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E-text prepared by Stephen Hutcheson, Chris Curnow, and the 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 45630-h.htm or 45630-h.zip:
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45630/45630-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
| 582.43894 |
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Phallic Miscellanies.
[Illustration: _Female at the ceremony of Linga Puja._
_E. W. Alais Sc._]
PHALLIC MISCELLANIES;
Facts and Phases of Ancient and Modern
SEX WORSHIP,
As Illustrated Chiefly in the
Religions of India,
AN APPENDIX OF
ADDITIONAL AND EXPLANATORY MATTER
TO THE VOLUMES
Phallism and Nature Worship.
_BY THE AUTHOR OF "PHALLICISM."_
PRIVATELY PRINTED.
MDCCCXCI.
_PREFACE._
All that it is necessary to say by way of preface to this book is,
that, having in various former volumes, entitled severally Phallism,
Nature Worship, Phallic Objects, &c., entered at some length into a
consideration of the peculiarities indicated by these denominations,
we now propose laying before our readers an additional mass of
important matter which illustrates and throws further light upon the
subject. This has been sought out with great labour and research
amongst the most trustworthy sources of information, and will form a
valuable appendix to the several volumes in question.
_CONTENTS._
CHAPTER I.
India, the home of Phallic-worship--Linga described--The bull
Nandi--Linga puja--Large and small lingams--Antiquity of
Linga-puja--Growth of the Hindu Pantheon--Siva the
destroyer--Sacred bulls--Shrine of Ek Linga--Legend relating
to rivers--The Churning of the sea--Variety of forms of
Siva--Deities of India--Origin of the Universe--Hindu
Triad--Aum and O'M--Jupiter Genitor--Attributes of
Siva--Worship of Osiris--Identity of Egyptian, Grecian and
Indian deities--Hindu temples--Ceremonies.
CHAPTER II.
Hindu evidence respecting the origin of Phallic
worship--Legend of the wounded Hara--The four sects of
worshippers instituted by Brahma--Resumption of the Lingam by
Siva--Siva and Parvati propitiated--Visit of Bhrigu to
Siva--The Lainga Puran on the Origin of Lingam
worship--Abolition of worship of Brahma--Moral character of
Hindu worship---Profligate sects--Egyptian
phallus--Bacchus--Testimony of Tertullian and Clement of
Alexandria--Dionysus--Directions for worship--Unsatisfactory
legends--Legend of Bhima--The fourth avatar of Vishnu--Visit
of Captain Mackenzie to the Pagoda at Perwuttum.
CHAPTER III.
Representations of Siva--Siva's quarrel with his
father-in-law--Quarrel between Brahma and Vishnu--Misconduct
of Siva--Bengal temples of Siva--Ancient linga idols--Siege of
Somnath--Ferishtah's history--The twelve great
lingams--Account of the Viri-Sawas--The Jangamas--Legend of
Ravuna.
CHAPTER IV.
Lingam Worship in the Sheeve Pouran.
CHAPTER V.
The four kinds of stone lingas--Siva under a form called
Muhakalu--Temporary images of Siva--Siva's wives--Siva's and
Parvati's quarrels--Siva and Doorga--Siva's names--The heavens
of Siva--Latsami--Power of the priests--Tamil poetry--Indecent
worship--Dancing girls at religious ceremonies--Christian and
Pagan idolatry--Religious prostitution--Worship of the
female--Development of indecent practices--Sakti-puja.
CHAPTER VI.
Further | 582.534228 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
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JEWISH LITERATURE
AND OTHER ESSAYS
JEWISH LITERATURE
AND
OTHER ESSAYS
BY
GUSTAV KARPELES
PHILADELPHIA THE JEWISH PUBLICATION SOCIETY OF AMERICA 1895
Copyright 1895, by
THE JEWISH PUBLICATION SOCIETY OF AMERICA
Press of
The Friedenwald Co.
Baltimore
PREFACE
The following essays were delivered during the last ten years, in the
form of addresses, before the largest associations in the great cities
of Germany. Each one is a dear and precious possession to me. As I once
more pass them in review, reminiscences fill my mind of solemn occasions
and impressive scenes, of excellent men and charming women. I feel as
though I were sending the best beloved children of my fancy out into the
world, and sadness seizes me when I realize that they no longer belong
to me alone--that they have become the property of strangers. The living
word falling upon the ear of the listener is one thing; quite another
the word staring from the cold, printed page. Will my thoughts be
accorded the same friendly welcome that greeted them when first they
were uttered?
I venture to hope that they may be kindly received; for these addresses
were born of devoted love to Judaism. The consciousness that Israel is
charged with a great historical mission, not yet accomplished, ushered
them into existence. Truth and sincerity stood sponsor to every word. Is
it presumptuous, then, to hope that they may find favor in the New
World? Brethren of my faith live there as here; our ancient watchword,
"Sh'ma Yisrael," resounds in their synagogues as in ours; the old
blood-stained flag, with its sublime inscription, "The Lord is my
banner!" floats over them; and Jewish hearts in America are loyal like
ours, and sustained by steadfast faith in the Messianic time when our
hopes and ideals, our aims and dreams, will be realized. There is but
one Judaism the world over, by the Jordan and the Tagus as by the
Vistula and the Mississippi. God bless and protect it, and lead it to
the goal of its glorious future!
To all Jewish hearts beyond the ocean, in free America, fraternal
greetings!
GUSTAV KARPELES
BERLIN, Pesach 5652/1892.
CONTENTS
A GLANCE AT JEWISH LITERATURE
THE TALMUD
THE JEW IN THE HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION
WOMEN IN JEWISH LITERATURE
MOSES MAIMONIDES
JEWISH TROUBADOURS AND MINNESINGERS
HUMOR AND LOVE IN JEWISH POETRY
THE JEWISH STAGE
THE JEW'S QUEST IN AFRICA
A JEWISH KING IN POLAND
JEWISH SOCIETY IN THE TIME OF MENDELSSOHN
LEOPOLD ZUNZ
HEINRICH HEINE AND JUDAISM
THE MUSIC OF THE SYNAGOGUE
A GLANCE AT JEWISH LITERATURE
In a well-known passage of the _Romanzero_, rebuking Jewish women for
their ignorance of the magnificent golden age of their nation's poetry,
Heine used unmeasured terms of condemnation. He was too severe, for the
sources from which he drew his own information were of a purely
scientific character, necessarily unintelligible to the ordinary reader.
The first truly popular presentation of the whole of Jewish literature
was made only a few years ago, and could not have existed in Heine's
time, as the most valuable treasures of that literature, a veritable
Hebrew Pompeii, have been unearthed from the mould and rubbish of the
libraries within this century. Investigations of the history of Jewish
literature have been possible, then, only during the last fifty years.
But in the course of this half-century, conscientious research has so
actively been prosecuted that we can now gain at least a bird's-eye view
of the whole course of our literature. Some stretches still lie in
shadow, and it is not astonishing that eminent scholars continue to
maintain that "there is no such thing as an organic history, a logical
development, of the gigantic neo-Hebraic literature"; while such as are
acquainted with the results of late research at best concede that
Hebrew literature has been permitted to garner a "tender aftermath."
Both verdicts are untrue and unfair. Jewish literature has developed
organically, and in the course of its evolution it has had its
spring-tide as well as its season of decay, this again followed by
vigorous rejuvenescence.
Such opinions are part and parcel of the vicissitudes of our literature,
in themselves sufficient matter for an interesting book. Strange it
certainly is that a people without a home, without a land, living under
repression and persecution, could produce so great a literature;
stranger still, that it should at first have been preserved and
disseminated, then forgotten, or treated with the disdain of prejudice,
and finally roused from torpid slumber into robust life by the breath of
the modern era. In the neighborhood of twenty-two thousand works are
known to us now. Fifty years ago bibliographers were ignorant of the
existence of half of these, and in the libraries of Italy, England, and
Germany an untold number awaits resurrection.
In fact, our literature has not yet been given a name that recommends
itself to universal acceptance. Some have called it "Rabbinical
Literature," because during the middle ages every Jew of learning bore
the title Rabbi; others, "Neo-Hebraic"; and a third party considers it
purely theological. These names are all inadequate. Perhaps the only one
sufficiently comprehensive is "Jewish Literature." That embraces, as it
should, the aggregate of writings produced by Jews from the earliest
days of their history up to the present time, regardless of form, of
language, and, in the middle ages at least, of subject-matter.
With this definition in mind, we are able to sketch the whole course of
our literature, though in the frame of an essay only in outline. We
shall learn, as Leopold Zunz, the Humboldt of Jewish science, well says,
that it is "intimately bound up with the culture of the ancient world,
with the origin and development of Christianity, and with the scientific
endeavors of the middle ages. Inasmuch as it shares the intellectual
aspirations of the past and the present, their conflicts and their
reverses, it is supplementary to general literature. Its peculiar
features, themselves falling under universal laws, are in turn helpful
in the interpretation of general characteristics. If the aggregate
results of mankind's intellectual activity can be likened unto a sea,
Jewish literature is one of the tributaries that feed it. Like other
literatures and like literature in general, it reveals to the student
what noble ideals the soul of man has cherished, and striven to realize,
and discloses the varied achievements of man's intellectual powers. If
we of | 582.701127 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Cori Samuel and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
THE SUPPRESSED POEMS
OF
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
1830-1868
Edited By J.C. Thomson
Contents
EDITOR'S NOTE
TIMBUCTOO
POEMS CHIEFLY LYRICAL
i. The How and the Why
ii. The Burial of Love
iii. To ----
iv. Song _'I' the gloaming light'_
v. Song _'Every day hath its night'_
vi. Hero to Leander
vii. The Mystic
viii. The Grasshopper
ix. Love, Pride and Forgetfulness
x. Chorus _'The varied earth, the moving heaven'_
xi. Lost Hope
xii. The Tears of Heaven
xiii. Love and Sorrow
xiv. To a Lady sleeping
xv. Sonnet _'Could I outwear my present state of woe'_
xvi. Sonnet _'Though night hath climbed'_
xvii. Sonnet _'Shall the hag Evil die'_
xviii. Sonnet _'The pallid thunder stricken sigh for gain'_
xix. Love
xx. English War Song
xxi. National Song
xxii. Dualisms
xxiii. [Greek: ohi rheontes]
xxiv. Song _'The lintwhite and the throstlecock'_
CONTRIBUTIONS TO PERIODICALS, 1831-32
xxv. A Fragment
xxvi. Anacreontics
xxvii. _'O sad no more! O sweet no more'_
xxviii. Sonnet _'Check every outflash, every ruder sally'_
xxix. Sonnet _'Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh'_
xxx. Sonnet _'There are three things that fill my heart with sighs'_
POEMS, 1833
xxxi. Sonnet _'Oh beauty, passing beauty'_
xxxii. The Hesperides
xxxiii. Rosalind
xxxiv. Song _'Who can say'_
xxxv. Sonnet _'Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar'_
xxxvi. O Darling Room
xxxvii. To Christopher North
xxxviii. The Lotos-Eaters
xxxix. A Dream of Fair Women
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND CONTRIBUTIONS TO PERIODICALS, 1833-68
xl. Cambridge
xli. The Germ of 'Maud'
xlii. _'A gate and afield half ploughed'_
xliii. The Skipping-Rope
xliv. The New Timon and the Poets
xlv. Mablethorpe
xlvi. _'What time I wasted youthful hours'_
xlvii. Britons, guard your own
xlviii. Hands all round
xlix. Suggested by reading an article in a newspaper
l. _'God bless our Prince and Bride'_
li. The Ringlet
lii. Song _'Home they brought him slain with spears'_
liii. 1865-1866
THE LOVER'S TALE, 1833.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
_Note_
_To those unacquainted with Tennyson's conscientious methods, it may
seem strange that a volume of 160 pages is necessary to contain those
poems written and published by him during his active literary career,
and ultimately rejected as unsatisfactory. Of this considerable body
of verse, a great part was written, not in youth or old age, but while
Tennyson's powers were at their greatest. Whatever reasons may once
have existed for suppressing the poems that follow, the student of
English literature is entitled to demand that the whole body of
Tennyson's work should now be open, without restriction or impediment,
to the critical study to which the works of his compeers are
subjected._
_The bibliographical notes prefixed to the various poems give, in every
case, the date and medium of first publication._
_J.C.T._
=Timbuctoo=
A Poem Which Obtained The Chancellor's Medal At The
_Cambridge Commencement_ MDCCCXXIX
By
A. Tennyson
Of Trinity College
[Printed in Cambridge _Chronicle and Journal_ of Friday, July 10,
1829, and at the University Press by James Smith, among the
_Prolusiones Academicae Praemiis annuis dignatae et in Curia
Cantabrigiensi Recitatae Comitiis Maximis_, MDCCCXXIX. Republished in
_Cambridge Prize Poems_, 1813 to 1858, by Messrs. Macmillan in 1859,
without alteration; and in 1893 in the appendix to a reprint of _Po | 582.837336 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.8173550 | 2,729 | 15 | LIFE AND WORK, VOLUME II (OF 2)***
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg has the other volume of this work.
Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45130
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
[Illustration: CHARLES BRADLAUGH Born Sept. 26, 1833 Died Jan. 30,
1891]
CHARLES BRADLAUGH
A Record of His Life and Work by His Daughter.
HYPATIA BRADLAUGH BONNER.
With an Account of his Parliamentary Struggle
Politics and Teachings by
JOHN M. ROBERTSON, M.P.
Seventh Edition
With Portraits and Appendices
T. Fisher Unwin
London Leipsic
Adelphi Terrace Inselstrasse 20
1908
All Rights Reserved
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE UNITED STATES AGAIN 1
The _Parthia_--Mr J. Walter, M.P.--Sumner's opinion
of Mr Bradlaugh's lecture--The Delaware Clionian Society--Milwaukee
--Chicago--Intense cold--Mrs Lucretia Mott--A third
lecturing tour--Dr Otis--The currency question--Religious
animus--Death of Henry Wilson--In St Luke's Hospital, New
York, with typhoid fever--Moncure D. Conway--Return.
CHAPTER II.
MRS BESANT 12
A friend lost--A friend gained--Mrs Besant and Mr Bradlaugh--"Ajax"--The
Knowlton pamphlet--Advantages and disadvantages
of a dual defence.
CHAPTER III.
THE PROSECUTION OF MR BRADLAUGH AND MRS BESANT 20
Appointment to sell the pamphlet--Arrested on a warrant--At
the Guildhall--Application for a writ of _certiorari_--The Lord
Chief Justice--Who was the prosecutor?--The trial at Westminster--The
witnesses--The jury--The verdict--The judgment--Execution
of sentence stayed--The Court of Appeal quashes
indictment--Expenses of defence paid by subscription--The City--Other
proceedings--Mr Truelove's trial and sentence--Effect of
the prosecutions.
CHAPTER IV.
AN UNIMPORTANT CHAPTER 30
Side lights--"Man, whence and how?"--The Turberville legacy--From
Turner Street to Circus Road--Selling the Knowlton
pamphlet--The day of arrest--At Westminster--Mr G. J. Holyoake--The
hearing of the sentence--A riding accident.
CHAPTER V.
MORE DEBATES 39
Rev. Brewin Grant--Rev. A. Mursell--Mr Walter R. Browne--Mr
Robert Roberts, a Christadelphian--Mr William Simpson--Mr
Gordon--Rev. John Lightfoot--Rev. R. A. Armstrong--Rev.
W. M. Westerby.
CHAPTER VI.
SOME LATER LECTURES 52
At Oxford--The Suez Canal--Carrying "consolation"--At
Congleton--At Newman Street, London--Edinburgh--Professor
Flint--Scarborough.
CHAPTER VII.
LUNATICS 59
Letters--"A mission from God"--John Sladen and the Queen.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE "WATCH" STORY 63
The defiance of Deity an ancient idea--_The British Monarchy_--Abner
Kneeland--Emma Martin--G. J. Holyoake--Charles
Capper, M. P.--The _Razor_--Rev. P. R. Jones, M. A., Dr Harrison,
and other clergymen--The _Christian_ and other journals--The
Rev. Basil Wilberforce--Dr Parker--The _British Empire_--_Prosecution_
of Edgecumbe--Reckless swearing--A bad plea,
"embarrassing and unfair"--Edgecumbe missing--The reward
of Mr Bradlaugh's forbearance.
CHAPTER IX.
OTHER FABLES 76
The "cob of coal"--The "old woman"--Story narrated by
the Rev. H. W. Webb-Peploe--Personal slanders--The _World_--Action
against Mr Laker--Poisoning the Prince of Wales--A
"bagman"--A common accusation.
CHAPTER X.
PEACE DEMONSTRATIONS, 1878 82
The "Jingo" fever--Meetings in favour of peace--Auberon
Herbert and C. Bradlaugh in Hyde Park--Preparing for difficulties--The
war party--The fight--Second Hyde Park meeting--Mr
Bradlaugh injured--Ill and depressed.
CHAPTER XI.
THE NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY 86
The first general association of Freethinkers--Objects of the
Society--Its President--First secular almanac--The work of the
Society--Mr Bradlaugh's resignation.
CHAPTER XII.
THE LAST CHAPTER 91
Six years of fighting--A record of injustice--Some who help to
find the money to defend the right--Mr Bradlaugh's habits and
surroundings--His commercial pursuits--Money difficulties--Death
of Alice Bradlaugh--Mr Bradlaugh's illness--Plans for the
future--India--Last illness--Memorials.
Part II.
BY JOHN M. ROBERTSON.
CHAPTER I.
PHILOSOPHY AND SECULAR PROPAGANDA.
Sec.1. Meaning of "Atheism" 115
Sec.2. Bradlaugh's statement of Atheism 122
Sec.3. "Materialism" and its critics 127
Sec.4. Bradlaugh's popular propaganda 139
Sec.5. Secularist ethics 154
CHAPTER II.
POLITICAL DOCTRINE AND WORK.
Sec.1. The Republican movement 165
Sec.2. The Neo-Malthusian movement 169
Sec.3. Bradlaugh and the land laws 179
Sec.4. Bradlaugh and Socialism 185
Sec.5. The Irish question 191
Sec.6. Bradlaugh and India 198
CHAPTER III.
THE PARLIAMENTARY STRUGGLE.
_Chronological Summary_ 203
Sec.1. Northampton election of 1880 208
Sec.2. The raising of the oath question 211
Sec.3. Bradlaugh's request to be let affirm; opposition of
select committee 216
Sec.4. His first attempt to take the oath; opposition of select
committee 224
Sec.5. The affirmation question again; opposition of the House 234
Sec.6. Bradlaugh insists on taking the oath; arrested and
released; at length sits on affirmation 240
Sec.7. His action in the House; enmity outside 248
Sec.8. The lawsuit of Clarke and Newdegate--Bradlaugh unseated
and re-elected (1881) 259
Sec.9. Renewed conflict in Parliament 265
Sec.10. Agitation and discussion in the country 274
Sec.11. Bradlaugh's return litigation against Newdegate 277
Sec.12. Insisting on entering the House, is ejected by physical
force (Aug. 1881) 281
Sec.13. Further litigation and discussion 289
Sec.14. Bradlaugh again at the table of the House--takes the
oath--the seat again vacated (February 1882) 293
Sec.15. The new election--fresh agitation 301
Sec.16. Fresh litigation 305
Sec.17. Outside discussion--Bradlaugh and Manning 307
Sec.18. The _Freethinker_ blasphemy prosecution 316
Sec.19. Renewal of the constitutional struggle--fresh debating
in the House 334
Sec.20. Bradlaugh again takes the oath--again unseated, and again
elected (1884) 343
Sec.21. Continued litigation--end of the struggle 351
Sec.22. The effect of the struggle on parties 362
Sec.23. Its constitutional importance 365
CHAPTER IV.
CLOSING YEARS.
1886 368
1887 374
1888 384
1889 404
1890-1891 410
Conclusion--Bradlaugh's personality 421
INDEX 445
CHARLES BRADLAUGH.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE UNITED STATES AGAIN.
Mr. Bradlaugh had agreed to make a second lecturing tour through the
States in the autumn of 1874, and he started on it under the most
inauspicious circumstances. We have just seen how he was obliged to
delay his journey--just as earlier in the year he had been obliged to
hasten his return--to contest the election at Northampton, where he
was once more defeated for the third and last time. He had originally
taken his passage by the White Star Line, in the _Republic_, leaving on
September 24th. At his request the owners obligingly transferred him
to the _Baltic_, leaving October 1st. Unable to get away by this boat,
he forfeited his passage, and leaving Northampton on the night of the
poll, he just caught the Cunard ship the _Parthia_ at Queenstown on the
7th. He started on his voyage despondent, utterly wearied, and with
"a tightish sensation about the heart," for he had hoped and believed
until the last half-hour that he was going to win the election. He
thought, too, that before he had left the town he had succeeded in
pacifying his disappointed and angry supporters in Northampton, but the
receipt of a telegram at Holyhead, telling him of the rioting there and
the calling out of the military, depressed him more than ever.
When he got on board the _Parthia_ a curious little incident happened.
As he was "standing gloomily, watching the last package carried on
board," he wrote, "I was approached by a man, a steerage passenger,
who, reverently touching his billycock hat, said, 'Father, do you go
with us to the other side?' For a moment I was puzzled; but seeing
that the man was serious, I answered, 'You are mistaken; I am not a
Father.' The man looked dubious, nervously scratched the deck with a
blackthorn held loosely in his left hand, and rejoined, 'No offence
meant; I ask your reverence's pardon, but anyhow, it will be a blessing
to have you with us on board, Father.' That I looked clerical I had
been told by the _Gaulois_, which described me in 1871, when attending
the Paris Courts Martial, as dressed like a bishop; but this man's
evidently earnest disbelief in my repudiation of priestly honours,
coupled with his quiet acquiescence, made me doubt whether I was really
the man who had been placarded a few hours before in Northampton as
'Bradlaugh the Blasphemer.'"
The journey began badly, and continued so until New Jersey was sighted.
The sea was rough, the _Parthia_ rolled, and the captain proved a
churl. The embarkation of the steerage passengers was managed with an
"uncouth harshness" which was painful to witness; to threaten "to put
a man 'in irons' for coming back to give a last wave of his hand to a
weeping sweetheart," commented my father, "was just a little too hard."
On the 17th the passengers on board the _Parthia_ had the mortification
of seeing the _Ad | 582.837395 |
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Produced by Al Haines
POEMS
FIRST SERIES
BY J. C. SQUIRE
LONDON
MARTIN SECKER
XVII BUCKINGHAM STREET
ADELPHI
LONDON: MARTIN SECKER (LTD) 1918
_DEDICATION_
_Lord, I have seen at harvest festival
In a white lamp-lit fishing-village church,
How the poor folk, lacking fine decorations,
Offer the first-fruits of their various toils:
Not only fruit and blossom of the fields,
Ripe corn and poppies, scabious, marguerites,
Melons and marrows, carrots and potatoes,
And pale round turnips and sweet cottage flowers,
But gifts of other produce, heaped brown nets,
Fine pollack, silver fish with umber backs,
And handsome green-dark-blue-striped mackerel,
And uglier, hornier creatures from the sea,
Lobsters, long-clawed and eyed, and smooth flat crabs,
Ranged with the flowers upon the window-niches,
To lie in that symbolic contiguity
While lusty hymns of gratitude ascend._
_So I
Here offer all I have found:
A few bright stainless flowers
And richer, earthlier blooms, and homely grain,
And roots that grew distorted in the dark,
And shapes of livid hue and sprawling form
Dragged from the deepest maters I have searched.
Most diverse gifts, yet all alike in this:
They are all the natural products of my mind
And heart and senses;
And all with labour grown, or plucked, or caught._
PREFACE
The title of this book was chosen for this reason. Had the volume been
called ---- _and Other Poems_ it might have given a false impression
that its contents were entirely new. Had it been called _Collected
Poems_ the equally false impression might have been given that there
was something of finality about it. The title selected seemed best to
convey both the fact that it was a collection and that, under
Providence, other (and, let us hope, superior) | 582.838514 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "PERCIVALE SAW A SHIP COMING TOWARD THE LAND."]
THE KNIGHTS OF
THE ROUND TABLE
_STORIES OF KING ARTHUR
AND THE HOLY GRAIL_
BY
WILLIAM HENRY FROST
ILLUSTRATED | 582.899896 |
2023-11-16 18:26:46.9145110 | 715 | 252 |
Produced by Irma Spehar and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
HOW TO MAKE RUGS
[Illustration: LOOM WARPED FOR WEAVING]
How to Make Rugs
_By_
CANDACE WHEELER
Author of "Principles of Home Decoration," etc.
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1908
Copyright, 1900
By CANDACE WHEELER
Copyright, 1902
By DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
Published October, 1902
CONTENTS
FOREWORD: HOME INDUSTRIES AND DOMESTIC MANUFACTURES.
CHAPTER
I. RUG WEAVING. 19
II. THE PATTERN. 33
III. DYEING. 45
IV. INGRAIN CARPET RUGS. 57
V. WOVEN RAG PORTIERES. 67
VI. WOOLEN RUGS. 79
VII. COTTON RUGS. 99
VIII. LINSEY WOOLSEY. 113
NEIGHBOURHOOD INDUSTRIES: AFTER WORD. 125
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Loom Warped for Weaving _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Weaving 20
The Onteora Rug 36
The Lois Rug 52
Sewed Fringe for Woven Portiere 72
Knotted Warp Fringe for Woven Table-cover 72
Isle La Motte Rug 90
Greek Border in Red and Black 108
Braided and Knotted Fringe 108
Diamond Border in Red and Black 108
The Lucy Rug 128
FOREWORD.
HOME INDUSTRIES AND DOMESTIC MANUFACTURES.
The subject of Home Industries is beginning to attract the attention
of those who are interested in political economy and the general
welfare of the country, and thoughtful people are asking themselves
why, in all the length and breadth of America, there are no
well-established and prosperous domestic manufactures.
We have no articles of use or luxury made in _homes_ which are objects
of commercial interchange or sources of family profit. To this general
statement there are but few exceptions, and curiously enough these
are, for the most part, in the work of our native Indians.
A stranger in America, wishing--after the manner of travelers--to
carry back something characteristic of the country, generally buys
what we call "Indian curiosities"--moccasins, baskets, feather-work,
and the one admirable and well-established product of Indian
manufacture, the Navajo blanket. But these hardly represent the mass
of our people.
We may add to the list of Indian industries, lace making, which is
being successfully taught at some of the reservations, but as it is
not as yet even a self-supporting industry, the above-named
"curiosities" and the Navajo blanket stand alone as characteristic
hand-work produced by native races; while from our own, or that of the
co-existent Afro-American, we have nothing to show in the way of true
domestic manufactures.
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E-text prepared by Andrew Turek and revised and annotated by Joseph E.
Loewenstein, M.D.
THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Contents
I. The Trial
II. The Two Heiresses
III. Morrison's Hotel
IV. The Dunmore Inn
V. A Loving Brother
VI. The Escape
VII. Mr Barry Lynch Makes a Morning Call
VIII. Mr Martin Kelly Returns to Dunmore
IX. Mr Daly, the Attorney
X. Dot Blake's Advice
XI. The Earl of Cashel
XII. Fanny Wyndham
XIII. Father and Son
XIV. The Countess
XV. Handicap Lodge
XVI. Brien Boru
XVII. Martin Kelly's Courtship
XVIII. An Attorney's Office in Connaught
XIX. Mr Daly Visits the Dunmore Inn
XX. Very Liberal
XXI. Lord Ballindine at Home
XXII. The Hunt
XXIII. Dr Colligan
XXIV. Anty Lynch's Bed-Side; Scene the First
XXV. Anty Lynch's Bed-Side; Scene the Second
XXVI. Love's Ambassador
XXVII. Mr Lynch's Last Resource
XXVIII. Fanny Wyndham Rebels
XXIX. The Countess of Cashell in Trouble
XXX. Lord Kilcullen Obeys His Father
XXXI. The Two Friends
XXXII. How Lord Kilcullen Fares in His Wooing
XXXIII. Lord Kilcullen Makes Another Visit to the Book-Room
XXXIV. The Doctor Makes a Clean Breast of It
XXXV. Mr Lynch Bids Farewell to Dunmore
XXXVI. Mr Armstrong Visits Grey Abbey on a Delicate Mission
XXXVII. Veni; Vidi; Vici
XXXVIII. Wait Till I Tell You
XXXIX. It Never Rains but It Pours
XL. Conclusion
I. THE TRIAL
During the first two months of the year 1844, the greatest possible
excitement existed in Dublin respecting the State Trials, in which
Mr O'Connell, [1] his son, the Editors of three different repeal
newspapers, Tom Steele, the Rev. Mr Tierney--a priest who had taken
a somewhat prominent part in the Repeal Movement--and Mr Ray, the
Secretary to the Repeal Association, were indicted for conspiracy.
Those who only read of the proceedings in papers, which gave them as
a mere portion of the news of the day, or learned what was going on
in Dublin by chance conversation, can have no idea of the absorbing
interest which the whole affair created in Ireland, but more especially
in the metropolis. Every one felt strongly, on one side or on the
other. Every one had brought the matter home to his own bosom, and
looked to the result of the trial with individual interest and
suspense.
[FOOTNOTE 1: The historical events described here form a backdrop
to the novel. Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847) came from
a wealthy Irish Catholic family. He was educated in
the law, which he practiced most successfully, and
developed a passion for religious and political
liberty. In 1823, together with Lalor Sheil and
Thomas Wyse, he organized the Catholic Association,
whose major goal was Catholic emancipation. This was
achieved by act of parliament the following year.
O'Connell served in parliament in the 1830's and was
active in the passage of bills emancipating the Jews
and outlawing slavery. In 1840 he formed the Repeal
Association, whose goal was repeal of the 1800 Act
of Union which joined Ireland to Great Britain. In
1842, after serving a year as Lord Mayor of Dublin,
O'Connell challenged the British government by
announcing that he intended to achieve repeal within
a year. Though he openly opposed violence, Prime
Minister Peel's government considered him a threat
and arrested O'Connell and his associates in 1843
on trumped-up charges of conspiracy, sedition, and
unlawfule assembly. They were tried in 1844, and all
but one were convicted, although the conviction was
later overturned in the House of Lords. O'Connell did
serve some time in jail and was considered a martyr
to the cause of Irish independence.]
Even at this short interval Irishmen can now see how completely they
put judgment aside, and allowed feeling and passion to predominate in
the matter. Many of the hottest protestants, of the staunchest foes
to O'Connell, now believe that his absolute imprisonment was not to
be desired, and that whether he were acquitted or convicted, the
Government would have sufficiently shown, by instituting his trial, its
determination to put down proceedings of which they did not approve. On
the other hand, that class of men who then styled themselves Repealers
are now aware that the continued imprisonment of their leader--the
persecution, as they believed it to be, of "the Liberator" [2]--would
have been the one thing most certain to have sustained his influence,
and to have given fresh force to their agitation. Nothing ever so
strengthened the love of the Irish for, and the obedience of the Irish
to O'Connell, as his imprisonment; nothing ever so weakened his power
over them as his unexpected enfranchisement [3]. The country shouted
for joy when he was set free, and expended all its enthusiasm in the
effort.
[FOOTNOTE 2: The Irish often referred to Daniel O'Connell as
"the liberator."]
[FOOTNOTE 3: enfranchisement--being set free. This is a political
observation by Trollope.]
At the time, however, to which I am now referring, each party felt the
most intense interest in the struggle, and the most eager desire for
success. Every Repealer, and every Anti-Repealer in Dublin felt that
it was a contest, in which he himself was, to a certain extent,
individually engaged. All the tactics of the opposed armies, down to
the minutest legal details, were eagerly and passionately canvassed in
every circle. Ladies, who had before probably never heard of "panels"
in forensic phraseology, now spoke enthusiastically on the subject;
and those on one side expressed themselves indignant at the fraudulent
omission of certain names from the lists of jurors; while those on the
other were capable of proving the legality of choosing the jury from
the names which were given, and stated most positively that the
omissions were accidental.
"The traversers" [4] were in everybody's mouth--a term heretofore
confined to law courts, and lawyers' rooms. The Attorney-General,
the Commander-in-Chief of the Government forces, was most virulently
assailed; every legal step which he took was scrutinised and abused;
every measure which he used was base enough of itself to hand down his
name to everlasting infamy. Such were the tenets of the Repealers. And
O'Connell and his counsel, their base artifices, falsehoods, delays,
and unprofessional proceedings, were declared by the Saxon party to be
equally abominable.
[FOOTNOTE 4: traversers--Trollope repeatedly refers to the
defendants as "traversers." The term probably comes
from the legal term "to traverse," which is to deny
the charges against one in a common law proceeding.
Thus, the traversers would have been those who pled
innocent.]
The whole Irish bar seemed, for the time, to have laid aside the
habitual _sang froid_ [5] and indifference of lawyers, and to have
employed their hearts as well as their heads on behalf of the different
parties by whom they were engaged. The very jurors themselves for a
time became famous or infamous, according to the opinions of those
by whom their position was discussed. Their names and additions were
published and republished; they were declared to be men who would stand
by their country and do their duty without fear or favour--so said the
Protestants. By the Roman Catholics, they were looked on as perjurors
determined to stick to the Government with blind indifference to their
oaths. Their names are now, for the most part, forgotten, though so
little time has elapsed since they appeared so frequently before the
public.
[FOOTNOTE 5: sang froid--(French) coolness in a trying situation,
lack of excitability]
Every day's proceedings gave rise to new hopes and fears. The evidence
rested chiefly on the reports of certain short-hand writers, who had
been employed to attend Repeal meetings, and their examinations and
cross-examinations were read, re-read, and scanned with the minutest
care. Then, the various and long speeches of the different counsel,
who, day after day, continued to address the jury; the heat of one,
the weary legal technicalities of another, the perspicuity of a third,
and the splendid forensic eloquence of a fourth, were criticised,
depreciated and admired. It seemed as though the chief lawyers of the
day were standing an examination, and were candidates for some high
honour, which each was striving to secure.
The Dublin papers were full of the trial; no other subject, could, at
the time, either interest or amuse. I doubt whether any affair of the
kind was ever, to use the phrase of the trade, so well and perfectly
reported. The speeches appeared word for word the same in the columns
of newspapers of different politics. For four-fifths of the contents of
the paper it would have been the same to you whether you were reading
the Evening Mail, or the Freeman. Every word that was uttered in the
Court was of importance to every one in Dublin; and half-an-hour's
delay in ascertaining, to the minutest shade, what had taken place in
Court during any period, was accounted a sad misfortune.
The press round the Four Courts [6], every morning before the doors
were open, was very great: and except by the favoured few who were able
to obtain seats, it was only with extreme difficulty and perseverance,
that an entrance into the body of the Court could be obtained.
[FOOTNOTE 6: The Four Courts was a landmark courthouse in Dublin
named for the four divisions of the Irish judicial
system: Common Pleas, Chancery, Exchequer, and King's
Bench.]
It was on the eleventh morning of the proceedings, on the day on which
the defence of the traversers was to be commenced, that two young men,
who had been standing for a couple of hours in front of the doors of
the Court, were still waiting there, with what patience was left to
them, after having been pressed and jostled for so long a time. Richard
Lalor Sheil, however, was to address the jury on behalf of Mr John
O'Connell--and every one in Dublin knew that that was a treat not to
be lost. The two young men, too, were violent Repealers. The elder of
them was a three-year-old denizen of Dublin, who knew the names of
the contributors to the "Nation", who had constantly listened to the
indignation and enthusiasm of O'Connell, Smith O'Brien, and O'Neill
Daunt, in their addresses from the rostrum of the Conciliation Hall
[7]; who had drank much porter at Jude's, who had eaten many oysters
at Burton Bindon's, who had seen and contributed to many rows in the
Abbey Street Theatre; who, during his life in Dublin, had done many
things which he ought not to have done, and had probably made as
many omissions of things which it had behoved him to do. He had that
knowledge of the persons of his fellow-citizens, which appears to be so
much more general in Dublin than in any other large town; he could tell
you the name and trade of every one he met in the streets, and was a
judge of the character and talents of all whose employments partook, in
any degree, of a public nature. His name was Kelly; and, as his calling
was that of an attorney's clerk, his knowledge of character would be
peculiarly valuable in the scene at which he and his companion were so
anxious to be present.
[FOOTNOTE 7: Conciliation Hall, Dublin, was built in 1843 as a
meeting place for O'Connell's Repeal Association.]
The younger of the two brothers, for such they were, was a somewhat
different character. Though perhaps a more enthusiastic Repealer
than his brother, he was not so well versed in the details of Repeal
tactics, or in the strength and weakness of the Repeal ranks. He was a
young farmer, of the better class, from the County Mayo, where he held
three or four hundred wretchedly bad acres under Lord Ballindine, and
one or two other small farms, under different landlords. He was a
good-looking young fellow, about twenty-five years of age, with that
mixture of cunning and frankness in his bright eye, which is so common
among those of his class in Ireland, but more especially so in
Connaught.
The mother of these two young men kept an inn in the small town of
Dunmore, and though from the appearance of the place, one would be
led to suppose that there could not be in Dunmore much of that kind
of traffic which innkeepers love, Mrs Kelly was accounted a warm,
comfortable woman. Her husband had left her for a better world some
ten years since, with six children; and the widow, instead of making
continual use, as her chief support, of that common wail of being a
poor, lone woman, had put her shoulders to the wheel, and had earned
comfortably, by sheer industry, that which so many of her class, when
similarly situated, are willing to owe to compassion.
She held on the farm, which her husband rented from Lord Ballindine,
till her eldest son was able to take it. He, however, was now a
gauger [8] in the north of Ireland. Her second son was the attorney's
clerk; and the farm had descended to Martin, the younger, whom we have
left jostling and jostled at one of the great doors of the Four Courts,
and whom we must still leave there for a short time, while a few more
of the circumstances of his family are narrated.
[FOOTNOTE 8: gauger--a British revenue officer often engaged in
the collection of duties on distilled spirits.]
Mrs Kelly had, after her husband's death, added a small grocer's
establishment to her inn. People wondered where she had found the means
of supplying her shop: some said that old Mick Kelly must have had
money when he died, though it was odd how a man who drank so much could
ever have kept a shilling by him. Others remarked how easy it was to
get credit in these days, and expressed a hope that the wholesale
dealer in Pill Lane might be none the worse. However this might be,
the widow Kelly kept her station firmly and constantly behind her
counter, wore her weeds and her warm, black, stuff dress decently and
becomingly, and never asked anything of anybody.
At the time of which we are writing, her two elder sons had left her,
and gone forth to make their own way, and take the burden of the world
on their own shoulders. Martin still lived with his mother, though his
farm lay four miles distant, on the road to Ballindine, and in another
county--for Dunmore is in County Galway, and the lands of Toneroe, as
Martin's farm was called, were in the County Mayo. One of her three
daughters had lately been married to a shop-keeper in Tuam, and rumour
said that he had got L500 with her; and Pat Daly was not the man to
have taken a wife for nothing. The other two girls, Meg and Jane, still
remained under their mother's wing, and though it was to be presumed
that they would soon fly abroad, with the same comfortable plumage
which had enabled their sister to find so warm a nest, they were
obliged, while sharing their mother's home, to share also her labours,
and were not allowed to be too proud to cut off pennyworths of tobacco,
and mix dandies of punch for such of their customers as still preferred
the indulgence of their throats to the blessing of Father Mathew.
Mrs. Kelly kept two ordinary in-door servants to assist in the work of
the house; one, an antiquated female named Sally, who was more devoted
to her tea-pot than ever was any bacchanalian to his glass. Were there
four different teas in the inn in one evening, she would have drained
the pot after each, though she burst in the effort. Sally was, in all,
an honest woman, and certainly a religious one;--she never neglected
her devotional duties, confessed with most scrupulous accuracy the
various peccadillos of which she might consider herself guilty; and
it was thought, with reason, by those who knew her best, that all the
extra prayers she said,--and they were very many,--were in atonement
for commissions of continual petty larceny with regard to sugar. On
this subject did her old mistress quarrel with her, her young mistress
ridicule her; of this sin did her fellow-servant accuse her; and,
doubtless, for this sin did her Priest continually reprove her; but
in vain. Though she would not own it, there was always sugar in
her pocket, and though she declared that she usually drank her tea
unsweetened, those who had come upon her unawares had seen her
extracting the pinches of moist brown saccharine from the huge slit
in her petticoat, and could not believe her.
Kate, the other servant, was a red-legged lass, who washed the
potatoes, fed the pigs, and ate her food nobody knew when or where.
Kates, particularly Irish Kates, are pretty by prescription; but Mrs.
Kelly's Kate had been excepted, and was certainly a most positive
exception. Poor Kate was very ugly. Her hair had that appearance of
having been dressed by the turkey-cock, which is sometimes presented by
the heads of young women in her situation; her mouth extended nearly
from ear to ear; her neck and throat, which were always nearly bare,
presented no feminine charms to view; and her short coarse petticoat
showed her red legs nearly to the knee; for, except on Sundays, she
knew not the use of shoes and stockings. But though Kate was ungainly
and ugly, she was useful, and grateful--very fond of the whole family,
and particularly attached to the two young ladies, in whose behalf she
doubtless performed many a service, acceptable enough to them, but of
which, had she known of them, the widow would have been but little
likely to approve.
Such was Mrs. Kelly's household at the time that her son Martin left
Connaught to pay a short visit to the metropolis, during the period of
O'Connell's trial. But, although Martin was a staunch Repealer, and had
gone as far as Galway, and Athlone, to be present at the Monster Repeal
Meetings which had been held there, it was not political anxiety alone
which led him to Dublin. His landlord; the young Lord Ballindine, was
there; and, though Martin could not exactly be said to act as his
lordship's agent--for Lord Ballindine had, unfortunately, a legal
agent, with whose services his pecuniary embarrassments did not
allow him to dispense--he was a kind of confidential tenant, and
his attendance had been requested. Martin, moreover, had a somewhat
important piece of business of his own in hand, which he expected would
tend greatly to his own advantage; and, although he had fully made up
his mind to carry it out if possible, he wanted, in conducting it, a
little of his brother's legal advice, and, above all, his landlord's
sanction.
This business was nothing less than an intended elopement with an
heiress belonging to a rank somewhat higher than that in which Martin
Kelly might be supposed to look, with propriety, for his bride; but
Martin was a handsome fellow, not much burdened with natural modesty,
and he had, as he supposed, managed to engage the affections of
Anastasia Lynch, a lady resident near Dunmore.
All particulars respecting Martin's intended--the amount of her
fortune--her birth and parentage--her age and attractions--shall,
in due time, be made known; or rather, perhaps, be suffered to make
themselves known. In the mean time we will return to the two brothers,
who are still anxiously waiting to effect an entrance into the august
presence of the Law.
Martin had already told his brother of his matrimonial speculations,
and had received certain hints from that learned youth as to the proper
means of getting correct information as to the amount of the lady's
wealth,--her power to dispose of it by her own deed,--and certain other
particulars always interesting to gentlemen who seek money and love at
the same time. John did not quite approve of the plan; there might have
been a shade of envy at his brother's good fortune; there might be
some doubt as to his brother's power of carrying the affair through
successfully; but, though he had not encouraged him, he gave him the
information he wanted, and was as willing to talk over the matter as
Martin could desire.
As they were standing in the crowd, their conversation ran partly on
Repeal and O'Connell, and partly on matrimony and Anty Lynch, as the
lady was usually called by those who knew her best.
"Tear and 'ouns Misther Lord Chief Justice!" exclaimed Martin, "and are
ye niver going to opin them big doors?"
"And what'd be the good of his opening them yet," answered John, "when
a bigger man than himself an't there? Dan and the other boys isn't in
it yet, and sure all the twelve judges couldn't get on a peg without
them."
"Well, Dan, my darling!" said the other, "you're thought more of here
this day than the lot of 'em, though the place in a manner belongs to
them, and you're only a prisoner."
"Faix and that's what he's not, Martin; no more than yourself, nor so
likely, may-be. He's the traverser, as I told you before, and that's
not being a prisoner. If he were a prisoner, how did he manage to tell
us all what he did at the Hall yesterday?"
"Av' he's not a prisoner, he's the next-door to it; it's not of his own
free will and pleasure he'd come here to listen to all the lies them
thundhering Saxon ruffians choose to say about him."
