.8857220 | 3,122 | 14 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
PICTURES
OF
SOUTHERN LIFE,
SOCIAL, POLITICAL, AND MILITARY.
WRITTEN FOR THE LONDON TIMES,
BY
WILLIAM HOWARD RUSSELL, LL. D.,
SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
NEW YORK:
James G. Gregory,
(SUCCESSOR TO W. A. TOWNSEND & CO.,)
46 WALKER STREET.
1861.
PICTURES OF SOUTHERN LIFE.
CHARLESTON, _April_ 30, 1861.[A]
[A] Mr. Russell wrote one letter from Charleston previous to
this, but it is occupied exclusively with a description of the
appearance of Fort Sumter after the siege. His “Pictures of Southern
Life” properly begin at the date above.
NOTHING I could say can be worth one fact which has forced itself upon
my mind in reference to the sentiments which prevail among the gentlemen
of this state. I have been among them for several days. I have visited
their plantations; I have conversed with them freely and fully, and I
have enjoyed that frank, courteous, and graceful intercourse which
constitutes an irresistible charm of their society. From all quarters
have come to my ears the echoes of the same voice; it may be feigned,
but there is no discord in the note, and it sounds in wonderful strength
and monotony all over the country. Shades of George III., of North, of
Johnson, of all who contended against the great rebellion which tore
these colonies from England, can you hear the chorus which rings through
the state of Marion, Sumter, and Pinckney, and not clap your ghostly
hands in triumph? That voice says, “If we could only get one of the
royal race of England to rule over us, we should be content.” Let there
be no misconception on this point. That sentiment, varied in a hundred
ways, has been repeated to me over and over again. There is a general
admission that the means to such an end are wanting, and that the desire
cannot be gratified. But the admiration for monarchical institutions on
the English model, for privileged classes, and for a landed aristocracy
and gentry, is undisguised and apparently genuine. With the pride of
having achieved their independence is mingled in the South Carolinians’
hearts a strange regret at the result and consequences, and many are
they who “would go back to-morrow if we could.” An intense affection for
the British connection, a love of British habits and customs, a respect
for British sentiment, law, authority, order, civilization, and
literature, pre-eminently distinguish the inhabitants of this state,
who, glorying in their descent from ancient families on the three
islands, whose fortunes they still follow, and with whose members they
maintain not unfrequently familiar relations, regard with an aversion of
which it is impossible to give an idea to one who has not seen its
manifestations, the people of New England and the populations of the
Northern States, whom they regard as tainted beyond cure by the venom of
“Puritanism.” Whatever may be the cause, this is the fact and the
effect. “The state of South Carolina was,” I am told, “founded by
gentlemen.” It was not established by witch-burning Puritans, by cruel
persecuting fanatics, who implanted in the North the standard of
Torquemada, and breathed into the nostrils of their newly-born colonies
all the ferocity, bloodthirstiness, and rabid intolerance of the
Inquisition. It is absolutely astounding to a stranger who aims at the
preservation of a decent neutrality to mark the violence of these
opinions. “If that confounded ship had sunk with those ---- Pilgrim
Fathers on board,” says one, “we never should have been driven to these
extremities!” “We could have got on with the fanatics if they had been
either Christians or gentlemen,” says another; “for in the first case
they would have acted with common charity, and in the second they would
have fought when they insulted us; but there are neither Christians nor
gentlemen among them!” “Any thing on the earth!” exclaims a third, “any
form of government, any tyranny or despotism you will; but”--and here is
an appeal more terrible than the adjuration of all the gods--“nothing on
earth shall ever induce us to submit to any union with the brutal,
bigoted blackguards of the New England States, who neither comprehend
nor regard the feelings of gentlemen! Man, woman, and child, we’ll die
first.” Imagine these and an infinite variety of similar sentiments
uttered by courtly, well-educated men, who set great store on a nice
observance of the usages of society, and who are only moved to extreme
bitterness and anger when they speak of the North, and you will fail to
conceive the intensity of the dislike of the South Carolinians for the
free states. There are national antipathies on our side of the Atlantic
which are tolerably strong, and have been unfortunately pertinacious and
long-lived. The hatred of the Italian for the Tedesco, of the Greek for
the Turk, of the Turk for the Russ, is warm and fierce enough to satisfy
the Prince of Darkness, not to speak of a few little pet aversions among
allied powers and the atoms of composite empires; but they are all mere
indifference and neutrality of feeling compared to the animosity evinced
the “gentry” of South Carolina for the “rabble of the North.”
The contests of Cavalier and Roundhead, of Vendean and Republican, even
of Orangeman and Croppy, have been elegant joustings, regulated by the
finest rules of chivalry, compared with those which North and South will
carry on if their deeds support their words. “Immortal hate, the study
of revenge,” will actuate every blow, and never in the history of the
world, perhaps, will go forth such a dreadful _væ victis_ as that which
may be heard before the fight has begun. There is nothing in all the
dark caves of human passion so cruel and deadly as the hatred the South
Carolinians profess for the Yankees. That hatred has been swelling for
years till it is the very life-blood of the state. It has set South
Carolina to work steadily to organize her resources for the struggle
which she intended to provoke if it did not come in the course of time.
“Incompatibility of temper” would have been sufficient ground for the
divorce, and I am satisfied that there has been a deep-rooted design,
conceived in some men’s minds thirty years ago, and extended gradually
year after year to others, to break away from the Union at the very
first opportunity. The North is to South Carolina a corrupt and evil
thing, to which for long years she has been bound by burning chains,
while monopolists and manufacturers fed on her tender limbs. She has
been bound in a Maxentian union to the object she loathes. New England
is to her the incarnation of moral and political wickedness and social
corruption. It is the source of every thing which South Carolina hates,
and of the torrents of free thought and taxed manufactures, of
Abolitionism and of Filibustering, which have flooded the land. Believe
a Southern man as he believes himself, and you must regard New England
and the kindred states as the birthplace of impurity of mind among men
and of unchastity in women--the home of Free Love, of Fourierism, of
Infidelity, of Abolitionism, of false teachings in political economy and
in social life; a land saturated with the drippings of rotten
philosophy, with the poisonous infections of a fanatic press; without
honor or modesty; whose wisdom is paltry cunning, whose valor and
manhood have been swallowed up in a corrupt, howling demagogy, and in
the marts of a dishonest commerce. It is the merchants of New York who
fit out ships for the slave-trade, and carry it on in Yankee ships. It
is the capital of the North which supports, and it is Northern men who
concoct and execute, the filibustering expeditions which have brought
discredit on the slave-holding states. In the large cities people are
corrupted by itinerant and ignorant lecturers--in the towns and in the
country by an unprincipled press. The populations, indeed, know how to
read and write, but they don’t know how to think, and they are the easy
victims of the wretched impostors on all the ’ologies and ’isms who
swarm over the region, and subsist by lecturing on subjects which the
innate vices of mankind induce them to accept with eagerness, while they
assume the garb of philosophical abstractions to cover their nastiness,
in deference to a contemptible and universal hypocrisy.
“Who fills the butchers’ shops with large blue flies?”