"And why not? Why wouldn't he come here and vindicate himself? When you
hear Sheil by and by, you'll see then whether they think themselves
likely to be prisoners! No--no; they never will be, av' there's a ghost
of a conscience left in one of them Protesthant raps, that they've
picked so carefully out of all Dublin to make jurors of. They can't
convict 'em! I heard Ford, the night before last, offer four to one
that they didn't find the lot guilty; and he knows what he's about, and
isn't the man to thrust a Protestant half as far as he'd see him."
"Isn't Tom Steele a Protesthant himself, John?"
"Well, I believe he is. So's Gray, and more of 'em too; but there's a
difference between them and the downright murdhering Tory set. Poor Tom
doesn't throuble the Church much; but you'll be all for Protesthants
now, Martin, when you've your new brother-in-law. Barry used to be one
of your raal out-and-outers!"
"It's little, I'm thinking, I and Barry'll be having to do together,
unless it be about the brads; and the law about them now, thank God,
makes no differ for Roman and Protesthant. Anty's as good a Catholic
as ever breathed, and so was her mother before her; and when she's Mrs
Kelly, as I mane to make her, Master Barry may shell out the cash and
go to heaven his own way for me."
"It ain't the family then, you're fond of, Martin! And I wondher at
that, considering how old Sim loved us all."
"Niver mind Sim, John! he's dead and gone; and av' he niver did a good
deed before, he did one when he didn't lave all his cash to that
precious son of his, Barry Lynch."
"You're prepared for squalls with Barry, I suppose?"
"He'll have all the squalling on his own side, I'm thinking, John. I | 583.001774 |
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Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
EMILE VERHAEREN
BY
STEFAN ZWEIG
LONDON
CONSTABLE AND COMPANY LTD
1914
[Illustration: Émile Verhaeren from an unpublished photograph by
Charles Bernier, 1914.]
PREFACE
Four years have passed since the present volume appeared simultaneously
in German and French. In the meantime Verhaeren's fame has been
spreading; but in English-speaking countries he is still not so well
known as he deserves to be.
Something of his philosophy--if it may be called philosophy rather than
a poet's inspired visualising of the world--has passed into the public
consciousness in a grotesquely distorted form in what is known as
'futurism.' So long as futurism is associated with those who have
acquired a facile notoriety by polluting the pure idea, it would be an
insult to Verhaeren to suggest that he is to be classed with the
futurists commonly so-called; but the whole purpose of the present
volume will prove that the gospel of a very serious and reasoned
futurism is to be found in Verhaeren's writings.
Of the writer of the book it may be said that there was no one more
fitted than he to write the authentic exposition of the teaching which
he has hailed as a new religion. His relations to the Master are not
only those of a fervent disciple, but of an apostle whose labour of
love has in German-speaking lands and beyond been crowned with signal
success. Himself a lyrist of distinction, Stefan Zweig has accomplished
the difficult feat, which in this country still waits to be done, of
translating the great mass of Verhaeren's poems into actual and enduring
verse. Another book of his on Verlaine is already known in an English
rendering; so that he bids fair to become known in this country as one
of the most gifted of the writers of Young-Vienna.
As to the translation, I have endeavoured to be faithful to my text,
which is the expression of a personality. Whatever divergences there are
have been necessitated by the lapse of time. For help in reading the
proofs I have to thank Mr. M.T.H. Sadler and Mr. Fritz Voigt.
J. BITHELL.
HAMMERFIELD,
_Nr_. HEMEL HEMPSTEAD,
14_th July_ 1914.
CONTENTS
PART I
THE NEW AGE
THE NEW BELGIUM
YOUTH IN FLANDERS
'LES FLAMANDES'
THE MONKS
THE BREAK-DOWN
FLIGHT INTO THE WORLD
PART II
TOWNS ('LES VILLES TENTACULAIRES')
THE MULTITUDE
THE RHYTHM OF LIFE
THE NEW PATHOS
VERHAEREN'S POETIC METHOD
VERHAEREN'S DRAMA
PART III
COSMIC POETRY
THE LYRIC UNIVERSE
SYNTHESES
THE ETHICS OF FERVOUR
LOVE
THE ART OF VERHAEREN'S LIFE
THE EUROPEAN IMPORTANCE OF HIS WORK
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX
PART I
DECIDING FORCES
LES FLAMANDES--LES MOINES--LES SOIRS--LES
DÉBâCLES--LES FLAMBEAUX NOIRS--AU BORD DE
LA ROUTE--LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS
1883-1893
Son tempérament, son caractère, sa vie, tout conspire à nous
montrer son art tel que nous avons essayé de le définir. Une
profonde unité les scelle. Et n'est-ce pas vers la découverte de
cette unité-là, qui groupe en un faisceau solide les gestes, les
pensées et les travaux d'un génie sur la terre, que la critique,
revenue enfin de tant d'erreurs, devait tendre uniquement?
VERHAEREN, _Rembrandt._
THE NEW AGE
Tout bouge--et l'on dirait les horizons en marche.
É.V., 'La Foule.'
The feeling of this age of ours, of this our moment in eternity, is
different in its conception of life from that of our ancestors. Only
eternal earth has changed not nor grown older, that field, gloomed by
the Unknown, on which the monotonous light of the seasons divides, in a
rhythmic round, the time of blossoms and of their withering; changeless
only are the action of the elements and the restless alternation of
night and day. But the aspect of earth's spirit has changed, all that is
subjected to the toil of man. Has changed, to change again. The
evolution of the phenomena of culture seems to proceed with ever greater
rapidity: never was the span of a hundred years as rich, as replete as
that which stretches to the threshold of our own days. Cities have shot
up which are as huge and bewildering, as impenetrable and as endless, as
nothing else has been save those virgin forests now fast receding before
the onward march of the tilled land. More and more the work of man
achieves the grandiose and elementary character that was once Nature's
secret. The lightning is in his hands, and protection from the
weather's sudden onslaughts; lands that once yawned far apart are now
forged together by the iron hoop with which of old only the narrow
strait was arched; oceans are united that have sought each other for
thousands of years; and now in the very air man is building a new road
from country to country. All has changed.
Tout a changé: les ténèbres et les flambeaux.
Les droits et les devoirs out fait d'autres faisceaux,
Du sol jusqu'au soleil, une neuve énergie
Diverge un sang torride, en la vie élargie;
Des usines de fonte ouvrent, sous le ciel bleu,
Des cratères en flamme et des fleuves en feu;
De rapides vaisseaux, sans rameurs et sans voiles,
La nuit, sur les flots bleus, étonnent les étoiles;
Tout peuple réveillé se forge une autre loi;
Autre est le crime, autre est l'orgueil, autre est l'exploit.[1]
Changed, too, is the relation of individual to individual, of the
individual to the whole; at once more onerous and less burdensome is the
network of social laws, at once more onerous and less burdensome our
whole life.
But a still greater thing has happened. Not only the real forms, the
transitory facts of life have changed, not only do we live in other
cities, other houses, not only are we dressed in different clothes, but
the infinite above us too, that which seemed unshakable, has changed
from what it was for our fathers and forefathers. Where the actual
changes, the relative changes also. The most elementary forms of our
conception, space and time, have been displaced. Space has become other
than it was, for we measure it with new velocities. Roads that took our
forefathers days to traverse can now be covered in one short hour; one
flying night transports us to warm and luxuriant lands that were once
separated from us by the hardships of a long journey. The perilous
forests of the tropics with Jheir strange constellations, to see which
cost those of old a year of their lives, are of a sudden near to us and
easy of access. We measure differently with these different velocities
of life. Time is more and more the victor of space. The eye, too, has
learned other distances, and in cold constellations is startled to
perceive the forms of primeval landscapes petrified; and the human voice
seems to have grown a thousand times stronger since it has learned to
carry on a friendly conversation a hundred miles away. In this new
relationship of forces we have a different perception of the spanning
round of the earth, and the rhythm of life, beating more brightly and
swiftly, is likewise becoming new for us. The distance from springtime
to springtime is greater now and yet less, greater and yet less is the
individual hour, greater and less our whole life.
And therefore is it with new feelings that we must comprehend this new
age. For we all feel that we must not measure the new with the old
measures our forefathers used, that we must not live through the new
with feelings outworn, that we must discover a new sense of distance, a
new sense of time, a new sense of space, that we must find a new music
for this nervous, feverish rhythm around us. This new-born human
conditionality calls for a new morality; this new union of equals a new
beauty; this new topsy-turvydom a new system of ethics. And this new
confrontation with another and still newer world, with another Unknown,
demands a new religion, a new God. A new sense of the universe is, with
a muffled rumour, welling up in the hearts of all of us.
New things, however, must be coined into new words. A new age calls for
new poets, poets whose conceptions have been nurtured by their
environment, poets who, in the expression they give to this new
environment, themselves vibrate with the feverish rotation of life. But
so many of our poets are pusillanimous. They feel that their voices are
out of harmony with reality; they feel that they are not incorporated
with the new organism and a necessary part of it; they have a dull
foreboding that they do not speak the language of our contemporary life.
In our great cities they are like strangers stranded. The great roaring
streams of our new sensations are to them terrific and inconceivable.
They are ready to accept all the comfort and luxury of modern life; they
are quick to take advantage of the facilities afforded by technical
science and organisation; but for their poetry they reject these
phenomena, because they cannot master them. They recoil from the task
of transmuting poetical values, of sensing whatever is poetically new in
these new things. And so they stand aside. They flee from the real, the
contemporary, to the immutable; they take refuge in whatsoever the
eternal evolution has left untouched; they sing the stars, the
springtime, the babbling of springs which is now as it ever was, the
myth of love; they hide behind the old symbols; they nestle to the old
gods. Not from the moment, from the molten flowing ore, do they seize
and mould the eternal--no, as ever of old they dig the symbols of the
eternal out of the cold clay of the past, like old Greek statues. They
are not on that account insignificant; but at best they produce
something important, never anything necessary.
For only that poet can be necessary to our time who himself feels that
everything in this time is necessary, and therefore beautiful. He must
be one whose whole endeavour as poet and man it is to make his own
sensations vibrate in unison with contemporary sensations; who makes the
rhythm of his poem nothing else than the echoed rhythm of living things;
who adjusts the beat of his verse to the beat of our own days, and takes
into his quivering veins the streaming blood of our time. He must not on
this account, when seeking to create new ideals, be a stranger to the
ideals of old; for all true progress is based on the deepest
understanding of the past. Progress must be for him as Guyau interprets
it: 'Le pouvoir, lorsqu'on est arrivé à un état supérieur, d'éprouver
des émotions et des sensations nouvelles, sans cesser d'être encore
accessible à ce que contenaient de grand ou de beau ses précédantes
émotions.'[2] A poet of our time can only be great when he conceives
this time as great. The preoccupations of his time must be his also; its
social problem must be his personal concern. In such a poet succeeding
generations would see how man has fought a way to them from the past,
how in every moment as it passed he has wrestled to identify the feeling
of his own mind with that of the cosmos. And even though the great works
of such a poet should be soon disintegrated and his poems obsolete,
though his images should have paled, there would yet remain imperishably
vivid that which is of greater moment, the invisible motives of his
inspiration, the melody, the breath, the rhythm of his time. Such poets,
besides pointing the way to the coming generation, are in a deeper sense
the incarnation of their own period. Hence the time has come to speak of
Émile Verhaeren, the greatest of modern poets, and perhaps the only one
who has been conscious of what is poetical in contemporary feeling, the
only one who has shaped that feeling in verse, the first poet who, with
skill incomparably inspired, has chiselled our epoch into a mighty
monument of rhyme.
In Verhaeren's work our age is mirrored. The new landscapes are in it;
the sinister silhouettes of the great cities; the seething masses of a
militant democracy; the subterranean shafts of mines; the last heavy
shadows of silent, dying cloisters. All the intellectual forces of our
time, our time's ideology, have here become a poem; the new social
ideas, the struggle of industrialism with agrarianism, the vampire force
which lures the rural population from the health-giving fields to the
burning quarries of the great city, the tragic fate of emigrants,
financial crises, the dazzling conquests of science, the syntheses of
philosophy, the triumphs of engineering, the new colours of the
impressionists. All the manifestations of the new age are here reflected
in a poet's soul in their action--first confused, then understood, then
joyfully acclaimed--on the sensations of a New European. How this work
came into being, out of what resistance and crises a poet has here
conquered the consciousness of the necessity and then of the beauty of
the new cosmic phase, it shall be our task to show. If the time has
indeed come to class Verhaeren, it is not so much with the poets that
his place will be found. He does not so much stand with or above the
verse-smiths or actual artists in verse, with the musicians, or
painters, as rather with the great organisers, those who have forced the
new social currents to flow between dikes; with the legislators who
prevent the clashing of flamboyant energies; with the philosophers, who
aim at co-ordinating and unifying all these vastly complicated
tendencies in one brilliant synthesis. His poetry is a created poet's
world; it is a resolute shaping of phases, a considered new æstheticism,
and a conscious new inspiration. He is not only the poet, he is at the
same time the preacher of our time. He was the first to conceive of it
as _beautiful_, but not like those who, in their zeal for embellishment,
tone down the dark colours and bring out the bright ones; he has
conceived of it--we shall have to show with what a painful and intensive
effort--after his first most obstinate rejection of it, as a necessity,
and he has then transformed this conception of its necessity, of its
purpose, into beauty. Ceasing to look backwards, he has looked forwards.
He feels, quite in the spirit of evolution, in the spirit of Nietzsche,
that our generation is raised high above all the past, that it is the
summit of all that is past, and the turning-point towards the future.
This will perhaps seem too much to many people, who are inclined to call
our generation wretched and paltry, as though they had some inner
knowledge of the magnificence or the paltriness of generations gone. For
every generation only becomes great by the men who do not despair of it,
only becomes great by its poets who conceive of it as great, by its
charioteers of state who have confidence in its power of greatness. Of
Shakespeare and Hugo Verhaeren says: 'Ils grandissaient leur
siècle.'[3] They did not depict it with the perspective of others, but
out of the heart of their own greatness. Of such geniuses as Rembrandt
he says: 'Si plus tard, dans l'éloignement des siècles, ils semblent
traduire mieux que personne leur temps, c'est qu'ils l'ont recréé
d'après leur cerveau, et qu'ils l'ont imposé non pas tel qu'il était,
mais tel qu'ils l'ont déformé.'[4] But by magnifying their century, by
raising even ephemeral events of their own days into a vast perspective,
they themselves became great. While those who of set purpose diminish,
and while those by nature indifferent, are themselves diminished and
disregarded as the centuries recede, poets such as these we honour tell,
like illumined belfry clocks, the hour of the time to generations yet to
come. If the others bequeath some slight possession, a poem or so,
aphorisms, a book maybe, these survive more mightily: they survive in
some great conception, some great idea of an age, in that music of life
to which the faint-hearted and the ungifted of following epochs will
listen as it sounds from the past, because they in their turn are unable
to understand the rhythm of their own time. By this manner of inspired
vision Verhaeren has come to be the great poet of our time, by approving
of it as well as by depicting it, by the fact that he did not see the
new things as they actually are, but celebrated them as a new beauty.
He has approved of all that is in our epoch; of everything, to the very
resistance to it which he has conceived of as only a welcome
augmentation of the fighting force of our vitality. The whole atmosphere
of our time seems compressed in the organ music of his work; and whether
he touches the bright keys or the dark, whether he rolls out a lofty
diapason or strikes a gentle concord, it is always the onward-rushing
force of our time that vibrates in his poems. While other poets have
grown ever more lifeless and languid, ever more secluded and
disheartened, Verhaeren's voice has grown ever more resonant and
vigorous, like an organ indeed, full of reverence and the mystical power
of sublime prayer. A spirit positively religious, not of despondency,
however, but of confidence and joy, breathes from this music of his,
freshening and quickening the blood, till the world takes on brighter
and more animated and more generous colours, and our vitality, fired by
the fever of his verse, flashes with a richer and younger and more
virile flame.
But the fact that life, to-day of all days, needs nothing so urgently as
the freshening and quickening of our vitality, is good reason why--quite
apart from all literary admiration--we must read his books, is good
reason why this poet must be discussed with all that glad enthusiasm
which we have first learned for our lives from his work.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] 'Aujourd'hui'(_Les Héros_).
[2] Guyau, _L'Esthétique Contemporaine._
[3] 'L'Art' (_Les Forces Tumultueuses_).
[4] _Rembrandt_.
THE NEW BELGIUM
Entre la France ardente et la grave Allemagne.
_É.V._, 'Charles le Téméraire.'
In Belgium the roads of Europe meet. A few hours transport one from
Brussels, the heart of its iron arteries, to Germany, France, Holland,
and England; and from Belgian ports all countries and all races are
accessible across the pathless sea. The area of the land being small, it
provides a miniature but infinitely varied synthesis of the life of
Europe. All contrasts stand face to face concisely and sharply outlined.
The train roars through the land: now past coal-mines, past furnaces and
retorts that write the fiery script of toil on an ashen sky; now through
golden fields or green pastures where sleek, brindled cows are grazing;
now through great cities that point to heaven with their multitudinous
chimneys; and lastly to the sea, the Rialto of the north, where
mountains of cargoes are shipped and unshipped, and trade traffics with | 583.036827 |
2023-11-16 18:26:47.0804850 | 1,281 | 21 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
OTHER BOOKS
BY BERTHA B. AND ERNEST COBB
ARLO
CLEMATIS
ANITA
PATHWAYS
ALLSPICE
DAN'S BOY
PENNIE
ANDRE
ONE FOOT ON THE GROUND
ROBIN
----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: "Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?"]
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CLEMATIS
By
BERTHA B. AND ERNEST COBB
Authors of Arlo, Busy Builder's Book,
Hand in Hand With Father Time, etc.
With illustrations by
A. G. Cram
and
Willis Levis
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York and London
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1917
By BERTHA B. and ERNEST COBB
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
for Foreign Countries
Twenty-second Impression
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must
not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Made in the United States of America
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Somerset, Mass.
Dear Priscilla:
You have taken such a fancy to little Clematis that we hope other
children may like her, too. We may not be able to buy you all the
ponies, and goats, and dogs, and cats that you would like, but we
will dedicate the book to you, and then you can play with all the
animals Clematis has, any time you wish.
With much love, from
Bertha B. and Ernest Cobb.
To Miss Priscilla Cobb.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
1. Lost in a Big City 1
2. The Children's Home 16
3. The First Night 28
4. Who is Clematis? 41
5. Clematis Begins to Learn 52
6. Clematis Has a Hard Row to Hoe 61
7. What Clematis Found 72
8. A Visitor 86
9. The Secret 97
10. Two Doctors 109
11. A Long, Anxious Night 121
12. Getting Well 134
13. Off for Tilton 145
14. The Country 160
15. Clematis Tries to Help 172
16. Only a Few Days More 186
17. Where is Clematis? 200
18. Hunting for Clematis 215
19. New Plans 230
20. The True Fairy Story 237
----------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
1. "Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?"
2. "I don't want to stay here if you're going to throw my cat away."
3. With Katie in the kitchen.
4. Thinking of the land of flowers.
5. Clematis held out her hand.
6. Clematis is better.
7. Off for Tilton.
8. In the country at last.
9. The little red hen.
10. Clematis watched the little fishes by the shore.
11. "I shan't be afraid."
12. A little girl was coming up the path.
13. Deborah was very hungry.
14. "Didn't you ever peel potatoes?"
15. "What are you sewing?"
16. Clematis stuck one hand out.
17. She could see the little fish.
18. In Grandfather's house.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CLEMATIS
CHAPTER I
LOST IN THE BIG CITY
It was early Spring. A warm sun shone down upon the city street. On
the edge of the narrow brick sidewalk a little girl was sitting.
Her gingham dress was old and shabby. The short, brown coat had lost
all its buttons, and a rusty pin held it together.
A faded blue cap partly covered her brown hair, which hung in short,
loose curls around her face.
She had been sitting there almost an hour when a policeman came
along.
"I wonder where that girl belongs," he said, as he looked down at
her. "She is a new one on Chambers Street."
He walked on, but he looked back as he walked, to see if she went
away.
The child slowly raised her big, brown eyes to look after him. She
watched him till he reached the corner by the meat shop; then she
looked down and began to kick at the stones with her thin boots.
At this moment a bell rang. A door opened in a building across the
street, and many children came out.
As they passed the little girl, some of them looked at her. One
little boy bent down to see her face, but she hid it under her arm.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked. "Who's going to hurt you?"
She did not answer.
Another boy opened his lunch box as he passed, and shook out the
pieces of bread, left from his lunch.
Soon the children were gone, and the street was quiet again.
The little girl kicked at the stones a few minutes; then she looked
up. No one was looking at her, so she reached out one little hand
and picked up a crust of bread.
In a wink the bread was in her mouth. She reached out for another,
brushed off a little dirt, and ate that also.
Just then the policeman came down the street from the other corner.
The child quickly bent her head and looked down.
This time he came to where she sat, and stopped.
"Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?" he asked.
She did not answer.
"Your mother will be looking for you. You'd better run home now,
like a good girl. Where do you live, anyway | 583.100525 |
2023-11-16 18:26:47.3188920 | 476 | 7 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v5
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Title: Cinq Mars, v5
Author: Alfred de Vigny
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2023-11-16 18:26:47.3835620 | 1,932 | 9 |
Produced by Al Haines.
Dawn
of the Morning
BY
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
AUTHOR OF
MARCIA SCHUYLER, PHOEBE DEANE, ETC.
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
COPYRIGHT, 1911
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Wings of the Morning
"The morning hangs its signal
Upon the mountain's crest,
While all the sleeping valleys
In silent darkness rest;
From peak to peak it flashes,
It laughs along the sky
That the crowning day is coming, by and by!
We can see the rose of morning,
A glory in the sky,
And that splendor on the hill-tops
O'er all the land shall lie.
Above the generations
The lonely prophets rise,--
The Truth flings dawn and day-star
Within their glowing eyes;
From heart to heart it brightens,
It draweth ever nigh,
Till it crowneth all men thinking, by and by!
The soul hath lifted moments
Above the drift of days,
When life's great meaning breaketh
In sunrise on our ways;
From hour to hour it haunts us,
The vision draweth nigh,
Till it crowneth living, _dying_, by and by!
And in the sunrise standing,
Our kindling hearts confess
That 'no good thing is failure.
No evil thing success!'
From age to age it groweth,
That radiant faith so high,
And its crowning day is coming by and by!"
WILLIAM C. GANNETT
Dawn of the Morning
CHAPTER I
In the year 1824, in a pleasant town located between Schenectady and
Albany, stood the handsome colonial residence of Hamilton Van
Rensselaer. Solemn hedges shut in the family pride and hid the family
sorrow, and about the borders of its spacious gardens, where even the
roses seemed subdued, there played a child. The stately house oppressed
her, and she loved the sombre garden best.
Her only friend in the old house seemed a tall clock that stood on the
stairs and told out the hours in the hopeless tone that was expected of
a clock in such a house, though it often took time to wink pleasantly at
the child as she passed by, and talk off a few seconds and minutes in a
brighter tone.
But the great clock on the staircase ticked awesomely one morning as the
little girl went slowly down to her father's study in response to his
bidding.
She did not want to go. She delayed her steps as much as possible, and
looked up at the kindly old clock for sympathy; but even the round-eyed
sun and the friendly moon that went around on the clock face every day
as regularly as the real sun and moon, and usually appeared to be bowing
and smiling at her, wore solemn expressions, and seemed almost pale
behind their highly painted countenances.
The little girl shuddered as she gave one last look over her shoulder at
them and passed into the dim recesses of the back hall, where the light
came only in weird, half-circular slants from the mullioned window over
the front door. It was dreadful indeed when the jolly sun and moon
looked grave.
She paused before the heavy door of the study and held her breath,
dreading the ordeal that was to come. Then, gathering courage, she
knocked timidly, and heard her father's instant, cold "Come."
With trembling fingers she turned the knob and went in.
There were heavy damask curtains at the windows, reaching to the floor,
caught back with thick silk cords and tassels. They were a deep, sullen
red, and filled the room with oppressive shadows in no wise relieved by
the heavy mahogany furniture upholstered in the same red damask.
Her father sat by his ponderous desk, always littered with papers which
she must not touch.
His sternly handsome face was forbidding. The very beauty of it was
hateful to her. The look on it reminded her of that terrible day, now
nearly three years ago, when he had returned from a journey of several
months abroad in connection with some brilliant literary enterprise, and
had swept her lovely mother out of his life and home, the innocent
victim of long-entertained jealousy and most unfounded suspicion.
The little girl had been too young to understand what it was all about.
When she cried for her she was forbidden even to think of her, and was
told that her mother was unworthy of that name.
The child had declared with angry tears and stampings of her small foot,
that it was not true, that her mother was good and dear and beautiful;
but they had paid no heed to her. The father had sternly commanded
silence and sent her away; and the mother had not returned.
So she had sobbed her heart out in the silence of her own room, where
every object reminded her of the lost mother's touch and voice and
presence, and had gone about the house in a sullen silence unnatural to
childhood, thereby making herself more enemies than friends.
Of her father she was afraid. She shrank into terrified silence
whenever he approached, scarcely answering his questions, and growing
farther away from him every day, until he instinctively knew that she
hated him for her mother's sake.
When a year had passed he procured a divorce without protest from the
innocent but crushed wife, this by aid of a law that often places "Truth
forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne." Not long after,
he brought to his home as his wife a capable, arrogant, self-opinionated
woman, who set herself to rule him and his household as it should be
ruled.
The little girl was called to audience in the gloomy study where sat the
new wife, her eyes filled with hostility toward the other woman's child,
and was told that she must call the lady "Mother."
Then the black eyes that held in their dreamy depths some of the
gunpowder flash of her father's steely ones took fire; the little face
darkened with indignant fury; the small foot came down with fierce
determination on the thick carpet, and the child declared:
"I will _never_ call her mother! She is _not_ my mother! She is a bad
woman, and she has no right here. She cannot be your wife. It is
wicked for a man to have two wives. I know, for I heard Mary Ann and
Betsey say so this morning in the kitchen. My mother is alive yet. She
is at Grandfather's. I heard Betsey say that too. You are a wicked,
cruel man, and I hate you. I will not have you for a father any more.
I will go away and stay with my mother. She is good. _You_ are bad! I
hate you! I hate you! _I hate you_! _And I hate her_!"--pointing
toward the new wife, who sat in horrified condemnation, with two fiery
spots upon her outraged cheeks.
"Jemima!" thundered her father in his angriest tone.
But the little girl turned upon him furiously.
"My name is not Jemima!" she screamed. "I will not let you call me so.
My name is Dawn. My mother called me Dawn. I will not answer when you
call me Jemima."
"Jemima, you may go to your room!" commanded the father, standing up,
white to the lips, to face a will no whit less adamant than his own.
"I will not go until you call me Dawn," she answered, her face turning
white and stern, with sudden singular likeness to her father on its soft
round outlines.
She stood her ground until carried struggling upstairs and locked into
her own room.
Gradually she had cried her fury out, and succumbed to the inevitable,
creeping back as seldom as possible into the life of the house, and
spending the time with her own brooding thoughts and sad plays, far in
the depths of the box-boarded garden, or shut into the quiet of her own
room.
To the new mother she never spoke unless she had to, and never called
her Mother, though there were many struggles to compel her to do so.
She never came when they called her Jemima, nor obeyed a command
prefaced by that name, though she endured in consequence many a whipping
and many a day in bed, fed on bread and water.
"What is the meaning of this strange whim?" demanded the new wife, with
| 583.403602 |
2023-11-16 18:26:47.4823500 | 5,607 | 9 |
Produced by D. R. Thompson
LECTURES ON EVOLUTION
ESSAY #3 FROM "SCIENCE AND HEBREW TRADITION"
By Thomas Henry Huxley
I. THE THREE HYPOTHESES RESPECTING THE HISTORY OF NATURE
We live in and form part of a system of things of immense diversity
and perplexity, which we call Nature; and it is a matter of the deepest
interest to all of us that we should form just conceptions of the
constitution of that system and of its past history. With relation to
this universe, man is, in extent, little more than a mathematical point;
in duration but a fleeting shadow; he is a mere reed shaken in the winds
of force. But as Pascal long ago remarked, although a mere reed, he is
a thinking reed; and in virtue of that wonderful capacity of thought,
he has the power of framing for himself a symbolic conception of the
universe, which, although doubtless highly imperfect and inadequate as
a picture of the great whole, is yet sufficient to serve him as a chart
for the guidance of his practical affairs. It has taken long ages of
toilsome and often fruitless labour to enable man to look steadily at
the shifting scenes of the phantasmagoria of Nature, to notice what is
fixed among her fluctuations, and what is regular among her apparent
irregularities; and it is only comparatively lately, within the last few
centuries, that the conception of a universal order and of a definite
course of things, which we term the course of Nature, has emerged.
But, once originated, the conception of the constancy of the order of
Nature has become the dominant idea of modern thought. To any person who
is familiar with the facts upon which that conception is based, and
is competent to estimate their significance, it has ceased to be
conceivable that chance should have any place in the universe, or that
events should depend upon any but the natural sequence of cause and
effect. We have come to look upon the present as the child of the past
and as the parent of the future; and, as we have excluded chance from a
place in the universe, so we ignore, even as a possibility, the notion
of any interference with the order of Nature. Whatever may be men's
speculative doctrines, it is quite certain that every intelligent person
guides his life and risks his fortune upon the belief that the order of
Nature is constant, and that the chain of natural causation is never
broken.
In fact, no belief which we entertain has so complete a logical basis as
that to which I have just referred. It tacitly underlies every process
of reasoning; it is the foundation of every act of the will. It is based
upon the broadest induction, and it is verified by the most constant,
regular, and universal of deductive processes. But we must recollect
that any human belief, however broad its basis, however defensible it
may seem, is, after all, only a probable belief, and that our widest and
safest generalisations are simply statements of the highest degree of
probability. Though we are quite clear about the constancy of the order
of Nature, at the present time, and in the present state of things, it
by no means necessarily follows that we are justified in expanding this
generalisation into the infinite past, and in denying, absolutely, that
there may have been a time when Nature did not follow a fixed order,
when the relations of cause and effect were not definite, and when
extra-natural agencies interfered with the general course of Nature.
Cautious men will allow that a universe so different from that which we
know may have existed; just as a very candid thinker may admit that a
world in which two and two do not make four, and in which two straight
lines do inclose a space, may exist. But the same caution which forces
the admission of such possibilities demands a great deal of evidence
before it recognises them to be anything more substantial. And when
it is asserted that, so many thousand years ago, events occurred in a
manner utterly foreign to and inconsistent with the existing laws of
Nature, men, who without being particularly cautious, are simply honest
thinkers, unwilling to deceive themselves or delude others, ask for
trustworthy evidence of the fact.
Did things so happen or did they not? This is a historical question, and
one the answer to which must be sought in the same way as the solution
of any other historical problem.
So far as I know, there are only three hypotheses which ever have been
entertained, or which well can be entertained, respecting the past
history of Nature. I will, in the first place, state the hypotheses,
and then I will consider what evidence bearing upon them is in our
possession, and by what light of criticism that evidence is to be
interpreted.
Upon the first hypothesis, the assumption is, that phenomena of Nature
similar to those exhibited by the present world have always existed; in
other words, that the universe has existed, from all eternity, in what
may be broadly termed its present condition.
The second hypothesis is that the present state of things has had only
a limited duration; and that, at some period in the past, a condition
of the world, essentially similar to that which we now know, came into
existence, without any precedent condition from which it could have
naturally proceeded. The assumption that successive states of Nature
have arisen, each without any relation of natural causation to an
antecedent state, is a mere modification of this second hypothesis.
The third hypothesis also assumes that the present state of things has
had but a limited duration; but it supposes that this state has been
evolved by a natural process from an antecedent state, and that from
another, and so on; and, on this hypothesis, the attempt to assign any
limit to the series of past changes is, usually, given up.
It is so needful to form clear and distinct notions of what is really
meant by each of these hypotheses that I will ask you to imagine what,
according to each, would have been visible to a spectator of the events
which constitute the history of the earth. On the first hypothesis,
however far back in time that spectator might be placed, he would see
a world essentially, though perhaps not in all its details, similar to
that which now exists. The animals which existed would be the ancestors
of those which now live, and similar to them; the plants, in like
manner, would be such as we know; and the mountains, plains, and waters
would foreshadow the salient features of our present land and water.
This view was held more or less distinctly, sometimes combined with
the notion of recurrent cycles of change, in ancient times; and its
influence has been felt down to the present day. It is worthy of remark
that it is a hypothesis which is not inconsistent with the doctrine of
Uniformitarianism, with which geologists are familiar. That doctrine was
held by Hutton, and in his earlier days by Lyell. Hutton was struck by
the demonstration of astronomers that the perturbations of the planetary
bodies, however great they may be, yet sooner or later right themselves;
and that the solar system possesses a self-adjusting power by which
these aberrations are all brought back to a mean condition. Hutton
imagined that the like might be true of terrestrial changes; although no
one recognised more clearly than he the fact that the dry land is being
constantly washed down by rain and rivers and deposited in the sea; and
that thus, in a longer or shorter time, the inequalities of the earth's
surface must be levelled, and its high lands brought down to the ocean.
But, taking into account the internal forces of the earth, which,
upheaving the sea-bottom give rise to new land, he thought that these
operations of degradation and elevation might compensate each other; and
that thus, for any assignable time, the general features of our planet
might remain what they are. And inasmuch as, under these circumstances,
there need be no limit to the propagation of animals and plants, it is
clear that the consistent working out of the uniformitarian idea might
lead to the conception of the eternity of the world. Not that I mean
to say that either Hutton or Lyell held this conception--assuredly
not; they would have been the first to repudiate it. Nevertheless, the
logical development of some of their arguments tends directly towards
this hypothesis.
The second hypothesis supposes that the present order of things, at some
no very remote time, had a sudden origin, and that the world, such as
it now is, had chaos for its phenomenal antecedent. That is the doctrine
which you will find stated most fully and clearly in the immortal poem
of John Milton--the English _Divina Commedia--_ "Paradise Lost." I
believe it is largely to the influence of that remarkable work, combined
with the daily teachings to which we have all listened in our childhood,
that this hypothesis owes its general wide diffusion as one of the
current beliefs of English-speaking people. If you turn to the seventh
book of "Paradise Lost," you will find there stated the hypothesis to
which I refer, which is briefly this: That this visible universe of ours
came into existence at no great distance of time from the present;
and that the parts of which it is composed made their appearance, in
a certain definite order, in the space of six natural days, in such a
manner that, on the first of these days, light appeared; that, on the
second, the firmament, or sky, separated the waters above, from the
waters beneath the firmament; that, on the third day, the waters drew
away from the dry land, and upon it a varied vegetable life, similar
to that which now exists, made its appearance; that the fourth day was
signalised by the apparition of the sun, the stars, the moon, and the
planets; that, on the fifth day, aquatic animals originated within the
waters; that, on the sixth day, the earth gave rise to our four-footed
terrestrial creatures, and to all varieties of terrestrial animals
except birds, which had appeared on the preceding day; and, finally,
that man appeared upon the earth, and the emergence of the universe from
chaos was finished. Milton tells us, without the least ambiguity, what a
spectator of these marvellous occurrences would have witnessed. I doubt
not that his poem is familiar to all of you, but I should like to recall
one passage to your minds, in order that I may be justified in what I
have said regarding the perfectly concrete, definite, picture of the
origin of the animal world which Milton draws. He says:--
"The sixth, and of creation last, arose
With evening harp and matin, when God said,
'Let the earth bring forth soul living in her kind,
Cattle and creeping things, and beast of the earth.
Each in their kind!' The earth obeyed, and, straight
Opening her fertile womb, teemed at a birth
Innumerous living creatures, perfect forms,
Limbed and full-grown. Out of the ground uprose,
As from his lair, the wild beast, where he wons
In forest wild, in thicket, brake, or den;
Among the trees in pairs they rose, they walked;
The cattle in the fields and meadows green;
Those rare and solitary; these in flocks
Pasturing at once, and in broad herds upsprung.
The grassy clods now calved; now half appears
The tawny lion, pawing to get free
His hinder parts--then springs, as broke from bonds,
And rampant shakes his brinded mane; the ounce,
The libbard, and the tiger, as the mole
Rising, the crumbled earth above them threw
In hillocks; the swift stag from underground
Bore up his branching head; scarce from his mould
Behemoth, biggest born of earth, upheaved
His vastness; fleeced the flocks and bleating rose
As plants; ambiguous between sea and land,
The river-horse and scaly crocodile.
At once came forth whatever creeps the ground,
Insect or worm."
There is no doubt as to the meaning of this statement, nor as to what a
man of Milton's genius expected would have been actually visible to an
eye-witness of this mode of origination of living things.
The third hypothesis, or the hypothesis of evolution, supposes that,
at any comparatively late period of past time, our imaginary spectator
would meet with a state of things very similar to that which now
obtains; but that the likeness of the past to the present would
gradually become less and less, in proportion to the remoteness of
his period of observation from the present day; that the existing
distribution of mountains and plains, of rivers and seas, would show
itself to be the product of a slow process of natural change operating
upon more and more widely different antecedent conditions of the mineral
frame-work of the earth; until, at length, in place of that frame-work,
he would behold only a vast nebulous mass, representing the constituents
of the sun and of the planetary bodies. Preceding the forms of life
which now exist, our observer would see animals and plants, not
identical with them, but like them, increasing their differences with
their antiquity and, at the same time, becoming simpler and simpler;
until, finally, the world of life would present nothing but that
undifferentiated protoplasmic matter which, so far as our present
knowledge goes, is the common foundation of all vital activity.
The hypothesis of evolution supposes that in all this vast progression
there would be no breach of continuity, no point at which we could say
"This is a natural process," and "This is not a natural process;"
but that the whole might be compared to that wonderful operation of
development which may be seen going on every day under our eyes, in
virtue of which there arises, out of the semi-fluid comparatively
homogeneous substance which we call an egg, the complicated organisation
of one of the higher animals. That, in a few words, is what is meant by
the hypothesis of evolution.
I have already suggested that, in dealing with these three hypotheses,
in endeavouring to form a judgment as to which of them is the more
worthy of belief, or whether none is worthy of belief--in which case
our condition of mind should be that suspension of judgment which is so
difficult to all but trained intellects--we should be indifferent to
all _a priori_ considerations. The question is a question of historical
fact. The universe has come into existence somehow or other, and the
problem is, whether it came into existence in one fashion, or whether
it came into existence in another; and, as an essential preliminary to
further discussion, permit me to say two or three words as to the nature
and the kinds of historical evidence.
The evidence as to the occurrence of any event in past time may be
ranged under two heads which, for convenience' sake, I will speak of
as testimonial evidence and as circumstantial evidence. By testimonial
evidence I mean human testimony; and by circumstantial evidence I mean
evidence which is not human testimony. Let me illustrate by a familiar
example what I understand by these two kinds of evidence, and what is to
be said respecting their value.
Suppose that a man tells you that he saw a person strike another and
kill him; that is testimonial evidence of the fact of murder. But it is
possible to have circumstantial evidence of the fact of murder; that
is to say, you may find a man dying with a wound upon his head having
exactly the form and character of the wound which is made by an axe,
and, with due care in taking surrounding circumstances into account, you
may conclude with the utmost certainty that the man has been murdered;
that his death is the consequence of a blow inflicted by another man
with that implement. We are very much in the habit of considering
circumstantial evidence as of less value than testimonial evidence,
and it may be that, where the circumstances are not perfectly clear and
intelligible, it is a dangerous and unsafe kind of evidence; but it
must not be forgotten that, in many cases, circumstantial is quite as
conclusive as testimonial evidence, and that, not unfrequently, it is
a great deal weightier than testimonial evidence. For example, take the
case to which I referred just now. The circumstantial evidence may be
better and more convincing than the testimonial evidence; for it may be
impossible, under the conditions that I have defined, to suppose that
the man met his death from any cause but the violent blow of an axe
wielded by another man. The circumstantial evidence in favour of a
murder having been committed, in that case, is as complete and as
convincing as evidence can be. It is evidence which is open to no doubt
and to no falsification. But the testimony of a witness is open to
multitudinous doubts. He may have been mistaken. He may have been
actuated by malice. It has constantly happened that even an accurate man
has declared that a thing has happened in this, that, or the other way,
when a careful analysis of the circumstantial evidence has shown that it
did not happen in that way, but in some other way.
We may now consider the evidence in favour of or against the three
hypotheses. Let me first direct your attention to what is to be said
about the hypothesis of the eternity of the state of things in which we
now live. What will first strike you is, that it is a hypothesis which,
whether true or false, is not capable of verification by any evidence.
For, in order to obtain either circumstantial or testimonial evidence
sufficient to prove the eternity of duration of the present state
of nature, you must have an eternity of witnesses or an infinity
of circumstances, and neither of these is attainable. It is utterly
impossible that such evidence should be carried beyond a certain point
of time; and all that could be said, at most, would be, that so far
as the evidence could be traced, there was nothing to contradict the
hypothesis. But when you look, not to the testimonial evidence--which,
considering the relative insignificance of the antiquity of human
records, might not be good for much in this case--but to the
circumstantial evidence, then you find that this hypothesis is
absolutely incompatible with such evidence as we have; which is of so
plain and so simple a character that it is impossible in any way to
escape from the conclusions which it forces upon us.
You are, doubtless, all aware that the outer substance of the earth,
which alone is accessible to direct observation, is not of a homogeneous
character, but that it is made up of a number of layers or strata, the
titles of the principal groups of which are placed upon the accompanying
diagram. Each of these groups represents a number of beds of sand, of
stone, of clay, of slate, and of various other materials.
On careful examination, it is found that the materials of which each of
these layers of more or less hard rock are composed are, for the most
part, of the same nature as those which are at present being formed
under known conditions on the surface of the earth. For example, the
chalk, which constitutes a great part of the Cretaceous formation in
some parts of the world, is practically identical in its physical and
chemical characters with a substance which is now being formed at the
bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, and covers an enormous area; other beds
of rock are comparable with the sands which are being formed upon
sea-shores, packed together, and so on. Thus, omitting rocks of igneous
origin, it is demonstrable that all these beds of stone, of which a
total of not less than seventy thousand feet is known, have been formed
by natural agencies, either out of the waste and washing of the dry
land, or else by the accumulation of the exuviae of plants and animals.
Many of these strata are full of such exuviae--the so-called "fossils."
Remains of thousands of species of animals and plants, as perfectly
recognisable as those of existing forms of life which you meet with in
museums, or as the shells which you pick up upon the sea-beach, have
been imbedded in the ancient sands, or muds, or limestones, just as they
are being imbedded now, in sandy, or clayey, or calcareous subaqueous
deposits. They furnish us with a record, the general nature of which
cannot be misinterpreted, of the kinds of things that have lived upon
the surface of the earth during the time that is registered by this
great thickness of stratified rocks. But even a superficial study of
these fossils shows us that the animals and plants which live at the
present time have had only a temporary duration; for the remains of
such modern forms of life are met with, for the most part, only in the
uppermost or latest tertiaries, and their number rapidly diminishes in
the lower deposits of that epoch. In the older tertiaries, the places
of existing animals and plants are taken by other forms, as numerous and
diversified as those which live now in the same localities, but more or
less different from them; in the mesozoic rocks, these are replaced
by others yet more divergent from modern types; and, in the paleozoic
formations, the contrast is still more marked. Thus the circumstantial
evidence absolutely negatives the conception of the eternity of the
present condition of things. We can say, with certainty, that the
present condition of things has existed for a comparatively short
period; and that, so far as animal and vegetable nature are concerned,
it has been preceded by a different condition. We can pursue this
evidence until we reach the lowest of the stratified rocks, in which we
lose the indications of life altogether. The hypothesis of the eternity
of the present state of nature may therefore be put out of court.
Fig. 1.--Ideal Section of the Crust of the Earth.
We now come to what I will term Milton's hypothesis--the hypothesis that
the present condition of things has endured for a comparatively short
time; and, at the commencement of that time, came into existence within
the course of six days. I doubt not that it may have excited some
surprise in your minds that I should have spoken of this as Milton's
hypothesis, rather than that I should have chosen the terms which are
more customary, such as "the doctrine of creation," or "the Biblical
doctrine," or "the doctrine of Moses," all of which denominations, as
applied to the hypothesis to which I have just referred, are certainly
much more familiar to you than the title of the Miltonic hypothesis. But
I have had what I cannot but think are very weighty reasons for taking
the course which I have pursued. In the first place, I have discarded
the title of the "doctrine of creation," because my present business is
not with the question why the objects which constitute Nature came into
existence, but when they came into existence, and in what order. This
is as strictly a historical question as the question when the Angles
and the Jutes invaded England, and whether they preceded or followed the
Romans. But the question about creation is a philosophical problem,
and one which cannot be solved, or even approached, by the historical
method. What we want to learn is, whether the facts, so far as they are
known, afford evidence that things arose in the way described by Milton,
or whether they do not; and, when that question is settled it will be
time enough to inquire into the causes of their origination.
In the second place, I have not spoken of this doctrine as the Biblical
doctrine. It is quite true that persons as diverse in their general
views as Milton the Protestant and the celebrated Jesuit Father Suarez,
each put upon the first chapter of Genesis the interpretation embodied
in Milton's poem. It is quite true that this interpretation is that
which has been instilled into every one of us in our childhood; but I
do not for one moment venture to say that it can properly be called the
Biblical doctrine. It is not my business, and does not lie within my
competency, to say what the Hebrew text does, and what it does not
signify; moreover, were I to affirm that this is the Biblical doctrine,
I should be met by the authority of many eminent scholars, to say
nothing of men of science, who, at various times, have absolutely denied
that any such doctrine is to be found in Genesis. If we are to listen to
many expositors of no mean authority, we must believe that what seems so
clearly defined in Genesis--as if very great pains had been taken that
there should be no possibility of mistake--is not the meaning of the
text at all. The account is divided into periods that we may make just
as long or as short as convenience requires. We are also to understand
that it is consistent with the original text to believe that the most
complex plants and animals may have been evolved by natural processes,
lasting for millions of years, out of structureless rudiments. A
person who is not a Hebrew scholar can only stand aside and admire
the marvellous flexibility of a language which admits of such diverse
interpretations. But assuredly, in the face of such contradictions of
authority upon matters respecting which he is incompetent to form any
judgment, he will abstain, as I do, from giving any opinion.
In the third place, I have carefully abstained from speaking of this as
the Mosaic doctrine | 583.50239 |
2023-11-16 18:26:47.5853490 | 6,699 | 10 |
Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
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OLD BROADBRIM WEEKLY
(MORE READING MATTER THAN ANY
FIVE CENT DETECTIVE LIBRARY PUBLISHED)
FIVE CENTS
OLD BROADBRIM
No =32=
INTO THE HEART
OF AUSTRALIA
[Illustration: The ringleader of the brigands issued the order to
riddle the prisoner, but at the same time the detective's rifle spoke,
and the form of the captain of the robbers reeled and tumbled in a heap
a few feet away from his intended victim.]
[Illustration: OLD BROADBRIM WEEKLY]
_Issued Weekly. By Subscription $2.50 per year. Application has been
made as Second Class Matter at the N. Y. Post Office, by_ STREET &
SMITH, _238 William St., N. Y. Entered according to Act of Congress in
the year 1903, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington,
D. C._
No. 32. NEW YORK, May 9, 1903. =Price Five Cents.=
Old Broadbrim Into the Heart of Australia;
OR,
A STRANGE BARGAIN AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
By the author of "OLD BROADBRIM."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. OLD BROADBRIM'S STRANGE BARGAIN.
CHAPTER II. THE MIDNIGHT MURDER.
CHAPTER III. THE CLEW AND THE TALISMAN.
CHAPTER IV. THE LONDON TRAIL.
CHAPTER V. IN THE WAKE OF A MYSTERY.
CHAPTER VI. SPOTTED IN AUSTRALIA.
CHAPTER VII. THE TERRIBLE DEATH-TRAP.
CHAPTER VIII. DEMONA, THE RANCH QUEEN.
CHAPTER IX. OLD BROADBRIM ONCE MORE.
CHAPTER X. A TERRIBLE MOMENT.
CHAPTER XI. THE FACE IN THE HAY.
CHAPTER XII. OLD BROADBRIM AND THE FAIR AVENGER.
CHAPTER XIII. BLACK GEORGE'S WARNING.
CHAPTER XIV. THE TEST UNDER THE STARS.
CHAPTER XV. OLD BROADBRIM MAKES A BARGAIN AGAIN.
CHAPTER XVI. THE DOOM OF WATERS.
CHAPTER XVII. OLD BROADBRIM'S CATCH IN PERTH.
CHAPTER XVIII. BELLE DEMONA'S MATCH.
CHAPTER XIX. OLD BROADBRIM TIGHTENS THE COIL.
CHAPTER XX. BACK TO THE DEATH-TRAP.
CHAPTER XXI. THE ESCAPE OF THE DOOMED.
CHAPTER XXII. OLD BROADBRIM'S DESPERATE HAND.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE WOMAN WITH THE REVOLVER.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE QUAKER'S TRUMPS WIN.
CHAPTER I.
OLD BROADBRIM'S STRANGE BARGAIN.
The 12th of April, 189--, as Old Broadbrim, the famous Quaker
detective, will ever remember, fell on a Thursday.
Just after the noon hour on that day he received a letter asking him to
come to one of the most elegant private residences on Fifth Avenue.
He was sure no crime had been committed, and he was puzzled to guess
just what the invitation meant.
The owner of the mansion was Custer Kipp, one of the richest and
best-known dwellers on the avenue, a man who counted his wealth almost
by the tens of millions, so it was said at least, and the detective had
seen him often on the street and in his elegant turnout in the parks.
Old Broadbrim answered the letter in person, as was his wont.
He reached the door of the mansion, and his ring was answered
immediately, as if he was expected, and a servant conducted him into
the library.
In an armchair at the mahogany desk sat the millionaire.
Custer Kipp was a man of sixty-three, a tall, slim, but handsome,
person, and withal a person who was approachable to a fault.
He was a widower at the time, and his only child was a son named Foster.
This young man was not in at the time of the detective's call, and the
only other person in the house who belonged to the household was the
nabob's ward, Miss Nora Doon, a young lady just quitting her teens and
the pet of the mansion.
Custer Kipp smiled drearily when the figure of the Quaker crossed the
threshold, and invited him to a seat near the desk.
"I am glad you came," said he. "I sent word to my friend, the
inspector, to send me one of his best men, and I am rejoiced that he
saw fit to send you, of whom I have heard."
Old Broadbrim bowed and waited.
"My case is a peculiar one, and, perhaps, a little out of the line of
your business. Do you ever play the part of Cerberus, Mr. Broadbrim?"
"Not very often."
"I thought not," smiled the millionaire. "I have no crime for you to
unravel, but if things are permitted to drift as they are going just
now, you will have a first-class mystery on your hands ere long."
"You do not want me to wait, I see," said Old Broadbrim.
"That is it exactly. I don't care to wait to be foully murdered."
"I would think not. It isn't a very pleasant prospect, but perhaps it
is not as bad as you suppose."
"It is very bad. I am in the shadow of death, but I don't care to go
into details just now. I want you to guard my person for one year, and
if at the end of that time I am still in the land of the living, why,
your work ceases."
"It's a strange commission," replied the detective.
"I thought you would call it such. I am to be guarded against an enemy
insidious and merciless. I am on the 'black list.'"
"On the black list, eh?"
"Exactly," and the rich man turned a shade paler. "I will give you
twenty-five thousand dollars if you guard me for one year. You will not
be required to make your home under my roof--I could not ask that--but
you will be asked to take care of my foe if he should prove too
aggressive."
"But, sir, to be able to do that I shall have to know something about
this enemy."
"Just so. You don't know him now--have never seen him, perhaps,
although you may have passed him fifty times on the street within the
last six months since he landed in this city."
"Oh, he's a foreigner, is he?"
"I can't say that he is, though he has passed some years under a
foreign sky. This man is not alone in his dark work; he has a
confederate, a person whose beauty years ago nearly proved my ruin."
Old Broadbrim did not speak.
Already the traditional woman had entered the case.
"For one year, Mr. Broadbrim," continued Custer Kipp, coming back to
the original proposition. "Is it a bargain?"
The detective sat silent and rigid for a few seconds.
Never before had a proposition of that sort been made to him.
It would take him from cases that might spring up to demand his
attention.
After all, the man before him might have no enemy at all, and the
time spent in watching him might prove lost time, though twenty-five
thousand dollars would be his at the end of the year.
"If you accept, remember that for one year you belong to me, will be
subject to my commands, will have to go whither I send you, and you
will not be permitted to follow your calling beyond them."
"It binds one rather close," said Old Broadbrim.
"I want a man who will belong to me. He must devote his whole time to
keeping the hand of death away from me, and----"
Custer Kipp leaned forward and opened the desk.
Running his hand into it, he pulled out a package and untied it before
the detective's eyes.
"This is a picture of the man as he looked twenty years ago," he said,
throwing a photograph on the desk. "He has changed some, of course, but
he is the same cool-headed demon he was then."
"And the other--the woman?"
The nabob started.
"I have no picture of her save the one I carry in my memory. I haven't
seen her since a fatal night at Monaco."
He laid the picture down and looked squarely at the detective.
"No more now. Will you accept?"
It was a novel and romantic engagement and appealed strongly to the
detective's curiosity.
He thought rapidly for ten seconds, after which he looked into Custer
Kipp's eyes and said:
"I accept."
"A thousand thanks! I feel younger already--I feel that I will yet
escape this vendetta, that I have years of useful life ahead and that I
will die in my house when my time comes. But one word. Not a whisper of
this bargain beyond the walls of my house. Not a word to my children,
for I call Nora my child the same as Foster. It must be our secret, Mr.
Broadbrim."
"It shall be ours."
"That's right. Now, sir, if you will come back to-morrow I will give
you the commission in detail. I will study up all the points you should
know, and then you will see into your task and will know just what you
will be expected to do."
Old Broadbrim, a man of brevity, picked up his hat.
"I will be here," he said. "Thee can trust me," using, as he did at
times, the Quaker formula.
In another moment he had turned his back on the millionaire and was
walking toward the hall.
At the door he glanced over his shoulder and saw the figure of Custer
Kipp bent over the desk, and the face was buried in the arms.
Old Broadbrim closed the door and went away.
Down in his office, in the room in which he had thought out more than
one tangle of crime, he threw himself into his armchair and took up a
cigar.
"What have I done?" he asked himself. "Is the man mad? What is this
invisible fear which almost paralyzes him? Why does he send for me to
watch him for a year when he could fly to the ends of the world, for he
has money to take him anywhere, and thus escape the enemy? But I'll do
my part."
The day deepened, and the shadows of night fell over the city.
Old Broadbrim came forth, and walked a few squares after which he
turned suddenly and rapped at a door belonging to a small house in a
quiet district.
The portal was opened by a man not very young, but wiry and keen-eyed.
"Come in. I've been waiting for you," said this person. "I have a case
for you--one which the police have not yet discovered. It will produce
rich results."
The detective's countenance seemed to drop.
Here it was already.
He began to see how foolish he had been to make a bargain with Custer
Kipp.
"What is it, Clippers?" he asked.
"It's just the sort o' case you've been looking for," was the reply.
"On the next street is a dead man--a man whose life must have gone out
violently yesterday or last night. You don't know him, but I do. Jason
Marrow has been a study and a puzzle to me for three years. We have
met occasionally, but never got on familiar terms. Now he's dead and
is there yet, in his little room, with marks of violence on his throat
and the agony in his glassy eyes. Won't you come with me? I have been
holding the matter for you."
Old Broadbrim said he would at once take a look at the mystery, and
Clippers, his friend, offered to conduct him to the scene of the
tragedy.
The two entered a little house near the mouth of an alley, and Clippers
led the way to a room to the left of the hall.
"He's a mystery--got papers of importance hid in the house, but we'll
find them in course of time," he chattered. "It's going to be a deep
case, just to your liking, Mr. Broadbrim, but you'll untangle it, for
you never fail."
At this moment the pair entered the room and the hand of Clippers
pointed to a couch against the wall.
Old Broadbrim stepped nimbly forward and bent over the bed.
A rigid figure lay upon it, and the first glance told him that death
had been busy there.
"Who is he?" asked the detective.
"It's Jason Marrow. You didn't know him. Precious few people did. The
papers which he has hidden will tell us more and we'll find them. It's
your case, Mr. Broadbrim."
"I can't take it, Clippers."
The other fell back with a cry of amazement.
"You can't take it?" he gasped. "In the name of Heaven, are you mad,
Mr. Broadbrim?"
"I hope not."
"But it's just the sort o' case you like. There's mystery in it. Killed
by some one as yet unknown. Strangled by a hand unseen and dead in his
little den."
"Yes, I know, Clippers, but it's not for me."
"Why not?"
"I'm engaged."
"On something better? On a deeper mystery than the death of Jason
Marrow?"
"I don't know. I only know that I can't take this matter into my hands."
"Well, I'm stumped!" cried Clippers.
"And I'm sorry," answered the great detective. "I'll tell the police.
I'll see that Hargraves or Irwin get the job. That's all I can do. For
one year I belong to--to another master."
There was no reply to this; Clippers showed that he was "stumped."
CHAPTER II.
THE MIDNIGHT MURDER.
"Come!" said Clippers, when he got second wind, "maybe you can get the
other one to release you."
"He won't do that. The bargain's been sealed."
"You're not going to retire?"
"Well, hardly."
"That's good, anyhow. If the other fellows, Hargraves or Irwin, get at
fault you won't refuse to join in the hunt for the murderer of poor
Marrow?"
"I will be free at the end of a year under certain
contingencies--perhaps a good deal sooner."
"Well, I wish it was to-morrow," cried Clippers. "I want you to take
this case; but we'll have to see the others and let Tom or Pappy reap
new fame."
Half an hour later the two detectives named Hargraves and Irwin knew
all there was to know at the time of the death of Jason Marrow.
It was not much, for the slayer had done his work with great secrecy
and had left no clews behind.
The matter was destined to become a mystery to the department, a deep
puzzle to the best men on the force for months.
Old Broadbrim went back to his room after the find in the house near
the mouth of the alley.
"Confound it all! why did I bind myself for a year to play Cerberus for
Custer Kipp?" he mused. "Here's the very sort of case I've been looking
for, but my hands are tied, and I can't get out of the matter unless I
go to his house and absolutely back out of the bargain. In that case I
would lose the twenty-five thousand dollars and---- No, I'll stick!"
For long into the night there was a light in the detective's room, and
he might have been found at the table at work.
It was near midnight when a footstep came to the door and stopped there.
Old Broadbrim heard the noise and waited for the rap.
When it sounded he crossed the room and opened the door.
A young man with a very white face and a figure that trembled a little
stepped forward.
"You're the gentleman, I guess? You're Josiah Broadbrim?"
"I am."
"You are wanted at once at Custer Kipp's home on Fifth Avenue. Miss
Nora sent me and I didn't go in to look at him."
"To look at whom?" asked the detective.
"Why, at Mr. Kipp. He was found dead in the library an hour ago."
The detective started violently and looked at the man in his chair.
"Is it murder?" he asked.
"I can't say. Miss Nora didn't tell me, but from the aspects of the
case I think it's serious."
"I'll come."
The young man arose and hastened from the room.
"Not so soon, I hope?" said the detective to himself. "Can it be that
my espionage ends almost before the bargain is cold? Dead in the
library? It's marvelous."
Old Broadbrim soon appeared at the Kipp door and was admitted.
He found the parlor well filled with strange people, for the most part
neighbors in the upper circles of city life, but here and there was a
representative of the lower classes who had edged their way into the
mansion.
The moment the detective crossed the threshold he was approached by a
young girl, with clear blue eyes and a good carriage, who instantly
addressed him.
"You are Josiah Broadbrim?" she said questioningly. "Yes, you are the
detective whom I sent for?"
Old Broadbrim nodded.
"Then, come with me. He is in the library and I have locked the door."
The detective was conducted from the parlor and the nabob's ward opened
the door of the library.
In another instant she had closed it and they stood in the large
chamber, elegantly furnished, and containing rows of books
magnificently bound, for Custer Kipp had spared no pains with his
tastes.
"There he is," said the girl with lowered voice, as she pointed toward
a figure in the armchair. "No one has touched him, for I forbade it,
and you are the first person to see him dead beside myself and the
person who did the deed."
The detective stepped forward, and the hand of Nora Doon turned the gas
a little higher.
Custer Kipp was leaning back in the chair with his white face turned
toward the ceiling.
The arms hung downward as if they had slipped over the sides of the
seat, and the face showed traces of the death agony.
"I heard but little," said Nora, while the detective looked at the
dead. "I go upstairs early when I am not at the opera or elsewhere. I
remained at home to-night for I had letters to write, and he came home
from a ride about seven.
"I heard him in the library bustling about for an hour while I read
in my room, and then everywhere silence seemed to come down over the
house. When I arose to retire I thought I would look downstairs, as is
my wont, and see if all was snug. As I came down the stairs I peeped
over the transom of the library, as one can do from the head of the
flight, and to my horror I saw him in the position you see him now.
"There was something so unnatural in the pose, something suggestive of
sickness if not death--for I must own that the thought of sudden death
interposed itself--that I bounded to the foot of the stair and opened
the door, which was not locked.
"In another moment I knew all. I saw that he was dead, and, what is
more, I saw that he had been killed. You will notice the dark marks
which linger still at the throat, as if he had been strangled like the
thugs serve their victims. Isn't it terrible? To have him taken away in
this manner, and to-morrow was to be his birthday."
She ceased and glanced at the man in the chair, while a shadow of fear
and inward dread seemed to take possession of her soul.
"I don't know just where Foster is," she went on. "He went away nearly
a week ago, and I never heard papa say where he is. However, he will
see the news in the papers, and will be here in a short time. I told
Simpson, the servant, as soon as I recovered, for I lost all control of
myself under the terrible discovery, and there's no telling how long I
lay in a swoon on the carpet here. As soon as I could I sent him after
you."
"But," smiled Old Broadbrim, "how did you know where to find me?"
"I found your card in the desk. I remember seeing you in the house
to-day, though I knew nothing of the nature of your mission. He has
been in fear of something for some time. I have noticed this, and think
it has not escaped Foster's eye. But we'll know about this when he
returns."
"My card was all you found, miss?"
"Yes; but I'll admit that I did not look thoroughly. The front door was
unlocked when I went thither after the discovery in this room, but----
What is it, Simpson?"
The servant had entered the room and stood near the door with his eyes
riveted upon the young girl.
When she spoke his name he came forward and extended his hand.
"I picked this up in the hall just now. It's a curious bit of paper,
part of a letter."
Nora took the find and glanced at it, then handed it to the Quaker
man-hunter.
Old Broadbrim looked at it, going over to the desk where the droplight
swung.
"Tell the people in the parlor that they can go now, Simpson," said
Nora. "The police will be here in a little while. The detective is
already here."
Old Broadbrim looked up at Nora as Simpson left the room, and his look
drew her toward him.
"Is it anything?" she asked.
The detective still held the bit of paper in his hand.
"It may not be of any use," said he, slightly elevating the paper.
"Some one of the people out there may have dropped it."
The gaze of the young girl fell upon the paper, and Old Broadbrim
continued:
"Did Mr. Kipp ever have any correspondents in Australia?" he asked.
Nora shook her head, but the next instant she lost some color.
"Stay!" she cried. "I remember now that he received a letter some
months ago, which seemed to trouble him a great deal. That letter was
from Australia."
"Do you remember from what particular part, Miss Nora?"
"I do not."
"Could we find it among his effects, think you?"
"I am sure we cannot. Of that I say I am very positive. He destroyed
it."
"That is bad."
"Is that message from that part of the world?"
And the hand of Nora Doon pointed at the paper in the detective's hand.
"It is merely the fragment of a letter. It is little better than an
address. It is---- But you shall see it for yourself."
Old Broadbrim extended the paper, and the girl took it eagerly, but
with some show of fear.
He watched her as she leaned forward and looked at the writing in the
light of the dropjet.
Suddenly the young lady uttered a cry, and then turned upon the
man-hunter with a frightened face absolutely colorless.
"It's from the same part of the world; I remember now!" she exclaimed.
"The postmark on that letter was Perth. The whole thing comes back to
me. The postman brought the letter to the house, and I carried it to
his desk to await his coming home. It the same name--Perth. Where is
it?"
"You mean in what part of Australia, miss?"
"Yes, yes."
"It is in West Australia, and beyond it lie the barren and death lands
of the great island. But what is the name?"
"Merle Macray," spoke Nora, in a whisper. "What a strange name it
is, and don't you see that the handwriting is that of one of my sex?
And the line above the address--just look at it in the light of this
murderous deed. 'Don't let him see sixty-four!' That means that the
command to kill Custer Kipp comes from that far part of the globe. It
makes it all the more terrible."
Old Broadbrim took the paper and put it away.
"Not a word about this, please," he said to the girl.
"I am your secret keeper," she answered. "This matter is in your
hands. When Foster comes home you can tell him about the torn letter
if you wish, but I will not without your authority. The slayer of my
benefactor must be found."
"He shall be."
"Even if the trail leads across the sea?"
"Yes, even if it leads around the world and into the heart of the wild
Australian bush."
In after days Old Broadbrim, the tracker, was to recall his words with
many a thrill.
CHAPTER III.
THE CLEW AND THE TALISMAN.
The death of Custer Kipp, the nabob, startled the whole city.
For some time New York had been in the midst of a carnival of crime,
but this murder capped the climax.
No one thought of the other case, that got into the newspapers at the
same time.
The death of Jason Marrow in his little den near the mouth of the alley
did not take up half the space, and the reporters did not care to
discuss it.
But the life of the millionaire was published; his past was ventilated
so far as the reporters knew it, and they made out that he was one of
the pillars of the metropolis, and there were loud calls for swift and
certain vengeance.
Old Broadbrim was not to be found.
The inspector probably knew what had become of him, for he put
Hargraves and Irwin on the case, and intimated that for once the Quaker
detective would not stand between the pair, nor wrest from them the
laurels to be gained in the Fifth Avenue mystery.
Custer Kipp did not go to the morgue, but Jason Marrow did.
The surgeons went at him in the most approved style, and decided,
after more cutting than was necessary, that the man had died from
strangulation.
The forenoon of the day after the discovery of the murder on the
avenue, Old Broadbrim went back to Clippers' house.
The wiry little man received him with a good deal of excitement, and
immediately took a package of papers from his bosom.
"I found them--the papers which I knew Jason had hid somewhere in the
house," he exclaimed. "It took a long hunt, and I ransacked the whole
place, but here they are."
Old Broadbrim took a seat at the table and began to open the jumbled
papers.
"Where did Jason come from, Clippers?" he asked while he worked.
"I don't know. He would never tell me much about his past, but he had
traveled some. He had been around the world, and at one time lived in
Australia."
Just then something fell out of the package, and Old Broadbrim picked
it up.
It was the counterpart of the photograph Custer Kipp had shown him in
the library--the face of his deadly foe.
How had it come into Jason Marrow's possession?
Where did the occupant of the alley den get hold of it, and what did he
know of the man it represented?
Clippers stood over his friend, the detective, and folded his arms
while Old Broadbrim read the written papers found in the little house.
"It's strange, very strange," muttered the detective. "These may give
me a clew to the other mystery."
"Those documents, eh?"
"The documents and the photograph."
"It's an old affair, the picture, I mean."
"Yes, taken years ago, but the man may wear the same features to some
extent, and by this picture I may know him."
"Who do you think he is, Mr. Broadbrim?"
Old Broadbrim looked up into the face of Clippers.
"Perhaps the man who killed Jason Marrow," he said.
"Then, you are going to take the trail and beat Hargraves and Irwin to
the end of it?"
"I am on another trail," quietly spoke the detective. "I am not going
to bother the boys unless my trail crosses theirs--then I will play out
my hand boldly."
After reading over the papers left behind by Jason Marrow, Old
Broadbrim arose and thrust them into an inner pocket.
His face was as serene as ever, and nothing told that he had found what
might prove a clew.
From Clippers' house he went direct to the offices of the Cunard Line.
It was the day for the sailing of one of that line's boats for
Liverpool, and the detective was soon looking over the list of
passengers.
Suddenly his eye stopped at a name and rested there.
It was a name he had just seen in the papers he had read in Clippers'
house.
"Too late!" said the detective, as he turned away. "A few hours too
late. The murderer is gone. Ere this he is fairly at sea on the deck of
the _Campania_ and I--I am in New York!"
Old Broadbrim quitted the office and got once more into the sunlight.
Taking a cab, he hastened to the offices of the White Star Line, and
entered coolly but anxious.
He inquired at the proper desk when the next steamer of the line sailed
for Liverpool.
"The _Oceanic_ will leave her dock this afternoon."
The face of the detective seemed to flush with rising joy.
On the instant he engaged a cabin and walked out.
"We will see how the chase ends," said he, in undertones. "It may
prove a long one, but, thanks to Jason Marrow's story, I may not be
altogether on the wrong trail."
An hour later he stood once more beneath the roof of the murdered
millionaire.
This time he was met by Foster Kipp, the dead man's son, a young man of
twenty-five, with an open countenance, but eager and determined.
"I heard of this terrible affair in Albany, whither I went on some
business for father. It came sooner than he expected."
"He expected it, then?"
"Yes; once he confided to me that he had an enemy, and said he was
'blacklisted.' I never pressed him for particulars, for he was
reticent, but I firmly believe that the blow which fell last night was
the one he dreaded."
"It was," said the detective. "Your father was killed by a hand in
whose shadow he | 583.605389 |
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Produced by Anne Folland, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
EXPOSITIONS OF HOLY SCRIPTURE
ALEXANDER MACLAREN, D. D., Litt. D.
GENESIS, EXODUS, LEVITICUS AND NUMBERS
EXPOSITIONS OF HOLY SCRIPTURE
ALEXANDER MACLAREN, D. D., Litt. D.
GENESIS
CONTENTS
THE VISION OF CREATION (Genesis i. 26--ii. 3)
HOW SIN CAME IN (Genesis iii. 1-15)
EDEN LOST AND RESTORED (Genesis iii. 24; Revelation xxii. 14)
THE GROWTH AND POWER OF SIN (Genesis iv. 3-16)
WHAT CROUCHES AT THE DOOR (Genesis iv. 7, R.V.)
WITH, BEFORE, AFTER (Genesis v. 22; Genesis xvii. 1; Deuteronomy xiii.
4)
THE COURSE AND CROWN OF A DEVOUT LIFE (Genesis v. 24)
THE SAINT AMONG SINNERS (Genesis vi. 9-22)
'CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN' (Genesis viii. 1-22)
THE SIGN FOR MAN AND THE REMEMBRANCER FOR GOD (Genesis ix. 8-17)
AN EXAMPLE OF FAITH (Genesis xii. 1-9)
ABRAM AND THE LIFE OF FAITH
GOING FORTH (Genesis xii. 5)
COMING IN
THE MAN OF FAITH (Genesis xii. 6, 7)
LIFE IN CANAAN (Genesis xii. 8)
THE IMPORTANCE OF A CHOICE (Genesis xiii. 1-13)
ABBAM THE HEBREW (Genesis xiv. 13)
GOD'S COVENANT WITH ABRAM (Genesis xv. 5-18)
THE WORD THAT SCATTERS FEAR (Genesis xv. 1)
FAITH AND RIGHTEOUSNESS (Genesis xv. 6)
WAITING FAITH REWARDED AND STRENGTHENED BY NEW REVELATIONS (Genesis
xvii. 1-9)
A PETULANT WISH (Genesis xvii. 18)
'BECAUSE OF HIS IMPORTUNITY' (Genesis xviii. l6-33)
THE INTERCOURSE OF GOD AND HIS FRIEND
THE SWIFT DESTROYER (Genesis xix. 15-26)
FAITH TESTED AND CROWNED (Genesis xxii. 1-14)
THE CROWNING TEST AND TRIUMPH OF FAITH
JEHOVAH-JIREH (Genesis xxii. 14)
GUIDANCE IN THE WAY (Genesis xxiv. 27)
THE DEATH OF ABRAHAM (Genesis xxv. 8)
A BAD BARGAIN (Genesis xxv. 27-34)
POTTAGE _versus_ BIRTHRIGHT (Genesis xxv. 34)
THE FIRST APOSTLE OF PEACE AT ANY PRICE (Genesis xxvi. 12-25)
THE HEAVENLY PATHWAY AND THE EARTHLY HEART (Genesis xxviii. 10-22)
MAHANAIM: THE TWO CAMPS (Genesis xxxii. 1, 2)
THE TWOFOLD WRESTLE--GOD'S WITH JACOB AND JACOB'S WITH GOD (Genesis
xxxii. 9-12)
A FORGOTTEN VOW (Genesis xxxv. 1)
THE TRIALS AND VISIONS OF DEVOUT YOUTH (Genesis xxxvii. 1-11)
MAN'S PASSIONS AND GOD'S PURPOSE (Genesis xxxvii. 23-36)
GOODNESS IN A DUNGEON (Genesis xl. 1-15)
JOSEPH, THE PRIME MINISTER (Genesis xli. 38-48)
RECOGNITION AND RECONCILIATION (Genesis xlv. 1-15)
JOSEPH, THE PARDONER AND PRESERVER
GROWTH BY TRANSPLANTING (Genesis xlvii. 1-12)
TWO RETROSPECTS OF ONE LIFE (Genesis xlvii. 9; Genesis xlviii. 15, 16)
'THE HANDS OF THE MIGHTY GOD OF JACOB' (Genesis xlix. 23, 24)
THE SHEPHERD, THE STONE OF ISRAEL (Genesis xlix. 24)
A CALM EVENING, PROMISING A BRIGHT MORNING (Genesis l. 14-26)
JOSEPH'S FAITH (Genesis l. 25)
A COFFIN IN EGYPT (Genesis l. 26)
THE VISION OF CREATION
'And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our
likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of
the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the
cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping
thing that creepeth upon the earth. So God created man
in His own image: in the image of God created He him;
male and female created He them. And God blessed them:
and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and
replenish the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion
over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air,
and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.
And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing
seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every
tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed;
to you it shall be for meat. And to every beast of the
earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing
that creepeth upon the earth, wherein there is life, I
have given every green herb for meat: and it was so. And
God saw every thing that He had made, and, behold, it
was very good. And the evening and the morning were the
sixth day.
'Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all
the host of them. And on the seventh day God ended His
work which He had made; and He rested on the seventh day
from all His work which He had made. And God blessed the
seventh day, and sanctified it; because that in it He
had rested from all His work which God created and made.'
--GENESIS i. 26-ii. 3.
We are not to look to Genesis for a scientific cosmogony, and are not
to be disturbed by physicists' criticisms on it as such. Its purpose is
quite another, and far more important; namely, to imprint deep and
ineffaceable the conviction that the one God created all things. Nor
must it be forgotten that this vision of creation was given to people
ignorant of natural science, and prone to fall back into surrounding
idolatry. The comparison of the creation narratives in Genesis with the
cuneiform tablets, with which they evidently are most closely
connected, has for its most important result the demonstration of the
infinite elevation above their monstrosities and puerilities, of this
solemn, steadfast attribution of the creative act to the one God. Here
we can only draw out in brief the main points which the narrative
brings into prominence.
1. The revelation which it gives is the truth, obscured to all other
men when it was given, that one God 'in the beginning created the
heaven and the earth.' That solemn utterance is the keynote of the
whole. The rest but expands it. It was a challenge and a denial for all
the beliefs of the nations, the truth of which Israel was the champion
and missionary. It swept the heavens and earth clear of the crowd of
gods, and showed the One enthroned above, and operative in, all things.
We can scarcely estimate the grandeur, the emancipating power, the
all-uniting force, of that utterance. It is a worn commonplace to us.
It was a strange, thrilling novelty when it was written at the head of
this narrative. _Then_ it was in sharp opposition to beliefs that have
long been dead to us; but it is still a protest against some living
errors. Physical science has not spoken the final word when it has
shown us how things came to be as they are. There remains the deeper
question, What, or who, originated and guided the processes? And the
only answer is the ancient declaration, 'In the beginning God created
the heaven and the earth.'
2. The record is as emphatic and as unique in its teaching as to the
mode of creation: 'God said... and it was so.' That lifts us above all
the poor childish myths of the nations, some of them disgusting, many
of them absurd, all of them unworthy. There was no other agency than
the putting forth of the divine will. The speech of God is but a symbol
of the flashing forth of His will. To us Christians the antique phrase
suggests a fulness of meaning not inherent in it, for we have learned
to believe that 'all things were made by Him' whose name is 'The Word
of God'; but, apart from that, the representation here is sublime. 'He
spake, and it was done'; that is the sign-manual of Deity.
3. The completeness of creation is emphasised. We note, not only the
recurrent 'and it was so,' which declares the perfect correspondence of
the result with the divine intention, but also the recurring 'God saw
that it was good.' His ideals are always realised. The divine artist
never finds that the embodiment of His thought falls short of His
thought.
'What act is all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshly screen?
But He has no hindrances nor incompletenesses in His creative work, and
the very sabbath rest with which the narrative closes symbolises, not
His need of repose, but His perfect accomplishment of His purpose. God
ceases from His works because 'the works were finished,' and He saw
that all was very good.
4. The progressiveness of the creative process is brought into strong
relief. The work of the first four days is the preparation of the
dwelling-place for the living creatures who are afterwards created to
inhabit it. How far the details of these days' work coincide with the
order as science has made it out, we are not careful to ask here. The
primeval chaos, the separation of the waters above from the waters
beneath, the emergence of the land, the beginning of vegetation there,
the shining out of the sun as the dense mists cleared, all find
confirmation even in modern theories of evolution. But the intention of
the whole is much rather to teach that, though the simple utterance of
the divine will was the agent of creation, the manner of it was not a
sudden calling of the world, as men know it, into being, but majestic,
slow advance by stages, each of which rested on the preceding. To apply
the old distinction between justification and sanctification, creation
was a work, not an act. The Divine Workman, who is always patient,
worked slowly then as He does now. Not at a leap, but by deliberate
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by
Google Books and Oxford University
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page Scan Source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=8_QDAAAAQAAJ.
(provided by Oxford University).
2. Page scans for pages 278-279 were missing. Used scans for
these pages from https://books.google.com/books?id=ZawUAAA
3. The diphthongs ae and oe are represented by [ae] and [oe].
4. Table of Contents added by Transcriber.
Arabella Stuart
[Frontispiece]
THE WORKS
OF
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR,
WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE.
"D'autres auteurs l'ont encore plus avili, (le roman,) en y mêlant les
tableaux dégoutant du vice; et tandis que le premier avantage des
fictions est de rassembler autour de l'homme tout ce qui, dans la
nature, peut lui servir de leçon ou de modèle, on a imaginé qu'on
tirerait une utilité quelconque des peintures odieuses de mauvaises
m[oe]urs; comme si elles pouvaient jamais laisser le c[oe]ur qui les
repousse, dans une situation aussi pure que le c[oe]ur qui les aurait
toujours ignorées. Mais un roman tel qu'on peut le concevoir, tel que
nous en avons quelques modèles, est une des plus belles productions de
l'esprit humain, une des plus influentes sur la morale des individus,
qui doit former ensuite les m[oe]urs publiques."--MADAME DE STAEL.
_Essai sur les Fictions_.
"Poca favilla gran nomma seconda:
Forse diretro a me, con miglior voci
Si pregherà, perché Cirra risponda."
DANTE. _Paradiso_, Canto I.
VOL. XIX.
ARABELLA STUART.
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.
STATIONERS' HALL COURT.
M DCCC XLIX.
ARABELLA STUART:
A Romance
FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
----------
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.
STATIONERS' HALL COURT.
M DCCC XLIX.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
Preface.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
XXXVII.
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
XLI.
XLII.
XLIII.
XLIV.
XLV.
XLVI.
TO REAR-ADMIRAL
SIR GEORGE F. SEYMOUR, C.B. G.C.H.
&c. &c. &c.
-----
MY DEAR SIR,
If the dedication of a work like the present could afford any adequate
expression of high respect and regard, I should feel greater pleasure
than I do in offering you these pages; but such things have become so
common, that, though every one who knows you will understand the
feelings which induce me to present you with this small tribute, yet I
cannot but be aware that it is very little worthy of your acceptance.
You will receive it, however, I know, with the same kindness which you
have frequently displayed towards me, as a mark, however slight, of my
gratitude for the interest you have always shown in myself and my
works, and as a testimony of unfeigned esteem from one, who can fully
appreciate in others higher qualities than he can pretend to himself.
Although I am inclined to believe that the public may judge this one
of the most interesting tales I have written, I can take but little
credit to myself on that account; for all the principal events are so
strictly historical, that little was left to the author but to tell
them as agreeably as he could. The story of the fair and unfortunate
Arabella Stuart is well known to every one at all acquainted with
English history; and has called forth more than one poem of
considerable merit, though, I believe, as yet, has never been made the
foundation of a romance. From that story, as it has been told by
contemporaries, I have had but very little occasion to deviate, merely
supplying a few occasional links to connect it with other events of
the time.
In depicting the characters of the various persons who appear upon the
scene, however, I have had a more difficult task to perform, being
most anxious to represent them as they really were, and not on any
account to distort and caricature them. The rudeness of the age,--the
violent passions that were called into action,--the bold and erratic
disregard which thus reigned of all those principles which have now
been universally recognised for many years, rendered it not easy to
give the appearance of truth and reality to events that did actually
happen, and to personages who have indeed existed; for to the age of
James I. may well be applied the often repeated maxim, that "Truth is
stranger than Fiction."
Difficulties as great, and many others of a different description,
have been overcome in the extraordinary romance called "Ferrers;" but
it is not every one who possesses the powers of vigorous delineation
which have been displayed by the Author of that remarkable work; and I
have been obliged to trust to the reader's knowledge of history, to
justify me in the representation which I have given of characters and
scenes, which might seem overstrained and unnatural, to those who have
been only accustomed to travel over the railroad level of modern
civilization.
The character of James I. himself has been portrayed by Sir Walter
Scott with skill to which I can in no degree pretend--but with a very
lenient hand. He here appears under a more repulsive aspect, as a
cold, brutal, vain, frivolous tyrant. Nevertheless, every act which I
have attributed to him blackens the page of history, with many others,
even more dark and foul, which I have not found necessary to
introduce. Indeed, I would not even add one deed which appeared to me
in the least degree doubtful; for I do believe that we have no right
to charge the memory of the dead with anything that is not absolutely
proved against them. We must remember, that we try them in a court
where they cannot plead, before a jury chosen by ourselves, and
pronounce a sentence against which they can make no appeal: and I
should be as unwilling to add to the load of guilt which weighs down
the reputation of a bad man, as to detract from the high fame and
honour of a great and good one. My conviction, however, is
unalterable, that James I. was at once one of the most cruel tyrants,
and one of the most disgusting men, that ever sat upon a throne.
In the account I have given of Lady Essex, I shall probably be accused
of having drawn an incarnate fiend; but I reply, that I have not done
it. Her character is traced in the same colours by the hand of
History. Fortunately, it so happens that few have ever been like her;
for wickedness is generally a plant of slow growth, and we rarely find
that extreme youth is totally devoid of virtues, though it may be
stained with many vices. Such as I have found her, so have I painted
her; suppressing, indeed, many traits and many actions which were
unfit for the eye of a part, at least, of my readers. Dark as her
character was, however, its introduction into this tale afforded me a
great advantage, by the contrast it presented to that of Arabella
Stuart herself; bringing out the brightness of that sweet lady's mind,
and the gentleness of her heart, in high relief; and I hope and trust,
tending to impress upon the minds of those who peruse these pages, the
excellence of virtue and the deformity of vice.
Upon the character and fate of Sir Thomas Overbury there has always
hung a degree of mystery. I do not know whether these pages may tend
at all to dispel it; but, at all events, I have not written them
without examining minutely into all the facts; and, probably, the
conclusions at which I have arrived are as accurate as those of
others. I must reserve, however, one statement, for which I find no
authority, but which was necessary to the construction of my story,
namely, that which refers to Overbury's proposal of a marriage between
Rochester and the Lady Arabella.
I need not tell one so intimately acquainted with English History as
yourself, that all the other characters here introduced, with one or
two exceptions amongst the inferior personages, are historical; and I
have endeavoured, to the best of my power, to represent them such as
they really were.
Having said thus much, I shall add no more; for, in submitting the
work to you, though I know I shall have an acute judge, yet I shall
have a kind one; and trusting that you will, at all events, derive
some amusement from these pages, I will only further beg you to
believe me,
My dear Sir,
Your most faithful servant,
G. P. R. JAMES.
_The Oaks, near Walmer, Kent_,
1_st December_, 1843.
ARABELLA STUART.
CHAPTER I.
There was a small, old-fashioned, red brick house, situated just upon
the verge of Cambridgeshire, not in the least peculiar in its aspect,
and yet deserving a description. The reader shall know why, before we
have done. As you came along the road from London you descended a
gentle hill, not very long, and yet long enough to form, with an
opposite rise, one of those sweet, calm valleys which are
peculiarly characteristic of the greater part of this country. When
you were at the top of the hill, in looking down over some hedge-rows
and green fields, the first thing your eye lighted upon in the bottom
of the dale was a quick-running stream, which seemed to have a
peculiar art of catching the sunshine wherever it was to be found. Its
course, though almost as rapid as if it had come down from a
mountain,--having had, | 583.634488 |
2023-11-16 18:26:47.6831710 | 5,544 | 12 |
Produced by Ted Garvin, Beth Trapaga and the Distributed Proofreading
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NORMANDY:
THE SCENERY & ROMANCE OF ITS ANCIENT TOWNS:
DEPICTED BY GORDON HOME
Part 3.
CHAPTER VII
Concerning Mont St Michel
So, when their feet were planted on the plain
That broaden'd toward the base of Camelot,
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn
Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount,
That rose between the forest and the field.
At times the summit of the high city flash'd;
At times the spires and turrets half-way down
Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone
Only, that open'd on the field below:
Anon, the whole fair city disappeared.
Tennyson's _Gareth and Lynette_
"The majestic splendour of this gulf, its strategetic importance, have at
all times attracted the attention of warriors." In this quaint fashion
commences the third chapter of a book upon Mont St Michel which is to be
purchased in the little town. We have already had a glimpse of the
splendour of the gulf from Avranches, but there are other aspects of the
rock which are equally impressive. They are missed by all those who,
instead of going by the picturesque and winding coast-road from
Pontaubault, take the straight and dusty _route nationale_ to Pontorson,
and then turn to follow the tramway that has in recent years been extended
along the causeway to the mount itself. If one can manage to make it a
rather late ride along the coast-road just mentioned, many beautiful
distant views of Mont St Michel, backed by sunset lights, will be an ample
reward. Even on a grey and almost featureless evening, when the sea is
leaden-hued, there may, perhaps, appear one of those thin crimson lines
that are the last efforts of the setting sun. This often appears just
behind the grey and dim rock, and the crimson is reflected in a delicate
tinge upon the glistening sands. Tiny rustic villages, with churches humble
and unobtrusive, and prominent calvaries, are passed one after the other.
At times the farmyards seem to have taken the road into their own hands,
for a stone well-head will appear almost in the roadway, and chickens,
pigs, and a litter of straw have to be allowed for by those who ride or
drive along this rural way. When the rock is still some distance off, the
road seems to determine to take a short cut across the sands, but thinking
better of it, it runs along the outer margin of the reclaimed land, and
there is nothing to prevent the sea from flooding over the road at its own
discretion. Once on the broad and solidly constructed causeway, the rock
rapidly gathers in bulk and detail. It has, indeed, as one approaches, an
almost fantastic and fairy-like outline. Then as more and more grows from
the hazy mass, one sees that this remarkable place has a crowded and much
embattled loneliness. Two round towers, sturdy and boldly machicolated,
appear straight ahead, but oddly enough the wall between them has no
opening of any sort, and the stranger is perplexed at the inhospitable
curtain-wall that seems to refuse him admittance to the mediaeval delights
within. It almost heightens the impression that the place belongs
altogether to dreamland, for in that shadowy world all that is most
desirable is so often beyond the reach of the dreamer. It is a very
different impression that one gains if the steam train has been taken, for
its arrival is awaited by a small crowd of vulture-like servants and
porters from the hotels. The little crowd treats the incoming train-load of
tourists as its carrion, and one has no time to notice whether there is a
gateway or not before being swept along the sloping wooden staging that
leads to the only entrance. The simple archway in the outer wall leads into
the Cour de l'Avancee where those two great iron cannons, mentioned in an
earlier chapter, are conspicuous objects. They were captured by the heroic
garrison when the English, in 1433, made their last great effort to obtain
possession of the rock. Beyond these, one passes through the barbican to
the Cour de la Herse, which is largely occupied by the Hotel Poulard Aine.