Assuredly the New England demon, who has been persecuting the South
until its intolerable cruelty and insolence forced her, in a spasm of
agony, to rend her chains asunder. The New Englander must have something
to persecute, and as he has hunted down all his Indians, burnt all his
witches, and persecuted all his opponents to the death, he invented
Abolitionism as the sole resource left to him for the gratification of
his favorite passion. Next to this motive principle is his desire to
make money dishonestly, trickily, meanly, and shabbily. He has acted on
it in all his relations with the South, and has cheated and plundered
her in all his dealings by villainous tariffs. If one objects that the
South must have been a party to this, because her boast is that her
statesmen have ruled the government of the country, you are told that
the South yielded out of pure good-nature. Now, however, she will have
free-trade, and will open the coasting trade to foreign nations, and
shut out from it the hated Yankees, who so long monopolized and made
their fortunes by it. Under all the varied burdens and miseries to which
she was subjected, the South held fast to her sheet-anchor. South
Carolina was the mooring-ground in which it found the surest hold. The
doctrine of State Rights was her salvation, and the fiercer the storm
raged against her--the more stoutly demagogy, immigrant preponderance,
and the blasts of universal suffrage bore down on her, threatening to
sweep away the vested interests of the South in her right to govern the
states--the greater was her confidence and the more resolutely she held
on her cable. The North attracted “hordes of ignorant Germans and
Irish,” and the scum of Europe, while the South repelled them. The
industry, the capital of the North increased with enormous rapidity,
under the influence of cheap labor and manufacturing ingenuity and
enterprise, in the villages which swelled into towns, and the towns
which became cities, under the unenvious eye of the South. She, on the
contrary, toiled on slowly, clearing forests and draining swamps to find
new cotton-grounds and rice-fields, for the employment of her only
industry and for the development of her only capital--“involuntary
labor.” The tide of immigration waxed stronger, and by degrees she saw
the districts into which she claimed the right to introduce that capital
closed against her, and occupied by free labor. The doctrine of squatter
“sovereignty,” and the force of hostile tariffs, which placed a heavy
duty on the very articles which the South most required, completed the
measure of injuries to which she was subjected, and the spirit of
discontent found vent in fiery debate, in personal insults, and in
acrimonious speaking and writing, which increased in intensity in
proportion as the Abolition movement, and the contest between the
Federal principle and State Rights became more vehement. I am desirous
of showing in a few words, for the information of English readers, how
it is that the Confederacy which Europe knew simply as a political
entity has succeeded in dividing itself. The slave states held the
doctrine, or say they did, that each state was independent, as France or
as England, but that for certain purposes they chose a common agent to
deal with foreign nations, and to impose taxes for the purpose of paying
the expenses of the agency. We, it appears, talked of American citizens
when there were no such beings at all. There were, indeed, citizens of
the sovereign state of South Carolina, or of Georgia or Florida, who
permitted themselves to pass under that designation, but it was merely
as a matter of personal convenience. It will be difficult for Europeans
to understand this doctrine, as nothing like it has been heard before,
and no such Confederation of sovereign states has ever existed in any
country in the world. The Northern men deny that it existed here, and
claim for the Federal Government powers not compatible with such
assumptions. _They_ have lived for the Union, they served it, they
labored for and made money by it. A man as a New York man was
nothing--as an American citizen he was a great deal. A South Carolinian
objected to lose his identity in any description which included him and
a “Yankee clockmaker” in the same category. The Union was against him;
he remembered that he came from a race of English gentlemen who had been
persecuted by the representatives--for he will not call them the
ancestors--of the Puritans of New England, and he thought that they were
animated by the same hostility to himself. He was proud of old names,
and he felt pleasure in tracing his connection with old families in the
old country. His plantations were held by old charters, or had been in
the hands of his fathers for several generations; and he delighted to
remember that when the Stuarts were banished from their throne and their
country, the burgesses of South Carolina had solemnly elected the
| 581.905762 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.9142970 | 2,448 | 106 |
Produced by Louise Hope, David Edwards and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration descriptions in {braces} were added by the transcriber
to supplement the bare page references.]
[Illustration: Page 5.
{Husband and wife in bed looking at white mouse}]
_NEW JUVENILE LIBRARY._
The
STORY
of the
WHITE MOUSE.
Embellished With
_Four Elegant Copperplates._
A New and Correct Edition.
LONDON:
Printed for the Booksellers.
1816.
The
STORY
of the
WHITE MOUSE.
In the kingdom of Bonbobbin, which, by the Chinese annals, appears
to have flourished twenty thousand years ago, there reigned a prince,
endowed with every accomplishment which generally distinguishes the sons
of kings. His beauty was brighter than the sun. The sun, to which he was
nearly related, would sometimes stop his course, in order to look down
and admire him.
His mind was not less perfect than his body; he knew all things without
having ever read; philosophers, poets, and historians, submitted their
works to his decision; and so penetrating was he, that he could tell the
merit of a book by looking on the cover. He made epic poems, tragedies,
and pastorals, with surprising facility; song, epigram, or rebus,
was all one to him; though, it is observed, he could never finish an
acrostick. In short, the fairy who presided at his birth had endowed him
with almost every perfection; or, what was just the same, his subjects
were ready to acknowledge he possessed them all; and, for his own
part, he knew nothing to the contrary. A prince so accomplished,
received a name suitable to his merit; and he was called
_Bonbenin-bonbobbin-bonbobbinet_, which signifies Enlightener
of the Sun.
As he was very powerful, and yet unmarried, all the neighbouring kings
earnestly sought his alliance. Each sent his daughter, dressed out in
the most magnificent manner, and with the most sumptuous retinue
imaginable, in order to allure the prince; so that, at one time, there
were seen at his court, not less than seven hundred foreign princesses,
of exquisite sentiment and beauty, each alone sufficient to make seven
hundred ordinary men happy.
Distracted in such a variety, the generous Bonbenin, had he not been
obliged by the laws of the empire to make choice of one, would very
willingly have married them all, for none understood gallantry better.
He spent numberless hours of solicitude, in endeavouring to determine
whom he should choose. One lady was possessed of every perfection, but
he disliked her eye-brows; another was brighter than the morning-star,
but he disapproved her fong-whang; a third did not lay enough of white
on her cheek; and a fourth did not sufficiently blacken her nails. At
last, after numberless disappointments on the one side and the other, he
made choice of the incomparable Nanhoa, queen of the Scarlet Dragons.
The preparations for the royal nuptials, or the envy of the disappointed
ladies, needs no description; both the one and the other were as great
as they could be. The beautiful princess was conducted, amidst admiring
multitudes, to the royal couch, where, after being divested of every
encumbering ornament, he came more chearful than the morning; and
printing on her lips a burning kiss, the attendants took this as a
proper signal to withdraw.
Perhaps I ought to have mentioned in the beginning, that, among several
other qualifications, the prince was fond of collecting and breeding
mice, which being an harmless pastime, none of his counsellors thought
proper to dissuade him from; he therefore kept a great variety of
these pretty little animals in the most beautiful cages, enriched with
diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and other precious stones. Thus he
innocently spent four hours each day in contemplating their innocent
little pastimes.
But, to proceed, the prince and princess now retired to repose; and
though night and secrecy had drawn the curtain, yet delicacy retarded
those enjoyments which passion presented to their view. The prince
happening to look towards the outside of the bed, perceived one of the
most beautiful animals in the world, a white mouse with green eyes,
playing about the floor, and performing an hundred pretty tricks. He was
already master of blue mice, red mice, and even white mice with yellow
eyes; but a white mouse with green eyes, was what he long endeavoured
to possess: whereupon, leaping from bed, with the utmost impatience and
agility, the youthful prince attempted to seize the little charmer; but
it was fled in a moment; for, alas! the mouse was sent by a discontented
princess, and was itself a fairy.
It is impossible to describe the agony of the prince upon this occasion.
He sought round and round every part of the room, even the bed where the
princess lay was not exempt from the inquiry; he turned the princess on
one side and the other, stripped her quite naked, but no mouse was to be
found; the princess herself was kind enough to assist, but still to no
purpose.
"Alas!" cried the young prince in an agony, "how unhappy am I to be thus
disappointed! never sure was so beautiful an animal seen; I would give
half my kingdom and my princess to him that would find it." The
princess, though not much pleased with the latter part of his offer,
endeavoured to comfort him as well as she could; she let him know he
had an hundred mice already, which ought to be at least sufficient to
satisfy any philosopher like him. Though none of them had green eyes,
yet he should learn to thank Heaven that they had eyes. She told him
(for she was a profound moralist,) that incurable evils must be borne,
and that useless lamentations were vain, and that man was born to
misfortunes; she even intreated him to return to bed, and she would
endeavour to lull him on her bosom to repose; but still the prince
continued inconsolable; and, regarding her with a stern air, for which
his family was remarkable, he vowed never to sleep in a royal palace,
or indulge himself in the innocent pleasures of matrimony, till he had
found the white mouse with green eyes.
When morning came, he published an edict, offering half his kingdom, and
his princess, to that person who should catch and bring him the white
mouse with green eyes.
The edict was scarce published, when all the traps in the kingdom were
baited with cheese; numberless mice were taken and destroyed, but still
the much-wished-for mouse was not among the number. The privy council
were assembled more than once to give their advice; but all their
deliberations came to nothing, even though there were two complete
vermin-killers, and three professed rat-catchers, of the number.
Frequent addresses, as is usual on extraordinary occasions, were sent
from all parts of the empire; but, though these promised well, though in
them he received an assurance that his faithful subjects would assist in
his search with their lives and fortunes, yet, with all their loyalty,
they failed, when the time came that the mouse was to be caught.
The prince, therefore, was resolved to go himself in search, determined
never to lie two nights in one place, till he had found what he sought
for. Thus, quitting his palace without attendants, he set out upon his
journey, and travelled through many a desert, and crossed many a river,
high over hills, and down along vales, still restless, still inquiring
wherever he came, but no white mouse was to be found.
[Illustration: Page 10.