Then one passes through the Porte du Roi, and enters the town proper. The
narrow little street is flanked by many an old house that has seen most of
the vicissitudes that the little island city has suffered. In fact many of
these shops which are now almost entirely given over to the sale of
mementoes and books of photographs of the island, are individually of great
interest. One of the most ancient in the upper part of the street, is
pointed out as that occupied in the fourteenth century by Tiphane de
Raguenel, the wife of the heroic Bertrand du Guesclin.
It is almost impossible for those who are sensitive in such matters, not to
feel some annoyance at the pleasant but persistent efforts of the vendors
of souvenirs to induce every single visitor to purchase at each separate
shop. To get an opportunity for closely examining the carved oaken beams
and architectural details of the houses, one must make at least some small
purchase at each trinket store in front of which one is inclined to pause.
Perhaps it would even be wise before attempting to look at anything
architectural in this quaintest of old-world streets, to go from one end to
the other, buying something of trifling cost, say a picture postcard, from
each saleswoman. In this way, one might purchase immunity from the
over-solicitous shop-keepers, and have the privilege of being able to
realise the mediaeval character of the place without constant
interruptions.
Nearly every visitor to Mont St Michel considers that this historic gem, in
its wonderful setting of opalescent sand, can be "done" in a few hours.
They think that if they climb up the steps to the museum--a new building
made more conspicuous than it need be by a board bearing the word _Musee_
in enormous letters--if they walk along the ramparts, stare for a moment at
the gateways, and then go round the abbey buildings with one of the small
crowds that the guide pilots through the maze of extraordinary vaulted
passages and chambers, that they have done ample justice to this
world-famous sight. If the rock had only one-half of its historic and
fantastically arranged buildings, it would still deserve considerably more
than this fleeting attention paid to it by such a large proportion of the
tourists. So many of these poor folk come to Mont St Michel quite willing
to learn the reasons for its past greatness, but they do not bring with
them the smallest grains of knowledge. The guides, whose knowledge of
English is limited to such words as "Sirteenth Senchury" (thirteenth
century), give them no clues to the reasons for the existence of any
buildings on the island, and quite a large proportion of visitors go away
without any more knowledge than they could have obtained from the
examination of a good book of photographs.
To really appreciate in any degree the natural charms of Mont St Michel, at
least one night should be spent on the rock. Having debated between the
rival houses of Poularde Aine and Poularde Jeune, and probably decided on
the older branch of the family, perhaps with a view to being able to speak
of their famous omelettes with enthusiasm, one is conducted to one of the
houses or dependences connected with the hotel. If one has selected the
Maison Rouge, it is necessary to make a long climb to one's bedroom. The
long salle a manger, where dinner is served, is in a tall wedge-like
building just outside the Porte du Roi and in the twilight of evening
coffee can be taken on the little tables of the cafe that overflows on to
the pavement of the narrow street. The cafe faces the head-quarters of the
hotel, and is as much a part of it as any of the other buildings which
contain the bedrooms. To the stranger it comes as a surprise to be handed a
Chinese lantern at bedtime, and to be conducted by one of the hotel
servants almost to the top of the tall house just mentioned. Suddenly the
man opens a door and you step out into an oppressive darkness. Here the use
of the Chinese lantern is obvious, for without some artificial light, the
long series of worn stone steps, that must be climbed before reaching the
Maison Rouge, would offer many opportunities for awkward falls. The
bedrooms in this house, when one has finally reached a floor far above the
little street, have a most enviable position. They are all provided with
small balconies where the enormous sweep of sand or glistening ocean,
according to the condition of the tides, is a sight which will drag the
greatest sluggard from his bed at the first hour of dawn. Right away down
below are the hoary old houses of the town, hemmed in by the fortified wall
that surrounds this side of the island. Then stretching away towards the
greeny-blue coast-line is the long line of digue or causeway on which one
may see a distant puff of white smoke, betokening the arrival of the early
train of the morning. The attaches of the rival hotels are already awaiting
the arrival of the early batch of sight-seers. All over the delicately
tinted sands there are constantly moving shadows from the light clouds
forming over the sea, and blowing freshly from the west there comes an
invigorating breeze.
Before even the museum can have a real interest for us, we must go back to
the early times when Mont St Michel was a bare rock; when it was not even
an island, and when the bay of Mont St Michel was covered by the forest of
Scissey.
It seems that the Romans raised a shrine to Jupiter on the rock, which soon
gave to it the name of Mons Jovis, afterwards to be contracted into
Mont-Jou. They had displaced some earlier Druidical or other
sun-worshippers who had carried on their rites at this lonely spot; but the
Roman innovation soon became a thing of the past and the Franks, after
their conversion to Christianity, built on the rock two oratories, one to
St Stephen and the other to St Symphorian. It was then that the name
Mont-Jou was abandoned in favour of Mons-Tumba. The smaller rock, now known
as Tombelaine, was called Tumbella meaning the little tomb, to distinguish
it from the larger rock. It is not known why the two rocks should have been
associated with the word tomb, and it is quite possible that the Tumba may
simply mean a small hill.
In time, hermits came and built their cells on both the rocks and gradually
a small community was formed under the Merovingian Abbey of Mandane.
It was about this time, that is in the sixth century, that a great change
came over the surroundings of the two rocks. Hitherto, they had formed
rocky excrescences at the edge of the low forest-land by which the country
adjoining the sea was covered. Gradually the sea commenced a steady
encroachment. It had been probably in progress even since Roman times, but
its advance became more rapid, and after an earthquake, which occurred in
the year 709, the whole of the forest of Scissey was invaded, and the
remains of the trees were buried under a great layer of sand. There were
several villages in this piece of country, some of whose names have been
preserved, and these suffered complete destruction with the forest. A
thousand years afterwards, following a great storm and a consequent
movement of the sand, a large number of oaks and considerable traces of the
little village St Etienne de Paluel were laid bare. The foundations of
houses, a well, and the font of a church were among the discoveries made.
Just about the time of the innundation, we come to the interesting story of
the holy-minded St Aubert who had been made bishop of Avranches. He could
see the rock as it may be seen to-day, although at that time it was crowned
with no buildings visible at any distance, and the loneliness of the spot
seems to have attracted him to retire thither for prayer and meditation. He
eventually raised upon the rock a small chapel which he dedicated to Michel
the archangel. After this time, all the earlier names disappeared and the
island was always known as Mont St Michel. Replacing the hermits of Mandane
with twelve canons, the establishment grew and became prosperous. That this
was so, must be attributed largely to the astonishing miracles which were
supposed to have taken place in connection with the building of the chapel.
Two great rocks near the top of the mount, which were much in the way of
the builders, were removed and sent thundering down the rocky precipice by
the pressure of a child's foot when all the efforts of the men to induce
the rock to move had been unavailing. The huge rock so displaced is now
crowned by the tiny chapel of St Aubert. The offerings brought by the
numerous pilgrims to Mont St Michel gave the canons sufficient means to
commence the building of an abbey, and the unique position of the rock soon
made it a refuge for the Franks of the western parts of Neustria when the
fierce Norman pirates were harrying the country. In this way the village of
Mont St Michel made its appearance at the foot of the rock. The contact of
the canons with this new population brought some trouble in its wake. The
holy men became contaminated with the world, and Richard, Duke of Normandy,
replaced them by thirty Benedictines brought from Mont-Cassin. These monks
were given the power of electing their own abbot who was invested with the
most entire control over all the affairs of the people who dwelt upon the
rock. This system of popular election seems to have worked admirably, for
in the centuries that followed, the rulers of the community were generally
men of remarkable character and great ideals.
About fifty years before the Conquest of England by Duke William, the abbot
of that time, Hildebert II., commenced work on the prodigious series of
buildings that still crown the rock. His bold scheme of building massive
walls round the highest point, in order to make a lofty platform whereon to
raise a great church, was a work of such magnitude that when he was
gathered to his fathers the foundations were by no means complete. Those
who came after him however, inspired by the great idea, kept up the work of
building with wonderful enthusiasm. Slowly, year by year, the ponderous
walls of the crypts and undercrofts grew in the great space which it was
necessary to fill. Dark, irregularly built chambers, one side formed of the
solid rock and the others composed of the almost equally massive masonry,
grouped themselves round the unequal summit of the mount, until at last,
towards the end of the eleventh century, the building of the nave of the
church was actually in progress. Roger II., the eleventh of the abbots,
commenced the buildings that preceded the extraordinary structure known as
La Merveille. Soon after came Robert de Torigny, a pious man of great
learning, who seems to have worked enthusiastically. He raised two great
towers joined by a porch, the hostelry and infirmary on the south side and
other buildings on the west. Much of this work has unfortunately
disappeared. Torigny's coffin was discovered in 1876 under the north-west
part of the great platform, and one may see a representation of the
architect-abbot in the clever series of life-like models that have been
placed in the museum.
The Bretons having made a destructive attack upon the mount in the early
years of the thirteenth century and caused much damage to the buildings,
Jourdain the abbot of that time planned out "La Merveille," which comprises
three storeys of the most remarkable Gothic halls. At the bottom are the
cellar and almonry, then comes the Salle des Chevaliers and the dormitory,
and above all are the beautiful cloisters and the refectory. Jourdain,
however, only lived to see one storey completed, but his successors carried
on the work and Raoul de Villedieu finished the splendid cloister in 1228.
Up to this time the island was defenceless, but during the abbatiate of
Toustain the ramparts and fortifications were commenced. In 1256 the
buildings known as Belle-Chaise were constructed. They contained the
entrance to the abbey before the chatelet made its appearance. After
Toustain came Pierre le Roy who built a tower behind Belle-Chaise and also
the imposing-looking chatelet which contains the main entrance to the whole
buildings. The fortifications that stood outside this gateway have to some
extent disappeared, but what remain are shown in the accompanying
illustration.
In the early part of the fifteenth century, the choir of the church
collapsed, but peace having been declared with England, soon afterwards
D'Estouteville was able to construct the wonderful foundations composed of
ponderous round columns called the crypt of les Gros-Piliers, and above it
there afterwards appeared the splendid Gothic choir. The flamboyant tracery
of the windows is filled with plain green leaded glass, and the fact that
the recent restoration has left the church absolutely bare of any
ecclesiastical paraphernalia gives one a splendid opportunity of studying
this splendid work of the fifteenth century. The nave of the church has
still to undergo the process of restoration, for at the present time the
fraudulent character of its stone-vaulted roof is laid bare by the most
casual glance, for at the unfinished edge adjoining the choir one may see
the rough lath and plaster which for a long time must have deceived the
visitors who have gazed at the lofty roof. The western end of the building
is an eighteenth century work, although to glance at the great patches of
orange- lichen that spread themselves over so much of the
stone-work, it would be easy to imagine that the work was of very great
antiquity. In earlier times there were some further bays belonging to the
nave beyond the present west front in the space now occupied by an open
platform. There is a fine view from this position, but it is better still
if one climbs the narrow staircase from the choir leading up to the
asphalted walk beneath the flying buttresses.
About the middle of the fourteenth century, Tiphaine de Raguenel, the wife
of Bertrand du Guesclin, that splendid Breton soldier, came from Pontorson
and made her home at Mont St Michel, in order not to be kept as a prisoner
by the English. There are several facts recorded that throw light on the
character of this noble lady, sometimes spoken of as "The Fair Maid of
Dinan." She had come to admire Du Guesclin for his prowess in military
matters, and her feeling towards him having deepened, she had no hesitation
in accepting his offer of marriage. It appears that Du Guesclin after this
most happy event--for from all we are able to discover Tiphaine seems to
have shared his patriotic ideals--was inclined to remain at home rather
than to continue his gallant, though at times almost hopeless struggle
against the English. Although it must have been a matter of great
self-renunciation on her part, Tiphaine felt that it would be much against
her character for her to have any share in keeping her husband away from
the scene of action, and by every means in her power she endeavoured to
re-animate his former enthusiasm. In this her success was complete, and
resuming his great responsibilities in the French army, much greater
success attended him than at any time in the past. Du Guesclin was not a
martyr, but he is as much the most striking figure of the fourteenth
century as Joan of Arc is of the fifteenth.
All through the period of anxiety through which the defenders of the mount
had to pass when the Hundred Years' War was in progress, Mont St Michel was
very largely helped against sudden attacks by the remarkable vigilance of
their great watch-dogs. So valuable for the safety of the Abbey and the
little town were these dogs considered that Louis XI. in 1475 allowed the
annual sum of twenty-four pounds by Tours-weight towards their keep. The
document states that "from the earliest times it has been customary to have
and nourish, at the said place, a certain number of great dogs, which are
tied up by day, and at night brought outside the enclosure to keep watch
till morning." It was during the reign of this same Louis that the military
order of chivalry of St Michael was instituted. The king made three
pilgrimages to the mount and the first chapter of this great order, which
was for a long time looked upon as the most distinguished in France, was
held in the Salle des Chevaliers.
For a long while Tombelaine, which lies so close to Mont St Michel, was in
the occupation of the English, but in the account of the recovery of
Normandy from the English, written by Jacques le Bouvier, King of Arms to
Charles VII., we find that the place surrendered very easily to the French.
We are told that the fortress of Tombelaine was "An exceedingly strong
place and impregnable so long as the persons within it have provisions."
The garrison numbered about a hundred men. They were allowed to go to
Cherbourg where they took ship to England about the same time as the
garrisons from Vire, Avranches, Coutances, and many other strongholds which
were at this time falling like dead leaves. Le Bouvier at the end of his
account of this wonderful break-up of the English fighting force in
Normandy, tells us that the whole of the Duchy of Normandy with all the
cities, towns, and castles was brought into subjection to the King of
France within one year and six days. "A very wonderful thing," he remarks,
"and it plainly appears that our Lord God therein manifested His grace, for
never was so large a country conquered in so short a time, nor with the
loss of so few people, nor with less injury, which is a great merit, honour
and praise to the King of France."
In the early part of the sixteenth century, Mont St Michel seems to have
reached the high-water mark of its glories. After this time a decline
commenced and Cardinal le Veneur reduced the number of monks to enlarge his
own income. This new cardinal was the first of a series not chosen from the
residents on the mount, for after 1523 the system of election among
themselves which had answered so well, was abandoned, and this wealthy
establishment became merely one of the coveted preferments of the Church.
There was no longer that enthusiasm for maintaining and continuing the
architectural achievements of the past, for this new series of
ecclesiastics seemed to look upon their appointment largely as a sponge
which they might squeeze.
In Elizabethan times Mont St Michel once more assumed the character of a
fortress and had to defend itself against the Huguenots when its resources
had been drained by these worldly-minded shepherds, and it is not
surprising to find that the abbey which had withstood all the attacks of
the English during the Hundred Years' War should often fall into the hands
of the protestant armies, although in every case it was re-taken.
A revival of the religious tone of the abbey took place early in the first
quarter of the seventeenth century, when twelve Benedictine monks from St
Maur were installed in the buildings. Pilgrimages once more became the
order of the day, but since the days of Louis XI. part of the sub-structure
of the abbey buildings had been converted into fearful dungeons, and the
day came when the abbey became simply a most remarkable prison. In the time
of Louis XV., a Frenchman named Dubourg--a person who has often been spoken
of as though he had been a victim of his religious convictions, but who
seems to have been really a most reprehensible character--was placed in a
wooden cage in one of the damp and gruesome vaults beneath the abbey.
Dubourg had been arrested for his libellous writings concerning the king
and many important persons in the French court. He existed for a little
over a year in the fearful wooden cage, and just before he died he went
quite mad, being discovered during the next morning half-eaten by rats. A
realistic representation of his ghastly end is given in the museum, but one
must not imagine that the grating filling the semi-circular arch is at all
like the actual spot where the wretched man lay. The cage itself was
composed of bars of wood placed so closely together that Dubourg was not
able to put more than his fingers between them. The space inside was only
about eight feet high and the width was scarcely greater. The cage itself
was placed in a position where moisture dripped on to the miserable
prisoner's body | 583.703211 |
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Produced by WebRover, Peter Vachuska, Chuck Greif and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE ESCULENT FUNGUSES OF ENGLAND.
A TREATISE
ON THE
ESCULENT FUNGUSES
OF
ENGLAND,
CONTAINING
AN ACCOUNT OF THEIR CLASSICAL HISTORY, USES, CHARACTERS,
DEVELOPMENT, STRUCTURE, NUTRITIOUS PROPERTIES,
MODES OF COOKING AND PRESERVING, ETC.
BY
CHARLES DAVID BADHAM, M.D.
EDITED BY FREDERICK CURREY, M.A., F.R.S., F.L.S.
Πολλὰ μὲν ἔσθλά μεμιγμένα πολλὰ δὲ λυγρά.—HOMER.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
LOVELL REEVE & CO., HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1863.
PRINTED BY
JOHN EDWARD TAYLOR, LITTLE QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
My lamented friend Dr. Badham having died since the first publication of
this work, my advice was asked upon the subject of the preparation of a
new edition. It was wished that the text of the work should be altered as
little as possible, and that the price of the book should be materially
lessened. The latter object could not be effected without reducing the
number of the Plates; but it appeared to me that some plates relating to
details of structure might very well be omitted, as well as the figures
of a few Italian species which, although interesting in themselves, are
quite unnecessary in a book on British Esculent Fungi. With the exception
of the omission of the description of these latter species, and the
addition of the description of two other species hereafter referred to,
the alterations in the text are too trifling to require notice. With
regard to the Figures in this edition, most of them are those of the
former plates, somewhat reduced; a few have been taken from the plates of
Mr. Berkeley’s ‘Outlines of British Fungology,’ and a few from original
and other sources.
By a re-arrangement of the whole, the reduction in the number of the
Plates has been effected, and, at the same time, figures of all the Fungi
represented in the first edition have been given, as well as of two other
species not there noticed. I should observe, however, that by a mistake
of the artist an extra figure of the Horse Mushroom has been inserted in
Plate IV. instead of one of the Common Mushroom.
The two species above alluded to which were not figured in the first
edition, are _Tuber æstivum_ and _Helvella esculenta_. The former must
have been inadvertently omitted by Dr. Badham, as it has long been known
as abundant in certain parts of England. _Helvella esculenta_, although
alluded to by Dr. Badham, was not at that time known to be a British
species. It has since been observed near Weybridge in Surrey, where
it occurs almost every spring. The plant figured in Pl. XV. fig. 6 of
the first edition under the name of _Lycoperdon plumbeum_, is not that
species, but _Lycoperdon pyriforme_; it will be found at Pl. VIII. fig.
5. Dr. Badham states that all puff-balls are esculent, but, judging from
the smell of _Lycoperdon pyriforme_, I should much doubt whether it would
make an agreeable dish. _Lycoperdon plumbeum_ is now better known as
_Bovista plumbea_, and _Lycoperdon Bovista_ as _Lycoperdon giganteum_.
There is some confusion about the synonymy of the plants described by Dr.
Badham as _Agaricus prunulus_ and _Ag. exquisitus_. It is unnecessary
to discuss the matter here, and I have thought it not desirable under
the circumstances to alter Dr. Badham’s nomenclature. They appear to
be described in Mr. Berkeley’s work as _Ag. gambosus_, Fr., and _Ag.
arvensis_, Schœff.
Dr. Badham’s observations on the spores of Fungi must be read in
connection with the note added by him at the conclusion of the work;
and to those who are interested in that part of the subject I should
recommend the perusal of the seventh chapter of Mr. Berkeley’s ‘Outlines
of British Fungology,’ and Tulasne’s recent work, ‘Selecta Fungorum
Carpologia.’
Mr. Cooke, in his ‘Plain and Easy Account of British Fungi,’ recently
published, mentions some species as esculent which are not noticed in
this work. I have however no experience of their qualities, and must
refer the reader to Mr. Cooke’s book for further information. He mentions
Mr. Berkeley as an authority for considering _Agaricus rubescens_ as
suspicious; but, from long experience, I can vouch for its being not only
wholesome, but, as Dr. Badham says, “a very delicate fungus.”
F. C.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
TO THE RIGHT REVEREND THE LORD BISHOP OF NORWICH.
MY LORD,
I had two reasons for desiring that this humble performance should
appear under the sanction of your Lordship’s name. Nothing could be more
favourable to a Treatise on any department of Natural History, than the
approval of one who has been so eminently successful in his cultivation
of the same field.
But it is with much greater confidence that I dedicate a work, whose
chief object it is to furnish the labouring classes with wholesome
nourishment and profitable occupation, to a high functionary of that
kingdom, which is distinguished from all others by recognizing the claims
and furthering the interests of the poor.
I have the honour to be, my Lord,
With great respect, your Lordship’s
Obliged and humble Servant,
C. D. BADHAM.
CONTENTS.
Page
ETYMOLOGIES 1
THE RANGE OF FUNGUS GROWTHS 7
OF THEIR GENERAL FORMS, COLOURS, AND TEXTURE 10
ODOURS AND TASTES 13
EXPANSIVE POWER OF GROWTH 14
REPRODUCTIVE POWER 16
MOTION 16
PHOSPHORESCENCE 18
DIMENSIONS 18
CHEMICAL COMPOSITION 20
USES 21
MEDICAL USES 25
FUNGUSES CONSIDERED AS AN ARTICLE OF DIET 27
MODES OF DISTINGUISHING 40
CONDITIONS NECESSARY TO THEIR PRODUCTION 47
FAIRY RINGS 52
ON THE GROWTH OF FUNGUSES 53
ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE SPORES, OR QUASI-SEEDS[1] 58
OF THE ANNULUS, THE VELUM, AND THE VOLVA 66
OF THE STALK, AND OF THE PILEUS 68
OF THE GILLS, TUBES, PLAITS, AND SPINES 69
METHODICAL DISTRIBUTION OF BRITISH ESCULENT FUNGUSES 72
DESCRIPTION OF SPECIES:—
_Agaricus acris minor_ 120
_Agaricus alutaceus_ 117
_Agaricus atramentarius_ 111
_Agaricus campestris_ 94
_Agaricus castaneus_ 143
_Agaricus comatus_ 112
_Agaricus deliciosus_ 102
_Agaricus Dryophilus_ 107
_Agaricus emeticus_ 118
_Agaricus exquisitus_ 100
_Agaricus fusipes_ 141
_Agaricus heterophyllus_ 113
_Agaricus melleus_ 139
_Agaricus nebularis_ 108
_Agaricus Orcella_ 129
_Agaricus oreades_ 106
_Agaricus ostreatus_ 121
_Agaricus personatus_ 105
_Agaricus piperatus_ 144
_Agaricus procerus_ 88
_Agaricus prunulus_ 85
_Agaricus ruber_ 115
_Agaricus rubescens_ 123
_Agaricus sanguineus_ 120
_Agaricus semiglobatus_ 108
_Agaricus ulmarius_ 140
_Agaricus vaginatus_ 142
_Agaricus violaceus_ 143
_Agaricus virescens_ 116
_Agaricus virgineus_ 145
_Boletus edulis_ 90
_Boletus luridus_ 104
_Boletus scaber_ 103
_Cantharellus cibarius_ 110
_Clavaria coralloides_ 135
_Fistulina hepatica_ 127
_Helvella crispa_ 130
_Helvella lacunosa_ 131
_Helvella esculenta_ 131
_Hydnum repandum_ 126
_Lycoperdon Bovista_ 138
_Lycoperdon plumbeum_ 136
_Morchella esculenta_ 123
_Morchella semilibera_ 124
_Peziza acetabulum_ 133
_Polyporus frondosus_ 133
_Tuber æstivum_ 145
_Verpa digitaliformis_ 132
CONCLUSION 146
DESCRIPTION OF PLATES.
PLATE I.
Fig. 1. Agaricus prunulus.
” 2. Agaricus personatus.
PLATE II.
Agaricus procerus.
PLATE III.
Fig. 1, 2. Boletus edulis.
” 3, 4. Agaricus heterophyllus.
PLATE IV.
Fig. 1. Polyporus frondosus.
” 2. Agaricus nebularis.
” 3, 4, 5. Agaricus exquisitus.
PLATE V.
Fig. 1. Helvella lacunosa.
” 2. Clavaria amethystina.
” 3. Clavaria coralloides.
” 4. Agaricus deliciosus.
” 5. Clavaria cinerea.
” 6. Clavaria rugosa.
PLATE VI.
Fig. 1, 2. Boletus scaber.
” 3, 4, 5. Boletus luridus.
PLATE VII.
Fig. 1, 2, 3. Agaricus comatus.
” 4. Agaricus oreades.
” 5. Agaricus Dryophilus.
PLATE VIII.
Fig. 1. Cantharellus cibarius.
” 2. Tuber æstivum.
” 3, 4. Hydnum repandum.
” 5. Lycoperdon pyriforme.
PLATE IX.
Fig. 1, 2. Agaricus atramentarius.
” 3. Agaricus melleus.
PLATE X.
Agaricus ostreatus.
PLATE XI.
Fig. 1, 2. Agaricus Orcella.
” 3, 4, 5. Agaricus rubescens.
PLATE XII.
Fig. 1, 2. Fistulina hepatica.
” 3, 4, 5. Helvella esculenta.
” 6. Morchella esculenta.
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
No country is perhaps richer in esculent Funguses than our own; we have
upwards of thirty species abounding in our woods. No markets might
therefore be better supplied than the English, and yet England is the
only country in Europe where this important and savoury food is, from
ignorance or prejudice, left to perish ungathered.
In France, Germany, and Italy, Funguses not only constitute for weeks
together the sole diet of thousands, but the residue, either fresh,
dried, or variously preserved in oil, vinegar, or brine, is sold by the
poor, and forms a valuable source of income to many who have no other
produce to bring into the market. Well, then, may we style them, with
M. Roques, “_the manna of the poor_.” To call attention to an article
of commerce elsewhere so lucrative, with us so wholly neglected, is the
object of the present work, to which the best possible introduction will
be a brief reference to the state of the fungus market abroad.
The following brief summary was drawn up by Professor Sanguinetti, the
Official Inspector (“_Ispettore dei Funghi_”) at Rome; let it speak
for itself:—“For forty days during the autumn, and for about half
that period every spring, large quantities of Funguses, picked in the
immediate vicinity of Rome, from Frascati, Rocca di Papa, Albano, beyond
Monte Mario towards Ostia and the neighbourhood of the sites of Veii
and Gabii, are brought in at the different gates. In the year 1837, the
Government instituted the so-called _Congregazione Speciale di Sanità_,
which, among other duties, was more particularly required to take into
serious consideration the commerce of Funguses, from the unrestricted
sale of which during some years past, cases of poisoning had not
unfrequently occurred. The following decisions were arrived at by this
body:—
“1st. That for the future an ‘Inspector of Funguses,’ versed
in botany, should be appointed to attend the market in place
of the peasant, whose supposed practical knowledge had been
hitherto held as sufficient guarantee for the public safety.
“2nd. That all the Funguses brought into Rome by the different
gates should be registered, under the surveillance of the
principal officer, in whose presence also the baskets were to
be sealed up, and the whole for that day’s consumption sent
under escort to a central depôt.
“3rd. That a certain spot should be fixed upon for the
Fungus market, and that nobody, under penalty of fine and
imprisonment, should hawk them about the streets.
“4th. That at seven o’clock A.M. precisely, the Inspector
should pay his daily visit and examine the whole, the contents
of the baskets being previously emptied on the ground by the
proprietors, who were then to receive, if the Funguses were
approved of, a printed permission of sale from the police, and
to pay for it an impost of one baioccho (a halfpenny) on every
ten pounds.
“5th. That quantities under ten pounds should not be taxed.
“6th. That the stale funguses of the preceding day, as well
as those that were mouldy, bruised, filled with maggots,
or dangerous (_muffi_, _guasti_, _verminosi_, _velenosi_),
together with any specimen of the common mushroom (_Ag.
campestris_) detected in any of the baskets, should be sent
under escort and thrown into the Tiber.
“7th. That the Inspector should be empowered to fine or
imprison all those refractory to the above regulations; and,
finally, that he should furnish a weekly report to the Tribunal
of Provisions (_Il Tribunale delle Grascie_) of the proceeds of
the sale.
“As all fresh Funguses for sale in quantities _exceeding_ ten pounds
are weighed, in order to be taxed, we are enabled to arrive at an exact
estimate of the number of pounds thus disposed of. The return of _taxed_
Mushrooms in the city of Rome during the last ten years, gives a yearly
average of between _sixty and eighty thousand pounds_ weight; and if we
double this amount, as we may safely do, in order to include such smaller
_untaxed_ supplies as are disposed of as bribes, fees, and presents, and
reckon the whole at the rate of six baiocchi, or threepence per pound (a
fair average), this will make the commercial value of fresh Funguses very
apparent, showing it here to be little less than £2000 a year.”
But the fresh Funguses form only a small part of the whole consumption,
to which must be added the dried, the pickled, and the preserved; which
sell at a much higher price than the first.[2] Supposing, however, that
with these additions the supply of all kinds only reached a sum the
double of that given above, even this would furnish us with an annual
average of nearly _four thousand pounds sterling_; and this in a single
city, and that, too, by no means the most populous one in Italy![3]
What, then, must be the net receipts of all the market-places of all the
Italian States? For as in these the proportion of the price of esculent
Funguses to butchers’ meat is as two to three, it is plain that prejudice
has deprived the poor of this country, not only of many thousand pounds
of the former but also of as much of the latter, as might have been
purchased by exchange, and of the countless sums which might have been
earned in gathering them.[4]
ON THE ESCULENT FUNGUSES OF ENGLAND.
“Quos ipsa volentia rura
Sponte tulere sua carpsit.”—_Virgil._
“He culls from woods, and heights, and fields,
Those untaxed boons which nature yields.”
ETYMOLOGIES.
By the word μύκης, ητος or ου, ὁ, whereof the usually received root,
μῦκος (_mucus_), is probably factitious, the Greeks used familiarly to
designate certain, but indefinite species of funguses, which they were
in the habit of employing at table. This term, in its origin at once
trivial and restricted to at most a few varieties, has become in our days
classical and generic; Mycology, its direct derivative, including, in the
language of modern botany, several great sections of plants (many amongst
the number of microscopic minuteness), which have apparently as little to
do with the original import of μύκης as smut, bunt, mould, or dry-rot,
have to do with our table mushrooms. A like indefiniteness formerly
characterized the Latin word _fungus_, though it be now used in as
catholic a sense as that of μύκης | 583.704126 |
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Produced by Dagny; and John Bickers
STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS
ORIENT
CONTENTS:
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING, Rudyard Kipling
TAJIMA, Miss Mitford
A CHINESE GIRL GRADUATE, R. K. Douglas
THE REVENGE OF HER RACE, Mary Beaumont
KING BILLY OF BALLARAT, Morley Roberts
THY HEART'S DESIRE, Netta Syrett
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING, By Rudyard Kipling
Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found
worthy
The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not
easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under
circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the other
was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came
near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King, and was
promised the reversion of a Kingdom--army, law-courts, revenue, and
policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead,
and if I want a crown I must go hunt it for myself.
The beginning of everything was in a railway-train upon the road to Mhow
from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitated
travelling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-Class,
but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions
in the Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermediate,
which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty,
or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not buy
from refreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, and
buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside
water. This is why in hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the
carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.
My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached
Nasirabad, when the big black-browed gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered,
and, following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He
was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated
taste for whisky. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of
out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and
of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food.
"If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than
the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it isn't seventy
millions of revenue the land would be paying--it's seven hundred
millions," said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed
to agree with him.
We talked politics,--the politics of Loaferdom that sees things from
the under side where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off,--and we
talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegram
back from the next station to Ajmir, the turning-off place from the
Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money
beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at
all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was
going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the
Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to
help him in any way.
"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick,"
said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me, and
_I_'ve got my hands full these days. Did you say you were travelling
back along this line within any days?"
"Within ten," I said.
"Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business."
"I can send your telegrams within ten days if that will serve you," I
said.
"I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him, now I think of it. It's this
way. He leaves Delhi on the 23rd for Bombay. That means he'll be running
through Ajmir about the night of the 23rd."
"But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I explained.
"Well _and_ good," said he. "You'll be changing at Marwar Junction to
get into Jodhpore territory,--you must do that,--and he'll be coming
through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the
Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'T won't be
inconveniencing you, because I know that there's precious few pickings
to be got out of these Central India States--even though you pretend to
be correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.'"
"Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked.
"Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get
escorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into them.
But about my friend here. I _must_ give him a word o' mouth to tell him
what's come to me, or else he won't know where to go. I would take it
more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to
catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him, 'He has gone South for the
week.' He'll know what that means. He's a big man with a red beard, and
a great swell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a gentleman with
all his luggage round him in a Second-class apartment. But don't you be
afraid. Slip down the window and say, 'He has gone South for the week,'
and he'll tumble. It's only cutting your time of stay in those parts
by two days. I ask you as a stranger--going to the West," he said, with
emphasis.
"Where have _you_ come from?" said I.
"From the East," said he, "and I am hoping that you will give him the
message on the Square--for the sake of my Mother as well as your own."
Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their
mothers; but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw
fit to agree.
"It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's why I asked
you to do it--and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A
Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep
in it. You'll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station, and I
must hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want."
"I'll give the message if I catch him," I said, "and for the sake of
your Mother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't try
to run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of the
'Backwoodsman.' There's a real one knocking about here, and it might
lead to trouble."
"Thank you," said he, simply; "and when will the swine be gone? I
can't starve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of the
Degumber Rajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a jump."
"What did he do to his father's widow, then?"
"Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung
from a beam. I found that out myself, and I'm the only man that would
dare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They'll try to
poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there.
But you'll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?"
He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard,
more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers and
bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had never
met any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally die
with great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of
English newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods of
government, and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne,
or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not
understand that nobody cares a straw for the internal administration
of Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept within decent
limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end
of the year to the other. They are the dark places of the earth, full
of unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on one
side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the
train I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through
many changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with
Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver.
Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from
a plate made of leaves, and drank the running water, and slept under the
same rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work.
Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I
had promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where
a funny little, happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore.
The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived
just as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform and go
down the carriages. There was only one Second-class on the train.
I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming-red beard, half
covered by a railway-rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him
gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt, and I saw his face in the
light of the lamps. It was a great and shining face.
"Tickets again?" said he.
"No," said I. "I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week. He
has gone South for the week!"
The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. "He
has gone South for the week," he repeated. "Now that's just like his
impidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? 'Cause I won't."
"He didn't," I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights die
out in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing off
the sands. I climbed into my own train--not an Intermediate carriage
this time--and went to sleep.
If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it as
a memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of having
done my duty was my only reward.
Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do any
good if they foregathered and personated correspondents of newspapers,
and might, if they blackmailed one of the little rat-trap States
of Central India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious
difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to describe them as
accurately as I could remember to people who would be interested in
deporting them; and succeeded, so I was later informed, in having them
headed back from the Degumber borders.
Then I became respectable, and returned to an office where there were no
Kings and no incidents outside the daily manufacture of a newspaper. A
newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to
the prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that
the Editor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe a Christian
prize-giving in a back slum of a perfectly inaccessible village;
Colonels who have been overpassed for command sit down and sketch the
outline of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on
Seniority _versus_ Selection; missionaries wish to know why they have
not been permitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse, and
swear at a brother missionary under special patronage of the editorial
We; stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that they cannot
pay for their advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand
or Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent punka-pulling
machines, carriage couplings, and unbreakable swords and axletrees call
with specifications in their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea
companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with the office pens;
secretaries of ball committees clamour to have the glories of their last
dance more fully described; strange ladies rustle in and say, "I want
a hundred lady's cards printed _at once_, please," which is manifestly
part of an Editor's duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever tramped
the Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to ask for employment as a
proof-reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly,
and Kings are being killed on the Continent, and Empires are saying,
"You're another," and Mister Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon
the British Dominions, and the little black copyboys are whining,
"_kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh_" ("Copy wanted"), like tired bees, and most of the
paper is as blank as Modred's shield.
But that is the amusing part of the year. There are six other months
when none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch
up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above
reading-light, and the press-machines are red-hot to touch, and nobody
writes anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or
obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because
it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women that you knew
intimately, and the prickly heat covers you with a garment, and you
sit down and write: "A slight increase of sickness is reported from
the Khuda Janta Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in
its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the District
authorities, is now almost at an end. It is, however, with deep regret
we record the death," etc.
Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and
reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the Empires
and the Kings continue to divert themselves as selfishly as before, and
the Foreman thinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in
twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill-stations in the
middle of their amusements say, "Good gracious! why can't the paper be
sparkling? I'm sure there's plenty going on up here."
That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say, "must
be experienced to be appreciated."
It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper
began running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is to
say Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was a great
convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed the dawn
would lower the thermometer from 96 degrees to almost 84 degrees for
half an hour, and in that chill--you have no idea how cold is 84 degrees
on the grass until you begin to pray for it--a very tired man could get
off to sleep ere the heat roused him.
One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed
alone. A King or courtier or a courtesan or a Community was going to
die or get a new Constitution, or do something that was important on
the other side of the world, and the paper was to be held open till the
latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram.
It was a pitchy-black night, as stifling as a June night can be, and
the _loo_, the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming among the
tinder-dry trees and pretending that the rain was on its heels. Now and
again a spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the
flop of a frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretence. It
was a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I sat there,
while the type ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at the
windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their
foreheads and called for water. The thing that was keeping us back,
whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo dropped and the last
type was set, and the whole round earth stood still in the choking heat,
with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and wondered
whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dying man, or
struggling people, might be aware of the inconvenience the delay was
causing. There was no special reason beyond the heat and worry to make
tension, but, as the clock-hands crept up to three o-clock and the
machines spun their fly-wheels two and three times to see that all was
in order, before I said the word that would set them off, I could have
shrieked aloud.
Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little
bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front
of me. The first one said, "It's him!" The second said, "So it is!" And
they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped
their foreheads. "We seed there was a light burning across the road,
and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my
friend here, 'The office is open. Let's come along and speak to him as
turned us back from Degumber State,'" said the smaller of the two.
He | 583.704178 |
2023-11-16 18:26:47.7814690 | 6,877 | 20 |
Produced by Giovanni Fini, sp1nd 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:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
By Mary Johnston
HAGAR.
THE LONG ROLL. The first of two books dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color by N. C. WYETH.
CEASE FIRING. The second of two books dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color by N. C. WYETH.
LEWIS RAND. With Illustrations in color by F. C. YOHN.
AUDREY. With Illustrations in color by F. C. YOHN.
PRISONERS OF HOPE. With Frontispiece.
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD. With 8 Illustrations by HOWARD PYLE, E. B.
THOMPSON, A. W. BETTS, and EMLEN MCCONNELL.
THE GODDESS OF REASON. _A Drama._
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
[Illustration:
(p. 154)
“GOOD-BYE, MISTRESS FRIENDLY-SOUL!”]
THE WITCH
BY
MARY JOHNSTON
[Illustration: LOGO]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY MARY JOHNSTON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1914_
CONTENTS
I. THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER 1
II. THE CAP AND BELLS 10
III. THE TWO PHYSICIANS 24
IV. THE ROSE TAVERN 37
V. THE ROAD TO HAWTHORN 54
VI. THE MAN WITH THE HAWK 69
VII. JOAN 82
VIII. THE SQUIRE’S BROTHER 97
IX. THE OAK GRANGE 109
X. IN HAWTHORN FOREST 124
XI. THE PLAGUE 136
XII. HERON’S COTTAGE 151
XIII. HAWTHORN CHURCH 165
XIV. NIGHT 176
XV. NEXT DAY 188
XVI. MASTER THOMAS CLEMENT 204
XVII. MOTHER SPURAWAY 218
XVIII. THE GAOL 235
XIX. ADERHOLD AND CARTHEW 246
XX. THE WITCH JUDGE 260
XXI. THE WITCH 272
XXII. ESCAPE 281
XXIII. THE ROAD TO THE PORT 298
XXIV. THE FARTHER ROAD 312
XXV. THE SILVER QUEEN 327
XXVI. THE OPEN BOAT 342
XXVII. THE ISLAND 351
XXVIII. FOUR YEARS 362
XXIX. THE SPANIARDS 376
XXX. THE ISLET 387
XXXI. THE HOUR-GLASS 404
XXXII. A JOURNEY 420
THE WITCH
THE WITCH
CHAPTER I
THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER
IT was said that the Queen was dying. She lay at Richmond, in the
palace looking out upon the wintry, wooded, March-shaken park, but
London, a few miles away, had daily news of how she did. There was
much talk about her--the old Queen—much telling of stories and
harking back. She had had a long reign—“Not far from fifty years, my
masters!”—and in it many important things had happened. The crowd in
the streets, the barge and wherry folk upon the wind-ruffled river,
the roisterers in the taverns drinking ale or sack, merchants and
citizens in general talking of the times in the intervals of business,
old soldiers and seamen ashore, all manner of folk, indeed, agreed
upon the one most important thing. The most important thing had been
the scattering of the Armada fifteen years before. That disposed of,
opinions differed as to the next most important. The old soldiers were
for all fighting wherever it had occurred. The seamen and returned
adventurers threw for the voyages of Drake and Frobisher and Gilbert
and Raleigh. With these were inclined to agree the great merchants
and guild-masters who were venturing in the East India and other
joint-stock companies. The little merchant and guild fellows agreed
with the great. A very large number of all classes claimed for the
overthrow of Popery the first place. On the other hand, a considerable
number either a little hurriedly slurred this, or else somewhat too
anxiously and earnestly supported the assertion. One circle, all
churchmen, lauded the Act of Uniformity, and the pains and penalties
provided alike for Popish recusant and non-conforming Protestant.
Another circle, men of a serious cast of countenance and of a growing
simplicity in dress, left the Act of Uniformity in obscurity, and
after the deliverance from the Pope, made the important happening the
support given the Protestant principle in France and the Netherlands.
A few extreme loyalists put in a claim for the number of conspiracies
unearthed and trampled into nothingness—Scottish conspiracies, Irish
conspiracies, Spanish conspiracies, Westmoreland and Northumberland
conspiracies, Throgmorton conspiracies—the death of the Queen of
Scots, the death, two years ago, of Essex.
All agreed that the Queen had had a stirring reign—all but the latter
end of it. The last few years—despite Irish affairs—had been dull and
settled, a kind of ditch-water stagnation, a kind of going downhill.
Fifty years, almost, was a long time for one person to reign....
On a time the Queen had been an idol and a cynosure—for years
the love of a people had been warm about her. It had been a people
struggling to become a nation, beset with foreign foes and inner
dissensions, battling for a part in new worlds and realms. She had led
the people well, ruled well, come out with them into the Promised Land.
And now there was a very human dissatisfaction with the Promised Land,
for the streams did not run milk and honey nor were the sands golden.
As humanly, the dissatisfaction involved the old Queen. She could not
have been, after all, the Queen that they had thought her.... After
crying for so many years “Long live Queen Elizabeth!” there would come
creeping into mind a desire for novelty. _King James,—King James!_ The
words sounded well, and promised, perhaps, the true Golden Age. But
they were said, of course, under breath. The Queen was not dead yet.
They told strange stories of her—the old Queen; usually in small,
select companies where there were none but safe men. As March roared
on, there was more and more of this story-telling, straws that showed
the way the tide was setting. They were rarely now stories of her
youth, of her courage and fire, of her learning, of the danger in which
she lived when she was only “Madam Elizabeth,” of her imprisonment
in the Tower—nor were they stories of her coronation, and of the
way, through so many long years, she had queened it, of her “mere
Englishness,” her steady courage, her power of work, her councillors,
her wars, and her statecraft. Leaving that plane, they were not so
often either stories of tragic errors, of wrath and jealousy, finesse
and deception, of arbitrary power, of the fret and weakness of the
strong.—But to-day they told stories of her amours, real or pretended.
They repeated what she had said to Leicester and Leicester had said to
her, what she had said to Alençon and Alençon had answered. They dug
up again with a greasy mind her girlhood relations with Seymour, they
created lovers for her and puffed every coquetry into a full-blown
_liaison_; here they made her this man’s mistress and that man’s
mistress, and there they said that she could be no man’s mistress. They
had stories to tell of her even now, old and sick as she was. They told
how, this winter, for all she was so ill at ease, she would be dressed
each day in stiff and gorgeous raiment, would lie upon her pillows so,
with rings upon her fingers and her face painted, and when a young man
entered the room, how she gathered strength....
The March wind roared down the streets and shook the tavern signs.
In the palace at Richmond, there was a great room, and in the room
there was a great bed. The room had rich hangings, repeated about the
bed. The windows looked upon the wintry park, and under a huge, marble
mantelpiece, carved with tritons and wreaths of flowers, a fire burned.
About the room were standing women—maids of honour, tiring-women.
Near the fire stood a group of men, silent, in attendance.
The Queen did not lie upon the bed—now she said that she could not
endure it, and now she said that it was her will to lie upon the
floor. They placed rich cushions and she lay among them at their feet,
her gaunt frame stretched upon cloth of gold and silk. She
had upon her a long, rich gown, as full and rigid a thing as it was
possible to wear and yet recline. Her head was dressed with a tire of
false hair, a mass of red-gold; there was false colour upon her cheek
and lip. She kept a cup of gold beside her filled with wine and water
which at long intervals she put to her lips. Now she lay for hours very
still, with contracted brows, and now she turned from side to side,
seeking ease and finding none. Now there came a moan, and now a Tudor
oath. For the most part she lay still, only the fingers of one hand
moving upon the rim of the cup or measuring the cloth of gold beneath
her. Her sight was failing. She had not eaten, would not eat. She lay
still, supported upon fringed cushions, and the fire burned with a low
sound, and the March wind shook the windows.
From the group of men by the fire stepped softly, not her customary
physician, but another of some note, called into association during
these last days. He crossed the floor with a velvet step and stood
beside the Queen. His body bent itself into a curve of deference, but
his eyes searched without reverence. She could not see him, he knew,
with any clearness. He was followed from the group by a grave and able
councillor. The two stood without speaking, looking down. The Queen lay
with closed eyes. Her fingers continued to stroke the cloth of gold;
from her thin, drawn lips, cherry-red, came a halting murmur:
“_England—Scotland—Ireland—_”
The two men glanced at each other, then the Queen’s councillor,
stepping back to the fire, spoke to a young man standing a little apart
from the main group. This man, too, crossed the floor with a noiseless
step and stood beside the physician. His eyes likewise searched with a
grave, professional interest.
“_Navarre_,” went the low murmur at their feet. “_Navarre
and Orange.... No Pope, but I will have ritual still....
England—Scotland—_”
The Queen moaned and moved her body upon the cushions. She opened her
eyes. “Who’s standing there? God’s death—!”
The physician knelt. “Madam, it is your poor physician. Will not Your
Grace take the draught now?”
“No.—There’s some one else—”
“Your Grace, it is a young physician—English—but who has studied
at Paris under the best scholar of Ambroise Paré. He is learned and
skilful. He came commended by the Duke of —-- to Sir Robert Cecil—”
“God’s wounds!” cried the Queen in a thin, imperious voice. “Have I
not told you and Cecil, too, that there was no medicine and no doctor
who could do me good! Paré died, did he not? and you and your fellow
will die! All die. I have seen a many men and matters die—and I will
die, too, if it be my will!”
She stared past him at the strange physician. “If he were Hippocrates
himself I would not have him! I do not like his looks. He is a dreamer
and born to be hanged.—Begone, both of you, and leave me at peace.”
Her eyes closed. She turned upon the cushions. Her fingers began again
to move upon the rich stuff beneath her. “_England_—”
The rejected aid or attempt to aid stepped, velvet-footed, backward
from the pallet. The physicians knew, and all in the room knew, that
the Queen could not now really envisage a new face. She might with
equal knowledge have said of the man from Paris, “He is a prince in
disguise and born to be crowned.” But though they knew this to be
true, the Queen had said the one thing and had not said the other, and
what she said had still great and authoritative weight of suggestion.
The younger physician, returning to his place a little apart alike
from the women attendants and from the group of courtiers, became the
recipient of glances of predetermined curiosity and misliking. Now, as
it happened, he really did have something the look of a dreamer—thin,
pale, and thoughtful-faced, with musing, questioning eyes. While
according to accepted canons it was not handsome, while, indeed, it
was somewhat strange, mobile, and elf-like, his countenance was in
reality not at all unpleasing. It showed kindliness no less than power
to think. But it was a face that was not usual.... He was fairly
young, tall and well-formed though exceedingly spare, well dressed
after the quiet and sober fashion of his calling. Of their own accord,
passing him hastily in corridor or street, the people in the room might
not have given him a thought. But now they saw that undoubtedly he
_was_ strange, perhaps even sinister of aspect. Each wished to be as
perspicacious as the Queen.
But they did not think much about it, and as the newcomer, after a
reverence directed toward the Queen, presently withdrew with the older
physician,—who came gliding back without him,—and as he was seen
no more in the palace, they soon ceased to think about him at all.
He had been recommended by a great French lord to the favour of Sir
Robert Cecil. The latter, sending for him within a day or two, told
him bluntly that he did not seem fitted for the Court nor for Court
promotion.
The March wind roared through London and over Merry England and around
Richmond park and hill. It shook the palace windows. Within, in the
great room with the great bed, the old Queen lay upon the floor with
pillows beneath her, with her brows drawn together above her hawk nose.
At intervals her mortal disease and lack of all comfort wrung a moan,
or she gave one of her old, impatient, round, mouth-filling oaths. For
the most part she lay quite silent, uneating, unsleeping, her fleshless
fingers keeping time against the rich cloth beneath her. Her women did
not love her as the women of Mary Stuart had loved that Queen. Year in
and year out, day in and day out, they had feared this Queen; now she
was almost past fearing. They took no care to tell her that the carmine
upon her face was not right, or that she had pushed the attire of hair
to one side, and that her own hair showed beneath and was grey. They
reasoned, perhaps with truth, that she might strike the one who told.
She lay in her rich garments upon the floor, and the fire burned with a
low sound beneath the wreathed tritons and she smoothed the gold cloth
with her fingers. “_England—Scotland—Ireland.... Mere English—...
The Pope down, but I’ll have the Bishops still—_”
CHAPTER II
THE CAP AND BELLS
THE inn was small and snug, near Cheapside Cross, and resorted to by
men of an argumentative mind. The Mermaid Tavern, no great distance
away, had its poets and players, but the Cap and Bells was for
statesmen in their own thought alone, and for disputants upon such
trifles as the condition of Europe, the Pope, and the change in the
world wrought by Doctor Martin Luther. It was ill-luck, certainly, that
brought Gilbert Aderhold to such a place.
When he lost hope of any help from Cecil, the evident first thing to
do upon returning from Richmond to London, was to change to lodgings
that were less dear,—indeed, to lodgings as little dear as possible.
His purse was running very low. He changed, with promptitude, to a
poor room in a poor house. It was cold at night and dreary, and his
eyes, tired with reading through much of the day, ached in the one
candlelight. He went out into the dark and windy street, saw the glow
from the windows and open door of the Cap and Bells, and trimmed his
course for the swinging sign, a draught of malmsey and jovial human
faces.
In the tavern’s common room he found a seat upon the long bench that
ran around the wall. It was a desirable corner seat and it became
his only by virtue of its former occupant, a portly goldsmith, being
taken with a sudden dizziness, rising and leaving the place. Aderhold,
chancing to be standing within three feet, slipped into the corner. He
was near the fire and it warmed him gratefully. A drawer passing, he
ordered the malmsey, and when it was brought he rested the cup upon
the table before him. It was a long table, and toward the farther end
sat half a dozen men, drinking and talking. What with firelight and
candles the room was bright enough. It was warm, and at the moment of
Aderhold’s entrance, peaceable. He thought of a round of wild and noisy
taverns that he had tried one after the other, and, looking around him,
experienced a glow of self-congratulation. He wanted peace, he wanted
quiet; he had no love for the sudden brawls, for the candles knocked
out, and lives of peaceable men in danger that characterized the most
of such resorts. He sipped his wine, and after a few minutes of looking
about and finding that the cluster at the far end of the table was upon
a discussion of matters which did not interest him, he drew from his
breast the book he had been reading and fell to it again. As he read
always with a concentrated attention, he was presently oblivious of all
around.
An arm in a puffed sleeve of blue cloth slashed with red, coming flat
against the book and smothering the page from sight, broke the spell
and brought him back to the Cap and Bells. He raised his chin from
his hand and his eyes from the book—or rather from the blue sleeve.
The wearer of this, a formidable, large man, an evident bully, with
a captious and rubicund face, frowned upon him from the seat he had
taken, at the foot of the table, just by his corner. The number of
drinkers and conversers had greatly increased. There was not now just
a handful at this especial table; they were a dozen or more. Moreover,
he found that for some reason their attention was upon him; they were
watching him; and he had a great and nervous dislike of being watched.
He became aware that there was a good deal of noise, coarse jests and
laughter, and some disputing. Yet they looked, for the most part,
substantial men, not the wild Trojans and slashswords that he sometimes
encountered. For all his physical trepidations he was a close and
accurate observer; roused now, he sent a couple of rapid glances the
length and breadth of the table. They reported disputatious merchants
and burgomasters, a wine-flushed three or four from the neighbouring
congeries of lawyers, a country esquire, some one who looked pompous
and authoritative like a petty magistrate, others less patent,—and the
owner of the arm still insolently stretched across his book.
The latter now removed the arm. “So ho! Master Scholar, your
Condescension returns from the moon—after we’ve halloaed ourselves
hoarse! What devil of a book carried you aloft like that?”
Aderhold decided to be as placating as possible. “It is, sir, the
‘Chirurgia Magna’ of Theophrastus Bombast von Hohenheim, called
Paracelsus.”
The red and blue man was determined to bully. “The Cap and Bells has
under consideration the state of the Realm. The Cap and Bells has
addressed itself to you three times, requesting your opinion upon grave
matters. First you deign no answer at all, and finally you insult us
with trivialities! ’S death! are you an Englishman, sir?”
“As English as you, sir,” answered Aderhold; “though, in truth, seeing
that I have lived abroad some years and am but lately returned, my
English manners may have somewhat rusted and become clownish. I crave
pardon of the worshipful company, and I shall not again read in its
presence.”
A roisterer addressed him from halfway down the table. “We’ve got a
ruling—we that frequent the Cap and Bells. You’re a stranger—and a
strange-looking stranger, too, by your leave—and you must wipe out the
offense of your outlandishness! A bowl of sack for the company—you’ll
pay for a bowl of sack for the company?”
The colour flooded Aderhold’s thin cheek. He had not enough in his
purse or anything like enough. To-morrow he expected—or hoped rather
than expected—to receive payment from the alderman whose wife, having
fallen ill before the very door of the house where he lodged, he had
attended and brought out from the presence of death. But to-morrow
was to-morrow, and to-night was to-night. He told the truth. “I am
a poor physician, my masters, who hath of late been set about with
misfortune—”
The red and blue bully smote the table with his fist.
“What a murrain is a man doing in the Cap and Bells who cannot pay for
sack? Poor physician, quotha! I’ve known a many physicians, but none so
poor as that—”
One of the lawyers, a middle-aged, wiry man in black, raised his head.
“He says true. Come, brother, out with thy gold and silver!”
“When I shall have paid,” said Aderhold, “for the malmsey I have drunk,
I shall not have fourpence in my purse.”
“Pay for the sack,” said the lawyer, “and leave the malmsey go.”
“Nay,” said Aderhold, “I owe for the malmsey.”
The red and blue man burst forth again. “Oons! Would you have it that
you do not owe the sack? Call for the drink and a great bowl of it,
aye! If the host is out at the end, he can take his pay with a cudgel
or summon the watch! Physician, quotha? Now, as my name’s Anthony Mull,
he looks more to me like a black seminary priest!”
Aderhold leaned back appalled. He wished himself in the windy street
or the gloom of his lodgings, or anywhere but here. Was it all to
begin again, the great weariness of trouble here and trouble there?
To thread and dodge and bend aside, only in the end to find himself
at bay, bright-eyed and fierce at last like any hunted animal—he
who wanted only peace and quiet, calm space to think in! He groaned
inwardly. “Ah, the most unlucky star!” There came to his help, somewhat
strangely, and, though none noticed it, upon the start as it were of
the red and blue bully’s closing words, the Inns of Court man who had
spoken before. He took his arms from the table and, turning, called
aloud, “William Host! William Host!”
The host came—a stout man with a moon face. “Aye, sir? aye, Master
Carnock?”
“William Host,” said Carnock, “it is known, even in that remnant of
Bœotia, the Mermaid Tavern, that thou ’rt the greatest lover of books
of all the Queen’s subjects—”
The host assumed the look of the foolish-wise. “Nay, nay, I would not
say the greatest, Master Carnock! But ’tis known that I value a book—”
“Then,” said the other, “here is a learned doctor with a no less
learned book.” Rising, he leaned halfway over the table and lifted
from before Aderhold the volume with which he had been engaged. “Lo! A
good-sized book and well made and clothed! Look you, now! Is’t worth
thy greatest bowl of sack, hot and sugared? It is—I see it by thine
eye of judicious appraisement! I applaud thy judgement!—I call it a
Solomon’s judgement.—Furnish the doctor with the sack and take the
book for payment!”
Aderhold thrust out a long and eager arm. “Nay, sir! I value the book
greatly—”
“If you are not a fool—” said the lawyer with asperity.
But the physician had already drawn back his arm. He could be at times
what the world might call a fool, but his intelligence agreed that this
occasion did not warrant folly. He might somehow come up with the book
again; if the alderman paid, he might, indeed, come back to-morrow to
the Cap and Bells and recover it from the host. When the first starting
and shrinking from danger was over, he was quick and subtle enough in
moves of extrication. He had learned that in his case, or soon or late,
a certain desperate coolness might be expected to appear. Sometimes he
found it at one corner, sometimes at another; sometimes it only came
after long delay, after long agony and trembling; and sometimes it
slipped its hand into his immediately after the first recoil. Whenever
it came it brought, to his great relief, an inner detachment, much as
though he were a spectator, very safe in some gallery above. Up there,
so safe and cool, he could even see the humour in all things. Now he
addressed the company. “My masters, Cleopatra, when she would have
a costly drink, melted pearls in wine! The book there may be called
a jewel, for I prized it mightily. Will you swallow it dissolved in
sack? So I shall make amends, and all will be wiser for having drunk
understanding!”
The idea appealed, the sack was ordered. But the red and blue bully was
bully still. Aderhold would have sat quiet in his corner, awaiting the
steaming stuff and planning to slip away as soon as might be after its
coming. At the other end of the table had arisen a wordy war over some
current city matter or other—so far as he was concerned the company
might seem to be placated and attention drawn. He was conscious that
the lawyer still watched him from the corner of his eye, but the rest
of the dozen indulged in their own wiseacre wrangling. All, that is,
but the red and blue bully. He still stared and swelled with animosity,
and presently broke forth again. “‘Physician’! It may be so, but I do
not believe it! As my name’s Anthony Mull, I believe you to be a Jesuit
spy—”
The sack came at the moment and with it a diversion. Cups were filled,
all drank, and the lawyer flung upon the board for discussion the
growing use of tobacco, its merits and demerits. Then, with suddenness,
the petty magistrate at the head of the table was found to be relating
the pillorying that day, side by side, of a Popish recusant and a
railing Banbury man or Puritan. All at table turned out to be strong
Church of England men, zealous maintainers of the Act of Uniformity,
jealous of even a smack of deviation toward Pope or Calvin. At the
close of a moment of suspension, while all drank again, the red and
blue bully, leaning forward, addressed the man of justice. “Good Master
Pierce, regard this leech, so named, and put the question to him, will
he curse Popery and all its works.”
It seemed, in truth, that this was Aderhold’s unlucky night. That, or
there was something in the Queen’s declaration, there was something
about him different, something that provoked in all these people
antagonism. And yet he was a quiet man, of a behaviour so careful that
it suggested a shyness or timidity beyond the ordinary. He was not
ill-looking or villainous-looking—but yet, there it was! For all that
he was indubitably of English birth, “_Foreigner_” was written upon him.
The present unluckiness was the being again involved in this
contentious and noisy hour. He had been gathering himself together,
meaning to rise with the emptying of the bowl, make his bow to the
company, and quit the Cap and Bells. And now it seemed that he must
stop to assure them that he was not of the old religion! Aderhold’s
inner man might have faintly smiled. He felt the lawyer’s gaze upon
him—a curious, even an apprehensive, gaze. The justice put the
question portentously, all the table, save only the lawyer, leaning
forward, gloating for the answer, ready to dart a claw forward at the
least flinching. But Aderhold spoke soberly, with a quiet brow. “I
do not hold with cursing, Master Justice. It is idle to curse past,
present, or to come, for in all three a man but curses himself. But I
am far removed from that faith, and that belief is become a strange and
hostile one to me. I am no <DW7>.”
The bully struck the table with his fist. “As my name’s Anthony Mull,
that’s not enough!”
And the justice echoed him with an owl-like look: “That’s not enough!”
A colour came into Aderhold’s cheek. “There is, my masters, no faith
that has not in some manner served the | 583.801509 |
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[Illustration: “TRIUMPHS AND WONDERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.”
This picture explains and is symbolic of the most progressive one
hundred years in history. In the center stands the beautiful
female figure typifying Industry. To the right are the goddesses
of Music, Electricity, Literature and Art. Navigation is noted in
the anchor and chain leaning against the capstan; the Railroad,
in the rails and cross-ties; Machinery, in the cog-wheels,
steam governor, etc.; Labor, in the brawny smiths at the anvil;
Pottery, in the ornamented vase; Architecture, in the magnificent
Roman columns; Science, in the figure with quill in hand. In the
back of picture are suggestions of the progress and development
of our wonderful navy. Above all hovers the angel of Fame ready
to crown victorious Genius and Labor with the laurel wreaths of
Success.
]
TRIUMPHS AND WONDERS
OF THE
19TH CENTURY
THE
TRUE MIRROR OF A PHENOMENAL ERA
A VOLUME OF ORIGINAL, ENTERTAINING AND INSTRUCTIVE HISTORIC
AND DESCRIPTIVE WRITINGS, SHOWING THE MANY AND
MARVELLOUS ACHIEVEMENTS WHICH DISTINGUISH
AN HUNDRED YEARS
OF
Material, Intellectual, Social and Moral Progress
EMBRACING AS SUBJECTS ALL THOSE WHICH BEST TYPE THE GENIUS,
SPIRIT AND ENERGY OF THE AGE, AND SERVE TO BRING INTO
BRIGHTEST RELIEF THE GRAND MARCH OF IMPROVEMENT
IN THE VARIOUS DOMAINS OF
HUMAN ACTIVITY.
BY
JAMES P. BOYD, A.M., L.B.,
_Assisted by a Corps of Thirty-Two Eminent and Specially Qualified
Authors._
Copiously and Magnificently Illustrated.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA
A. J. HOLMAN & CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY W. H. ISBISTER.
_All Rights Reserved._
COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY W. H. ISBISTER.
INTRODUCTORY
Measuring epochs, or eras, by spaces of a hundred years each, that
which embraces the nineteenth century stands out in sublime and
encouraging contrast with any that has preceded it. As the legatee of
all prior centuries, it has enlarged and ennobled its bequest to an
extent unparalleled in history; while it has at the same time, through
a genius and energy peculiar to itself, created an original endowment
for its own enjoyment and for the future richer by far than any
heretofore recorded. Indeed, without permitting existing and pardonable
pride to endanger rigid truth, it may be said that along many of the
lines of invention and progress which have most intimately affected the
life and civilization of the world, the nineteenth century has achieved
triumphs and accomplished wonders equal, if not superior, | 583.83433 |
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[Illustration: _From a painting by F. C. Yohn._
The battle of Seicheprey.
"All through the night the artillerymen sent their shells, encasing
themselves in gas masks." (_Page_ 225)]
_AMERICA IN THE WAR_
OUR ARMY AT THE FRONT
BY
HEYWOOD BROUN
FORMERLY CORRESPONDENT FOR THE "NEW YORK TRIBUNE" WITH THE
AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1922
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE LANDING OF PERSHING 1
II. "VIVE PAIR-SHANG!" 11
III. THE FIRST DIVISION LANDS 29
IV. THE FOURTH OF JULY 44
V. WHAT THEY LIVED IN 53
VI. GETTING THEIR STRIDE 66
VII. SPEEDING UP 81
VIII. BACK WITH THE BIG GUNS 96
IX. THE EYES OF THE ARMY 107
X. THE SCHOOLS FOR OFFICERS 117
XI. SOME DISTINGUISHED VISITORS 124
XII. THE MEN WHO DID EVERYTHING 134
XIII. BEH | 583.899829 |
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VOL. XXXV. NO. 8.
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
* * * * *
“To the Poor the Gospel is Preached.”
* * * * *
AUGUST, 1881.
_CONTENTS_:
EDITORIAL.
PARAGRAPH—The Mendi Mission 225
ILLUSTRATION—Mission Home, Mendi Mission 228
DEATH OF REV. KELLY M. KEMP 230
AFRICAN NOTES 230
FREEDMEN FOR AFRICA: Rev. Lewis Grout 232
ADDRESS AT NASHVILLE: Sec’y Strieby 233
BENEFACTIONS 236
CHINESE AND INDIAN NOTES 237
THE FREEDMEN.
ANNIVERSARY REPORTS—Continued.
Ga.: Atlanta University 238
Ala.: Talladega College 240
Texas: Tillotson Institute, Austin 242
S.C.: Avery Institute, Charleston 242
Ga.: Lewis High School, Macon 243
THE CHINESE.
ANNIVERSARY AT STOCKTON 245
WOMAN’S HOME MISS. ASSOC’N.
TWENTY MINUTES A-DAY WORKING SOCIETY 247
CHILDREN’S PAGE.
GRACIE’S MISTAKE: Mrs. Harriet A. Cheever 248
RECEIPTS 250
LIST OF OFFICERS 254
CONSTITUTION 255
AIM, STATISTICS, WANTS, ETC. 256
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
Published by the American Missionary Association,
ROOMS, 56 READE STREET.
* * * * *
Price, 50 Cents a Year, in advance.
Entered at the Post Office at New York, N.Y. as second-class matter.
[Illustration: MAP OF PROTESTANT MISSION STATIONS IN AFRICA.]
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
* * * * *
VOL. XXXV. AUGUST, 1881. NO. 8.
* * * * *
_American Missionary Association._
* * * * *
We publish on the opposite page a map of Africa, upon which is
represented, by crosses, the location of the different Protestant
mission stations of that continent. The Mendi Mission on the West
Coast, and the proposed Arthington Mission in the Nile Basin, are
specially indicated by dotted lines. We give, also, elsewhere a cut
of the Mission Home at Good Hope Station, Mendi Mission.
* * * * *
THE MENDI MISSION.
SUGGESTIONS, WITH EXTRACTS FROM JOURNAL.
REV. H. M. LADD.
Much of the mission work in Africa, at least upon the West Coast,
has a basis in industrial work of some kind. Many causes have
conspired to hinder this branch of civilizing work at the Mendi
Mission. Without stopping to specify what these may have been,
no one can doubt that the chief reason why the saw-mill at Avery
has failed to be a source of income to the Association, is the
difficulty of transporting the lumber to market. This mill, with
a circular and an upright saw, with a good head of water during
the larger part of the year, and with timber near at hand, is the
only mill of the kind on the West Coast. There is a good demand for
such lumber as the mill can produce, but the chief market is 120
miles distant. No one in Africa, however much he might want lumber,
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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—
At set of sun the after-heat
Made running gold, and in the gleam
We freed our birch upon the stream.
There down along the elms at dusk
We lifted dripping blade to drift,
Through twilight scented fine like musk,
Where night and gloom awhile uplift,
Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.
And that we took into our hands
Spirit of life or subtler thing—
Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands
Of death, and taught us, whispering,
The secret of some wonder-thing.
Then all your face grew light, and seemed
To hold the shadow of the sun;
The evening faltered, and I deemed
That time was ripe, and years had done
Their wheeling underneath the sun.
So all desire and all regret,
And fear and memory, were naught;
One to remember or forget
The keen delight our hands had caught;
Morrow and yesterday were naught.
The night has fallen, and the tide....
Now and again comes drifting home,
Across these aching barrens wide,
A sigh like driven wind or foam:
In grief the flood is bursting home.
WHY
For a name unknown,
Whose fame unblown
Sleeps in the hills
For ever and aye;
For her who hears
The stir of the years
Go by on the wind
By night and day;
And heeds no thing
Of the needs of spring,
Of autumn's wonder
Or winter's chill;
For one who sees
The great sun freeze,
As he wanders a-cold
From hill to hill;
And all her heart
Is a woven part
Of the flurry and drift
Of whirling snow;
For the sake of two
Sad eyes and true,
And the old, old love
So long ago.
THE UNRETURNING
The old eternal spring once more
Comes back the sad eternal way,
With tender rosy light before
The going-out of day.
The great white moon across my door
A shadow in the twilight stirs;
But now forever comes no more
That wondrous look of Hers.
A WINDFLOWER
Between the roadside and the wood,
Between the dawning and the dew,
A tiny flower before the sun,
Ephemeral in time, I grew.
And there upon the trail of spring,
Not death nor love nor any name
Known among men in all their lands
Could blur the wild desire with shame.
But down my dayspan of the year
The feet of straying winds came by;
And all my trembling soul was thrilled
To follow one lost mountain cry.
And then my heart beat once and broke
To hear the sweeping rain forebode
Some ruin in the April world,
Between the woodside and the road.
To-night can bring no healing now;
The calm of yesternight is gone;
Surely the wind is but the wind,
And I a broken waif thereon.
IN LYRIC SEASON
The lyric April time is forth
With lyric mornings, frost and sun;
From leaguers vast of night undone
Auroral mild new stars are born.
And ever at the year's return,
Along the valleys gray with rime,
Thou leadest as of old, where time
Can naught but follow to thy sway.
The trail is far through leagues of spring,
And long the quest to the white core
Of harvest quiet, yet once more
I gird me to the old unrest.
I know I shall not ever meet
Thy still regard across the year,
And yet I know thou wilt draw near,
When the last hour of pain and loss
Drifts out to slumber, and the deeps
Of nightfall feel God's hand unbar
His lyric April, star by star,
And the lost twilight land reveal.
THE PENSIONERS
We are the pensioners of Spring,
And take the largess of her hand
When vassal warder winds unbar
The wintry portals of her land;
The lonely shadow-girdled winds,
Her seraph almoners, who keep
This little life in flesh and bone
With meagre portions of white sleep.
Then all year through with starveling care
We go on some fool's idle quest,
And eat her bread and wine in thrall
To a fool's shame with blind unrest.
Until her April train goes by,
And then because we are the kin
Of every hill flower on the hill
We must arise and walk therein.
Because her heart as our own heart,
Knowing the same wild upward stir,
Beats joyward by eternal laws,
We must arise and go with her;
Forget we are not where old joys
Return when dawns and dreams retire;
Make grief a phantom of regret,
And fate the henchman of desire;
Divorce unreason from delight;
Learn how despair is uncontrol,
Failure the shadow of remorse,
And death a shudder of the soul.
Yea, must we triumph when she leads.
A little rain before the sun,
A breath of wind on the road's dust,
The sound of trammeled brooks undone,
Along red glinting willow stems
The year's white prime, on bank and stream
The haunting cadence of no song
And vivid wanderings of dream,
A range of low blue hills, the far
First whitethroat's ecstasy unfurled:
And we are overlords of change,
In the glad morning of the world,
Though we should fare as they whose life
Time takes within his hands to wring
Between the winter and the sea,
The weary pensioners of Spring.
AT THE VOICE OF A BIRD
_Consurgent ad vocem volucris._
Call to me, thrush,
When night grows dim,
When dreams unform
And death is far!
When hoar dews flush
On dawn's rathe brim,
Wake me to hear
Thy wildwood charm,
As a lone rush
Astir in the slim
White stream where sheer
Blue mornings are.
Stir the keen hush
On twilight's rim
When my own star
Is white and clear.
Fly low to brush
Mine eyelids grim,
Where sleep and storm
Will set their bar;
For God shall crush
Spring balm for him,
Stark on his bier
Past fault or harm,
Who once, as flush
Of day might skim
The dusk, afar
In sleep shall hear
Thy song's cool rush
With joy rebrim
The world, and calm
The deep with cheer.
Then, Heartsease, hush!
If sense grow dim,
Desire shall steer
Us home from far.
WHEN THE GUELDER ROSES BLOOM
When the Guelder roses bloom,
Love, the vagrant, wanders home.
Love, that died so long ago,
As we deemed, in dark and snow,
Comes back to the door again,
Guendolen, Guendolen.
In his hands a few bright flowers,
Gathered in the earlier hours,
Speedwell-blue, and poppy-red,
Withered in the sun and dead,
With a history to each,
Are more eloquent than speech.
In his eyes the welling tears
Plead against the lapse of years.
And that mouth we knew so well,
Hath a pilgrim's tale to tell.
Hear his litany again:
"Guendolen, Guendolen!"
"No, love, no, thou art a ghost!
Love long since in night was lost.
"Thou art but the shade of him,
For thine eyes are sad and dim."
"Nay, but they will shine once more,
Glad and brighter than before,
"If thou bring me but again
To my mother Guendolen!
"These dark flowers are for thee,
Gathered by the lonely sea.
"And these singing shells for her
Who first called me wanderer,
"In whose beauty glad I grew,
When this weary life was new."
Hear him raving! "It is I.
Love once born can never die."
"Thou, poor love, thou art gone mad
With the hardships thou hast had.
"True, it is the spring of year,
But thy mother is not here.
"True, the Guelder roses bloom
As long since about this room,
"Where thy blessed self was born
In the early golden morn
"But the years are dead, good lack!
Ah, love, why hast thou come back,
"Pleading at the door again,
'Guendolen, Guendolen'?"
When the Guelder roses bloom,
And the vernal stars resume
Their old purple sweep and range,
I can hear a whisper strange
As the wind gone daft again,
"Guendolen, Guendolen!"
"When the Guelder roses blow,
Love that died so long ago,
"Why wilt thou return so oft,
With that whisper sad and soft
"On thy pleading lips again,
'Guendolen, Guendolen'!"
Still the Guelder roses bloom,
And the sunlight fills the room,
Where love's shadow at the door
Falls upon the dusty floor.
And his eyes are sad and grave
With the tenderness they crave,
Seeing in the broken rhyme
The significance of time,
Wondrous eyes that know not sin
From his brother death, wherein
I can see thy look again,
Guendolen, Guendolen.
And love with no more to say,
In this lovely world to-day
Where the Guelder roses bloom,
Than the record on a tomb,
Only moves his lips again,
"Guendolen, Guendolen!"
Then he passes up the road
From this dwelling, where he b | 583.936131 |
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Transcriber's notes:
(1) Numbers following letters (without space) like C2 were originally
printed in subscript. Letter subscripts are preceded by an
underscore, like C_n.
(2) Characters following a carat (^) were printed in superscript.
(3) Side-notes were relocated to function as titles of their respective
paragraphs.
(4) Macrons and breves above letters and dots below letters were not
inserted.
(5) The following typographical errors have been corrected:
ARTICLE BRAIN: "The cough, the eye-closure, the impulse to smile,
all these can be suppressed." 'impulse' amended from 'impluse'.
ARTICLE BRAIN: "The deep ends of these olfactory neurones having
entered the central nervous organ come into contact with the of
large neurones, called, from their shape, mitral." 'dendrites'
amended from 'dentrites'.
ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
A DICTIONARY OF ARTS, SCIENCES, LITERATURE
AND GENERAL INFORMATION
ELEVENTH EDITION
VOLUME IV, SLICE IV
Bradford, William to Brequigny, Louis
ARTICLES IN THIS SLICE:
BRADFORD, WILLIAM (governor) BRAOSE, WILLIAM DE
BRADFORD, WILLIAM (printer) BRASCASSAT, JACQUES RAYMOND
BRADFORD, WILLIAM (painter) BRAS D'OR
BRADFORD (England) BRASDOR, PIERRE
BRADFORD (Pennsylvania, U.S.A.) BRASIDAS
BRADFORD CLAY BRASS (Nigeria)
BRADFORD-ON-AVON BRASS (alloy)
BRADLAUGH, CHARLES BRASSES, MONUMENTAL
BRADLEY, GEORGE GRANVILLE BRASSEUR DE BOURBOURG, CHARLES
BRADLEY, JAMES BRASSEY, THOMAS
BRADSHAW, GEORGE BRASSO
BRADSHAW, HENRY (English poet) BRATHWAIT, RICHARD
BRADSHAW, HENRY (British scholar) BRATIANU, ION C.
BRADSHAW, JOHN BRATLANDSDAL
BRADWARDINE, THOMAS BRATTISHING
BRADY, NICHOLAS BRATTLEBORO
BRAEKELEER, HENRI JEAN DE BRAUNAU
BRAEMAR BRAUNSBERG
BRAG BRAVO
BRAGA BRAWLING
BRAGANZA BRAY, SIR REGINALD
BRAGG, BRAXTON BRAY, THOMAS
BRAGI BRAY (England)
BRAHAM, JOHN BRAY (Ireland)
BRAHE, PER BRAYLEY, EDWARD WEDLAKE
BRAHE, TYCHO BRAZIER
BRAHMAN BRAZIL (legendary island)
BRAHMANA BRAZIL (republic)
BRAHMANISM BRAZIL (Indiana, U.S.A.)
BRAHMAPUTRA BRAZIL NUTS
BRAHMA SAMAJ BRAZIL WOOD
BRAHMS, JOHANNES BRAZING AND SOLDERING
BRAHUI BRAZZA, PIERRE PAUL SAVORGNAN DE
BRAID BRAZZA
BRAIDWOOD, THOMAS BREACH
BRAILA BREAD
BRAIN BREADALBANE, JOHN CAMPBELL
BRAINERD, DAVID BREADALBANE
BRAINERD BREAD-FRUIT
BRAINTREE (Essex, England) BREAKING BULK
BRAINTREE (Massachusetts, U.S.A.) BREAKWATER
BRAKE (town of Germany) BREAL, MICHEL JULES ALFRED
BRAKE (engineering) BREAM
BRAKELOND, JOCELYN DE BREAST
BRAMAH, JOSEPH BREAUTE, FALKES DE
BRAMANTE BRECCIA
BRAMPTON, HENRY HAWKINS BRECHIN
BRAM | 584.007224 |
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[Illustration: "That gardening is best... which best ministers to man's
felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom."
This is my study. The tree in the middle of the picture is Barrie's elm.
I once lifted it between my thumb and finger, but I was younger and the
tree was smaller. The dark tree in the foreground on the right is Felix
Adler's hemlock. [Page 82]]
THE AMATEUR GARDEN
BY
GEORGE W. CABLE
ILLUSTRATED
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK: MCMXIV
_Copyright, 1914, by_
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
_Published October, 1914_
CONTENTS
PAGE
MY OWN ACRE 1
THE AMERICAN GARDEN 41
WHERE TO PLANT WHAT 79
THE COTTAGE GARDENS OF NORTHAMPTON 107
THE PRIVATE GARDEN'S PUBLIC VALUE 129
THE MIDWINTER GARDENS OF NEW ORLEANS 163
ILLUSTRATIONS
"That gardening is best... which best ministers to man's
felicity with least disturbance of nature's freedom" _Frontis_
"... that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where Mill
River loiters through Paradise" 6
"On this green of the dryads... lies My Own Acre" 8
"The beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full
back to the rapids just above My Own Acre" 12
"A fountain... where one,--or two,--can sit and hear it whisper" 22
"The bringing of the grove out on the lawn and the pushing of
the lawn in under the grove was one of the early tasks of My
Own Acre" 24
"Souvenir trees had from time to time been planted on the lawn
by visiting friends" 26
"How the words were said which some of the planters spoke" 28
"'Where are you going?' says the eye. 'Come and see,' says the
roaming line" 34
"The lane is open to view from end to end. It has two deep bays
on the side nearest the lawn" 36
"... until the house itself seems as naturally... to grow up
out of the garden as the high keynote rises at the end
of a lady's song" 48
"Beautiful results may be got on smallest grounds" 52
"Muffle your architectural angles in foliage and bloom" 52
Fences masked by shrubbery 64
After the first frost annual plantings cease to be attractive 72
Shrubbery versus annuals 72
Shrubs are better than annuals for masking right angles. South
Hall, Williston Seminary 74
"... a line of shrubbery swinging in and out in strong, graceful
undulations" 74
"However enraptured of wild nature you may be, you do and must
require of her some subserviency about your own dwelling" 84
"Plant it where it will best enjoy itself" 86
"... climaxes to be got by superiority of stature, by darkness and
breadth of foliage and by splendor of bloom belong at its far
end" 94
"Some clear disclosure of charm still remote may beckon and lure" 96
"... tall, rectangular, three-story piles... full of windows
all of one size, pigeon-house style" 100
"You can make gardening a concerted public movement" 112
"Plant on all your lot's boundaries, plant out the foundation-lines
of all its buildings" 122
"Not chiefly to reward the highest art in gardening, but to procure
its widest and most general dissemination" 122
"Having wages bigger than their bodily wants, and having spiritual
wants numerous and elastic enough to use up the surplus" 138
"One such competing garden was so beautiful last year that
strangers driving by stopped and asked leave to dismount
and enjoy a nearer view" 138
"Beauty can be called into life about the most unpretentious
domicile" 148
"Those who pay no one to die, plant or prune for them" 148
"In New Orleans the home is bounded by its fences, not by its
doors--so they clothe them with shrubberies and vines" 174
"The lawn... lies clean-breasted, green-breasted, from one
shrub-and-flower-planted side to the other, along and across" 174
"There eight distinct encumbrances narrow the sward.... In a
half-day's work, the fair scene might be enhanced in lovely
dignity by the elimination of these excesses" 176
"The rear walk... follows the dwelling's ground contour with
business precision--being a business path" 178
"Thus may he wonderfully extenuate, even... where it does not
conceal, the house's architectural faults" 180
"... a lovely stage scene without a hint of the stage's unreality" 182
"Back of the building-line the fences... generally more
than head-high... are _sure_ to be draped" 184
"... from the autumn side of Christmas to the summer side of
Easter" 184
"The sleeping beauty of the garden's unlost configuration... keeping
a winter's share of its feminine grace and softness" 186
"It is only there that I see anything so stalwart as a pine or
so rigid as a spruce" 192
MY OWN ACRE
A lifelong habit of story-telling has much to do with the production of
these pages.
All the more does it move me because it has always included, as perhaps
it does in most story-tellers, a keen preference for true stories,
stories of actual occurrence.
A flower-garden trying to be beautiful is a charming instance of
something which a storyteller can otherwise only dream of. For such a
garden is itself a story, one which actually and naturally occurs, yet
occurs under its master's guidance and control and with artistic effect.
Yet it was this same story-telling bent which long held me back while
from time to time I generalized on gardening and on gardens other than
my own. A well-designed garden is not only a true story happening
artistically but it is one that passes through a new revision each year,
"with the former translations diligently compared and revised." Each
year my own acre has confessed itself so full of mistranslations of the
true text of gardening, has promised, each season, so much fairer a show
in its next edition, and has been kept so prolongedly busy teaching and
reteaching its master where to plant what, while as to money outlays
compelled to live so much more like a poet than like a prince, that the
bent for story-telling itself could not help but say wait.
Now, however, the company to which this chapter logically belongs is
actually showing excellent reasons why a history of their writer's own
acre should lead them. Let me, then, begin by explaining that the small
city of Northampton, Massachusetts, where I have lived all the latter
three-fifths of my adult years, sits on the first rise of ground which
from the west overlooks the alluvial meadows of the Connecticut, nine
miles above South Hadley Falls. Close at its back a small stream, Mill
River, coming out of the Hampshire hills on its way to the Connecticut,
winds through a strip of woods so fair as to have been named--from a
much earlier day than when Jenny Lind called it so--"Paradise." On its
town side this wooded ground a few hundred yards wide drops suddenly a
hundred feet or so to the mill stream and is cut into many transverse
ravines.
In its timber growth, conspicuous by their number, tower white-pines,
while among them stand only less loftily a remarkable variety of forest
trees imperfectly listed by a certain humble authority as "mostly h-oak,
h-ellum, and h-ash, with a little 'ickory."
Imperfectly listed, for there one may find also the birch and the beech,
the linden, sycamore, chestnut, poplar, hemlock-spruce, butternut, and
maple overhanging such pleasant undergrowths as the hornbeam and
hop-hornbeam, willows, black-cherry and choke-cherry, dogwood and other
cornels, several viburnums, bush maples of two or three kinds, alder,
elder, sumach, hazel, witch-hazel, the shadblow and other perennial,
fair-blooming, sweet-smelling favorites, beneath which lies a leaf-mould
rife with ferns and wild flowers.
From its business quarter the town's chief street of residence, Elm
Street, begins a gently winding westerly ascent to become an open
high-road from one to another of the several farming and manufacturing
villages that use the water-power of Mill River. But while it is still a
street there runs from it southerly at a right angle a straight bit of
avenue some three hundred yards long--an exceptional length of unbent
street for Northampton. This short avenue ends at another, still
shorter, lying square across its foot within some seventy yards of that
suddenly falling wooded and broken ground where Mill River loiters
through Paradise. The strip of land between the woods and this last
street is taken up by half a dozen dwellings of modest dignity, whose
front shade-trees, being on the southerly side, have been placed not on
the sidewalk's roadside edge but on the side next the dwellings and
close within their line of private ownership: red, white and post-oaks
set there by the present writer when he named the street "Dryads'
Green." They are now twenty-one years old and give a good shade which
actually falls where it is wanted--upon the sidewalk.
[Illustration: "... that suddenly falling wooded and broken ground
where Mill River loiters through Paradise."
A strong wire fence (invisible in the picture) here divides the _grove_
from the old river road.]
On this green of the dryads, where it intercepts the "avenue" that slips
over from the Elm Street trolley-cars, lies, such as it is, my own acre;
house, lawn, shrubberies and, at the rear, in the edge of the pines, the
study. Back there by the study--which sometimes in irony we call the
power-house--the lawn merges into my seven other acres, in Paradise.
Really the whole possession is a much humbler one than I find myself
able to make it appear in the flattering terms of land measure. Those
seven acres of Paradise I acquired as "waste land." Nevertheless, if I
were selling that "waste," that "hole in the ground," it would not hurt
my conscience, such as it is, to declare that the birds on it alone are
worth more than it cost: wood-thrushes and robins, golden orioles,
scarlet tanagers, blackbirds, bluebirds, oven-birds, cedar-birds,
veeries, vireos, song-sparrows, flycatchers, kinglets, the flicker, the
cuckoo, the nuthatch, the chickadee and the rose-breasted grosbeak, not
to mention jays or kingfishers, swallows, the little green heron or that
cock of the walk, the red squirrel.
Speaking of walks, it was with them--and one drive--in this grove, that
I made my first venture toward the artistic enhancement of my
acre,--acre this time in the old sense that ignores feet and rods. I was
quite willing to make it a matter of as many years as necessary when
pursued as play, not work, on the least possible money outlay and having
for its end a garden of joy, not of care. By no inborn sagacity did I
discover this to be the true first step, but by the trained eye of an
honored and dear friend, that distinguished engineer and famous street
commissioner of New York, Colonel George E. Waring, who lost his life in
the sanitary regeneration of Havana.
[Illustration: "On this green of the dryads... lies My Own Acre."
The two young oaks in the picture are part of the row which gives the
street its name.]
"Contour paths" was the word he gave me; paths starting from the top of
the steep broken ground and bending in and out across and around its
ridges and ravines at a uniform decline of, say, six inches to every ten
feet, until the desired terminus is reached below; much as, in its
larger way, a railway or aqueduct might, or as cattle do when they roam
in the hills. Thus, by the slightest possible interference with
natural conditions, these paths were given a winding course every step
of which was pleasing because justified by the necessities of the case,
traversing the main inequalities of the ground with the ease of level
land yet without diminishing its superior variety and charm. And so with
contour paths I began to find, right at my back door and on my own acre,
in nerve-tired hours, an outdoor relaxation which I could begin, leave
off and resume at any moment and which has never staled on me. For this
was the genesis of all I have learned or done in gardening, such as it
is.