{Man kneeling before young witch}]
As one day, fatigued with his journey, he was shading himself from the
heat of the mid-day sun, under the arching branches of a Banana tree,
meditating on the object of his pursuit, he perceived an old woman
hideously deformed approaching him; by her stoop, and the wrinkles
of her visage, she seemed at least five hundred years old; and the
spotted toad was not more freckled than was her skin. "Ah! Prince
Bonbenin-bonbobbin-bonbobbinet," cried the creature, "what has led you
so many thousand miles from your own kingdom? What is it you look for,
and what induces you to travel into the kingdom of the Emmets?" The
prince, who was excessively complaisant, told her the whole story three
times over, for she was hard of hearing. "Well," says the old fairy,
for such she was, "I promise to put you in possession of the white mouse
with green eyes, and that immediately too, upon one condition." "One
condition," replied the prince in a rapture, "name a thousand; I shall
undergo them all with pleasure." "Nay," interrupted the old fairy,
"I ask but one, and that not very mortifying neither; it is only that
you instantly consent to marry me."
It is impossible to express the prince's confusion at this demand; he
loved the mouse, but he detested the bride; he hesitated; he desired
time to think upon the proposal. He would have been glad to consult his
friends on such an occasion. "Nay, nay," cried the odious fairy, "if you
demur, I retract my promise; I do not desire to force my favours on any
man. Here, you my attendants, (cried she, stamping with her foot,) let
my machine be driven up; Barbacela, queen of Emmets, is not used to
contemptuous treatment." She had no sooner spoken than her fiery chariot
appeared in the air, drawn by two snails; and she was just going to step
in, when the prince reflected that now or never was the time to be in
possession of the white mouse; and, quite forgetting his lawful princess
Nanhoa, falling on his knees, he implored forgiveness for having rashly
rejected so much beauty. This well-timed compliment instantly appeased
the angry fairy. She affected an hideous leer of approbation, and taking
the young prince by the hand, conducted him to a neighbouring church,
where they were married together in a moment. As soon as the ceremony
was performed, the prince, who was to the last degree desirous of seeing
his favourite mouse, reminded the bride of her promise. "To confess a
truth, my prince," cried she, "I myself am that very white mouse you saw
on your wedding night in the royal apartment. I now therefore give you
your choice, whether you would have me a mouse by day, and a woman by
night, or a mouse by night, and a woman by day." Though the | 581.934337 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.9798130 | 1,009 | 12 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Paul Marshall and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Notes:
Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
A single underscore after a symbol indicates a subscript.
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
The Table of Contents was added by the transcriber, it is not part of
the original text.
THE BOSTON
SCHOOL ATLAS,
EMBRACING A COMPENDIUM OF GEOGRAPHY.
BY B. FRANKLIN EDMANDS.
Table of Contents.
PREFACE.
ELEMENTAL GEOGRAPHY. 3
EXPLANATION OF MAPS. 5
GRAND DIVISIONS OF THE EARTH. 17
CIVIL AND POLITICAL GEOGRAPHY. 17
STATE OF SOCIETY. 18
NORTH AMERICA. 21
UNITED STATES. 25
MAINE. 26
NEW HAMPSHIRE.... and... VERMONT. 31
MASSACHUSETTS, CONNECTICUT, AND RHODE ISLAND. 32
NEW YORK. 37
PENNSYLVANIA, MARYLAND, NEW JERSEY, AND DELAWARE. 38
WESTERN STATES. 43
UNITED STATES. 44
SOUTH AMERICA. 57
EUROPE. 61
BRITISH ISLES. 65
ASIA. 69
AFRICA. 73
GENERAL QUESTIONS. 74
WEST INDIA ISLANDS. 75
OCEANICA. 75
ELEMENTAL ASTRONOMY. 76
TIDES. 77
QUESTIONS IN REVIEW OF THE COMPENDIUM. 78
[Illustration]
TWELFTH EDITION; STEREOTYPED,
CONTAINING THE FOLLOWING MAPS AND CHARTS.
1. MAP OF THE WORLD.
2. CHART... MOUNTAINS.
3. CHART... RIVERS.
4. NORTH AMERICA.
5. UNITED STATES.
6. PART OF MAINE.
7. VERMONT & N. HAMPSHIRE.
8. MASSACHUSETTS, CONNECTICUT, AND R. ISLAND.
9. NEW YORK.
10. PENN. MD., N. JER. AND DEL.
11. WESTERN STATES.
12. CHART... CANALS, RAIL ROADS.
13. CHART... POLITICAL AND STATISTICAL.
14. SOUTH AMERICA.
15. EUROPE.
16. BRITISH ISLES.
17. ASIA.
18. AFRICA.
_Embellished with Instructive Engravings._
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY ROBERT S. DAVIS,
SUCCESSOR TO LINCOLN, EDMANDS, & CO.,
No. 77, Washington Street.
1840.
PREFACE.
A careful examination of Maps is a sure and at the same time the most
convenient method of acquiring a knowledge of Geography. With a view
of furnishing to young classes an _economical means_ of commencing a
course of geographical study, this work has been prepared; and it is
believed that a thorough acquaintance with its contents will impart
such general ideas, as will prepare them to enter upon a more _minute
investigation_ of the subject, when they shall have arrived at a proper
age.
The use of this work will also obviate the necessity which has
heretofore existed, of furnishing such classes with larger volumes, the
greater part of which is useless to them, till the book is literally
worn out; and although it is adapted to young students, it will be
found that the Atlas exercises are equally proper for more advanced
pupils.
The study of this work should commence with recitations of short
lessons previously explained by the instructer; and after the pupils
are well versed in the elements, the study of the maps | 581.999853 |
2023-11-16 18:26:45.9832310 | 1,125 | 18 |
Produced by David Widger
A MEMORY OF THE SOUTHERN SEAS
From "Chinkie's Flat And Other Stories"
By Louis Becke
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company 1904
CAPTAIN "BULLY" HAYES
In other works by the present writer frequent allusion has been made,
either by the author or by other persons, to Captain Hayes. Perhaps the
continuous appearance of his name may have been irritating to many of
my readers; if so I can only plead that it is almost impossible when
writing of wild life in the Southern Seas to avoid mentioning him. Every
one who sailed the Austral seas between the "fifties" and "seventies,"
and thousands who had not, knew of him and had heard tales of him.
In some eases these tales were to his credit; mostly they were not.
However, the writer makes no further apology for reproducing the
following sketch of the great "Bully" which he contributed to the _Pall
Mall Gazette_, and which, by the courtesy of the editor of that journal,
he is able to include in this volume.
In a most interesting, though all too brief, sketch of the life of
the late Rev. James Chalmers, the famous New Guinea missionary, which
appeared in the January number of a popular religious magazine,
the author, the Rev. Richard Lovett, gives us a brief glance of the
notorious Captain "Bully" Hayes. Mr. Chalmers, in 1866, sailed for the
South Seas with his wife in the missionary ship _John Williams_--the
second vessel of that name, the present beautiful steamer being the
fourth _John Williams_.
The second John Williams had but a brief existence, for on her first
voyage she was wrecked on Nine Island (the "Savage" Island of Captain
Cook). Hayes happened to be there with his vessel, and agreed to convey
the shipwrecked missionaries to Samoa. No doubt he charged them a pretty
stiff price, for he always said that missionaries "were teaching Kanakas
the degrading doctrine that even if a man killed his enemy and cut out
and ate his heart in public, and otherwise misconducted himself, he
could yet secure a front seat in the Kingdom of Heaven if he said he was
sorry and was then baptized as Aperamo (Abraham) or Lakopo (Jacob)."
"It is characteristic of Chalmers," writes Mr. Lovett, "that he was able
to exert considerable influence over this ruffian, and even saw good
points in him, not easily evident to others."
The present writer sailed with Hayes on four voyages as supercargo, and
was with the big-bearded, heavy-handed, and alleged "terror of the South
Seas" when his famous brig _Leonora_ was wrecked on Strong's Island, one
wild night in March, 1875. And he has nothing but kindly memories of a
much-maligned man, who, with all his faults, was never the cold-blooded
murderer whose fictitious atrocities once formed the theme of a highly
blood-curdling melodrama staged in the old Victoria Theatre, in Pitt
Street, Sydney, under the title of "The Pirate of the Pacific." In this
lively production of dramatic genius Hayes was portrayed as something
worse than Blackboard or Llonois, and committed more murders and
abductions of beautiful women in two hours than ever fell to the luck in
real life of the most gorgeous pirate on record. No one of the audience
was more interested or applauded more vigorously the villain's downfall
than "Bully" Hayes himself, who was seated in a private box with a lady.
He had come to Sydney by steamer from Melbourne, where he had left his
ship in the hands of brokers for sale, and almost the first thing he saw
on arrival were the theatrical posters concerning himself and his career
of crime.
"I would have gone for the theatre people," he told the writer, "if they
had had any money, but the man who 'played' me was the lessee of the
theatre and was hard up. I think his name was Hoskins. He was a big
fat fellow, with a soapy, slithery kind of a voice, and I lent him ten
pounds, which he spent on a dinner to myself and some of his company. I
guess we had a real good time."
But let us hear what poor ill-fated Missionary Chalmers has to say about
the alleged pirate:--
"Hayes seemed to take to me during the frequent meetings we had on
shore" (this was when the shipwrecked missionaries and their wives were
living on Savage Island), "and before going on board for good I met him
one afternoon and said to him, 'Captain Hayes, I hope you will have no
objection to our having morning and evening service on board, and twice
on Sabbaths. All short, and only those who like need attend.' Certainly
not. My ship is a missionary ship now' (humorous dog), 'and I hope you
will feel it so. All on board will attend these services.' I replied,
'Only if they are inclined.'" ( | 582.003271 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.0811020 | 1,281 | 10 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
_OLD GLASS
AND
HOW TO COLLECT IT_
[Illustration]
_The Standard Book on the Subject._
A HISTORY OF ENGLISH STAINED
GLASS WINDOWS.
By MAURICE DRAKE. Fully Illustrated in Colour
and Half-tone. Foolscap folio. £2, 2s. net.
“One of the most beautiful, nay, most sumptuous, books
produced in recent years, and from that point of view the Author
and the publisher, the artist and the printer, and, indeed, also
the binder, are to be heartily congratulated. But it is also an
interesting book to read, although the subject is not everyone’s
subject, for it is written, not merely with knowledge, which one
can find anywhere on most subjects, but with knowledge touched
with humanity, which is the kind of knowledge that we want in
a book.”--_Daily Chronicle._
FIRST STEPS IN COLLECTING.
By Mrs GRACE VALLOIS, Author of “Antiques
and Curios in our Homes.” 64 Illustrations.
Picture Cover. 6s. net.
In this book G. M. Vallois has grappled successfully with the
problem of how to give the amateur a slight general knowledge
of a wide subject, without deluging him with technical details.
ANTIQUES AND CURIOS IN OUR HOMES.
By G. M. VALLOIS. 61 Illustrations. 6s. net.
In addition to being interesting to those who possess old furniture,
etc., it should appeal to young persons making a home, as, even though
they may not be able to buy Antique Furniture, it is of educational
value to them, inasmuch as it teaches in a most fascinating manner the
difference between Sheraton and Chippendale, between Wedgwood and Willow
Pattern, etc.
[Illustration: A fine specimen of Early Bristol Glass, with landscape
painted by Edkin.]
OLD GLASS AND HOW
TO COLLECT IT
BY
J. SYDNEY LEWIS
ILLUSTRATED
LONDON
T. WERNER LAURIE LTD.
30 NEW BRIDGE STREET, E.C.4
The Author desires to express his best thanks to Miss Whitmore Jones, Mr
Cole of Law, Foulsham & Cole, Mr A. Edwards of Messrs Edwards Limited,
for their kind permission to include examples of old English and Irish
glass from their Collections, and to Messrs Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge
for allowing him to include the list of prices fetched by various
specimens at their Sales.
He is also desirous of acknowledging the assistance he has received from
the Authorities of the British and Dublin Museums, and also to the late
Mr J. Herbert Bailey, to whom and to “The Connoisseur” he is indebted
for several of the illustrations.
His indebtedness to the great work of Mr A. Hartshorne is one which he
shares with every writer who takes as his subject “Old English Glass.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. INTRODUCTORY 1
II. EARLY ENGLISH GLASS 27
III. EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY GLASS 55
IV. MEMORIAL GLASSES 95
V. BRISTOL AND NAILSEA GLASS 115
VI. IRISH GLASS 128
VII. CURIOUS AND FREAK GLASSES 154
VIII. FRAUDS AND IMITATIONS 166
IX. SOME HINTS TO COLLECTORS 182
CATALOGUE OF PRICES OF PRINCIPAL PIECES OF
GLASS 191
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Early Bristol Glass; landscape painted by Edkin....._Frontispiece_
FIG.
1. Elizabethan Glass (Brit. Mus. Coll.) }
} _To face page_ 42
2. Posset Cup (Charles II.) }
3. Feeding Cup (William III.) }
} ” 48
4. Glass Panel (Charles II.) }
5. Glass Tankard with Coin blown in Base }
} ” 50
6. Coin blown in Base of Tankard }
7. Air-twisted Stem Glasses.....” 62
8. Air-twisted Button and Baluster Stem Glasses.....” 66
9. Opaque-twisted Stem and Rose Glasses.....” 68
10. Double Ogee Bowls.....” 72
11. Ale Glasses and Sweetmeat Glasses.....” 74
12. Eighteenth-century Drinking Glasses.....” 76
13. Rummers and Baluster Stem Glasses.....” 84
14. Decanters and Salt-cellars (Eighteenth Cent.).....” 90
15. Candlesticks and Tapersticks.....” 92
16. Jacobean Rushlight Holder and Wine Glasses.....” 94
17. Jacobite Toasting Glasses.....” 96
18. Jacobite Goblets.....” 100
19. Jacobite Glass.....” 102
20. Memorial Toasting Glasses.....” 106
21. Memorial Glasses (Various).....” 108
22. A Nelson Glass and George IV. Coronation Glass.....” 110
23. Commemoration Glasses.....” 112
24. Tankards and Grog Glasses.....” 114
25. Old Bristol Glass Decanter and Mug.....” 120
26. Bristol Glass Vases and Candlesticks.....” 122
27. Bristol Glass Vases and Castors.....” 124
28. Early Nailsea Jugs.....” | 582.101142 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.0833600 | 1,931 | 6 |
Produced by Louise Hope, K.D. Thornton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[This text is intended for readers who cannot use the "real" (unicode,
utf-8) version of the file. A few characters such as "ae" have been
unpacked; fractions are written out as "1-1/2", and symbols such as
degree signs have been expanded.
The Table of Contents, Index, and all cross-references use paragraph
numbers, shown in (parentheses).
Braces have been added to a few long fractions that were originally
printed on two lines.
The numbers in expressions such as R2, R3, R4 were printed as
superscripts.]
[Illustration: A BALANCED COLOR SPHERE
PASTEL SKETCH]
A COLOR NOTATION
_By_
A. H. MUNSELL
A MEASURED COLOR SYSTEM, BASED ON THE THREE QUALITIES
_Hue, Value, and Chroma_
with
Illustrative Models, Charts, and
a Course of Study Arranged for Teachers
_2nd Edition
Revised &
Enlarged_
GEO. H. ELLIS CO.
BOSTON
1907
COPYRIGHT, 1905
by
A. H. MUNSELL
_All rights reserved_
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
At various times during the past ten years, the gist of these pages has
been given in the form of lectures to students of the Normal Art School,
the Art Teachers' Association, and the Twentieth Century Club. In
October of last year it was presented before the Society of Arts of the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology, at the suggestion of Professor
Charles R. Cross.
Grateful acknowledgment is due to many whose helpful criticism has aided
in its development, notably Mr. Benjamin Ives Gilman, Secretary of the
Museum of Fine Arts, Professor Harry E. Clifford, of the Institute, and
Mr. Myron T. Pritchard, master of the Everett School, Boston.
A. H. M.
CHESTNUT HILL, MASS., 1905.
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.
The new illustrations in this edition are facsimiles of children's
studies with measured color, made under ordinary school-room conditions.
Notes and appendices are introduced to meet the questions most
frequently asked, stress being laid on the unbalanced nature of colors
usually given to beginners, and the mischief done by teaching that red,
yellow, and blue are primary hues.
The need of a scientific basis for color values is also emphasized,
believing this to be essential in the discipline of the color sense.
A. H. M.
CHESTNUT HILL, MASS., 1907.
INTRODUCTION.
The lack of definiteness which is at present so general in color
nomenclature, is due in large measure to the failure to appreciate the
fundamental characteristics on which color differences depend. For the
physicist, the expression of the wave length of any particular light is
in most cases sufficient, but in the great majority of instances where
colors are referred to, something more than this and something easier of
realization is essential.
The attempt to express color relations by using merely two dimensions,
or two definite characteristics, can never lead to a successful system.
For this reason alone the system proposed by Mr. Munsell, with its three
dimensions of hue, value, and chroma, is a decided step in advance over
any previous proposition. By means of these three dimensions it is
possible to completely express any particular color, and to
differentiate it from colors ordinarily classed as of the same
general character.
The expression of the essential characteristics of a color is, however,
not all that is necessary. There must be some accurate and not too
complicated system for duplicating these characteristics, one which
shall not alter with time or place, and which shall be susceptible of
easy and accurate redetermination. From the teaching standpoint also a
logical and sequential development is absolutely essential. This Mr.
Munsell seems to have most successfully accomplished.