My appliances for laying out the grades were simple enough: a
spirit-level, a stiff ten-foot rod with an eighteen-inch leg nailed
firmly on one end of it, a twelve-inch leg on the other, a hatchet, and
a basket of short stakes with which to mark the points, ten feet apart,
where the longer leg, in front on all down grades, rested when the
spirit-level, strapped on the rod, showed the rod to be exactly
horizontal. Trivial inequalities of surface were arbitrarily cut down or
built up and covered with leaves and pine-straw to disguise the fact,
and whenever a tree or anything worth preserving stood in the way here
came the loaded barrow and the barrowist, like a piece of artillery
sweeping into action, and a fill undistinguishable from nature soon
brought the path around the obstacle on what had been its lower side, to
meander on at its unvarying rate of rise or fall as though
nothing--except the trees and wild flowers--had happened since the vast
freshets of the post-glacial period built the landscape. I made the
drive first, of steeper grade than the paths; but every new length of
way built, whether walk or road, made the next easier to build, by
making easier going for the artillery, the construction train. Also each
new path has made it easier to bring up, for the lawn garden, sand,
clay, or leaf-mould, or for hearth consumption all the wood which the
grove's natural mortality each year requires to be disposed of. There is
a superior spiritual quality in the warmth of a fire of h-oak, h-ash,
and even h-ellum gathered from your own acre, especially if the acre is
very small and has contour paths. By a fire of my own acre's "dead and
down" I write these lines. I never buy cordwood.
Only half the grove has required these paths, the other half being down
on the flat margin of the river, traversed by a cart-road at least half
a century old, though used by wheels hardly twice a year; but in the
three acres where lie the contour paths there is now three-fifths of a
mile of them, not a rod of which is superfluous. And then I have two
examples of another kind of path: paths with steps; paths which for good
and lawful reasons cannot allow you time to go around on the "five per
cent" grade but must cut across, taking a single ravine lengthwise, to
visit its three fish-pools.
These steps, and two short retaining walls elsewhere in the grove, are
made of the field stones of the region, uncut. All are laid "dry" like
the ordinary stone fences of New England farms, and the walls are built
with a smart inward batter so that the winter frosts may heave them year
after year, heave and leave but not tumble them down. I got that idea
from a book. Everything worth while on my acre is from books except
what two or three professional friends have from time to time dropped
into my hungry ear. Both my ears have good appetites--for garden lore.
About half a mile from me, down Mill River, stands the factory of a
prized friend who more than any other man helps by personal daily care
to promote Northampton's "People's Institute," of whose home-garden work
I have much to say in the chapters that follow this one. For forty years
or more this factory has been known far and wide as the "Hoe Shop"
because it makes shovels. It has never made hoes. It uses water-power,
and the beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the river full
back to the rapids just above my own acre. In winter this is the
favorite skating-pond of the town and of Smith College. In the greener
seasons of college terms the girls constantly pass upstream and down in
their pretty rowboats and canoes, making a charming effect as seen from
my lawn's rear edge at the head of the pine and oak shaded ravine whose
fish-pools are gay by turns with elder, wild sunflower, sumach, iris,
water-lilies, and forget-me-not.
[Illustration: "The beautiful mill-pond behind its high dam keeps the
river full back to the rapids just above My Own Acre."
This is the "Hoe Shop." The tower was ruined by fire many years ago, and
because of its unsafety is being taken down at the present writing.]
This ravine, the middle one of the grove's three, is about a hundred
feet wide. When I first began to venture the human touch in it, it
afforded no open spot level enough to hold a camp-stool. From the lawn
above to the river road below, the distance is three hundred and thirty
feet, and the fall, of fifty-five feet, is mostly at the upper end,
which is therefore too steep, as well as too full of varied undergrowth,
for any going but climbing. In the next ravine on its left there was a
clear, cold spring and in the one on its right ran a natural rivulet
that trickled even in August; but this middle ravine was dry or merely
moist.
Here let me say to any who would try an amateur landscape art on their
own acre at the edge of a growing town, that the town's growth tends
steadily to diminish the amount of their landscape's natural water
supply by catching on street pavements and scores and hundreds of roofs,
lawns and walks, and carrying away in sewers, the rain and melting snows
which for ages filtered slowly through the soil. Small wonder, I think,
that, when in the square quarter-mile between my acre and Elm Street
fifty-three dwellings and three short streets took the place of an old
farm, my grove, by sheer water famine, lost several of its giant pines.
Wonder to me is that the harm seems at length to have ceased.
But about that ravine: one day the nature of its growth and soil,
especially its alders, elders, and willows and a show of clay and
gravel, forced on my notice the likelihood that here, too, had once been
a spring, if no more. I scratched at its head with a stick and out came
an imprisoned rill like a recollected word from the scratched head of a
schoolboy. Happily the spot was just at the bottom of the impassably
steep fall of ground next the edge of the lawn and was almost in the
centre of those four acres--one of sward, three of woods--which I
proposed to hold under more or less discipline, leaving the rest--a
wooded strip running up the river shore--wholly wild, as college girls,
for example, would count wildness. In both parts the wealth of foliage
on timber and underbrush almost everywhere shut the river out of view
from the lawn and kept the eye restless for a glint, if no more, of
water. And so there I thought at once to give myself what I had all my
life most absurdly wished for, a fish-pool. I had never been able to
look upon an aquarium and keep the tenth Commandment. I had never caught
a fish without wanting to take it home and legally adopt it into the
family--a tendency which once led my son to say, "Yes, he would be
pleased to go fishing with me if I would only fish in a sportsmanlike
manner." What a beautifully marked fish is the sun-perch! Once, in
boyhood, I kept six of those "pumpkin-seed" in a cistern, and my smile
has never been the same since I lost them--one of my war losses.
I resolved to impound the waters of my spring in the ravine and keep
fish at last--without salt--to my heart's content. Yet I remembered
certain restraining precepts: first, that law of art which condemns
incongruity--requires everything to be in keeping with its natural
surroundings--and which therefore, for one thing, makes an American
garden the best possible sort of garden to have in America; second,
that twin art law, against inutility, which demands that everything in
an artistic scheme serve the use it pretends to serve; third, a precept
of Colonel Waring's: "Don't fool with running water if you haven't money
to fool away"; and, fourth, that best of all gardening rules--look
before you leap.
However, on second thought, and tenth, and twentieth, one thought a day
for twenty days, I found that if water was to be impounded anywhere on
my acre here was the strategic point. Down this ravine, as I have said,
was the lawn's one good glimpse of the river, and a kindred gleam
intervening would tend, in effect, to draw those farther waters in under
the trees and into the picture.
Such relationships are very rewarding to find to whoever would garden
well. Hence this mention. One's garden has to do with whatever is in
sight from it, fair or otherwise, and it is as feasible and important to
plant in the fair as to plant out the otherwise. Also, in making my
grove paths, I had noticed that to cross this ravine where at one or two
places in its upper half a contour grade would have been pettily
circuitous and uninteresting, and to cross it comfortably, there should
be either a bridge or a dam; and a dam with water behind it seemed
pleasanter every way--showed less incongruity and less inutility--than a
bridge with no water under it.
As to "fooling with running water," the mere trickle here in question
had to be dragged out of its cradle to make it run at all. It remained
for me to find out by experience that even that weakling, imprisoned and
grown to a pool, though of only three hundred square feet in surface,
when aided and abetted by New England frosts and exposed on a southern
<DW72> to winter noonday suns, could give its amateur captor as much
trouble--proportionately--as any Hebrew babe drawn from the bulrushes of
the Nile is said to have given his.
Now if there is any value in recording these experiences it can be only
in the art principles they reveal. To me in the present small instance
the principle illustrated was that of the true profile line for ascent
or descent in a garden. You may go into any American town where there
is any inequality of ground and in half an hour find a hundred or two
private lawns graded--from the house to each boundary line--on a single
falling curve, or, in plain English, a hump. The best reason why this
curve is not artistic, not pleasing, but stupid, is that it is not
natural and gains nothing by being unnatural. All gardening is a certain
conquest of Nature, and even when "formal" should interfere with her own
manner and custom as slightly as is required by the necessities of the
case--the needs of that particular spot's human use and joy. The right
profile and surface for a lawn of falling grade, the surface which will
permanently best beguile both eye and foot, should follow a double
curve, an ogee line. For, more or less emphasized, that is Nature's line
in all her affable moods on land or water: a descent or ascent beginning
gradually, increasing rapidly, and concluding gently. We see it in the
face of any smooth knoll or billow. I believe the artists impute to
Praxiteles | 584.100206 |
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_By ARVEDE BARINE_
=The Youth of La Grande Mademoiselle
1627-1652=
Authorized English Version. Octavo. Fully
Illustrated. (By mail, $3.25.) Net, $3.00
=Louis XIV. and La Grande Mademoiselle
1652-1693=
Authorized English Version. Octavo. Fully
Illustrated. (By mail, $3.25.) Net, $3.00
=_G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS_=
=_New York_= =_London_=
[Illustration: Cliche Braun, Clement & Cie. =MADEMOISELLE DE
MONTPENSIER= She is holding the portrait of her father, Gaston D'Orleans
From the painting by Pierre Bourgnignon in the Musee de Versailles. By
permission of Messrs. Hachette & Co.]
Louis XIV
and
La Grande Mademoiselle
1652-1693
By
Arvede Barine
Author of "The Youth of La Grande Mademoiselle"
_Authorised English Version_
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1905
COPYRIGHT, 1905
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
PREFACE
In the volume entitled _The Youth of La Grande Mademoiselle_ I have
tried to present the conditions of France during the period in which the
ancient liberties of the people and the turbulent society which had
abused its privileges suffered, in the one case death, in the other
extinction.
As is always the case, a lack of proper discipline had prepared the way
for absolute rule, and the young King who was about to assume full power
was an enigma to his subjects. The nearest relatives of Louis had always
found him impenetrable. The Grande Mademoiselle had been brought up side
by side with her cousin, but she was entirely ignorant of his real
character, knowing only that he was silent and appeared timid. In her
failure to understand the King, Mademoiselle showed herself again a true
child of her century.
At the moment in which the Prince assumed full power, his true
disposition, thoughts, and beliefs were entirely hidden from the public,
and Saint-Simon has contributed to this ignorance by prolonging it to
posterity. Louis XIV. was over fifty when this terrible writer appeared
at Court. The _Memoires_ of Saint-Simon present the portrait of a man
almost old; this portrait however is so powerful, so living that it
obliterates every other. The public sees only the Louis of Saint-Simon;
for it, the youthful King as he lived during the troubled and passionate
period of his career, the period that was most interesting, because most
vital, has never existed.
The official history of the times aids in giving a false impression of
Louis XIV., figuring him in a sort of hieratic attitude between an idol
and a manikin. The portraits of Versailles again mask the Louis of the
young Court, the man for whose favour Moliere and the Libertines fought
with varying chances of success.
In the present volume I have tried to raise a corner of this mask.
The _Memoires_ of Louis XIV., completely edited for the first time
according to any methodical plan in 1860, have greatly aided me in this
task. They abound in confessions, sometimes aside, sometimes direct, of
the matters that occupied the thoughts of the youthful author. The
Grande Mademoiselle, capable of neither reserve nor dissimulation, has
proved the next most valuable guide in the attempt to penetrate into the
intimate life of Louis. As related by her, the perpetual difficulties
with the Prince throw a vivid light upon the kind of incompatibility of
temper which existed at the beginning of the reign between absolute
power and the survivors of the Fronde.
How the young King succeeded in directing his generation toward new
ideas and sentiments and how the Grande Mademoiselle, too late carried
away by the torrent, became in the end a victim to its force, will be
seen in the course of the present volume, provided, that is, that I have
not overestimated my powers in touching upon a subject very obscure,
very delicate, with facts drawn from a period the most frequently
referred to and yet in some respects the least comprehended of the
entire history of France.
A. B.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
Exile--Provincial Life--Conversation at Saint-Fargeau--Sentiment
towards Nature in the Seventeenth Century--Differences
between Mademoiselle and her Father--Mademoiselle Returns
to Court 1-57
CHAPTER II
The Education of Louis XIV.--Manners--Poverty--Charity--Vincent
de Paul, a Secret Society--Marriage of Louis XIV.--His
Arrival at Power on the Death of Mazarin--He Re-educates
Himself 58-119
CHAPTER III
Mademoiselle at the Luxembourg--Her Salon--The "Anatomies"
of the Heart--Projects of Marriage, and New Exile--Louis
XIV. and the Libertines--Fragility of Fortune in Land--_Fetes
Galantes_ 120-184
CHAPTER IV
Increasing Importance of the Affairs of Love--The Corrupters of
Morals--Birth of Dramatic Music and its Influence--Love
in Racine--Louis XIV. and the Nobility--The King is
Polygamous 185-236
CHAPTER V
The Grande Mademoiselle in Love--Sketch of Lauzun and their
Romance--The Court on its Travels--Death of Madame--Announcement
of the Marriage of Mademoiselle--General Consternation--Louis
XIV. Breaks the Affair 237-303
CHAPTER VI
Was Mademoiselle secretly Married?--Imprisonment of Lauzun--Splendour
and Decadence of France--_La Chambre Ardente_--Mademoiselle
Purchases Lauzun's Freedom--Their Embroilment--Death
of the Grande Mademoiselle--Death of Lauzun--Conclusion 304- | 584.100256 |
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The Journal of the
Debates in the Convention
Which Framed
The Constitution of the
United States
May-September, 1787
As Recorded by
James Madison
Edited by
Gaillard Hunt
In Two Volumes
Volume I.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1908
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
[Illustration]
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.
PAGE
The Records of the Constitutional Convention (Introduction
by the Editor) vii
Chronology xix
Journal of the Constitutional Convention of 1787 1
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LIST OF FAC-SIMILES.
FACING
PAGE
First Page of Madison's Journal, actual size 2
Charles Pinckney's Letter 20
The Pinckney Draft 22
Hamilton's Principal Speech 154
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE RECORDS OF THE CONSTITUTIONAL
CONVENTION.
James Madison's contemporaries generally conceded that he was the
leading statesman in the convention which framed the Constitution of
the United States; but in addition to this he kept a record of the
proceedings of the convention which outranks in importance all the
other writings of the founders of the American Republic. He is thus
identified, as no other man is, with the making of the Constitution
and the correct interpretation of the intentions of the makers. His is
the only continuous record of the proceedings of the convention. He
took a seat immediately in front of the presiding officer, among the
members, and took down every speech or motion as it was made, using
abbreviations of his own and immediately afterwards transcribing his
notes when he returned to his lodgings. A few motions only escaped him
and of important speeches he omitted none. The proceedings were ordered
to be kept secret, but his self-imposed task of reporter had the
unofficial sanction of the convention. Alexander Hamilton corrected
slightly Madison's report of his great speech and handed him his plan of
government to copy. The same thing was done with Benjamin Franklin's
speeches, which were written out by Franklin and read by his colleague
Wilson, the fatigue of delivery being too great for the aged Franklin,
and Madison also copied the Patterson plan. Edmund Randolph wrote out
for him his opening speech from his notes two years after the convention
adjourned.[1]
[1] Madison to Randolph, April 21, 1789.
In the years after the convention Madison made a few alterations and
additions in his journal, with the result that in parts there is much
interlineation and erasure, but after patient study the meaning is
always perfectly clear. Three different styles of Madison's own
penmanship at different periods of his life appear in the journal,
one being that of his old age within five years of his death. In
this hand appears the following note at the end of the journal:
"The few alterations and corrections made in the debates which are
not in my handwriting were dictated by me and made in my presence
by John C. Payne."[2] The rare occasions where Payne's penmanship is
distinguishable are indicated in the notes to this edition.
[2] Mrs. Madison's brother.
The importance attached by Madison to his record is shown by the terms
of his will, dated April 15, 1835, fourteen months before his death:
"I give all my personal estate ornamental as well as useful,
except as herein after otherwise given, to my dear Wife; and
I also give to her all my manuscript papers, having entire
confidence in her discreet and proper use of them, but subject
to the qualification in the succeeding clause. Considering the
peculiarity and magnitude of the occasion which produced the
Convention at Philadelphia in 1787, the Characters who composed
it, the Constitution which resulted from their deliberations,
its effects during a trial of so many years on the prosperity of
the people living under it, and the interest it has inspired
among the friends of free Government, it is not an unreasonable
inference that a careful and extended report of the proceedings
and discussions of that body, which were with closed doors, by a
member who was constant in his attendance, will be particularly
gratifying to the people of the United States, and to all who
take an interest in the progress of political science and the
course of true liberty. It is my desire that the Report as made
by me should be published under her authority and direction."[3]
[3] Orange County, Va., MSS. records.
This desire was never consummated, for Mrs. Madison's friends advised
her that she could not herself profitably undertake the publication of
the work, and she accordingly offered it to the Government, by which it
was bought for $30,000, by act of Congress, approved March 3, 1837. On
July 9, 1838, an act was approved authorizing the Joint Committee on the
Library to cause the papers thus purchased to be published, and the
Committee intrusted the superintendence of the work to Henry D. Gilpin,
Solicitor of the Treasury. The duplicate copy of the journal which Mrs.
Madison had delivered was, under authority of Congress, withdrawn from
the State Department and placed in Mr. Gilpin's hands. In 1840
(Washington: Lantree & O'Sulivan), accordingly, appeared the three
volumes, _The Papers of James Madison Purchased by Order of Congress_,
edited by Henry D. Gilpin. Other issues of this edition, with changes of
date, came out later in New York, Boston, and Mobile. This issue
contained not only the journal of the Constitutional Convention, but
Madison's notes of the debates in the Continental Congress and in the
Congress of the Confederation from February 19 to April 25, 1787, and a
report Jefferson had written of the debates in 1776 on the Declaration
of Independence, besides a number of letters of Madison's. From the text
of Gilpin a fifth volume was added to Elliot's _Debates_ in 1845, and it
was printed in one volume in Chicago, 1893.
Mr. Gilpin's reading of the duplicate copy of the Madison journal is
thus the only one that has hitherto been published.[4] His work was both
painstaking and thorough, but many inaccuracies and omissions have been
revealed by a second reading from the original manuscript journal
written in Madison's own hand, just as he himself left it; and this
original manuscript has been followed with rigid accuracy in the text of
the present edition.
[4] Volume iii of _The Documentary History of the United States_
(Department of State, 1894) is a presentation of a literal
print of the original journal, indicating by the use
of larger and smaller type and by explanatory words the
portions which are interlined or stricken out.
The editor has compared carefully with Madison's report, as the notes
will show, the incomplete and less important records of the convention,
kept by others. Of these, the best known is that of Robert Yates, a
delegate in the convention from New York, who took notes from the time
he entered the convention, May 25, to July 5, when he went home to
oppose what he foresaw would be the result of the convention's labors.
These notes were published in 1821 (Albany), edited by Yates's colleague
in the convention, John Lansing, under the title, _Secret Proceedings
and Debates of the Convention Assembled at Philadelphia, in the Year
1787, for the Purpose of Forming the Constitution of the United States
of America_. This was afterwards reprinted in several editions and in
the three editions of _The Debates on the Federal Constitution_, by
Jonathan Elliot (Washington, 1827-1836). Madison pronounced Yates's
notes "Crude and broken." "When I looked over them some years ago," he
wrote to J. C. Cabell, February 2, 1829, "I was struck with the number
of instances in which he had totally mistaken what was said by me, or
given it in scraps and terms which, taken without the developments or
qualifications accompanying them, had an import essentially different
from what was intended." Yates's notes were by his prejudices,
which were strong against the leaders of the convention, but, making
allowance for this and for their incompleteness, they are of high value
and rank next to Madison's in importance.
Rufus King, a delegate from Massachusetts, kept a number of notes,
scattered and imperfect, which were not published till 1894, when they
appeared in King's _Life and Correspondence of Rufus King_ (New York:
Putnam's).
William Pierce, a delegate from Georgia, made some memoranda of the
proceedings of the convention, and brief and interesting sketches of all
the delegates, which were first printed in _The Savannah Georgian_,
April, 18-28, 1828, and reprinted in _The American Historical Review_
for January, 1898.
The notes of Yates, King, and Pierce are the only unofficial record of
the convention extant, besides Madison's, and their chief value is in
connection with the Madison record, which in the main they support, and
which occasionally they elucidate.
December 30, 1818, Charles Pinckney wrote to John Quincy Adams that he
had made more notes of the convention than any other member except
Madison, but they were never published and have been lost or
destroyed.[5]
[5] See p. 22, n.
In 1819 (Boston) was published the _Journal, Acts and Proceedings of the
Convention_, etc., under the supervision of John Quincy Adams, Secretary
of State, by authority of a joint resolution of Congress of March 27,
1818. This was the official journal of the convention, which the
Secretary, William Jackson, had turned over to the President, George
Washington, when the convention adjourned, Jackson having previously
burned all other papers of the convention in his possession | 584.104372 |
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Produced by Michael Gray, Diocese of San Jose
LEO XIII, THE GREAT LEADER
By Rev. A. P. Doyle
Written in August 1903,
in _The Catholic World_, a monthly magazine,
on the occasion of the death of Pope Leo XIII.
[Portrait of Pope Leo XIII.]
_My course I've run of ninety lengthening years.
From Thee the gift. Crown them with endless bliss.
O hearken to Thy Leo's prayers and tears,
Lest useless they should prove, O grant him this._
Leo XIII.'s Message to the Twentieth Century:
The greatest misfortune is never to have known Jesus Christ. Christ is
the fountain-head of all good. Mankind can no more be saved without
His power than it can be redeemed without His mercy.
When Jesus Christ is absent human reason fails, being bereft of its
chief protection and light: and the very end is lost sight of for
which, under God's providence, human society has been built up.
To reject Dogma is simply to deny Christianity. It is evident that
they whose intellects reject the yoke of Christ are obstinately
striving against God. Having shaken off God's authority, they are by
no means freer, for they will fall beneath some human sway.
God alone is life. All other beings partake of life, but they are not
life. Christ, from all eternity and by His very nature, is "the Life,"
just as He is "the Truth," because He is God of God. If any one abide
not in Me, he shall be cast forth as a branch, and shall wither, and
they shall gather him up and cast him into the fire, and he burneth
(John xv. 6).
Once remove all impediments and allow the spirit of Christ to revive
and grow in a nation, and that nation shall be healed.
The world has heard enough of the so-called "rights of man." Let it
hear something of the rights of God.
The common welfare urgently demands a return to Him from whom we
should never have gone astray: to Him who is the Way, the Truth and
the Life,--and this on the part not only of individuals but of society
as a whole.
LEO XIII., THE GREAT LEADER.
BY REV. A. P. DOYLE.
THE aged Pontiff breathed his last at 4 P. M. on July 20. Because he
had lived for over ninety years, and not for any other immediate
reason, the end came. Though there was an apparent dissolution of his
body under the devastating hand of time, still the mind is as keen and
the heart as full of zeal, and the spirit as eager for work, as though
the years of his glorious pontificate were before him.
During the last fortnight the gaze of all the world has been eagerly
fixed on the death-bed of the expiring Pope, and under the white light
of the public gaze he has loomed up, the great man he is, in all his
gigantic proportions. The world saw the corporal feebleness of age and
the ravaging hand of disease, but it saw also the conquering and
unconquered spirit of the greatest man of his age--the noblest Roman
of them all.
It is not time as yet to write his eulogy. We are too near the massive
proportions of a great life to give a proper estimate of its
greatness. It will be necessary to stand off from it at some distance
in order to get the proper perspective. Still there are, however, some
things that have impressed the world, and from these we cannot get
away.
During these days of his mortal sickness, when the struggle with the
grim monster became the keenest, Leo never is anything but the
Christian gentleman. Men of dominating minds and inflexible wills,
especially if they have been accustomed to rule, are sometimes
thoughtless of others who are about them. They have been so accustomed
to brush away obstacles that the directness and force of their
determination seem to know no fear or favor in dealing with things
that surround them. Leo never forgets the chivalry of Christian
gentleness. When the cardinals come in to see him, though he is as
near prostrate in body | 584.300153 |
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from the Google Print project.)
[Illustration: On the top of the ridge-boards, the lads saw a
half-dressed <DW64> boy.]
THE RIVER MOTOR BOAT BOYS
ON THE MISSISSIPPI
OR
On the Trail to the Gulf
By HARRY GORDON
Author of
"The River Motor Boat Boys on the Colorado,"
"The River Motor Boat Boys on the St. Lawrence,"
"The River Motor Boat Boys on the Amazon,"
"The River Motor Boat Boys on the Columbia,"
"The River Motor Boat Boys on the Ohio."
A. L. BURT COMPANY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1913
By A. L. Burt Company
THE SIX RIVER MOTOR BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI
Contents
I--A Rambler Reception Day
II--Alex. Goes Fishing
III--A Waif from the River
IV--Two Boys Get a Tumble
V--A New Captain on Board
VI--Captain Joe Makes a Hit
VII--Searching for the _Rambler_
VIII--Faces at the Window
IX--Red Declines to Talk
X--More River Outlaws
XI--Fire-Faces on the Island
XII--Half Full of Diamonds
XIII--A River Robber in a New Role
XIV--Alex. Breaks Furniture
XV--The Leather Bag Missing
XVI--What Dropped on Deck
XVII--Getting out of the Mud
XVIII--Swept Into a Swamp
XIX--Pilgrims from Old Chicago
XX--The Darkey up the Tree
XXI--Dodging a Police Boat
XXII--The Sheriff Knows a Lot
XXIII--A Night in New Orleans
XXIV--Something Doing All the Time
XXV--Commonplace, After All
THE SIX RIVER MOTOR BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI
CHAPTER I
A RAMBLER RECEPTION DAY
A white bulldog of ferocious aspect lay sound asleep under a small
table. Lying across the dog's neck, with his soft muzzle hidden
between capable paws, was a quarter-grown grizzly bear. Now and then
Captain Joe, as the dog was named, stirred uneasily in his sleep, as
if in remonstrance at the liberties which Teddy, the cub, was taking
with his person. The bulldog and the cub snored in unison!
The table under which the animals slept stood in the middle of the
small cabin of the motor boat _Rambler_, and the _Rambler_ was pulling
at her anchor chain in the muddy water of the Mississippi
river--pulling and jerking for all the world like a fat pig with a
ring in his nose trying to get rid of the line which held him in
captivity.
Although early in November, there were wandering flakes of snow in the
air, and a chill wind from the northwest was sweeping over the
Mississippi valley. There had been several days of continuous rain,
and, at Cairo, where the motor boat lay, both the Mississippi and the
Ohio rivers were out of their banks.
In spite of the wind and snow, however, the cabin of the _Rambler_ was
cozy and warm. In front of the table where the bulldog and the young
bear lay stood a coal stove, on the top of which two boys of sixteen,
Clayton Emmett and Alexander Smithwick, were cooking ham and eggs, the
appetizing flavor of which filled the little room. A dish of sliced
potatoes stood not far away, and over the cherry-red coils of an
electric stove at the rear of the cabin a great pot of coffee was
sizzling and adding its fragrance to rich contributions of the frying
pan.
While the boys, growing hungrier every second, stirred the fire and
laid the table, footsteps were heard on the forward deck of the motor
boat, and then, without even announcing his presence by a knock, a
roughly-dressed man of perhaps forty years stepped into the cabin and
stood for a moment staring at the bulldog and the bear, stood with a
hand on the knob of the door, as if ready for retreat, his lips open,
as if the view of the interior had checked words half spoken. Alex.
Smithwick regarded the man for a moment with a flash of anger in his
eyes, then he caught the humor of the situation and resolved to punish
the intruder for his impudence in walking into the cabin without a bit
of ceremony.
"Look out for the bulldog and the bear!" he warned. "They consumed two
river-men last week! The bulldog tears 'em down, an' the bear eats
'em!"
"What kind of a menagerie is this?" began the visitor, but Alex. gave
the bulldog a touch with his foot, and the dog | 584.303826 |
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material from the Google Print project.)
THE
SPAWN OF IXION;
OR,
The 'Biter Bit.'
AN
ALLEGORY.
FORGE OF VULCAN.
1846.
THE SPAWN OF IXION.
When Ixion from heaven was hurl'd
To hell, to be for ever whirl'd
In a perpetual damning wheel,
The pit's eternal pains to feel;
'Twas for a bestial, vulgar deed,
Whereby that mortal did succeed
In sinking Juno to the sod--
Seducing e'en that beaut'ous god!
Abomination foul, was this,
To ruin lovely Juno's bliss!--
To raise in heaven domestic strife,
'Twixt Jupiter and his lov'd wife!--
With sins that never were forgiven,
To scandalize the court of heaven!
When Jupiter in pity took
This wretch to heaven, on earth forsook,
He was a vile contempt'ous thing,
Despised by peasant, prince and king;
A wand'ring vagrant, shun'd and curst,
For sending AEneus to the dust.
The aged father of his wife,
Base Ixion deprived of life!
Into a pit of burning fire
He cast poor AEneus to expire!--
And, while this cruel, murd'rous knave,
For sending AEneus to his grave,
From every circle under heaven
With scorn contemptuous, was driven,
This wretched outcast, here forsaken,
By Jupiter, was kindly taken
Into the realms above the skies,
And introduced to deities!
E'en at the tables of the gods
He set this scoundrel of the clods!
Such heavenly condescension should
Inspire a mortal's gratitude:
In Ixion's base and blacken'd breast
Some thankfulness should even rest.
His heart, though steep'd in every deed
Of darkness, in the devil's creed--
In every sin that stains the earth,
Or blackens hell, which gave it birth,
Should now have felt a kindly glow
For what great Jupiter did do.
But Ixion did only feel
A base desire at once to steal
The heart of Juno, and to tread
On Jupiter's celestial bed!
He had an intrigue with the cloud
Of Juno, which the gods allow'd;
And thus the monstrous Centaur came
From Ixion's and Juno's shame.
But Jupiter with thunder hurl'd
The villain from the heavenly world,--
Sent him to hell fore'er to feel
The ceaseless torments of the wheel.
But his vile offspring stays behind,
The bane and curse of human kind,--
Possessing still the bestial fire,
Which deep disgraced and damn'd the sire:
The same inglorious meanness strays
In the vile veins and verse and lays
Of him, on crutches, devil half,
(At whom his kindred centaurs laugh,)
In that deformity of hell.
On whom its attributes have fell,
In him, whose shameless, wicked life
Is with abomination rife,
Whose works, thrice damn'd and doubly dead,
The produce of conceit and lead,
Possess no other aim nor end
But foul abuse of foe and friend.
His heart, polluted with the dung
Of demons damn'd, from hell out flung,
Is rotten to the core with lies,
From which foul slanders thickly rise.
His soul, most pitiful and mean,
Infected with hell-scorch'd gangrene,
No kind, redeeming trait contains,
But reeks with bestial blots and stains.
His mind, with vulgar vice imbued,
Libidinous and low and lewd,
Deep stained with malice, hate and spleen,
With sentiments supremely mean,
Is bent on mischief, foul as hell,
O'er which the hideous Centaurs yell.
Low was his birth and low his name,
Low is his life, and low his fame;
But lower still the depths of wo,
Where Park, when dead and damn'd, must go.
Friends, foes or fiends, alike he fights,
In all he says, or sings, or writes.
This foul defamer, crawling round
The brink of hell, to catch its sound,
Exsudes it thence, in doleful rhyme,
Debased and reeking rank with crime.
On this deformity of man,
More monstrous than the bastard Pan,
Pegasus turn'd his nimble feet,
As Park, on crutches, crawl'd the street;
Urging that steed, against his will,
To bear him up Helicon's hill.
But Pegasus, a knowing horse,
Perceived that Park's conceited verse
Was only suited to the stews
Of hell, whence emanates his muse.
He, therefore, with Bellerophon,
Left him behind, well trampled on,
To tune a pilfer'd, broken lyre,
In fields of mud, and muck, and mire;
And there, his song most lowly set,
Winding through marshes, undulcet,
Contending always with the fog,
Unable e'er to flee the bog,
Does | 584.304727 |
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Internet Archive.)
ELEMENTS OF MORALS:
WITH
SPECIAL APPLICATION OF THE MORAL LAW TO THE
DUTIES OF THE INDIVIDUAL AND OF
SOCIETY AND THE STATE.
BY PAUL JANET,
MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE, OF THE ACADEMY OF MORAL AND POLITICAL
SCIENCES, AUTHOR OF THEORY OF MORALS, HISTORY OF MORAL
AND POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY, FINAL CAUSES, ETC., ETC.
TRANSLATED BY
MRS. C. R. CORSON.
A. S. BARNES & CO.,
NEW YORK AND CHICAGO
_Copyright, 1884, by A. S. Barnes & Co._
PREFACE.
The _Elements de Morale_, by M. Paul Janet, which we here present to the
educational world, translated from the latest edition, is, of all the
works of that distinguished moralist, the one best adapted to college and
school purposes. Its scholarly and methodical arrangement, its clear and
direct reasonings, its felicitous examples and illustrations, drawn with
rare impartiality from the best ancient and modern writers, make of this
study of Ethics, generally so unattractive to young students, one
singularly inviting. It is a system of morals, practical rather than
theoretical, setting forth man's duties and the application thereto of the
moral law. Starting with _Preliminary Notions_, M. Janet follows these up
with a general division of duties, establishes the general principles of
social and individual morality, and chapter by chapter moves from duties
to duties, developing each in all its ramifications with unerring
clearness, decision, and completeness. Never before, perhaps, was this
difficult subject brought to the comprehension of the student with more
convincing certainty, and, at the same time, with more vivid and
impressive illustrations.
The position of M. Paul Janet is that of the _religious_ moralist.
"He supplies," says a writer in the _British Quarterly Review_,[1] in a
notice of his _Theory of Morals_, "the very element to which Mr. Sully
gives so little place. He cannot conceive morals without religion. Stated
shortly, his position is, that moral good is founded upon a natural and
essential good, and that the domains of good and of duty are absolutely
equivalent. So far he would seem to follow Kant; but he differs from Kant
in denying that there are indefinite duties: every duty, he holds, is
definite as to its _form_; but it is either definite or indefinite as to
its application. As religion is simply belief in the Divine goodness,
morality must by necessity lead to religion, and is like a flowerless
plant if it fail to do so. He holds with Kant that _practical faith_ in
the existence of God is the postulate of the moral law. The two things
exist or fall together."
This, as to M. Janet's position as a moralist; as to his manner of
treating his subject, the writer adds:
"... it is beyond our power to set forth, with approach to success, the
admirable series of reasonings and illustrations by which his positions
are established and maintained."
M. Janet's signal merit is the clearness and decision which he gives to
the main points of his subject, keeping them ever distinctly in view, and
strengthening and supplementing them by substantial and conclusive facts,
drawn from the best sources, framing, so to say, his idea in time-honored
and irrefutable truths.
The law of duty thus made clear to the comprehension of the student,
cannot fail to fix his attention; and between fixing the attention and
striking root, the difference is not very great.
C. R. C.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--Preliminary Notions 1
II.--Division of Duties.--General Principles of Social
Morality 33
III.--Duties of Justice.--Duties toward Human Life 50
IV.--Duties Concerning the Property of Others 63
V.--Duties toward the Liberty and toward the Honor of
Others.--Justice, Distributive and Remunerative.--
Equity 93
VI.--Duties of Charity and Self-Sacrifice 111
VII.--Duties toward the State 139
VIII.--Professional Duties 157
IX.--Duties of Nations among themselves.--International Law 182
X.--Family Duties 190
XI.--Duties toward One's Self.--Duties relative to the Body 223
XII.--Duties relative to External Goods 244
XIII.--Duties relative to the Intellect 260
XIV.--Duties relative to the Will 281
XV.--Religious Morality.--Religious Rights and Duties 299
XVI.--Moral Medicine and Gymnastics 315
Appendix to Chapter VIII 341
ELEMENTS OF MORALS.
CHAPTER I.
PRELIMINARY NOTIONS.
SUMMARY.
=Starting point of morals.=--Notions of common sense.
=Object and divisions of morals.=--Practical morality and theoretical
morality.
=Utility of morals.=--Morals are useful: 1, in protecting us against
the sophisms which combat them; 2, in fixing principles in the mind;
3, in teaching us to reflect upon the motives of our actions; 4, in
preparing us for the difficulties which may arise in practice.
=Short resume of theoretical morality.=--Pleasure and the good.--The
useful and the honest.--Duty.--Moral conscience and moral
sentiment.--Liberty.--Merit and demerit.--Moral responsibility.--Moral
sanction.
All sciences have for their starting-point certain elementary notions
which are furnished them by the common experience of mankind. There would
be no arithmetic if men had not, as their wants increased, begun by
counting and calculating, and if they had not already had some ideas of
numbers, unity, fractions, etc.; neither would there be any geometry if
they had not also had ideas of the round, the square, the straight line.
The same is true of morals. They presuppose a certain number of notions
existing among all men, at least to some degree. Good and evil, duty and
obligation, conscience, liberty and responsibility, virtue and vice,
merit and demerit, sanction, punishment and reward, are notions which the
philosopher has not invented, but which he has borrowed from common sense,
to return them again cleared and deepened.
Let us begin, then, by rapidly enumerating the elementary and common
notions, the analysis and elucidation of which is the object of moral
science, and explain the terms employed to express them.
=1. Starting point of morals: common notions.=--All men distinguish the
_good_ and the _bad_, _good_ actions and _bad_ actions. For instance, to
love one's parents, respect other people's property, to keep one's word,
etc., is right; to harm those who have done us no harm, to deceive and
lie, to be ungrateful towards our benefactors, and unfaithful to our
friends, etc., is wrong.
To do right is _obligatory_ on every one--that is, it _should_ be done;
wrong, on the contrary, _should_ be avoided. _Duty_ is that _law_ by which
we are held to do the right and avoid the wrong. It is also called the
_moral law_. This law, like all laws, _commands_, _forbids_, and
_permits_.
He who acts and is capable of doing the right and the wrong, and who
consequently is held to obey the moral law, is called a moral agent. In
order that an agent may be held to obey a law, he must _know it and
understand it_. In morals, as in legislation, _no one is supposed to be
ignorant of the law_. There is, then, in every man a certain knowledge of
the law, that is to say, a natural discernment of the right and the wrong.
This discernment is what is called conscience, or sometimes the _moral
sense_.
Conscience is an act of the mind, a _judgment_. But it is not only the
mind that is made aware of the right and the wrong: it is the heart. Good
and evil, done either by others or by ourselves, awaken in us emotions,
affections of diverse nature. These emotions or affections are what
collectively constitute the _moral sentiment_.
It does not suffice that a man know and distinguish the good and the evil,
and experience for the one and for the other different sentiments; it is
also necessary, in order to be a _moral agent_, that he be capable of
_choosing_ between them; he cannot be commanded to do what he cannot do,
nor can he be forbidden to do what he cannot help doing. This power of
choosing is called _liberty_, or _free will_.
A free agent--one, namely, who can discern between the right and the
wrong--is said to be responsible for his actions; that is to say, he can
answer for them, give an account of them, suffer their consequences; he is
then their _real cause_. His actions may consequently be attributed to
him, put to his account; in other words _imputed_ to him. The agent is
responsible, the actions are _imputable_.
Human actions, we have said, are sometimes good, sometimes bad. These two
qualifications have degrees in proportion to the importance or the
difficulty of the action. It is thus we call an action _suitable_,
_estimable_, _beautiful_, _admirable_, _sublime_, etc. On the other hand,
a bad action is sometimes but a simple mistake, and sometimes a _crime_.
It is _culpable_, _base_, _abominable_, _execrable_, etc.
If we observe in an agent the _habit_ of good actions, a _constant
tendency_ to conform to the law of duty, this habit or constant tendency
is called _virtue_, and the contrary tendency is called _vice_.
Whilst man feels himself bound by his conscience to seek the _right_, he
is impelled by his nature to seek _pleasure_. When he enjoys pleasure
without any admixture of pain, he is _happy_; and the highest degree of
possible pleasure with the least degree of possible pain is _happiness_.
Now, experience shows that happiness is not always in harmony with virtue,
and that pleasure does not necessarily accompany right doing.
And yet we find such a separation unjust; and we believe in a natural and
legitimate connection between pleasure and right, pain and wrong.
Pleasure, considered as the consequence of well-doing, is called
_recompense_; and pain, considered as the legitimate consequence of evil,
is called _punishment_.
When a man has done well he thinks, and all other men think, that he has a
right to a recompense. When he has done ill they think the contrary, and
he himself thinks also that he must atone for his wrong-doing by a
chastisement. This principle, by virtue of which we declare a moral agent
deserving of happiness or unhappiness according to his good or bad
actions, is called the principle of merit and demerit.
The sum total of the rewards and punishments attached to the execution or
violation of a law is called sanction; the sanction of the moral law will
then be called _moral sanction_.
All law presupposes a legislator. The moral law will presuppose, then, a
_moral_ legislator, and morality consequently raises us to God. All human
or earthly sanction being shown by observation to be insufficient, the
moral law calls for a religious sanction. It is thus that morality
conducts us to the _immortality of the soul_.
If we go back upon the whole of the ideas we have just briefly expressed,
we shall see that at each of the steps we have taken there are always two
contraries opposed the one to the other: _good_ and _evil_, _command_ and
_prohibition_, _virtue_ and _vice_, _merit_ and _demerit_, _pleasure_ and
_pain_, _reward_ and _punishment_.
Human life presents itself, then, under two aspects. Man can choose
between the two. This power is liberty. This choice is difficult and
laborious; it exacts from us incessant efforts. It is for this reason that
life is said to be a _trial_, and is often represented as a _combat_. It
should therefore not be represented as a play, but rather as a manly and
valiant effort. Struggle is its condition, peace its prize.
Such are the fundamental ideas _morality_ has for its object, and of which
it seeks, at the same time, both the principles and the applications.
=2. What is morality? the object of morality.=--Morality may be considered
as a _science_ or as an _art_.
By science we understand a totality of truths connected with each other
concerning one and the same object. Science has for its object proper,
_knowledge_.
By art we understand a totality of rules or precepts for directing
activity towards a definite end; art has for its object proper, _action_.
Science is _theoretical_ or _speculative_; art is _practical_.
Morality is a science inasmuch as it seeks to know and demonstrate the
principles and conditions of morality; it is an art inasmuch as it shows
and prescribes to us its applications.
As science, morality may be defined: science of _good_ or science of
_duty_.
As art, morality may be defined: the art of right living or the art of
right acting.
=3. Division of morality.=--Morality is divided into two parts: in one it
studies principles, in the other, applications; in the one, _duty_; in the
other, _duties_.
Hence a _theoretical_ morality and a _practical_ morality. The first may
also be called _general_ morality, and the second _particular_ morality,
because the first has for its object the study of the common and general
character of all our duties, and the other especially that of the
particular duties, which vary according to objects and circumstances. It
is in the first that morality has especially the character of science, and
in the second, the character of art.
=4. Utility of morality.=--The utility of moral science has been disputed.
The ancients questioned whether virtue could be taught. It may also be
asked whether it should be taught. Morality, it is said, depends much more
upon the heart than upon the reasoning faculties. It is rather by
education, example, habit, religion, sentiment, than through theories,
that men become habituated to virtue. If this were so, moral science would
be of no use.
However, though it may be true that for happiness nothing can take the
place of practice, it does not follow that reflection and study may not
very efficaciously contribute toward it, and for the following reasons:
1. It often happens that evil has its origin in the sophisms of the mind,
sophisms ever at the service of the passions. It is therefore necessary to
ward off or prevent these sophisms by a thorough discussion of principles.
2. A careful study of the principles of morality causes them to penetrate
deeper into the soul and gives them there greater fixity.
3. Morality consists not only in the actions themselves, but especially in
the motives of our actions. An outward morality, wholly of habit and
imitation, is not yet the true morality. Morality must needs be
accompanied by conscience and reflection. So viewed, moral science is a
necessary element of a sound education, and the higher its principles the
more the conscience is raised and refined.
4. Life often presents moral problems for our solution. If the mind is not
prepared for them it will lack certainty of decision; what above all is to
be feared is that it will mostly prefer the easier and the more convenient
solution. It should be fortified in advance against its own weakness by
acquiring the habit of judging of general questions before events put it
to the proof.
Such is the utility of morality. It is of the same service to man as
geometry is to the workman; it does not take the place of tact and common
sense, but it guides and perfects them.
It is well understood, moreover, that such a study in nowise excludes, it
even exacts, the co-operation of all the practical means we have indicated
above, which constitute what is called _education_. Doctrinal teaching is
but the complement and confirmation of teaching by practice and by
example.
=5. Short resume of theoretical morality.=--_Theoretical_ morality should,
in fact, precede practical morality, and that is what usually takes place;
but as it presents more difficulties and less immediate applications than
practical morality, we shall defer the developments it may give rise to,
to a subsequent year.[2] The present will be a short resume, purely
elementary, containing only preliminary and strictly necessary notions. It
will be an exposition of the common notions we have just enumerated above.
=6. Pleasure and the good.=--Morality being, as we have said, the science
of the _good_, the first question that presents itself is: What is _good_?
If we are to believe the first impulses of nature, which instinctively
urge us towards the agreeable and cause us to repel all that is painful,
the answer to the preceding question would not be difficult; we should
have but to reply: "Good is what makes us happy; good is _pleasure_."