In the determination of his relationships he has made use of distinctly
scientific methods, and there seems no reason why his suggestions should
not lead to an exact and definite system of color essentials. The
Munsell photometer, which is briefly referred to, is an instrument of
wide range, high precision, and great sensitiveness, and permits the
valuations which are necessary in his system to be accurately made. We
all appreciate the necessity for some improvement in our ideas of color,
and the natural inference is that the training should be begun in early
youth. The present system in its modified form possesses elements of
simplicity and attractiveness which should appeal to children, and give
them almost unconsciously a power of discrimination which would prove of
immense value in later life. The possibilities in this system are very
great, and it has been a privilege to be allowed during the past few
years to keep in touch with its development. I cannot but feel that we
have here not only a rational color nomenclature, but also a system of
scientific importance and of practical value.
H. E. CLIFFORD.
MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY,
February, 1905.
CONTENTS.
Introduction By Professor Clifford.
Part I.
Chapter Paragraph
I. COLOR NAMES: Red, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple 1
Appendix I.--Misnomers for Color.
II. COLOR QUALITIES: Hue, Value, Chroma 20
Appendix II.--Scales of Hue, Value, and Chroma.
III. COLOR MIXTURE: A Tri-Dimensional Balance 54
Appendix III.--False Color Balance.
IV. PRISMATIC COLORS 87
Appendix IV.--Children's Color Studies.
V. THE PIGMENT COLOR SPHERE: TRUE COLOR BALANCE 102
Appendix V.--Schemes based on Brewster's Theory.
VI. COLOR NOTATION: A Written Color System 132
VII. COLOR HARMONY: A Measured Relation 146
Part II.
A COLOR SYSTEM AND COURSE OF STUDY
BASED ON THE COLOR SOLID AND ITS CHARTS.
Arranged for nine years of school life.
GLOSSARY OF COLOR TERMS.
Taken from the Century Dictionary.
INDEX
(by paragraphs).
CHAPTER I.
COLOR NAMES.
Writing from Samoa to Sidney Colvin in London, Stevenson[1] says:
"Perhaps in the same way it might amuse you to send us any pattern of
wall paper that might strike you as cheap, pretty, and suitable for a
room in a hot and extremely bright climate. It should be borne in mind
that our climate can be extremely dark, too. Our sitting-room is to be
in varnished wood. The room I have particularly in mind is a sort of bed
and sitting room, pretty large, lit on three sides, and the colour in
favour of its proprietor at present is a topazy yellow. But then with
what colour to relieve it? For a little work-room of my own at the back
I should rather like to see some patterns of unglossy--well, I'll be
hanged if I can describe this red. It's not Turkish, and it's not Roman,
and it's not Indian; but it seems to partake of the last two, and yet it
can't be either of them, because it ought to be able to go with
vermilion. Ah, what a tangled web we weave! Anyway, with what brains you
have left choose me and send me some--many--patterns of the exact
shade."
[Footnote 1: Vailima Letters, Oct. 8, 1902.]
(1) Where could be found a more delightful cry for some rational way to
describe color? He wants "a topazy yellow" and a red that is not Turkish
nor Roman nor Indian, but that "seems to partake of the last two, and
yet it can't be either of them." As a cap to the climax comes his demand
for "patterns of the exact shade." Thus one of the clearest and most
forceful writers of English finds himself unable to describe the color
he wants. And why? Simply because popular language does not clearly
state a single one of the three qualities united in every color, and
which must be known before one may even hope to convey his color
conceptions to another.
(2) The incongruous and bizarre nature of our present color names must
appear to any thoughtful person. Baby blue, peacock blue, Nile green,
apple green, lemon yellow, straw yellow, rose pink, heliotrope, royal
purple, Magenta, Solferino, plum, and automobile are popular terms,
conveying different ideas to different persons and utterly failing | 582.1034 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.2789630 | 2,135 | 20 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: Ella Wheeler Wilcox]
THREE WOMEN
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
Author of "Poems of Passion," "Maurine," "Poems of
Pleasure," "How Salvator Won," "Custer and Other
Poems," "Men, Women and Emotions,"
"The Beautiful Land of Nod," Etc.
CHICAGO--NEW YORK
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Entered according to act of Congress, In the year 1897, by
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London.
All Rights Reserved.
Made in the United States.
THREE WOMEN
_My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note._
_Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day._
_Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love._
_Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where lone, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest._
_Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung._
THREE WOMEN.
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is--far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.
Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,
Paused scarcely a moment, and then sped away,
And two actors more now enliven our play.
A graceful young woman with eyes like the morn,
With hair like the tassels which hang from the corn,
And a face that might serve as a model for Peace,
Moved lightly along, smiled and bowed to Maurice,
Then was lost in the circle of friends waiting near.
A discord of shrill nasal tones smote the ear,
As they greeted their comrade and bore her from sight.
(The ear oft is pained while the eye feels delight
In the presence of women throughout our fair land:
God gave them the graces which win and command,
But the devil, who always in mischief rejoices,
Slipped into their teachers and ruined their voices.)
There had stepped from the train just behind Mabel Lee
A man whose deportment bespoke him to be
A child of good fortune. His mien and his air
Were those of one all unaccustomed to care.
His brow was not vexed with the gold seeker's worry,
His manner was free from the national hurry.
Repose marked his movements. Yet gaze in his eye,
And you saw that this calm outer man was a lie;
And you knew that deep down in the depths of his breast
There dwelt the unmerciful imp of unrest.
He held out his hand; it was clasped with a will
In both the firm palms of Maurice Somerville.
"Well, Reese, my old Comrade;" "Ha, Roger, my boy,"
They cried in a breath, and their eyes gemmed with joy
(Which but for their sex had been set in a tear),
As they walked arm in arm to the trap waiting near,
And drove down the shining shell roadway which wound
Through forest and meadow, in search of the Sound.
_Roger:_
I smell the salt water--that perfume which starts
The blood from hot brains back to world withered hearts;
You may talk of the fragrance of flower filled fields,
You may sing of the odors the Orient yields,
You may tell of the health laden scent of the pine,
But give me the subtle salt breath of the brine.
Already I feel lost emotions of youth
Steal back to my soul in their sweetness and truth;
Small wonder the years leave no marks on your face,
Time's scythe gathers rust in this idyllic place.
You must feel like a child on the Great Mother's breast,
With the Sound like a nurse watching over your rest?
_Maurice:_
There is beauty and truth in your quaint simile,
I love the Sound more than the broad open sea.
The ocean seems always stern, masculine, bold,
The Sound is a woman, now warm, and now cold.
It rises in fury and threatens to smite,
Then falls at your feet with a coo of delight;
Capricious, seductive, first frowning, then smiling,
And always, whatever its mood is, beguiling.
Look, now you can see it, bright beautiful blue,
And far in the distance there loom into view
The banks of Long Island, full thirty miles off;
A sign of wet weather to-morrow. Don't scoff!
We people who chum with the waves and the wind
Know more than all wise signal bureaus combined.
But come, let us talk of yourself--for of me
There is little to tell which your eyes may not see.
Since we finished at College (eight years, is it not?)
I simply have dreamed away life in this spot.
With my dogs and my horses, a book and a pen,
And a week spent in town as a change now and then.
Fatigue for the body, disease for the mind,
Are all that the city can give me, I find.
Yet once in a while there is wisdom I hold
In leaving the things that are dearer than gold,--
Loved people and places--if only to learn
The exquisite rapture it is to return.
But you, I remember, craved motion and change;
You hated the usual, worshiped the strange.
Adventure and travel I know were your theme:
Well, how did the real compare with the dream?
You have compassed the earth since we parted at Yale,
Has life grown the richer, or only grown stale?
_Roger:_
Stale, stale, my dear boy! that's the story in short,
I am weary of travel, adventure and sport;
At home and abroad, in all climates and lands,
I have had what life gives when a full purse commands,
I have chased after Pleasure, that phantom faced elf,
And lost the best part of my youth and myself.
And now, barely thirty, I'm heart sick and blue;
Life seems like a farce scarcely worth sitting through.
I dread its long stretch of dissatisfied years;
Ah! wealth is not always the boon it appears.
And poverty lights not such ruinous fires
As gratified appetites, tastes and desires.
Fate curses, when letting us do as we please--
It stunts a man's soul to be cradled in ease.
_Maurice:_
You are right in a measure; the devil I hold
Is oftener found in full coffers of gold
Than in bare, empty larders. The soul, it is plain,
Needs the conflicts of earth, needs the stress and the strain
Of misfortune, to bring out its strength in this life--
The Soul's calisthenics are sorrow and strife.
But, Roger, what folly to stand in youth's prime
And talk like a man who could father old Time.
You have life all before you; the past,--let it sleep;
Its lessons alone are the things you should keep.
There is virtue sometimes in our follies and sinnings;
Right lives very often have faulty beginnings.
Results, and not causes, are what we should measure.
You have learned precious truths in your search after pleasure.