One can, without doubt, affirm that morality teaches us to be happy, and
puts us on the way to true happiness. But it is not, as one might believe,
in obeying that blind law of nature which inclines us towards pleasure,
that we shall be truly happy. The road morality points out is less easy,
but surer.
Some very simple reflections will suffice to show us that it cannot be
said absolutely that pleasure is the _good_ and pain the _bad_. Experience
and reasoning easily demonstrate the falsity of this opinion.
1. Pleasure is not always a good, and in certain circumstances it may even
become a real evil; and, _vice versa_, pain is not always an evil, and it
may even become a great good. Thus we see, on the one hand, that the
pleasures of intemperance bring with them sickness, the loss of health and
reason, shortening of life. The pleasures of idleness bring poverty,
uselessness, the contempt of men. The pleasures of vengeance and of crime
carry with them chastisement, remorse, etc. Conversely, again, we see the
most painful troubles and trials bringing with them evident good. The
amputation of a limb saves our life; energetic and painstaking work brings
comfort, etc. In these different cases, if we consider their results, it
is pleasure that is an evil and pain a good.
2. It must be added that among the pleasures there are some that are low,
degrading, vulgar; for example, the pleasures of drunkenness; others,
again, that are noble and generous, as the heroism of the soldier. Among
the pleasures of man there are some he has in common with the beasts, and
others that are peculiar to him alone. Shall we put the one kind and the
other on the same level? Assuredly not.
3. There are pleasures very keen, which, however, are fleeting, and soon
pass away, as the pleasures of the passions; others which are durable and
continuous, as those of health, security, domestic comfort, and the
respect of mankind. Shall we sacrifice life-long pleasures to pleasures
that last but an hour?
4. Other pleasures are very great, but equally uncertain, and dependent on
chance; as, for instance, the pleasures of ambition or the pleasures of
the gaming-table; others, again, calmer and less intoxicating, but surer,
as the pleasures of the family circle.
Pleasures may then be compared in regard to _certainty_, _purity_,
_durability_, _intensity_, etc. Experience teaches that we should not seek
pleasures without distinction and choice; that we should use our reason
and compare them; that we should sacrifice an uncertain and fleeting
present to a durable future; prefer the simple and peaceful pleasures,
free from regrets, to the tumultuous and dangerous pleasures of the
passions, etc.; in a word, sacrifice the _agreeable_ to the _useful_.
=7. Utility and honesty.=--One should prefer, we have just seen, the
_useful_ to the _agreeable_; but the useful itself should not be
confounded with the real good--that is, with the _honest_.
Let us explain the differences between these two ideas.
1. There is no honesty or moral goodness without _disinterestedness_; and
he who never seeks anything but his own personal interest is branded by
all as a _selfish_ man.
2. Interest gives only advice; morality gives _commands_. A man is not
obliged to be skillful, but he is obliged to be _honest_.
3. Personal interest cannot be the foundation of any _universal_ and
_general_ law as applicable to others as to ourselves, for the happiness
of each depends on his own way of viewing things. Every man takes his
pleasure where he finds it, and understands his interest as he pleases;
but honesty or justice is the same for all men.
4. The honest is _clear_ and _self-evident_; the useful is _uncertain_.
Conscience tells every one what is right or wrong; but it requires a long
trained experience to calculate all the possible consequences of our
actions, and it would often be absolutely impossible for us to foresee
them. We cannot, therefore, always know what is useful to us; but we can
always know what is right.
5. It is never impossible to do right; but one cannot always carry out his
own wishes in order to be happy. The prisoner may always bravely bear his
prison, but he cannot always get out of it.
6. We judge ourselves according to the principles of action we recognize.
The man who _loses_ in gambling may _be troubled_ and regret his
imprudence; but he who is conscious of having cheated in gambling (though
he won thereby) must _despise_ himself if he judges himself from the
standpoint of moral law. This law must therefore be something else than
the principle of personal happiness. For, to be able to say to one's self,
"I am a _villain_, though I have filled my purse," requires another
principle than that by which one congratulates himself, saying, "I am a
prudent man, for I have filled my cash-box."
7. The idea of _punishment_ or chastisement could not be understood,
moreover, if the good only were the useful. A man is not punished for
having been _awkward_; he is punished for being culpable.
=8. The good or the honest.=--We have just seen that neither pleasure nor
usefulness is the legitimate and supreme object of human life. We are
certainly permitted to seek pleasure, since nature invites us to it; but
we should not make it the aim of life. We are also permitted, and even
sometimes commanded, to seek what is useful, since reason demands we see
to our self-preservation. But, above pleasure and utility, there is
another aim, a higher aim, the real object of human life. This higher and
final aim is what we call, according to circumstances, the _good_, the
_honest_, and the _just_.
Now, what is _honesty_?
We distinguish in man a double nature, _body_ and _soul_; and in the soul
itself two parts, one superior, one inferior; one more particularly
deserving of the name of soul, the other more carnal, more material, if
one may say so, which comes nearer the body. In one class we have
_intelligence_, _sentiments_, _will_; in the other, _senses_, _appetites_,
_passions_. Now, that which distinguishes man from the lower animal is the
power to rise above the senses, appetites, and passions, and to be capable
of thinking, loving, and willing.
Thus, moral good consists in preferring what there is best in us to what
there is least good; the goods of the soul to the goods of the body; the
dignity of human nature to the servitude of animal passions; the noble
affections of the heart to the inclinations of a vile selfishness.
In one word, moral good consists in man becoming truly man--that is to
say, "A free will, guided by the heart and enlightened by reason."
Moral good takes different names, according to the relations under which
we consider it. For instance, when we consider it as having for its
special object the individual man in relation with himself, good becomes
what is properly called the _honest_, and has for its prime object
personal dignity. In its relation with other men, good takes the name of
the _just_, and has for its special object the happiness of others. It
consists either in not doing to others what we should not wish they should
do to us, or in doing to others as we should ourselves wish to be done by.
Finally, in its relation to God, the good is called piety or saintliness,
and consists in rendering to the Father of men and of the universe what is
his due.
=9. Duty.=--Thus, the _honest_, the _just_, and the _pious_ are the
different names which moral good takes in its relations to ourselves, to
other men, or to God.
Moral good, under these different forms, presents itself always in the
same character, namely, imposing on us the obligation to do it as soon as
we recognize it, and that, too, without regard to consequences and
whatever be our inclinations to the contrary.
Thus, we should tell the truth even though it injures us; we should
respect the property of others, though it be necessary to our existence;
finally, we should even sacrifice, if necessary, our life for the family
and the country.
This law, which prescribes to us the doing right for its own sake, is what
is called _moral law_ or the _law of duty_. It is a sort of constraint,
but a _moral constraint_, and is distinguished from _physical_ constraint
by the fact that the latter is dictated by fate and is irresistible,
whilst the constraint of duty imposes itself upon our reason without
violating our liberty. This kind of necessity, which commands reason alone
without constraining the will, is moral _obligation_.
To say that the right is obligatory is to say, then, that we consider
ourselves held to do it, without being forced to do it. On the contrary,
if we were to do it by force it would cease to be the right. It must
therefore be done freely, and duty may thus be defined _an obligation
consented to_.
Duty presents itself in a two-fold character: it is _absolute_ and
_universal_.
1. It is absolute: that is to say, it imposes its commands
unconditionally, without taking account of our desires, our passions, our
interests. It is by this that the _commands_ of duty may be distinguished,
as we have already said, from the counsels of an interested prudence. The
rules or calculations of prudence are nothing but _means_ to reach a
certain end, which is the useful. The _law_ of duty, on the contrary, is
in itself its own _aim_. Here the law should be obeyed for its own sake,
and not for any other reason. Prudence says: "The end justifies the
means." Duty says: "Do as thou shouldst do, let come what will."
2. From this first character a second is deduced: duty being absolute, is
_universal_; that is to say, it can be applied to all men in the same
manner and under the same circumstances; whence it follows that each must
acknowledge that this law is imposed not only on himself, but on all other
men also.
To which correspond those two beautiful maxims of the Gospel: "Do to
others as thou wishest to be done by. Do not do to others what thou dost
not wish they should do to thee."
The law of duty is not only obligatory in itself, it is so also because it
is derived from God, who in his justice and goodness wishes we should
submit to it. God being himself the absolutely perfect being, and having
created us in his image, wishes, for this very reason, that we should make
every effort to imitate him as much as possible, and has thus imposed on
us the obligation of being virtuous. It is God we obey in obeying the law
of honesty and duty.
=10. Moral conscience.=--A law cannot be imposed on a free agent without
its being known to him; without its being present to his mind--that is to
say, without his accepting it as true, and recognizing the necessity of
its application in every particular case. This faculty of recognizing the
moral law, and applying it in all the circumstances that may present
themselves, is what is called _conscience_.
Conscience is then that act of the mind by which we apply to a particular
case, to an action _to be performed_ or already _performed_, the general
rules prescribed by moral law. It is both the power that commands and the
inward judge that condemns or absolves. On the one hand it _dictates_ what
should be done or avoided; on the other it _judges_ what has been done.
Hence it is the condition of the performance of all our duties.
Conscience being the practical judgment which in each particular case
decides the right and the wrong, one can ask of man only one thing:
namely, to act according to his conscience. At the moment of action there
is no other rule. But one must take great care lest by subtle doubts, he
obscures either within himself or in others the clear and distinct
decisions of conscience.
In fact, men often, to divert themselves from the right when they wish to
do certain bad actions, fight their own conscience with sophisms. Under
the influence of these sophisms, conscience becomes _erroneous_; that is
to say, it ends by taking good for evil and evil for good, and this is
even one of the punishments of those who follow the path of vice: they
become at last incapable of discerning between right and wrong. When it is
said of a man that _he has no conscience_, it is not meant that he is
really deprived of it (else he were not a man); but that he has fallen
into the habit of not consulting it or of holding its decisions in
contempt.
By _ignorant conscience_ we mean that conscience which does wrong because
it has not yet learned to know what is right. Thus, a child tormenting
animals does not always do so out of bad motives: he does not know or does
not think that he hurts them. In fact, it is with good as it is with evil;
the child is already good or bad before it is able to discern between the
one or the other. This is what is called the state of _innocence_, which
in some respects is conscience asleep. But this state cannot last; the
child's conscience, and in general the conscience of all men, must be
enlightened. This is the progress of human reason which every day teaches
us better to know the difference between good and evil.
It sometimes happens that one is in some respects in doubt between two
indications of conscience; not, of course, between duty and passion, which
is the highest moral combat, but between two or more duties. This is what
is called a _doubting_ or _perplexed_ conscience. In such a case the
simplest rule to follow, when it is practicable, is the one expressed by
that celebrated maxim: _When in doubt, abstain_. In cases where it is
impossible to absolutely abstain, and where it becomes necessary not only
to act but to choose, the rule should always be to choose that part which
favors least our interests, for we may always suppose that that which
causes our conscience to doubt, is an interested, unobserved motive. If
there is no private interest in the matter either on the one side or the
other, there remains nothing better to do than to decide according to
circumstances. But it is very rare that conscience ever finds itself in
such an absolute state of doubt, and there are almost always more reasons
on the one side than on the other. The simplest and most general rule in
such a case is to chose what seems most probable.
=11. Moral Sentiment.=--At the same time, as the _mind_ distinguishes
between good and evil by a _judgment_ called conscience, the _heart_
experiences emotions or divers affections, which are embraced under the
common term _moral sentiment_. These are the pleasures or pains which
arise in our soul at the sight of good or evil, either in _ourselves_ or
in _others_.
In respect to our own actions this sentiment is modified according as the
action is to be performed, or is already performed. In the first instance
we experience, | 584.307016 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Dorrien of Cranston
By Bertram Mitford
Published by Hurst and Blackett, Limited, London.
This edition dated 1903.
Dorrien of Cranston, by Bertram Mitford.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
DORRIEN OF CRANSTON, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.
CHAPTER ONE.
CONC | 584.308959 |
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[Illustration: THE DISOBEDIENT BOY. _Page 95_]
PRECEPTS IN PRACTICE.
[Illustration: OLD JONAS. _Page 140._]
_THOMAS NELSON AND SONS_,
LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK.
PRECEPTS IN PRACTICE;
OR,
_STORIES ILLUSTRATING THE PROVERBS_.
BY
A. L. O. E.,
AUTHOR OF “THE SILVER CASKET”, “THE ROBBERS’ CAVE,” ETC., ETC.
WITH THIRTY-NINE ENGRAVINGS
London:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1887
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Preface.
Dear young friends (perhaps I may rather welcome some amongst you as
_old_ friends), I would once more gather you around me to listen to my
simple stories. I have in each one endeavoured to exemplify some truth
taught by the wise King Solomon, in the Book of Proverbs. Perhaps the
holy words, which I trust that many of you have already learned to love,
may be more forcibly imprinted on your minds, and you may apply them
more to your own conduct, when you see them illustrated by tales
describing such events as may happen to yourselves.
May the Giver of all good gifts make the choice of Solomon also yours;
may you, each and all, be endowed with that wisdom from on high which is
_more precious than rubies_; and may you find, as you proceed onward to
that better home to which Heavenly Wisdom would guide you, that _her
ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace_.
A. L. O. E.
Contents.
I. THE TWO SONS, 9
II. THE PRISONER RELEASED, 21
III. THE MOTHER’S RETURN, 34
IV. THE FRIEND IN NEED, 43
V. FORBIDDEN GROUND, 62
VI. CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE, 76
VII. THE GREAT PLAGUE, 89
VIII. THE GREEN VELVET DRESS, 99
IX. FALSE FRIENDS, 115
X. COURAGE AND CANDOUR, 129
XI. THE SAILOR’S RESOLVE, 146
XII. THE GIPSIES, 158
XIII. FRIENDS IN NEED, 173
XIV. THE OLD PAUPER, 190
XV. THE BEAUTIFUL VILLA, 203
List of Illustrations.
THE DISOBEDIENT BOY, _Frontispiece_
OLD JONAS, _Vignette_
THE FROZEN LAKE, 10
HARRY TENDING HIS MOTHER, 13
DR. MERTON AND PAUL, 16
THE FUNERAL, 18
MARIA AND MARY, 35
WATCHING FOR MOTHER, 38
GOING TO CHURCH, 44
ON A VISIT, 45
OLD WILL AYLMER, 46
SEEKING THE LORD, 57
LITTLE JOSEPH, 63
THE STREET STALL, 65
THE LAWN, 68
MRS. GRAHAM AND JOSEPH, 73
LUCY AND PRISCILLA, 78
THE TEACHER’S STORY, 92
THE PLAGUE IN LONDON, 94
JENNY IN THE STORM, 101
THE MESSAGE, 103
ALIE WATCHING THE CAT, 135
“POOR TABBY!” 136
ALIE AND THE GIPSY GIRL, 161
THE GIPSIES, 163
THE GIPSY’S APPROACH, 169
THE GREEN LANE, 174
THE OLD PAUPER, 191
MRS. WARNER AND JESSY, 206
PRECEPTS IN PRACTICE.
CHAPTER I.
THE TWO SONS.
“A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish man despiseth his
mother.”—PROV. xv. 20.
It was a clear, cold morning in December. Not a cloud was in the sky,
and the sun shone brightly, gilding the long icicles that hung from the
eaves, and gleaming on the frozen surface of the lake, as though he
would have melted them by his kindly smile. But the cold was too intense
for that; there was no softening of the ice; no drop hung like a tear
from the glittering icicles. Alas! that we should ever find in life
hearts colder and harder still, that even kindness fails to melt!
Many persons were skating over the lake—sometimes darting forward with
the swiftness of the wind, then making graceful curves to the right or
the left, and forming strange figures on the ice. And there were many
boys also enjoying themselves as much, although in a different
way—sliding along the slippery surface, and making the air ring with
their merry laughter.
[Illustration: THE FROZEN LAKE.]
One of the gayest of these last was a rosy-cheeked boy, who looked as
though care or sorrow had never traced a line on his face. He had just
made a very long slide, and stood flushed with the exercise to watch his
companions follow him on the glistening line, when Dr. Merton, a medical
man, who was taking his morning walk, and had come to the lake to see
the skating, lightly touched the boy on the shoulder.
“Paul Fane, is your mother better to-day?”
“Oh, she’s well enough—that’s to say, she’s always ailing,” replied the
boy carelessly, still keeping his eye upon the sliders.
“Did she sleep better last night?”
“Oh, really, why I don’t exactly know. I’ve not seen her yet this
morning.”
“Not seen her!” repeated Dr. Merton in surprise.
“Oh, sir, I knew that she’d be worrying me about my coming here upon the
ice. She’s so fidgety and frightened—she treats one like a child, and is
always fancying that there is danger when there is none;” and the boy
turned down his lip with a contemptuous expression.
“I should say that you are in danger now,” said Dr. Merton, very
gravely.
“How so? the ice is thick enough to roast an ox upon,” replied Paul,
striking it with his heel.
“In danger of the anger of that great Being who hath said, _Honour thy
father and thy mother_—in danger of much future pain and regret, when
the time for obeying that command shall be lost to you for ever.”
Paul’s cheek grew redder at these words. He felt half inclined to make
an insolent reply; but there was something in the doctor’s manner which
awed even his proud and unruly spirit.
“Where is your brother Harry?” inquired Dr. Merton.
“Oh, I suppose at home,” replied Paul bluffly, glad of any change in the
conversation; and still more glad was he when the gentleman turned away,
and left him to pursue his amusement.
And where was Harry on that bright, cheerful morning, while his brother
was enjoying himself upon the ice? In a little, dull, close room, with a
peevish invalid, the sunshine mostly shut out by the dark blinds, while
the sound of merry voices from without contrasted with the gloomy
stillness within. Harry glided about with a quiet step, trimmed the
fire, set on the kettle, prepared the gruel for his mother, and carried
it gently to the side of her bed. He arranged the pillows comfortably
for the sufferer, and tended her even as she had tended him in the days
of his helpless infancy. The fretfulness of the sick woman never moved
his patience. He remembered how often, when he was a babe, his cry had
broken her rest and disturbed her comfort. How could he do enough for
her who had given him life, and watched over him and loved him long,
long before he had been able even to make the small return of a grateful
look? Oh! what a holy thing is filial obedience! God commands it, God
has blessed it, and He will bless it for ever. He that disobeys or
neglects a parent is planting thorns for his own pillow, and they are
thorns that shall one day pierce him even to the soul.
[Illustration: HARRY TENDING HIS MOTHER.]
“Where is Paul?” said Mrs. Fane with uneasiness. “I am always anxious
about that dear boy. I do trust that he has not ventured upon the ice.”
“I believe, mother, that the ice has been considered safe, quite safe,
for the last three days.”
“You know nothing about the matter,” cried the fretful invalid. “I had a
cousin drowned once in that lake when every one said that there was no
danger. I have forbidden you both a thousand times to go near the ice;”
and she gave her son a look of displeasure, as though he had been the
one to break her command.
“Will you not take your gruel now?” said Harry, again drawing her
attention to it, and placing yet closer to her that which he had so
carefully made.
“I do not like it—it’s cold—it’s full of lumps; you never do anything
well!”
“I must try and improve,” said her son, struggling to look cheerful, but
feeling the task rather hard. “If you will not take this, shall I get
you a little tea?”
Mrs. Fane assented with a discontented air, and Harry instantly
proceeded to make some; while all the time that he was thus engaged his
poor mother continued in a tone of anxiety and sorrow to express her
fears for her elder son.
“Are you more comfortable now, dear mother?” said Harry, after she had
partaken of her nice cup of tea. Her only reply was a moan. “Can I do
anything else for you? | 584.535883 |
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[Illustration]
VERSES.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VERSES.
“_Be friendly, pray, to these fancies of mine._”
--BETTINE BRENTANO.
[Illustration]
NEWPORT, R. I., C. E. HAMMETT, JR., 1878.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Sonnets.
I. LE VIOL D’AMOUR.
(An Organ-stop.)
O soft, caressing sound, more sweet than scent
Of violets in woody hollows! Tone
As amorous as the ring-dove’s tender moan
Beneath the spreading forest’s leafy tent;
What mystery of earth or air hath lent
Thee that bewitching music, where the drone
Of Summer bees in dewy buds new blown
With trembling, fainting melody is blent?
What master did conceive thee, as the sound
Most fit to woo his lady from her rest,
What wakeful maiden in thy wooing found
The passion of her lover first exprest,
And from her silken pillows, beauty-crowned,
Stept forth and smiled on him who loved her best?
_November 10th, 1875._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II. VESPERS.
It is the vesper hour, and in yon aisle
Where fainting incense clouds the heavy air
My lady’s kneeling at her evening prayer,
Alone and silently; for in a file
The choristers have passed, and left her there,
Where martyrs from the tinted windows stare,
And saints look downward with a holy smile
Upon her meek devotions, while the day
Fades slowly, and a tender amber light
From panes about her head doth play--
Her veil falls like a shade, and ghostly white
Her clasped hands glimmer through the deepening gray;
So will she kneel, until from Heaven’s height
The Angels bend to hear their sister pray.
_November 11th, 1875._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III. BETTINE TO GOETHE.
“Be friendly, pray, with these fancies of mine.” BETTINE.
Could youth discrown thy head of its gray hair,
I could not love it as I love it now;
Could one grand line be smoothed from thy brow,
’Twould seem to me less stately and less fair.
O no, be as thou art! For thou dost wear
The signs of noble age that cannot bow
Thine intellect like thy form, and I who know
How each year that did visibly impair
Thy first fresh youth, left inwardly such grand
And gracious gifts, would rather have thee so--
Believe me, master, who erect doth stand
In soul and purpose, age cannot lay low
Till he receive, new from the Father’s hand
The youth he did but outwardly forego.
_April, 1876._
[Illustration]
Spring Song.
“O primavera! Gioventù dell’ anno.”
The first warm buds that break their covers,
The first young twigs that burst in green,
The first blade that the sun discovers,
Starting the loosened earth between.
The pale soft sky, so clear and tender,
With little clouds that break and fly;
The crocus, earliest pretender
To the low breezes passing by;
The chirp and twitter of brown builders,
A couple in a tree, at least;
The watchful wisdom of the elders
For callow younglings in the nest;
The flush of branches with fair blossoms,
The deepening of the faint green boughs,
As leaf by leaf the crown grows fuller
That binds the young Spring’s rosy brows;
New promise every day of sweetness,
The next bright dawn is sure to bring;
Slow breaking into green completeness,
Fresh rapture of the early Spring!
_May, 1876._
Prophecies of Summer.
I found a wee leaf in the cleft
Where the half-melted ice had left
A sunny corner, moist and warm,
For it to bud, beyond all harm.
The wet, brown sod,
Long horned with ice, had slowly grown
So soft, the tender seedling blown
By Autumn winds, in earliest Spring
Sent through the sun-warmed covering,
Its little leaf to God.
I found it there, beneath a ledge,
The dawning Spring time’s fairest pledge,
And to my mind it dimly brought
The sudden, joyous, leafy thought
Of Summer-time.
I plucked it from the sheltered cleft
Which the more kindly ice had left.
Within my hand to drop and die,
But for its sweet suggestions, I
Revive it in a rhyme.
_1876._
[Illustration]
Song.
O Love, where are the hours fled,
The hours of our young delight?
Are they forever gone and dead,
Or only vanished out of sight?
O can it be that we shall live
To know once more the joys gone by,
To feel the old, deep love revive,
And smile again before we die?
Could I but fancy it might be,
Could I the past bring back again,
And for one moment, holding thee,
Forget the present and its pain!
O Love, those hours are past away
Beyond our longing and our sighs--
Perhaps the Angels, some bright day,
Will give them back in Paradise!
_August, 1876._
[Illustration]
Heaven.
Not over roof and spire doth Heaven lie,
Star-sentinelled from our humanity,
Beyond the humble reach of every day.
And only near us when we weep or pray;
But rather in the household and the street,
Where loudest is the noise of hurrying feet,
Where hearts beat thickest, where our duties call,
Where watchers sit, where tears in silence fall.
We know not, or forget, there is no line
That marks our human off from our divine;
For all one household, all one family
In different chamberings labouring are we;
God leaves the doors between them open wide,
Knowing how life and death are close allied,
And though across the threshold, in the gloom,
We cannot see into that other room,
It may be that the dear ones watching there
Can hear our cry of passionate despair,
And wait unseen to lead us through the door
When twilight comes, and all our work is o’er.
_January, 1877._
[Illustration]
“Maiden, Arise.”
She, whom through life her God forbade to hear
The voices of her nearest and most dear,
So that she dwelt, amid the hum and rush
Of cities, in a vast, eternal hush,
Yet heard the first low calling of the voice
That others had not heeded in the noise,
And rising, when it whispered “Come with me,”
Followed the form that others could not see,
Smiling, perchance, in death at last to hear
The voices of the Angels fill her ear,
While the great, silent void that closed her round
Was overflowed with rippled floods of sound,
And the dumb past in Alleluias drowned.
_March, 1877._
[Illustration]
Spring.
A Fragment.
HILDEGARD.
It is the time when everything
Is flusht with presage of the Spring,
When every leaf and twig and bud
Feels new life rushing like a flood
Through greening veins and bursting tips;
When every hour a sunbeam slips
Across a sleepy flower’s mouth,
And wakes it, babbling of the South;
When birds are doubtful where or how
To hang their nests on trunk or bough,
And all that is in wood or croft
Beneath an influence balmy-soft
Towards the light begins to strive,
Feeling how good it is to live!
WALTHER.
How beautiful thou standest there,
Thyself a prophet of the May!
The shining of thy golden hair
Would melt December’s snows away.
The roses on thy cheeks would woo
Forth envious blossoms from their sleeps.
And robins plume their breasts anew
To mock the crimson of thy lips.
HILDEGARD.
But where would be the golden tresses,
With ribands bravely intertwined
And where the roses, that thy praises
Have opened like a Summer wind,
Wert thou, my love, my Knight, not here,
To make these empty beauties dear?
The Spring would never deck her train
In such a fair and winsome wise
Did she not seek by smiles to chain
The sun her royal lover’s eyes.
_1876._
[Illustration]
May Marian.
A BALLAD.
In our town there dwelt a maiden
Whom the folk called Marian;
In her narrow gabled casement
All day long she sat and span.
Till a gentleman came riding
Through our town one Summer day,
Spied May Marian at the casement,
Stole her silly heart away.
Then she up and left her spinning,
Laid aside her russet gown,
In a footboy’s cap and mantle
Followed him to London town.
There he led her to a mansion
Standing by the river side;
“In that mansion dwells the lady
Who is my betrothed bride;
“Gif thou’lt be her serving-maiden,
Thou shalt wear a braw red gown,
Follow her to mass on Sunday
Through the streets of London town;
“But if thou’lt not be her maiden,
Turn about and get thee home;
’Tis not meet that country wenches
Through the city here | 584.602261 |
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E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE
OR
CAMPING AND TRAMPING FOR FUN AND HEALTH
BY LAURA LEE HOPE
1913
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I A FLUTTERING PAPER
II THE TRAMPING CLUB
III JEALOUSIES
IV A TAUNT
V AMY'S MYSTERY
VI THE LEAKY BOAT
VII TO THE RESCUE
VIII CLOSING DAYS
IX OFF ON THE TOUR
X ON THE WRONG ROAD
XI THE BARKING DOG
XII AT AUNT SALLIE'S
XIII THE MISSING LUNCH
XIV THE BROKEN RAIL
XV "IT'S A BEAR!"
XVI THE DESERTED HOUSE
XVII IN CHARGE
XVIII RELIEVED
XIX A LITTLE LOST GIRL
XX THE BOY PEDDLER
XXI THE LETTER
XXII A PERILOUS LEAP
XXIII THE MAN'S STORY
XXIV BY TELEGRAPH
XXV BACK HOME
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE
CHAPTER I
A FLUTTERING PAPER
Four girls were walking down an elm-shaded street. Four girls, walking
two by two, their arms waist-encircling, their voices mingling in rapid
talk, punctuated with rippling laughter--and, now and then, as their
happy spirits fairly bubbled and overflowed, breaking into a few waltz
steps to the melody of a dreamy song hummed by one of their number. The
sun, shining through the trees, cast patches of golden light on the stone
sidewalk, and, as the girls passed from sunshine to shadow, they made a
bright, and sometimes a dimmer, picture on the street, whereon were other
groups of maidens. For school was out.
"Betty Nelson, the idea is perfectly splendid!" exclaimed the tallest of
the quartette; a stately, fair girl with wonderful braids of hair on
which the sunshine seemed to like to linger.
"And it will be such a relief from the ordinary way of doing things,"
added the companion of the one who thus paid a compliment to her chum
just in advance of her. "I detest monotony!"
"If only too many things don't happen to us!" This somewhat timid
observation came from the quietest of the four--she who was walking with
the one addressed as Betty.
"Why, Amy Stonington!" cried the girl who had first spoken, as she tossed
her head to get a rebellious lock of hair out of her dark eyes. "The very
idea! We _want_ things to happen; don't we, Betty?" and she caught the
arm of one who seemed to be the leader, and whirled her about to look
into her face. "Answer me!" she commanded. "Don't we?"
Betty smiled slightly, revealing her white, even teeth. Then she said
laughingly, and the laugh seemed to illuminate her countenance:
"I guess Grace meant certain kinds of happenings; didn't you, Grace?"
"Of course," and the rather willowy creature, whose style of dress
artistically accentuated her figure, caught a pencil that was slipping
from a book, and thrust it into the mass of light hair that was like a
crown to her beauty.
"Oh, that's all right, then," and Amy, who had interposed the
objection, looked relieved. She was a rather quiet girl, of the
character called "sweet" by her intimates; and truly she had the
disposition that merited the word.
"When can we start?" asked Grace Ford. Then, before an answer could be
given, she added: "Don't let's go so fast. We aren't out to make a
walking record to-day. Let's stop here in the shade a moment."
The four came to a halt beneath a great horsechestnut tree, that gave
welcome relief from the sun, which, though it was only May, still had
much of the advance hint of summer in it. There was a carriage block near
the curb, and Grace "draped herself artistically about it," as Mollie
Billette expressed it.
"If you're tired now, what will you be if we walk five or six miles a
day?" asked Betty with a smile. "Or even more, perhaps."
"Oh, I can if I have to--but I don't have to now. Come, Betty, tell us
when we are to start."
"Why, we can't decide now. Are you so anxious all of a sudden?" and Betty
pulled down and straightened the blue middy blouse that had been rumpled
by her energetic chums.
"Of course. I detest waiting--for trains or anything else. I'm just dying
to go, and I've got the cutest little traveling case. It--"
"Has a special compartment for chocolates; hasn't it, Grace?" asked
Mollie Billette, whose dark and flashing eyes, and black hair, with just
a shade of steely-blue in it, betrayed the French blood in her veins.
"Oh, Grace couldn't get along without candy!" declared Betty, with a
smile.
"Now that's mean!" exclaimed Grace, whose tall and slender figure, and
face of peculiar, winsome beauty had gained her the not overdrawn
characterization of "Gibson girl." "I don't see why Billy wants to always
be saying such horrid things about me!"
"I didn't say anything mean!" snapped Mollie, whose pseudonym was more
often "Billy" than anything else. "And I don't want you to say that I
do!" Her eyes flashed, and gave a hint of the hidden fire of temper which
was not always controlled. The other girls looked at her a bit
apprehensively.
"If you don't like the things I say," she went on, "there are those who
do. And what's more--"
"Billy," spoke Betty, softly. "I'm sure Grace didn't mean--"
"Oh, I know it!" exclaimed Mollie, contritely. " | 584.602268 |
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Produced by Ted Garvin, David King, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team
A SELECTION
FROM THE
DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS
WITH
THE ENCHEIRIDION
TRANSLATED BY
GEORGE LONG
CONTENTS.
EPICTETUS (BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE)
A SELECTION FROM THE DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS
THE ENCHEIRIDION, OR MANUAL
EPICTETUS.
Very little is known of the life of Epictetus. It is said that he was a
native of Hierapolis in Phrygia, a town between the Maeander and a
branch of the Maeander named the Lycus. Hierapolis is mentioned in the
epistle of Paul to the people of Colossae (Coloss. iv., 13); from which
it has been concluded that there was a Christian church in Hierapolis in
the time of the apostle. The date of the birth of Epictetus is unknown.
The only recorded fact of his early life is that he was a slave in Rome,
and his master was Epaphroditus, a profligate freedman of the Emperor
Nero. There is a story that the master broke his slave's leg by
torturing him; but it is better to trust to the evidence of Simplicius,
the commentator on the Encheiridion, or Manual, who says that Epictetus
was weak in body and lame from an early age. It is not said how he
became a slave; but it has been asserted in modern times that the
parents sold the child. I have not, however, found any authority for
this statement.
It may be supposed that the young slave showed intelligence, for his
master sent or permitted him to attend the lectures of C. Musonius
Rufus, an eminent Stoic philosopher. It may seem strange that such a
master should have wished to have his slave made into a philosopher; but
Garnier, the author of a "Memoire sur les Ouvrages d'Epictete," explains
this matter very well in a communication to Schweighaeuser. Garnier
says: "Epictetus, born at Hierapolis of Phrygia of poor parents, was
indebted apparently for the advantages of a good education to the whim,
which was common at the end of the Republic and under the first
emperors, among the great of Rome to reckon among their numerous slaves
grammarians, poets, rhetoricians, and philosophers, in the same way as
rich financiers in these later ages have been led to form at a great
cost rich and numerous libraries. This supposition is the only one which
can explain to us how a wretched child, born as poor as Irus, had
received a good education, and how a rigid Stoic was the slave of
Epaphroditus, one of the officers of the imperial guard. For we cannot
suspect that it was through predilection for the Stoic doctrine, and for
his own use, that the confidant and the minister of the debaucheries of
Nero would have desired to possess such a slave."
Some writers assume that Epictetus was manumitted by his master, but I
can find no evidence for this statement. Epaphroditus accompanied Nero
when he fled from Rome before his enemies, and he aided the miserable
tyrant in killing himself. Domitian (Sueton., Domit. 14), afterwards put
Epaphroditus to death for this service to Nero. We may conclude that
Epictetus in some way obtained his freedom, and that he began to teach
at Rome; but after the expulsion of the philosophers from Rome by
Domitian, A.D. 89, he retired to Nicopolis in Epirus, a city built by
Augustus to commemorate the victory at Actium. Epictetus opened a school
or lecture room at Nicopolis, where he taught till he was an old man.
The time of his death is unknown. Epictetus was never married, as we
learn from Lucian (Demonax, c. 55, torn, ii., ed. Hemsterh., p. 393).
When Epictetus was finding fault with Demonax, and advising him to take
a wife and beget children, for this also, as Epictetus said, was a
philosopher's duty, to leave in place of himself another in the
universe, Demonax refuted the doctrine by answering: Give me then,
Epictetus, one of your own daughters. Simplicius says (Comment., c. 46,
p. 432, ed. Schweigh.) that Epictetus lived alone a long time. At last
he took a woman into his house as a nurse for a child, which one of
Epictetus' friends was going to expose on account of his poverty, but
Epictetus took the child and brought it up.
Epictetus wrote nothing; and all that we have under his name was written
by an affectionate pupil, Arrian, afterwards the historian of Alexander
the Great, who, as he tells us, took down in writing the philosopher's
discourses ("Epistle of Arrian to Lucius Gellius," p. i). These
Discourses formed eight books, but only four are extant under the title
of [Greek: Epichtaeton diatribai]. Simplicius, in his commentary on the
[Greek: Egcheiridion] or Manual, states that this work also was put
together by Arrian, who selected from the discourses of Epictetus what
he considered to be most useful, and most necessary, and most adapted to
move men's minds. Simplicius also says that the contents of the
Encheiridion are found nearly altogether and in the same words in
various parts of the Discourses. Arrian also wrote a work on the life
and death of Epictetus. The events of the philosopher's studious life
were probably not many nor remarkable; but we should have been glad if
this work had been preserved, which told, as Simplicius says, what kind
of man Epictetus was.
Photius (Biblioth., 58) mentions among Arrian's works "Conversations
with Epictetus," [Greek: Homiliai Epichtaeton], in twelve books. Upton
thinks that this work is only another name for the Discourses, and that
Photius has made the mistake of taking the Conversations to be a
different work from the Discourses. Yet Photius has enumerated eight
books of the Discourses and twelve books of the Conversations.
Schweighaeuser observes that Photius had not seen these works of Arrian
on Epictetus, for so he concludes from the brief notice of these works
by Photius. The fact is that Photius does not say that he had read these
books, as he generally does when he is speaking of the books which he
enumerates in his Bibliotheca. The conclusion is that we are not certain
that there was a work of Arrian entitled "The Conversations of
Epictetus."
Upton remarks in a note on iii., 23 (p. 184, Trans.), that "there are
many passages in these dissertations which are ambiguous or rather
confused on account of the small questions, and because the matter is
not expanded by oratorical copiousness, not to mention other causes."
The discourses of Epictetus, it is supposed, were spoken extempore, and
so one thing after another would come into the thoughts of the speaker
(Wolf). Schweighaeuser also observes in a note (ii., 336 of his edition)
that the connection of the discourse is sometimes obscure through the
omission of some words which are necessary to indicate the connection of
the thoughts. The reader then will find that he cannot always understand
Epictetus, if he does not read him very carefully, and some passages
more than once. He must also think and reflect, or he will miss the
meaning. I do not say that the book is worth all this trouble. Every man
must judge for himself. But I should not have translated the book, if I
had not thought it worth study; and I think that all books of this kind
require careful reading, if they are worth reading at all.
G.L.
A SELECTION FROM THE DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS.
OF THE THINGS WHICH ARE IN OUR POWER AND NOT IN OUR POWER.--Of all the
faculties (except that which I shall soon mention), you will find not
one which is capable of contemplating itself, and, consequently, not
capable either of approving or disapproving. How far does the grammatic
art possess the contemplating power? As far as forming a judgment about
what is written and spoken. And how far music? As far as judging about
melody. Does either of them then contemplate itself? By no means. But
when you must write something to your friend, grammar will tell you what
words you should write; but whether you should write or not, grammar
will not tell you. And so it is with music as to musical sounds; but
whether you should sing at the present time and play on the lute, or do
neither, music will not tell you. What faculty then will tell you? That
which contemplates both itself and all other things. And what is this
faculty? The rational faculty; for this is the only faculty that we have
received which examines itself, what it is, and what power it has, and
what is the value of this gift, and examines all other faculties: for
what else is there which tells us that golden things are beautiful, for
they do not say so themselves? Evidently it is the faculty which is
capable of judging of appearances. What else judges of music, grammar,
and the other faculties, proves their uses, and points out the occasions
for using them? Nothing else.
What then should a man have in readiness in such circumstances? What
else than this? What is mine, and what is not mine; and what is
permitted to me, and what is not permitted to me. I must die. Must I
then die lamenting? I must be put in chains. Must I then also lament? I
must go into exile. Does any man then hinder me from going with smiles
and cheerfulness and contentment? Tell me the secret which you possess.
I will not, for this is in my power. But I will put you in chains. Man,
what are you talking about? Me, in chains? You may fetter my leg, but my
will not even Zeus himself can overpower. I will throw you into prison.
My poor body, you mean. I will cut your head off. When then have I told
you that my head alone cannot be cut off? These are the things which
philosophers should meditate on, which they should write daily, in which
they should exercise themselves.
What then did Agrippinus say? He said, "I am not a hindrance to myself."
When it was reported to him that his trial was going on in the Senate,
he said: "I hope it may turn out well; but it is the fifth hour of the
day"--this was the time when he was used to exercise himself and then
take the cold bath,--"let us go and take our exercise." After he had
taken his exercise, one comes and tells him, "You have been condemned."
"To banishment," he replies, "or to death?" "To banishment." "What about
my property?" "It is not taken from you." "Let us go to Aricia then," he
said, "and dine."
* * * * *
HOW A MAN ON EVERY OCCASION CAN MAINTAIN HIS PROPER CHARACTER.--To the
rational animal only is the irrational intolerable; but that which is
rational is tolerable. Blows are not naturally intolerable. How is that?
See how the Lacedaemonians endure whipping when they have learned that
whipping is consistent with reason. To hang yourself is not intolerable.
When then you have the opinion that it is rational, you go and hang
yourself. In short, if we observe, we shall find that the animal man is
pained by nothing so much as by that which is irrational; and, on the
contrary, attracted to nothing so much as to that which is rational.
Only consider at what price you sell your own will: if for no other
reason, at least for this, that you sell it not for a small sum. But
that which is great and superior perhaps belongs to Socrates and such as
are like him. Why then, if we are naturally such, are not a very great
number of us like him? Is it true then that all horses become swift,
that all dogs are skilled in tracking footprints? What then, since I am
naturally dull, shall I, for this reason, take no pains? I hope not.
Epictetus is not superior to Socrates; but if he is not inferior, this
is enough for me; for I shall never be a Milo, and yet I do not neglect
my body; nor shall I be a Croesus, and yet I do not neglect my property;
nor, in a word, do we neglect looking after anything because we despair
of reaching the highest degree.
* * * * *
HOW A MAN SHOULD PROCEED FROM THE PRINCIPLE OF GOD BEING THE FATHER OF
ALL MEN TO THE REST.--If a man should be able to assent to this doctrine
as he ought, that we are all sprung from God in an especial manner, and
that God is the father both of men and of gods, I suppose that he would
never have any ignoble or mean thoughts about himself. But if Caesar (the
emperor) should adopt you, no one could endure your arrogance; and if
you know that you are the son of Zeus, will you not be elated? Yet we do
not so; but since these two things are mingled in the generation of man,
body in common with the animals, and reason and intelligence in common
with the gods, many incline to this kinship, which is miserable and
mortal; and some few to that which is divine and happy. Since then it is
of necessity that every man uses everything according to the opinion
which he has about it, those, the few, who think that they are formed
for fidelity and modesty and a sure use of appearances have no mean or
ignoble thoughts about themselves; but with the many it is quite the
contrary. For they say, What am I? A poor, miserable man, with my
wretched bit of flesh. Wretched, indeed; but you possess something
better than your bit of flesh. Why then do you neglect that which is
better, and why do you attach yourself to this?
Through this kinship with the flesh, some of us inclining to it become
like wolves, faithless and treacherous and mischievous; some become like
lions, savage and bestial and untamed; but the greater part of us become
foxes, and other worse animals. For what else is a slanderer and
malignant man than a fox, or some other more wretched and meaner animal?
See then and take care that you do not become some one of these
miserable things.
* * * * *
OF PROGRESS OR IMPROVEMENT.--He who is making progress, having learned
from philosophers that desire means the desire of good things, and
aversion means aversion from bad things; having learned too that
happiness and tranquillity are not attainable by man otherwise than by
not failing to obtain what he desires, and not falling into that which
he would avoid; such a man takes from himself desire altogether and
confers it, but he | 584.602347 |
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The Christian Foundation,
Or,
Scientific and Religious Journal
Vol. 1. No 2.
February, 1880.
CONTENTS
The Influence Of The Bible Upon Civil And Religious Liberty.
Liberty Of Conscience.
The Orthodoxy Of Atheism And Ingersolism, By Rev. S. L. Tyrrell.
The Shasters And Vedas, And The Chinese, Government, Religion, Etc.
Ancient Cosmogonies.
Some Of The Beauties (?) Of Harmony Among Unbelievers.
Is God The Author Of Deception And Falsehood?
Darwinism Weighed In The Balances.
Was It Possible?
THE INFLUENCE OF THE BIBLE UPON CIVIL AND RELIGIOUS LIBERTY.
Civil government is a state of society in which men are reduced to order;
it is a government in which every citizen has full power over his own
rights, but is not at liberty to infringe upon the rights of others. The
deepest thought in the word _civil_ is the idea of being hedged around by
restraints, so as to be shut in from all privilege, or right, of meddling
with the rights of others. The Welsh use the word "cau," to shut, inclose,
fence, hedge.