You have learned that a glow worm is never a star,
You have learned that Peace builds not her temples afar.
And now, dispossessed of the spirit to roam,
You are finely equipped to establish a home.
That's the one thing you need to lend savor to life,
A home, and the love of a sweet hearted wife,
And children to gladden the path to old age.
_Roger:_
Alas! from life's book I have torn out that page;
I have loved many times and in many a fashion,
Which means I know nothing at all of the passion.
I have scattered my heart, here and there, bit by bit,
'Til now there is nothing worth while left of it;
And, worse than all else, I have ceased to believe
In the virtue and truth of the daughters of Eve.
There | 582.299003 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.3160400 | 1,150 | 25 |
Produced by Charles Aldarondo [email protected]
MUTUAL AID
A FACTOR OF EVOLUTION
BY P. KROPOTKIN
1902
INTRODUCTION
Two aspects of animal life impressed me most during the journeys which I
made in my youth in Eastern Siberia and Northern Manchuria. One of them
was the extreme severity of the struggle for existence which most
species of animals have to carry on against an inclement Nature; the
enormous destruction of life which periodically results from natural
agencies; and the consequent paucity of life over the vast territory
which fell under my observation. And the other was, that even in those
few spots where animal life teemed in abundance, I failed to
find--although I was eagerly looking for it--that bitter struggle for
the means of existence, among animals belonging to the same species,
which was considered by most Darwinists (though not always by Darwin
himself) as the dominant characteristic of struggle for life, and the
main factor of evolution.
The terrible snow-storms which sweep over the northern portion of
Eurasia in the later part of the winter, and the glazed frost that often
follows them; the frosts and the snow-storms which return every year in
the second half of May, when the trees are already in full blossom and
insect life swarms everywhere; the early frosts and, occasionally, the
heavy snowfalls in July and August, which suddenly destroy myriads of
insects, as well as the second broods of the birds in the prairies; the
torrential rains, due to the monsoons, which fall in more temperate
regions in August and September--resulting in inundations on a scale
which is only known in America and in Eastern Asia, and swamping, on the
plateaus, areas as wide as European States; and finally, the heavy
snowfalls, early in October, which eventually render a territory as
large as France and Germany, absolutely impracticable for ruminants, and
destroy them by the thousand--these were the conditions under which I
saw animal life struggling in Northern Asia. They made me realize at an
early date the overwhelming importance in Nature of what Darwin
described as "the natural checks to over-multiplication," in comparison
to the struggle between individuals of the same species for the means of
subsistence, which may go on here and there, to some limited extent, but
never attains the importance of the former. Paucity of life,
under-population--not over-population--being the distinctive feature of
that immense part of the globe which we name Northern Asia, I conceived
since then serious doubts--which subsequent study has only confirmed--as
to the reality of that fearful competition for food and life within each
species, which was an article of faith with most Darwinists, and,
consequently, as to the dominant part which this sort of competition was
supposed to play in the evolution of new species.
On the other hand, wherever I saw animal life in abundance, as, for
instance, on the lakes where scores of species and millions of
individuals came together to rear their progeny; in the colonies of
rodents; in the migrations of birds which took place at that time on a
truly American scale along the Usuri; and especially in a migration of
fallow-deer which I witnessed on the Amur, and during which scores of
thousands of these intelligent animals came together from an immense
territory, flying before the coming deep snow, in order to cross the
Amur where it is narrowest--in all these scenes of animal life which
passed before my eyes, I saw Mutual Aid and Mutual Support carried on to
an extent which made me suspect in it a feature of the greatest
importance for the maintenance of life, the preservation of each
species, and its further evolution.
And finally, I saw among the semi-wild cattle and horses in
Transbaikalia, among the wild ruminants everywhere, the squirrels, and
so on, that when animals have to struggle against scarcity of food, in
consequence of one of the above-mentioned causes, the whole of that
portion of the species which is affected by the calamity, comes out of
the ordeal so much impoverished in vigour and health, that no
progressive evolution of the species can be based upon such periods of
keen competition.
Consequently, when my attention was drawn, later on, to the relations
between Darwinism and Sociology, I could agree with none of the works
and pamphlets that had been written upon this important subject. They
all endeavoured to prove that Man, owing to his higher intelligence and
knowledge, may mitigate the harshness of the struggle for life between
men; but they all recognized at the same time that the struggle for the
means of existence, of every animal against all its congeners, and of
every man against all other men, was "a law of Nature." This view,
however, I could not accept, because I was persuaded that to admit a
pitiless inner war for life within each species, and to see in that war
a condition of progress, was to admit something which not only had not
yet been proved, but also lacked confirmation from direct observation.
On the contrary, a lecture "On the Law of Mutual Aid," which was | 582.33608 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.3799650 | 2,186 | 40 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Johnnie Hollowell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE KING OF THE
GOLDEN RIVER
OR THE
BLACK BROTHERS
A Legend of Stiria.
BY JOHN RUSKIN, M.A.
ILLUSTRATED BY RICHARD DOYLE.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY GINN & COMPANY.
1885.
[Illustration]
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Publishers think it due to the Author of this Fairy Tale, to state
the circumstances under which it appears.
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER was written in 1841, at the request of a
very young lady, and solely for her amusement, without any idea of
publication. It has since remained in the possession of a friend, to
whose suggestion, and the passive assent of the Author, the Publishers
are indebted for the opportunity of printing it.
The Illustrations, by Mr. Richard Doyle, will, it is hoped, be found to
embody the Author's ideas with characteristic spirit.
* * * * *
J. S. CUSHING & CO., PRINTERS, BOSTON.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK BROTHERS
WAS INTERFERED WITH BY SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE 9
CHAPTER II.
OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE THREE BROTHERS AFTER THE
VISIT OF SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE; AND HOW LITTLE
GLUCK HAD AN INTERVIEW WITH THE KING OF THE GOLDEN
RIVER 28
CHAPTER III.
HOW MR. HANS SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN
RIVER, AND HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN 40
CHAPTER IV.
HOW MR. SCHWARTZ SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE
GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN 51
CHAPTER V.
HOW LITTLE GLUCK SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE
GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN; WITH
OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST 56
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
DESIGNED AND DRAWN ON WOOD BY RICHARD DOYLE
SUBJECTS. ENGRAVERS. PAGE
South-West Wind, Esq., knocking Frontis-
at the Black Brothers' door _C. Thurston Thompson_ piece.
The Treasure Valley _C. Thurston Thompson_ Title.
Initial Letter, and Mountain Range _G. and E. Dalziel_ 9
South-West Wind, Esq., seated on
the hob _G. and E. Dalziel_ 18
South-West Wind, Esq., bowing to
the Black Brothers _H. Orrin Smith_ 21
Storm Scene _G. and E. Dalziel_ 25
Card of South-West Wind, Esq. _H. Orrin Smith_ 27
Initial Letter, and Cottage in the
Treasure Valley _Isabel Thompson_ 28
The Black Brothers drinking and
Gluck working _C. S. Cheltnam_ 30
Gluck looking out at the Golden River _H. D. Linton_ 32
The Golden Dwarf appearing to Gluck _G. and E. Dalziel_ 36
Gluck looking up the Chimney _H. Orrin Smith_ 39
The Black Brothers beating Gluck _C. S. Cheltnam_ 40
Hans and Schwartz fighting _H. Orrin Smith_ 41
Schwartz before the Magistrate _C. S. Cheltnam_ 42
Hans and the Dog _H. Orrin Smith_ 47
The Black Stone _G. and E. Dalziel_ 50
Initial Letter--Gluck
releasing Schwartz _G. and E. Dalziel_ 51
Schwartz ascending the Mountain _H. Orrin Smith_ 53
Initial Letter--Gluck ascending the
Mountain _H. Orrin Smith_ 56
Priest giving Gluck Holy Water _G. and E. Dalziel_ 57
Gluck and the Child _C. S. Cheltnam_ 59
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER;
OR,
THE BLACK BROTHERS.
CHAPTER I.
HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK BROTHERS WAS INTERFERED WITH BY
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE.
[Illustration]
In a secluded and mountainous part of Stiria there was, in old time, a
valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was
surrounded, on all sides, by steep and rocky mountains, rising into
peaks, which were always covered with snow, and from which a number of
torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westward,
over the face of a crag so high, that, when the sun had set to
everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full
upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was,
therefore, called by the people of the neighbourhood, the Golden River.
It was strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself.
They all descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away
through broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn
so constantly to the snowy hills, and rested so softly in the circular
hollow, that in time of drought and heat, when all the country round was
burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops were
so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so
blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel
to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.
The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers, called
Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers,
were very ugly men, with over-hanging eyebrows and small dull eyes,
which were always half shut, so that you couldn't see into _them_, and
always fancied they saw very far into _you_. They lived by farming the
Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were. They killed everything
that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds, because they
pecked the fruit; and killed the hedgehogs, lest they should suck the
cows; they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen;
and smothered the cicadas, which used to sing all summer in the lime
trees. They worked their servants without any wages, till they would not
work any more, and then quarrelled with them, and turned them out of
doors without paying them. It would have been very odd, if with such a
farm, and such a system of farming, they hadn't got very rich; and very
rich they _did_ get. They generally contrived to keep their corn by them
till it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had
heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that
they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity; they never went
to mass; grumbled perpetually at paying tithes; and were, in a word, of
so cruel and grinding a temper, as to receive from all those with whom
they had any dealings, the nickname of the "Black Brothers."
The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both
appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined
or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind
in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree
particularly well with his brothers, or rather, they did not agree with
_him_. He was usually appointed to the honourable office of turnspit,
when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the
brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than
upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, floors,
and sometimes the plates, occasionally getting what was left on them, by
way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows, by way of
education.
Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet
summer, and everything went wrong in the country around. The hay had
hardly been got in, when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the
sea by an inundation; the vines were cut to pieces with the hail; the
corn was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as
usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain no where else,
so it had sun when there was sun no where else. Every body came to buy
corn at the farm, and went away pouring maledictions on the Black
Brothers. They asked what they liked, and got it, except from the poor
people, who could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their
very door, without the slightest regard or notice.
It was drawing towards winter, and very cold weather, when one day the
two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little
Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in, and
give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was
raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or
comfortable looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and
brown. "What a pity," thought Gluck, "my brothers never ask any body to
dinner. | 582.400005 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.3833910 | 2,244 | 14 |
Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
SONGS AND SATIRES
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO. DALLAS
ATLANTA. SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
SONGS AND SATIRES
_By_
EDGAR LEE MASTERS
AUTHOR OF
"SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY"
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1916
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1916,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1916.
Reprinted March, June, 1916.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A
For permission to print in book form certain of these poems I wish to
acknowledge an indebtedness to _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_, _The Little
Review_, _The Cosmopolitan Magazine_, and William Marion Reedy, Editor
of _Reedy's Mirror_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
SILENCE 1
ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE 4
THE COCKED HAT 10
THE VISION 18
SO WE GREW TOGETHER 21
RAIN IN MY HEART 31
THE LOOP 32
WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES 40
IN THE CAR 41
SIMON SURNAMED PETER 43
ALL LIFE IN A LIFE 47
WHAT YOU WILL 56
THE CITY 57
THE IDIOT 65
HELEN OF TROY 68
O GLORIOUS FRANCE 71
FOR A DANCE 74
WHEN LIFE IS REAL 76
THE QUESTION 78
THE ANSWER 79
THE SIGN 80
WILLIAM MARION REEDY 82
A STUDY 85
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN 88
IN THE CAGE 91
SAVING A WOMAN: ONE PHASE 95
LOVE IS A MADNESS 97
ON A BUST 98
ARABEL 101
JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER 108
THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES 116
THE CRY 119
THE HELPING HAND 120
THE DOOR 121
SUPPLICATION 122
THE CONVERSATION 125
TERMINUS 130
MADELINE 132
MARCIA 134
THE ALTAR 135
SOUL'S DESIRE 137
BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE 140
THE DEATH OF LAUNCELOT 149
IN MICHIGAN 156
THE STAR 166
SONGS AND SATIRES
SILENCE
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence for which music alone finds the word,
And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young:
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities--
We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away,
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of a deep peace of mind,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus"--
Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.
ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE
Antonio loved the Lady Clare.
He caught her to him on the stair
And pressed her breasts and kissed her hair,
And drew her lips in his, and drew
Her soul out like a torch's flare.
Her breath came quick, her blood swirled round;
Her senses in a vortex swound.
She tore him loose and turned around,
And reached her chamber in a bound
Her cheeks turned to a poppy's hue.
She closed the door and turned the lock,
Her breasts and flesh were turned to rock.
She reeled as drunken from the shock.
Before her eyes the devils skipped,
She thought she heard the devils mock.
For had her soul not been as pure
As sifted snow, could she endure
Antonio's passion and be sure
Against his passion's strength and lure?
Lean fears along her wonder slipped.
Outside she heard a drunkard call,
She heard a beggar against the wall
Shaking his cup, a harlot's squall
Struck through the riot like a sword,
And gashed the midnight's festival.
She watched the city through the pane,
The old Silenus half insane,
The idiot crowd that drags its chain--
And then she heard the bells again,
And heard the voices with the word:
Ecco il santo! Up the street
There was the sound of running feet
From closing door and window seat,
And all the crowd turned on its way
The Saint of Poverty to greet.
He passed. And then a circling thrill,
As water troubled which was still,
Went through her body like a chill,
Who of Antonio thought until
She heard the Saint begin to pray.
And then she turned into the room
Her soul was cloven through with doom,
Treading the softness and the gloom
Of Asia's silk and Persia's wool,
And China's magical perfume.
She sickened from the vases hued
In corals, yellows, greens, the lewd
Twined dragon shapes and figures nude,
And tapestries that showed a brood
Of leopards by a pool!
Candles of wax she lit before
A pier glass standing from the floor;
Up to the ceiling, off she tore
With eager hands her jewels, then
The silken vesture which she wore.
Her little breasts so round to see
Were budded like the peony.
Her arms were white as ivory,
And all her sunny hair lay free
As marigold or celandine.
Her blue eyes sparkled like a vase
Of crackled turquoise, in her face
Was memory of the mad embrace
Antonio gave her on the stair,
And on her cheeks a salt tear's trace.
Like pigeon blood her lips were red.
She clasped her bands above her head.
Under her arms the waxlight shed
Delicate halos where was spread
The downy growth of hair.
Such sudden sin the virgin knew
She quenched the tapers as she blew
Puff! puff! upon them, then she threw
Herself in tears upon her knees,
And round her couch the curtain drew.
She called upon St. Francis' name,
Feeling Antonio's passion maim
Her body with his passion's flame
To save her, save her from the shame
Of fancies such as these!
"Go by mad life and old pursuits,
The wine cup and the golden fruits,
The gilded mirrors, | 582.403431 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.3835490 | 109 | 9 |
Produced by Mhairi Hindle and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note
Illustration markers have been moved near to the text they illustrate.
All variant spellings and variant hyphenation have been preserved.
However, punctuation has been corrected where necessary.
[Illustration: HOW I TUMBLED DOWNHILL.]
THE LIFE STORY OF
A BLACK | 582.403589 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.4143770 | 3,002 | 17 |
Produced by Clarity, RichardW, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
_The WORKS of VOLTAIRE_
_EDITION DE LA PACIFICATION_
_Limited to one thousand sets
for America and Great Britain._
“_Between two servants of Humanity, who appeared
eighteen hundred years apart, there is a mysterious relation.
* * * * * Let us say it with a sentiment of
profound respect: JESUS WEPT: VOLTAIRE SMILED.
Of that divine tear and of that human smile is composed the
sweetness of the present civilization._”
_VICTOR HUGO._
[Illustration: AT THIS INTERESTING MOMENT, AS MAY EASILY BE
IMAGINED, WHO SHOULD COME IN BUT THE UNCLE]
_EDITION DE LA PACIFICATION_
THE WORKS OF
VOLTAIRE
A CONTEMPORARY VERSION
With Notes by Tobias Smollett, Revised and Modernized
New Translations by William F. Fleming, and an
Introduction by Oliver H. G. Leigh
A CRITIQUE AND BIOGRAPHY
BY
THE RT. HON. JOHN MORLEY
_FORTY-THREE VOLUMES_
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-EIGHT DESIGNS,
COMPRISING REPRODUCTIONS OF RARE OLD
ENGRAVINGS, STEEL PLATES, PHOTOGRAVURES,
AND CURIOUS FAC-SIMILES
VOLUME IV
E. R. DuMONT
PARIS : LONDON : NEW YORK : CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT 1901
BY E. R. DUMONT
OWNED by
THE WERNER COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO
MADE BY
THE WERNER COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO
VOLTAIRE
ROMANCES
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
CONTENTS
——————
I. ANDRÉ DES TOUCHES IN SIAM … 5
II. THE BLIND AS JUDGES OF COLOR … 13
III. THE CLERGYMAN AND HIS SOUL … 15
IV. A CONVERSATION WITH A CHINESE … 28
V. MEMNON THE PHILOSOPHER … 33
VI. PLATO’S DREAM … 42
VII. AN ADVENTURE IN INDIA … 47
VIII. BABABEC … 51
IX. ANCIENT FAITH AND FABLE … 56
X. THE TWO COMFORTERS … 61
XI. DIALOGUE BETWEEN MARCUS AURELIUS AND A RECOLLET
FRIAR … 64
XII. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A BRAHMIN AND A JESUIT … 70
XIII. DIALOGUES BETWEEN LUCRETIUS AND POSIDONIUS … 76
XIV. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CLIENT AND HIS LAWYER … 95
XV. DIALOGUE BETWEEN MADAME DE MAINTENON AND MDLLE. DE
L’ENCLOS … 101
XVI. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SAVAGE AND A BACHELOR OF ARTS … 108
——————
A TREATISE ON TOLERATION.
[In 1762 Jean Calas, a Protestant of Toulouse, was
done to death by torture on the wheel on the false
charge of having slain his son, a suicide. His widow
and children were put to the torture to extort a
confession, in utter lack of evidence. Voltaire
devoted years of unremitting labor to agitating the
terrible crime and raising money compensation for the
victims. His pamphlets aroused substantial sympathy
and protests in England and over the Continent. His
efforts led to the writing of over one hundred plays,
poems, and pamphlets on the case. Voltaire had the
satisfaction of witnessing the triumph of his long
struggle. He narrates the facts in this Treatise,
which expands into a sweeping exposure of the
cruelties committed in the name of religion, in all
ages and countries.]
LIST OF PLATES—VOL. IV
——————
MEMNON AND THE LADY’S UNCLE … _Frontispiece_
THE DISCONSOLATE WOMAN … 62
THE MAID OF ORLEANS AT THE STAKE … 144
WIDOW CALAS APPEALS TO THE KING … 286
ANDRÉ DES TOUCHES IN SIAM.
André Des Touches was a very agreeable musician in the brilliant
reign of Louis XIV., before the science of music was perfected by
Rameau, and before it was corrupted by those who prefer the art of
surmounting difficulties to nature and the real graces of composition.
Before he had recourse to these talents he had been a musketeer, and
before that, in 1688, he went into Siam with the Jesuit Tachard, who
gave him many marks of his affection, for the amusement he afforded
on board the ship; and Des Touches spoke with admiration of Father
Tachard for the rest of his life.
In Siam he became acquainted with the first commissary of Barcalon,
whose name was Croutef, and he committed to writing most of those
questions which he asked of Croutef, and the answers of that Siamese.
They are as follows:
DES TOUCHES.—How many soldiers have you?
CROUTEF.—Fourscore thousand, very indifferently paid.
DES TOUCHES.—And how many talapoins?
CROUTEF.—A hundred and twenty thousand, very idle and very rich. It
is true that in the last war we were beaten, but our talapoins have
lived sumptuously and built fine houses.
DES TOUCHES.—Nothing could have discovered more judgment. And your
finances, in what state are they?
CROUTEF.—In a very bad state. We have, however, about ninety thousand
men employed to render them prosperous, and if they have not
succeeded, it has not been their fault, for there is not one of them
who does not honorably seize all that he can get possession of, and
strip and plunder those who cultivate the ground for the good of the
state.
DES TOUCHES.—Bravo! And is not your jurisprudence as perfect as the
rest of your administration?
CROUTEF.—It is much superior. We have no laws, but we have five or
six thousand volumes on the laws. We are governed in general by
customs; for it is known that a custom, having been established by
chance, is the wisest principle that can be imagined. Besides, all
customs being necessarily different in different provinces, the
judges may choose at their pleasure a custom which prevailed four
hundred years ago or one which prevailed last year. It occasions a
variety in our legislation which our neighbors are forever admiring.
This yields a certain fortune to practitioners. It is a resource for
all pleaders who are destitute of honor, and a pastime of infinite
amusement for the judges, who can, with safe consciences, decide
causes without understanding them.
DES TOUCHES.—But in criminal cases—you have laws which may be
depended upon?
CROUTEF.—God forbid! We can condemn men to exile, to the galleys, to
be hanged; or we can discharge them, according to our own fancy. We
sometimes complain of the arbitrary power of the Barcalon, but we
choose that all our decisions should be arbitrary.
DES TOUCHES.—That is very just. And the torture—do you put people to
the torture?
CROUTEF.—It is our greatest pleasure. We have found it an infallible
secret to save a guilty person, who has vigorous muscles, strong
and supple hamstrings, nervous arms, and firm loins, and we gayly
break on the wheel all those innocent persons to whom nature has
given feeble organs. It is thus we conduct ourselves with wonderful
wisdom and prudence. As there are half proofs, I mean half truths,
it is certain there are persons who are half innocent and half
guilty. We commence, therefore, by rendering them half dead; we then
go to breakfast; afterwards ensues entire death, which gives us
great consideration in the world, which is one of the most valuable
advantages of our offices.
DES TOUCHES.—It must be allowed that nothing can be more prudent and
humane. Pray tell me what becomes of the property of the condemned?
CROUTEF.—The children are deprived of it. For you know that nothing
can be more equitable than to punish the single fault of a parent on
all his descendants.
DES TOUCHES.—Yes. It is a great while since I have heard of this
jurisprudence.
CROUTEF.—The people of Laos, our neighbors, admit neither the
torture, nor arbitrary punishments, nor the different customs,
nor the horrible deaths which are in use among us; but we regard
them as barbarians who have no idea of good government. All Asia
is agreed that we dance the best of all its inhabitants, and
that, consequently, it is impossible they should come near us in
jurisprudence, in commerce, in finance, and, above all, in the
military art.
DES TOUCHES.—Tell me, I beseech you, by what steps men arrive at the
magistracy in Siam.
CROUTEF.—By ready money. You perceive that it may be impossible to be
a good judge if a man has not by him thirty or forty thousand pieces
of silver. It is in vain a man may be perfectly acquainted with all
our customs; it is to no purpose that he has pleaded five hundred
causes with success—that he has a mind which is the seat of judgment,
and a heart replete with justice; no man can become a magistrate
without money. This, I say, is the circumstance which distinguishes
us from all Asia, and particularly from the barbarous inhabitants of
Laos, who have the madness to recompense all kinds of talents, and
not to sell any employment.
André Des Touches, who was a little off his guard, said to the
Siamese that most of the airs which he had just sung sounded
discordant to him, and wished to receive information concerning real
Siamese music. But Croutef, full of his subject, and enthusiastic for
his country, continued in these words:
“What does it signify that our neighbors, who live beyond our
mountains, have better music than we have, or better pictures,
provided we have always wise and humane laws? It is in that
circumstance we excel. For example:
“If a man has adroitly stolen three or four hundred thousand pieces
of gold we respect him, and we go and dine with him. But if a poor
servant gets awkwardly into his possession three or four pieces
of copper out of his mistress’ box we never fail of putting that
servant to a public death; first, lest he should not correct himself;
secondly, that he may not have it in his power to produce a great
number of children for the state, one or two of whom might possibly
steal a few little pieces of copper, or become great men; thirdly,
because it is just to proportion the punishment to the crime, and
that it would be ridiculous to give any useful employment in a prison
to a person guilty of so enormous a crime.
“But we are still more just, more merciful, more reasonable in the
chastisements which we inflict on those who have the audacity to
make use of their legs to go wherever they choose. We treat those
warriors so well who sell us their lives, we give them so prodigious
a salary, they have so considerable a part in our conquests, that
they must be the most criminal of all men to wish to return to their
parents on the recovery of their reason, because they had been
enlisted in a state of intoxication. To oblige them to remain in one
place, we lodge about a dozen leaden balls in their heads, after
which they become infinitely useful to their country.
“I will not speak of a great number of excellent institutions which
do not go so far as to shed the blood of men, but which render life
so pleasant and agreeable that it is impossible the guilty should
avoid becoming virtuous. If a farmer has not been able to pay
promptly a tax which exceeds his ability, we sell the pot in which he
dresses his food; we sell his bed in order that, being relieved of
all his superfluities, he may be in a better condition to cultivate
the earth.”
DES TOUCHES.—That is extremely harmonious!
CROUTEF.—To comprehend our profound wisdom you must know that our
fundamental principle is to acknowledge in many places as our
sovereign a shaven-headed foreigner who lives at the distance of nine
hundred miles from us. When we assign some of our best territories
to any of our talapoins, which it is very prudent in us to do, that
Siamese talapoin must pay the revenue of his first year to that
shaven-headed Tartar, without which it is clear our lands would be
unfruitful.
But the time, the happy time, is no more when that tonsured priest
induced one-half of the nation to cut the throats of the other half
in order to decide whether Sammonocodom had played at leap-frog or
at some other game; whether he had been disguised in an elephant or
in a cow; if he had slept three hundred and ninety days on | 582.434417 |
Subsets and Splits
No saved queries yet
Save your SQL queries to embed, download, and access them later. Queries will appear here once saved.