Civil liberty is liberty modified by the rights of others. No man has a
right, by any Divine warrant, to infringe upon the rights of another; and
cannot do it without forfeiting more or less of his own. This thought,
that a man may forfeit his rights, is as essential to proper conceptions
of civil government, and civil liberty, as the thought that a man has
rights; for if there be no forfeiture of rights through crime, then all
legal punishments are without foundation in justice; even the right of
self-defense, individually and nationally, ceases to exist. And if this be
taken away, all support and strength in civil government is gone; anarchy
and ruin only may remain. In all civilized nations a man is regarded as
forfeiting his right, _even to life_, by trampling upon the _life-right_
of another, and, while the danger lasts, the assailed may defend his life,
in the absence of any other defense, even at the expense of the life of
the assailant. To deny this doctrine of the right of self-defense, it is
only necessary that we deny that a man can forfeit the right of life. To
do this is equal to the affirmation that God is the author of coexisting
and conflicting rights. Such rights can exist only at the expense of the
destruction of all governments, both human and Divine, as well as all
healthy influences of social institutions. It is essential to civil
liberty to restrain men from all interference with the rights of others.
The greatest degree of civil liberty is enjoyed where men are successfully
restrained from such officious interposition. A people may enjoy civil
liberty without extending the right of suffrage to all ages and to both
sexes; without making all eligible to office; without abolishing paternal
authority over minors; without abolishing the punishment of criminals, or
the right of the State to the service of its citizens when the public good
requires it.
The word _civil_ also signifies courteous, complaisant, gentle and
obliging, well-bred, affable, kind. From this it will be seen that civil
government depends upon the intelligence and righteousness of the people.
The absence of all legal demands and all legal restraints would be the
absence of all government. It would be libertinism or lawlessness. The
great majority of men, from the earliest ages of the world to the present
time, have been under the control of tyrants, and have known little
exemption from despotic rule. There is not a single Pagan, Mahomedan, or
anti-Christian country to-day in which the spirit of liberty has an
abiding place. She may have brooded over them at intervals, but, like
Noah's bird, found no resting place.
The influence of the Bible preventing the young, the mature, and the aged
from crime, causing men and women to love and respect our humanity, is of
necessity _to the same extent_ the very life of civil government, and
consequently the life of civil liberty. It has been said the Bible is the
great protector and guardian of the liberties of men. It was an axiom in
an apostate church, that ignorance is the mother of devotion; but the true
origin of this axiom is that ignorance which fastens the chains of civil
and ecclesiastic despotism.
It is not possible for a people thoroughly under the influence of the
teachings of the religion of Christ | 584.69895 |
2023-11-16 18:26:48.6823770 | 1,109 | 42 |
Produced by 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.)
THE ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL
[Illustration: HE SAW THE FEATHERED HEAD OF AN INDIAN POKE OVER THE BANK
BEFORE HIM.]
The Adventures of
Buffalo Bill
BY COL. WILLIAM F. CODY
(BUFFALO BILL)
HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK, EVANSTON, and LONDON
_Harper's Young People's Series_
New Large Type Edition
Illustrated--Jackets Printed in Colors
TOBY TYLER. By James Otis
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER. By James Otis
TIM AND TIP. By James Otis
RAISING THE PEARL. By James Otis
ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL. By W. F. Cody
DIDDIE, DUMPS, AND TOT. By Mrs. L. C. Pyrnelle
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS. By Lucy C. Lillie
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB. By W. L. Alden
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST." By W. L. Alden
MORAL PIRATES. By W. L. Alden
A NEW ROBINSON CRUSOE. By W. L. Alden
THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMY BROWN. By W. L. Alden
PRINCE LAZYBONES. By Mrs. W. J. Hays
THE FLAMINGO FEATHER. By Kirk Munroe
DERRICK STERLING. By Kirk Munroe
CHRYSTAL, JACK & CO. By Kirk Munroe
WAKULLA. By Kirk Munroe
THE ICE QUEEN. By Ernest Ingersoll
THE RED MUSTANG. By W. O. Stoddard
TALKING LEAVES. By W. O. Stoddard
TWO ARROWS. By W. O. Stoddard
THE HOUSEHOLD OF GLEN HOLLY. By Lucy C. Lillie
MILDRED'S BARGAIN. By Lucy C. Lillie
NAN. By Lucy C. Lillie
ROLF HOUSE. By Lucy C. Lillie
THE ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL
Copyright 1904
By Harper & Brothers
Printed in the U.S.A.
D-E
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL
I. CROSSING THE PLAINS 1
II. ROUNDING UP INDIANS 29
III. PURSUING THE SIOUX 51
IV. MY DUEL WITH YELLOW HAND 76
THE LIFE OF BUFFALO BILL
I. THE LITTLE BOY OF THE PRAIRIE 101
II. LITTLE BILL AT SCHOOL AND AT THE TRAPS 118
III. THE PONY EXPRESS RIDER 134
IV. "BILL CODY, THE SCOUT" 151
V. THE INDIAN CAMPAIGNS WITH THE ARMY 160
VI. BUFFALO BILL AND HIS SHOW 169
ILLUSTRATIONS
HE SAW THE FEATHERED HEAD OF AN INDIAN POKE
OVER THE BANK BEFORE HIM _Frontispiece_
I DISENTANGLED MYSELF AND JUMPED BEHIND
THE DEAD BODY OF MY HORSE _Facing p._ 46
IN THE DISTANCE I SAW A LARGE HERD OF
BUFFALOES WHICH WERE BEING CHASED AND
FIRED AT BY TWENTY OR THIRTY INDIANS " 96
HE LOOKED UP AND SAW INDIANS IN WAR PAINT
STANDING INSIDE THE CAVE, GAZING AT HIM " 128
FOREWORD
With the death of William Frederick Cody, at Denver on January 10, 1917,
there passed away the last of that intrepid band of pathfinders who gave
their lives to the taming of the West, a gallant company of brave men
steadfastly pushing back the frontier year by year and mile by mile, and
ceasing from their labors only when the young and vigorous life of the
Pacific States had been linked up for all time with the older civilization
of the Atlantic seaboard.
The fame of Colonel Cody, or Buffalo Bill as he was popularly called,
recalls that of Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and Kit Carson, but he cannot
be said to rank with those earlier heroes in point of actual national
service. He played no large part in the upbuilding of our Continental
Empire. Yet he was made of the same stern stuff, and, on his more
circumscribed stage, he was a gall | 584.702417 |
2023-11-16 18:26:48.6893080 | 4,141 | 12 |
Produced by David Garcia, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
MAKING PEOPLE HAPPY
[Illustration]
MAKING PEOPLE HAPPY
by
THOMPSON BUCHANAN
Author of A WOMAN'S WAY
Frontispiece by HARRISON FISHER
NEW YORK
W.J. WATT & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY W. J. WATT & COMPANY
_Published September_
PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N.Y.
MAKING PEOPLE HAPPY
CHAPTER I
The bride hammered the table desperately with her gavel. In vain! The
room was in pandemonium.
The lithe and curving form of the girl--for she was only twenty,
although already a wife--was tense now as she stood there in her own
drawing-room, stoutly battling to bring order out of chaos. Usually the
creamy pallor of her cheeks was only most daintily touched with rose: at
this moment the crimson of excitement burned fiercely. Usually her eyes
of amber were soft and tender: now they were glowing with an indignation
that was half-wrath.
Still the bride beat a tattoo of outraged authority with the gavel,
wholly without avail. The confusion that reigned in the charming
drawing-room of Cicily Hamilton did but grow momently the more
confounded. The Civitas Club was in full operation, and would brook no
restraint. Each of the twelve women, who were ranged in chairs facing
the presiding officer, was talking loudly and swiftly and incessantly.
None paid the slightest heed to the frantic appeal of the gavel....
Then, at last, the harassed bride reached the limit of endurance. She
threw the gavel from her angrily, and cried out shrilly above the massed
clamor of the other voices:
"If you don't stop," she declared vehemently, "I'll never speak to one
of you again!"
That wail of protest was not without its effect. There came a chorus of
ejaculations; but the monologues had been efficiently interrupted, and
the attention of the garrulous twelve was finally given to the presiding
officer. For a moment, silence fell. It was broken by Ruth Howard, a
girl with large, soulful brown eyes and a manner of rapt earnestness,
who uttered her plaint in a tone of exceeding bitterness:
"And we came together in love!"
At that, Cicily Hamilton forgot her petulance over the tumult, and
smiled with the sweetness that was characteristic of her.
"Really, you know," she confessed, almost contritely, "I don't like to
lecture you in my own house; but we came together for a serious
purpose, and you are just as rude as if you'd merely come to tea."
One of the women in the front row of chairs uttered a crisp cry of
approval. This was Mrs. Flynn, a visiting militant suffragette from
England. Her aggressive manner and the eager expression of her narrow
face with the gleaming black eyes declared that this woman of forty was
by nature a fighter who delighted in the fray.
"Yes; Mrs. Hamilton is right," was her caustic comment. "We are
forgetting our great work--the emancipation of woman!"
Cicily beamed approval on the speaker; but she inverted the other's
phrase:
"Yes," she agreed, "our great work--the subjugation of man!"
The statement was not, however, allowed to go unchallenged. Helen
Johnson, who was well along in the twenties at least, and still a
spinster, prided herself on her powers of conquest, despite the fact
that she had no husband to show for it. So, now, she spoke with an air
of languid superiority:
"Oh, we've already accomplished the subjugation of man," she drawled,
and smiled complacently.
"Some of us have," Cicily retorted; and the accent on the first word
pointed the allusion.
"Oh, hush, dear!" The chiding whisper came from Mrs. Delancy, a
gray-haired woman of sixty-five, somewhat inclined to stoutness and
having a handsome, kindly face. She was the aunt of Cicily, and had
reared the motherless girl in her New York home. Now, on a visit to her
niece, the bride of a year, she found herself inevitably involved in the
somewhat turbulent session of the Civitas Club, with which as yet she
enjoyed no great amount of sympathy. Her position in the chair nearest
the presiding officer gave her opportunity to voice the rebuke without
being overheard by anyone save the militant Mrs. Flynn, who smiled
covertly.
Cicily bent forward, and spoke softly to her aunt's ear:
"I just had to say it, auntie," she avowed happily. "You know, she tried
her hardest to catch Charles."
Mrs. Morton, a middle-aged society woman, who displayed sporadic
interest in the cause of woman during the dull season, now rose from the
chair immediately behind Mrs. Flynn, and spoke with a tone of great
decisiveness:
"Yes, ladies of the Civitas Club, Mrs. Flynn is perfectly right." She
indicated the identity of the militant suffragette, who was a stranger
to most of those in the company, by a sweeping gesture. "It is our duty
to follow firmly on the path which our sister has indicated toward the
emancipation of woman. We should get the club started at once, and the
work done immediately. Lent will be over soon, and then there will be no
time for it."
"Yes, indeed," Cicily agreed enthusiastically, as Mrs. Morton again
subsided into her chair; "let's get the club going right away." The
presiding officer hesitated for a moment, fumbling among the papers on
the table. "What's the name--? Oh, here it is!" she concluded, lifting a
sheet from the litter before her. "Listen! It's the Civitas Society for
the Uplift of Woman and for Encouraging the Spread of Social Equality
among the Masses."
As this gratifyingly sonorous designation was enunciated by Cicily in
her most impressive voice, the members of the club straightened in their
places with obvious pride, and there was a burst of hand-clapping. Ruth
Howard's great eyes rolled delightedly.
"Oh," she gushed, "isn't it a darling duck of a name! Let's see--the
Vivitas Society for--for--what is it for, anyhow?"
Cicily came to the rescue of the forgetful zealot.
"It's for the purpose of bringing men and women closer together," she
explained with dignity.
Miss Johnson gushed approval with her usual air of coquettish
superiority.
"Oh, read it again, Cicily," she urged. "It's so inspiring!"
"Yes, do read it again," a number of enthusiasts cried in chorus.
The presiding officer was on the point of complying with the demand for
a repetition of the sonorous nomenclature:
"The Civitas Society for--" she began, with stately emphasis. But she
broke off abruptly, under the impulse of a change in mood. "Oh, what's
the use?" she questioned flippantly. "You'll all get copies of it in
full in your mail to-morrow morning." Mightily pleased with this
labor-saving expedient, Cicily beamed on her fellow club-members. "What
next?" she inquired, amiably.
Mrs. Carrington rose to her feet, and addressed the assembly with that
dignity befitting one deeply experienced in parliamentary exercises.
"Having voted on the name," she remarked ponderously, evidently
undisturbed by the exceedingly informal nature of the voting, if such it
could be called, "I think it is now time for us to start the society."
She stared condescendingly through her lorgnette at the duly impressed
company, and sank back into her chair.
There were many exclamations of assent to Mrs. Carrington's timely
proposal, and much nodding of heads. Plainly, the ladies were minded to
start the society forthwith. Unhappily, however, there remained an
obstacle to the accomplishment of that desirable end--a somewhat general
ignorance as to the proper method of procedure. Ruth Howard turned the
gaze of her large brown eyes wistfully on Mrs. Carrington, and voiced
the dilemma by a question:
"How do we start?" she asked, in a tone of gentle wonder.
Before Mrs. Carrington could formulate a reply to this pertinent
interrogation, the militant suffragette from England began an oration.
"The start of a great movement such as is this," Mrs. Flynn declaimed,
"is like unto the start of a great race, or the start of a noble sport;
it is like--"
Cicily was so enthusiastic over this explanation that she interrupted
the speaker in order to demonstrate the fact that she understood the
matter perfectly.
"You mean," she exclaimed joyously, "that you blow a whistle, or shoot a
pistol!"
This appalling ignorance of parliamentary tactics induced some of the
more learned to ill-concealed titters; Miss Johnson permitted herself to
laugh in a gurgling note that she affected. But it was Mrs. Carrington
who took it on herself to utter a veiled rebuke.
"I fear Mrs. Hamilton has not been a member of many clubs," she
remarked, icily.
At Miss Johnson's open flouting, Cicily had flushed painfully. Now,
however, she was ready with a retort to Mrs. Carrington's implied
criticism:
"Oh, on the contrary!" she exclaimed. "Why, I was chief rooter of the Pi
Iota Gammas, when I went to boarding-school at Briarcliff."
Miss Johnson spoke with dangerous suavity of manner:
"Then, my dear, since you were one of the Pigs--pardon my using the
English of it, but I never could pronounce those Greek letters--"
"Of course not," Cicily interrupted, with her sweetest smile. "I
remember, Helen, dear: you had no chance to practise, not having
belonged at Briarcliff."
Kindly Mrs. Delancy was on nettles during the passage of the gently
spoken, but none the less acrimonious, remarks between her niece and
Miss Johnson. She was well aware of Cicily's deep-seated aversion for
the coquettish older woman, who had not scrupled to employ all her arts
to win away another's lover. That she had failed utterly in her efforts
to make an impression on the heart of Charles Hamilton did not mitigate
the offense in the estimation of the bride. So strong was Cicily's
feeling, indeed, and so impulsive her temperament, that the aunt was
really alarmed for fear of an open rupture between the two young women,
for Helen Johnson had a venomous tongue, and a liking for its
employment. So, now, Mrs. Delancy hastened to break off a conversation
that threatened disaster.
"Let us select the officers, the first thing," she suggested, rising for
the sake of effectiveness in securing attention to herself. "It is, I
believe, usual in clubs to have officers, and, for that reason, it seems
to me that it would be well to select officers for this club, here and
now." Mrs. Delancy reseated herself, well satisfied with her effort, for
there was a general buzz of interest among her auditors.
Cicily, with the lively change of moods that was distinctive of her, was
instantly smiling again, but now with sincerity. Without a moment of
hesitation, she accepted the suggestion, and acted upon it. She turned
toward Mrs. Carrington, and addressed her words to that dignified
person:
"Yes, indeed," she declared gladly, "I accept the suggestion.... Won't
you be president, Mrs. Carrington?"
The important lady was obviously delighted by this suggestion. She
smiled radiantly, and she fairly preened herself so that the spangles on
her black gown shone proudly.
"Thank you, my dear Mrs. Hamilton," she replied tenderly, with a
pretense of humility that failed completely. "But I believe there are
certain formalities that are ordinarily observed--I believe that it is a
matter of selection by the club as a whole. Of course, if--" She paused
expectantly, and regarded those about her with a smile that was weighted
with suggestion.
Cicily was somewhat perturbed by the error into which she had fallen. It
occurred to her that Helen Johnson might here find another opportunity
for the gratification of malice. A glance showed that this detestable
young woman was in fact exchanging pitying glances with Mrs. Flynn.
Cicily was flushed with chagrin, as she spoke falteringly, with an
apologetic inflection:
"Oh, the president has to be elected? I beg your pardon! I thought it
was like the army, and--went by age."
At this unfortunate explanation, the simper of gratified vanity on Mrs.
Carrington's features vanished as if by magic. She stiffened visibly, as
she acridly ejaculated a single word:
"Really!" The inflection was scathing.
Mrs. Flynn, who was smiling complacently over the evident confusion of
Cicily, now stood up to instruct that unhappy presiding officer:
"No, indeed, Mrs. Hamilton," she announced with great earnestness, "for
the most part, it is the young women, even young wives no older than
yourself oftentimes, who are at the front, fighting gloriously the
battle of all women in this great movement.... At least, that is the way
in England." She paused and bridled as she surveyed the attentive
company, her manner full of self-content. "There, I may say, the
youngest and the most beautiful women have been the leaders in the fray.
Ahem!"
Cicily did not hesitate to remove all ambiguity from the utterance of
the militant suffragette with the sallow, narrow face.
"And you were a great leader, were you not, Mrs. Flynn?" she demanded,
bluntly.
There were covert smiles from the other women; but the Englishwoman was
frankly gratified by the implication. She was smiling with pleasure as
she answered:
"I may say truthfully that I know the inside of almost every
police-station in London."
At this startling announcement, uttered with every appearance of pride,
the suffragette's hearers displayed their amazement by exclamations and
gestures. Mrs. Carrington especially made manifest the fact that she had
scant patience with this manner of martyrdom in the cause of woman's
emancipation.
"My dear Mrs. Flynn," she said, with a hint of contempt in her voice,
"here in America, we do not think that getting into jail is necessarily
a cause for pride." There were murmurs of assent from most of the
others; but Mrs. Flynn herself was in no wise daunted.
"Well, then, it should be," she retorted, briskly. "Zeal is the
watchword!"
"I think that Mrs. Flynn should be president," Miss Johnson cried with
sudden enthusiasm. "She has suffered in the cause!"
"Oh, for that matter," interjected Mrs. Morton flippantly, "most of us
are married." It was known to all those whom she addressed, save perhaps
the Englishwoman, that at the age of forty Mrs. Morton had undergone two
divorces, and that she was now living wretchedly with a third husband,
so she spoke with the authority of one having had sufficient experience.
But Mrs. Flynn was too much interested in her own harrowing experiences
to be diverted by cynical raillery.
"The last time I went to jail," she related, "I had chained myself to
the gallery in the House of Commons, and, when they tried to release me,
I bit a policeman--hard!"
"Oh, you man-eater!" It was Cicily who uttered the exclamation,
half-reproachfully, half-banteringly.
"I fail to see why, if one should prefer even Chicago roast beef to an
Irish policeman, that should be held against one." This was Mrs.
Carrington's indignant comment on the narrative of the mordant martyr.
The remark affected Mrs. Flynn, however, in a fashion totally
unexpected. She cried out in genuine horror and disgust over the
suggested idea.
"Good heavens! Do you imagine I would ever bite an Irish policeman?"
"If not," Mrs. Carrington rejoined slyly, "you will have very small
opportunity in New York for the exercise of your very peculiar talents."
Cicily interposed a remark concerning the appetizing charms of some of
the mounted policemen. It seemed to her that the conversation between
the two older women had reached a point where interruption were the
course of prudence. "I think we had better do some more business, now,"
she added hastily, with an appealing glance toward her aunt.
Mrs. Delancy rose to the emergency on the instant.
"By all means," she urged. "Let us get on with the business. We haven't
been going ahead very fast, it seems to me. Why not elect the officers
right away?"
Once again, the entire company became agog with interest over the
project of securing duly authorized officials. There were murmured
conversations, confidential whisperings. As Ruth Howard earnestly
declared, it was so exciting--a real election. A stealthy canvas of
candidates was in full swing. The names of Mrs. Flynn and of Mrs.
Carrington were heard oftenest. Incidentally, certain sentences threw
light on individual methods of determining executive merit. A prim
spinster shook her head violently over some suggestion from the woman
beside her. "No, my dear," she replied aggressively, "I certainly shall
not vote for her--vote for a woman who wears a transformation? No,
indeed!"... Cicily improved the interval of general bustle to inquire
secretly of her aunt as to the possible shininess of her nose. "It
always gets shiny when I get excited," she explained, ruefully. As a
matter of fact, there was nothing whatever the matter with that dainty
feature, which had a fascination all its own by reason of the fact that
one was forever wondering whether it was classically straight or
up-tilted just the least infinitesimal fraction.
It was Mrs. Morton who first took energetic action toward an election.
She stood up, and spoke with a tone of finality:
"I think that dear Mrs. Carrington would make a splendid officer. I
nominate dear Mrs. Carrington for our president."
"Did you hear that, Mrs. Carrington?" Cicily inquired, with a pleased
smile for the one thus honored. " | 584.709348 |
2023-11-16 18:26:48.8778920 | 125 | 14 |
Produced by Delphine Lettau & the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net
HORTUS VITAE
ESSAYS ON THE GARDENING OF LIFE
BY
VERNON LEE
JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD
LONDON & NEW YORK. MDCCCCIV
SECOND EDITION.
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
DEDICATION
To MADAME TH: BLANC-BENTZON
MAIANO, NEAR FLORENCE,
| 584.897932 |
2023-11-16 18:26:48.8779940 | 223 | 8 |
Produced by Tapio Riikonen and David Widger
THE LAST OF THE BARONS
By Edward Bulwer Lytton
DEDICATORY EPISTLE.
I dedicate to you, my indulgent Critic and long-tried Friend, the work
which owes its origin to your suggestion. Long since, you urged me
to attempt a fiction which might borrow its characters from our own
Records, and serve to illustrate some of those truths which History is
too often compelled to leave to the Tale-teller, the Dramatist, and the
Poet. Unquestionably, Fiction, when aspiring to something higher than
mere romance, does not pervert, but elucidate Facts. He who employs it
worthily must, like a biographer, study the time and the characters
he selects, with a minute and earnest diligence which the general
historian, whose range extends over centuries, can scarcely be
expected to bestow upon the things and the men of a single epoch. His
descriptions should fill up with colour and detail the cold outlines | 584.898034 |
2023-11-16 18:26:48.8780170 | 1,818 | 7 |
Produced by David Widger
MOTLEY'S HISTORY OF THE NETHERLANDS, PG EDITION
THE RISE OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC, 1555-1566, Complete
A History
By JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, D.C.L., LL.D.
Corresponding Member of the Institute of France, Etc.
1855
[Etext Editor's Note: JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, born in Dorchester, Mass.
1814, died 1877. Other works: Morton's Hopes and Merry Mount, novels.
Motley was the United States Minister to Austria, 1861-67, and the United
States Minister to England, 1869-70. Mark Twain mentions his respect for
John Motley. Oliver Wendell Holmes said in 'An Oration delivered before
the City Authorities of Boston' on the 4th of July, 1863: "'It cannot be
denied,'--says another observer, placed on one of our national
watch-towers in a foreign capital,--'it cannot be denied that the
tendency of European public opinion, as delivered from high places, is
more and more unfriendly to our cause; but the people,' he adds,
'everywhere sympathize with us, for they know that our cause is that of
free institutions,--that our struggle is that of the people against an
oligarchy.' These are the words of the Minister to Austria, whose
generous sympathies with popular liberty no homage paid to his genius by
the class whose admiring welcome is most seductive to scholars has ever
spoiled; our fellow-citizen, the historian of a great Republic which
infused a portion of its life into our own,--John Lothrop Motley." (See
the biography of Motley, by Holmes) Ed.]
PREFACE
The rise of the Dutch Republic must ever be regarded as one of the
leading events of modern times. Without the birth of this great
commonwealth, the various historical phenomena of: the sixteenth and
following centuries must have either not existed; or have presented
themselves under essential modifications.--Itself an organized protest
against ecclesiastical tyranny and universal empire, the Republic guarded
with sagacity, at many critical periods in the world's history; that
balance of power which, among civilized states; ought always to be
identical with the scales of divine justice. The splendid empire of
Charles the Fifth was erected upon the grave of liberty. It is a
consolation to those who have hope in humanity to watch, under the reign
of his successor, the gradual but triumphant resurrection of the spirit
over which the sepulchre had so long been sealed. From the handbreadth of
territory called the province of Holland rises a power which wages eighty
years' warfare with the most potent empire upon earth, and which, during
the progress of the struggle, becoming itself a mighty state, and binding
about its own slender form a zone of the richest possessions of earth,
from pole to tropic, finally dictates its decrees to the empire of
Charles.
So much is each individual state but a member of one great international
commonwealth, and so close is the relationship between the whole human
family, that it is impossible for a nation, even while struggling for
itself, not to acquire something for all mankind. The maintenance of the
right by the little provinces of Holland and Zealand in the sixteenth, by
Holland and England united in the seventeenth, and by the United States
of America in the eighteenth centuries, forms but a single chapter in the
great volume of human fate; for the so-called revolutions of Holland,
England, and America, are all links of one chain.
To the Dutch Republic, even more than to Florence at an earlier day, is
the world indebted for practical instruction in that great science of
political equilibrium which must always become more and more important as
the various states of the civilized world are pressed more closely
together, and as the struggle for pre-eminence becomes more feverish and
fatal. Courage and skill in political and military combinations enabled
William the Silent to overcome the most powerful and unscrupulous monarch
of his age. The same hereditary audacity and fertility of genius placed
the destiny of Europe in the hands of William's great-grandson, and
enabled him to mould into an impregnable barrier the various elements of
opposition to the overshadowing monarchy of Louis XIV. As the schemes of
the Inquisition and the unparalleled tyranny of Philip, in one century,
led to the establishment of the Republic of the United Provinces, so, in
the next, the revocation of the Nantes Edict and the invasion of Holland
are avenged by the elevation of the Dutch stadholder upon the throne of
the stipendiary Stuarts.
To all who speak the English language; the history of the great agony
through which the Republic of Holland was ushered into life must have
peculiar interest, for it is a portion of the records of the Anglo-Saxon
race--essentially the same, whether in Friesland, England, or
Massachusetts.
A great naval and commercial commonwealth, occupying a small portion of
Europe but conquering a wide empire by the private enterprise of trading
companies, girdling the world with its innumerable dependencies in Asia,
America, Africa, Australia--exercising sovereignty in Brazil, Guiana, the
West Indies, New York, at the Cape of Good Hope, in Hindostan, Ceylon,
Java, Sumatra, New Holland--having first laid together, as it were, many
of the Cyclopean blocks, out of which the British realm, at a late:
period, has been constructed--must always be looked upon with interest by
Englishmen, as in a great measure the precursor in their own scheme of
empire.
For America the spectacle is one of still deeper import. The Dutch
Republic originated in the opposition of the rational elements of human
nature to sacerdotal dogmatism and persecution--in the courageous
resistance of historical and chartered liberty to foreign despotism.
Neither that liberty nor ours was born of the cloud-embraces of a false
Divinity with, a Humanity of impossible beauty, nor was the infant career
of either arrested in blood and tears by the madness of its worshippers.
"To maintain," not to overthrow, was the device of the Washington of the
sixteenth century, as it was the aim of our own hero and his great
contemporaries.
The great Western Republic, therefore--in whose Anglo-Saxon veins flows
much of that ancient and kindred blood received from the nation once
ruling a noble portion of its territory, and tracking its own political
existence to the same parent spring of temperate human liberty--must look
with affectionate interest upon the trials of the elder commonwealth.
These volumes recite the achievement of Dutch independence, for its
recognition was delayed till the acknowledgment was superfluous and
ridiculous. The existence of the Republic is properly to be dated from
the Union of Utrecht in 1581, while the final separation of territory
into independent and obedient provinces, into the Commonwealth of the
United States and the Belgian provinces of Spain, was in reality effected
by William the Silent, with whose death three years subsequently, the
heroic period of the history may be said to terminate. At this point
these volumes close. Another series, with less attention to minute
details, and carrying the story through a longer range of years, will
paint the progress of the Republic in its palmy days, and narrate the
establishment of, its external system of dependencies and its interior
combinations for self-government and European counterpoise. The lessons
of history and the fate of free states can never be sufficiently pondered
by those upon whom so large and heavy a responsibility for the
maintenance of rational human freedom rests.
I have only to add that this work is the result of conscientious
research, and of an earnest desire to arrive at the truth. I have
faithfully studied all the important contemporary chroniclers and later
historians--Dutch, Flemish, French, Italian, Spanish, or German. Catholic
and Protestant, Monarchist and Republican, have been consulted with the
same sincerity. The works of Bor (whose enormous but indispensable folios
form a complete magazine of contemporary state-papers, letters, and
pamphlets, blended together in mass, and connected by a chain of artless
but earnest narrative), of Meter | 584.898057 |
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[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: Gordon Marriott Page 38]
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE
By
BRAND WHITLOCK
Author of The Happy Average
Her Infinite Variety
The 13th District
With Illustrations by
JAY HAMBIDGE
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1907
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
MARCH
TO THE MEMORY OF
SAMUEL M. JONES
Died July 12, 1904
On the other hand, a boy was bound to defend them against anything that
he thought slighting or insulting; and you did not have to verify the
fact that anything had been said or done; you merely had to hear that it
had. It once fell to my boy to avenge such a reported wrong from a boy
who had not many friends in school, a timid creature whom the mere
accusation frightened half out of his wits, and who wildly protested his
innocence. He ran, and my boy followed with the other boys after him,
till they overtook the culprit and brought him to bay against a high
board fence; and there my boy struck him in his imploring face. He
tried to feel like a righteous champion, but he felt like a brutal
ruffian. He long had the sight of that terrified, weeping face, and
with shame and sickness of heart he cowered before it. It was pretty
nearly the last of his fighting; and though he came off victor, he felt
that he would rather be beaten himself than do another such act of
justice. In fact, it seems best to be very careful how we try to do
justice in this world, and mostly to leave retribution of all kinds to
God, who really knows about things; and content ourselves as much as
possible with mercy, whose mistakes are not so irreparable.
_From_ "A BOY'S TOWN"
_By_ WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE
BOOK I
THE TURN OF THE BALANCE
I
As Elizabeth Ward stood that morning before the wide hearth in the
dining-room, she was glad that she still could find, in this first snow
of the season, the simple wonder and delight of that childhood she had
left not so very far behind. Her last glimpse of the world the night
before had been of trees lashed by a cold rain, of arc-lamps with globes
of fog, of wet asphalt pavements reflecting the lights of Claybourne
Avenue. But now, everywhere, there was snow, heaped in exquisite drifts
about the trees, and clinging in soft masses to the rough bark of their
trunks. The iron fence about the great yard was half buried in it, the
houses along the avenue seemed far away and strange in the white
transfiguration, and the roofs lost their familiar outlines against the
low gray sky that hung over them.
"Hurry, Gusta!" said Elizabeth. "This is splendid! I must go right
out!"
The maid who was laying the breakfast smiled; "It was a regular
blizzard, Miss Elizabeth."
"Was it?" Elizabeth lifted her skirt a little, and rested the toe of
her slipper on the low brass fender. The wood was crackling cheerfully.
"Has mama gone out?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Elizabeth, an hour ago."
"Of course," Elizabeth said, glancing at the little clock on the
mantelpiece, ticking in its refined way. Its hands pointed to half-past
ten. "I quite forgot the dinner." Her brow clouded. "What a bore!"
she thought. Then she said aloud: "Didn't mama leave any word?"
"She said not to disturb you, Miss Elizabeth."
Gusta had served the breakfast, and now, surveying her work with an
expression of pleasure, poured the coffee.
Beside Elizabeth's plate lay the mail and a morning newspaper. The
newspaper had evidently been read at some earlier breakfast, and because
it was rumpled Elizabeth pushed it aside. She read her letters while
she ate her breakfast, and then, when she laid her napkin aside, she
looked out of the windows again.
"I must go out for a long walk," she said, speaking as much to herself
as to the maid, though not in the same eager tone she had found for her
resolution a while before. "It must have snowed very hard. It wasn't
snowing when I came home."
"It began at midnight, Miss Elizabeth," said Gusta, "and it snowed so
hard I had an awful time getting here this morning. I could hardly find
my way, it fell so thick and fast."
Elizabeth did not reply, and Gusta went on: "I stayed home last
night--my brother just got back yesterday; I stayed to see him."
"Your brother?"
"Yes; Archie. He's been in the army. | 584.90091 |
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Produced by David Widger
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE
by Mark Twain
PREFACE
Book I of this volume occupies a quarter or a third of the volume,
and consists of matter written about four years ago, but not hitherto
published in book form. It contained errors of judgment and of fact. I
have now corrected these to the best of my ability and later knowledge.
Book II was written at the beginning of 1903, and has not until
now appeared in any form. In it my purpose has been to present a
character-portrait of Mrs. Eddy, drawn from her own acts and words
solely, not from hearsay and rumor; and to explain the nature and scope
of her Monarchy, as revealed in the Laws by which she governs it, and
which she wrote herself.
MARK TWAIN
NEW YORK. January, 1907.
BOOK I CHRISTIAN SCIENCE
"It is the first time since the dawn-days of Creation that
a Voice has gone crashing through space with such
placid and complacent confidence and command."
CHAPTER I
VIENNA 1899.
This last summer, when I was on my way back to Vienna from the
Appetite-Cure in the mountains, I fell over a cliff in the twilight, and
broke some arms and legs and one thing or another, and by good luck was
found by some peasants who had lost an ass, and they carried me to the
nearest habitation, which was one of those large, low, thatch-roofed
farm-houses, with apartments in the garret for the family, and a cunning
little porch under the deep gable decorated with boxes of bright
flowers and cats; on the ground floor a large and light sitting-room,
separated from the milch-cattle apartment by a partition; and in the
front yard rose stately and fine the wealth and pride of the house, the
manure-pile. That sentence is Germanic, and shows that I am acquiring
that sort of mastery of the art and spirit of the language which enables
a man to travel all day in one sentence without changing cars.
There was a village a mile away, and a horse doctor lived there, but
there was no surgeon. It seemed a bad outlook; mine was distinctly
a surgery case. Then it was remembered that a lady from Boston was
summering in that village, and she was a Christian Science doctor and
could cure anything. So she was sent for. It was night by this time, and
she could not conveniently come, but sent word that it was no matter,
there was no hurry, she would give me "absent treatment" now, and come
in the morning; meantime she begged me to make myself tranquil and
comfortable and remember that there was nothing the matter with me. I
thought there must be some mistake.
"Did you tell her I walked off a cliff seventy-five feet high?"
"Yes."
"And struck a boulder at the bottom and bounced?"
"Yes."
"And struck another one and bounced again?"
"Yes."
"And struck another one and bounced yet again?"
"Yes."
"And broke the boulders?"
"Yes."
"That accounts for it; she is thinking of the boulders. Why didn't you
tell her I got hurt, too?"
"I did. I told her what you told me to tell her: that you were now
but an incoherent series of compound fractures extending from your
scalp-lock to your heels, and that the comminuted projections caused you
to look like a hat-rack."
"And it was after this that she wished me to remember that there was
nothing the matter with me?"
"Those were her words."
"I do not understand it. I believe she has not diagnosed the case with
sufficient care. Did she look like a person who was theorizing, or did
she look like one who has fallen off precipices herself and brings to
the aid of abstract science the confirmations of personal experience?"
"Bitte?"
It was too large a contract for the Stubenmadchen's vocabulary; she
couldn't call the hand. I allowed the subject to rest there, and asked
for something to eat and smoke, and something hot to drink, and a basket
to pile my legs in; but I could not have any of these things.
"Why?"
"She said you would need nothing at all."
"But I am hungry and thirsty, and in desperate pain."
"She said you would have these delusions, but must pay no attention
to them. She wants you to particularly remember that there are no such
things as hunger and thirst and pain.''
"She does does she?"
"It is what she said."
"Does she seem to be in full and functionable possession of her
intellectual plant, such as it is?"
"Bitte?"
"Do they let her run at large, or do they tie her up?"
"Tie her up?"
"There, good-night, run along, you are a good girl, but your mental
Geschirr is not arranged for light and airy conversation. Leave me to my
delusions."
CHAPTER II
It was a night of anguish, of course--at least, I supposed it was, for
it had all the symptoms of it--but it passed at last, and the Christian
Scientist came, and I was glad She was middle-aged, and large and bony,
and erect, and had an austere face and a resolute jaw and a Roman beak
and was a widow in the third degree, and her name was Fuller. I was
eager to get to business and find relief, but she was distressingly
deliberate. She unpinned and unhooked and uncoupled her upholsteries one
by one, abolished the wrinkles with a flirt of her hand, and hung the
articles up; peeled off her gloves and disposed of them, got a book out
of her hand-bag, then drew a chair to the bedside, descended into it
without hurry, and I hung out my tongue. She said, with pity but without
passion:
"Return it to its receptacle. We deal with the mind only, not with its
dumb servants."
I could not offer my pulse, because the connection was broken; but she
detected the apology before I could word it, and indicated by a negative
tilt of her head that the pulse was another dumb servant that she had no
use for. Then I thought I would tell her my symptoms and how I felt, so
that she would understand the case; but that was another inconsequence,
she did not need to know those things; moreover, my remark about how I
felt was an abuse of language, a misapplication of terms.
"One does not feel," she explained; "there is no such thing as
feeling: therefore, to speak of a non-existent thing as existent is a
contradiction. Matter has no existence; nothing exists but mind; the
mind cannot feel pain, it can only imagine it."
"But if it hurts, just the same--"
"It doesn't. A thing which is unreal cannot exercise the functions of
reality. Pain is unreal; hence, pain cannot hurt."
In making a sweeping gesture to indicate the act of shooing the illusion
of pain out of the mind, she raked her hand on a pin in her dress, said
"Ouch!" and went tranquilly on with her talk. "You should never allow
yourself to speak of how you feel, nor permit others to ask you how
you are feeling; you should never concede that you are ill, nor permit
others to talk about disease or pain or death or similar nonexistences
in your presence. Such talk only encourages the mind to continue its
empty imaginings." Just at that point the Stuben-madchen trod on the
cat's tail, and the cat let fly a frenzy of cat-profanity. I asked, with
caution:
"Is a cat's opinion about pain valuable?"
"A cat has no opinion; opinions proceed from mind only; the lower
animals, being eternally perishable, have not been granted mind; without
mind, opinion is impossible."
"She merely imagined she felt a pain--the cat?"
"She cannot imagine a pain, for imagining is an effect of mind; without
mind, there is no imagination. A cat has no imagination."
"Then she had a real pain?"
"I have already told you there is no such thing as real pain."
"It is strange and interesting. I do wonder what was the matter with
the cat. Because, there being no such thing as a real pain, and she not
being able to imagine an imaginary one, it would seem that God in His
pity has compensated the cat with some kind of a mysterious emotion
usable when her tail is trodden on which, for the moment, joins cat and
Christian in one common brotherhood of--"
She broke in with an irritated--
"Peace! The cat feels nothing, the Christian feels nothing. Your empty
and foolish imaginings are profanation and blasphemy, and can do you an
injury. It is wiser and better and holier to recognize and confess that
there is no such thing as disease or pain or death."
"I am full of imaginary tortures," I said, "but I do not think I could
be any more uncomfortable if they were real ones. What must I do to get
rid of them?"
"There is no occasion to get rid of them since they do not exist. They
are illusions propagated by matter, and matter has no existence; there
is no such thing as matter."
"It sounds right and clear, but yet it seems in a degree elusive; it
seems to slip through, just when you think you are getting a grip on
it."
"Explain."
"Well, for instance: if there is no such thing as matter, how can matter
propagate things?"
In her compassion she almost smiled. She would have smiled if there were
any such thing as a smile.
"It is quite simple," she said; "the fundamental propositions of
Christian Science explain it, and they are summarized in the four
following self-evident propositions: 1. God is All in all. 2. God is
good. Good is Mind 3. God, Spirit, being all, nothing is matter 4. Life,
God, omnipotent Good, deny death, evil, sin, disease.
"There--now you see."
It seemed nebulous; it did not seem to say anything about the difficulty
in hand--how non-existent matter can propagate illusions I said, with
some hesitancy:
"Does--does it explain?"
"Doesn't it? Even if read backward it will do it."
With a budding hope, I asked her to do it backwards.
"Very well. Disease sin evil death deny Good omnipotent God life matter
is nothing all being Spirit God Mind is Good good is God all in All is
God. There do you understand now?
"It--it--well, it is plainer than it was before; still--"
"Well?"
"Could you try it some more ways?"
"As many as you like; it always means the same. Interchanged in any way
you please it cannot be made to mean anything different from what it
means when put in any other way. Because it is perfect. You can jumble
it all up, and it makes no difference: it always comes out the way it
was before. It was a marvelous mind that produced it. As a mental tour
de force it is without a mate, it defies alike the simple, the concrete,
and the occult."
"It seems to be a | 584.903031 |
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Produced by Nicole Apostola
MASTER OLOF
A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
By August Strindberg
INTRODUCTION
The original prose version of Master Olof, which is here presented for
the first time in English form, was written between June 8 and August
8, 1872, while Strindberg, then only twenty-three years old, was living
with two friends on one of the numerous little islands that lie between
Stockholm and the open sea.
Up to that time he had produced half-a-dozen plays, one of which had
been performed at the Royal Theatre of Stockholm and had won him the
good-will and financial support of King Carl XV. Thus he had been able
to return to the University of Upsala, whence he had been driven a year
earlier by poverty as well as by spiritual revolt. During his second
term of study at the old university Strindberg wrote some plays that
he subsequently destroyed. In the same period he not only conceived the
idea later developed in Master Olof, but he also acquired the historical
data underlying the play and actually began to put it into dialogue.
During that same winter of 1871-72 he read extensively, although his
reading probably had slight reference to the university curriculum. The
two works that seem to have taken the lion's share of his attention were
Goethe's youthful drama Goetz von Berlichingen and Buckle's History of
Civilization in England. Both impressed him deeply, and both became in
his mind logically connected with an external event which, perhaps, had
touched his supersensitive soul more keenly than anything else | 584.904222 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Ross Cooling and the Online
| 584.907035 |
2023-11-16 18:26:48.8890770 | 1,469 | 15 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Charles Bidwell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE BOOK OF WONDER
BY
LORD DUNSANY
CONTENTS
Preface
The Bride of the Man-Horse
Distressing Tale of Thangobrind The Jeweller
The House of the Sphinx
Probable Adventure of the Three Literary Men
The Injudicious Prayers of Pombo the Idolater
The Loot of Bombasharna
Miss Cubbidge and the Dragon Of Romance
The Quest of the Queen's Tears
The Hoard of the Gibbelins
How Nuth Would Have Practised His Art Upon the Gnoles
How One Came, As Was Foretold, to the City Of Never
The Coronation of Mr. Thomas Shap
Chu-Bu and Sheemish
The Wonderful Window
Epilogue
PREFACE
Come with me, ladies and gentlemen who are in any wise weary of
London: come with me: and those that tire at all of the world we know:
for we have new worlds here.
THE BRIDE OF THE MAN-HORSE
In the morning of his two hundred and fiftieth year Shepperalk the
centaur went to the golden coffer, wherein the treasure of the
centaurs was, and taking from it the hoarded amulet that his father,
Jyshak, in the years of his prime, had hammered from mountain gold and
set with opals bartered from the gnomes, he put it upon his wrist, and
said no word, but walked from his mother's cavern. And he took with
him too that clarion of the centaurs, that famous silver horn, that in
its time had summoned to surrender seventeen cities of Man, and for
twenty years had brayed at star-girt walls in the Siege of
Tholdenblarna, the citadel of the gods, what time the centaurs waged
their fabulous war and were not broken by any force of arms, but
retreated slowly in a cloud of dust before the final miracle of the
gods that They brought in Their desperate need from Their ultimate
armoury. He took it and strode away, and his mother only sighed and
let him go.
She knew that today he would not drink at the stream coming down from
the terraces of Varpa Niger, the inner land of the mountains, that
today he would not wonder awhile at the sunset and afterwards trot
back to the cavern again to sleep on rushes pulled by rivers that know
not Man. She knew that it was with him as it had been of old with his
father, and with Goom the father of Jyshak, and long ago with the
gods. Therefore she only sighed and let him go.
But he, coming out from the cavern that was his home, went for the
first time over the little stream, and going round the corner of the
crags saw glittering beneath him the mundane plain. And the wind of
the autumn that was gilding the world, rushing up the <DW72>s of the
mountain, beat cold on his naked flanks. He raised his head and
snorted.
"I am a man-horse now!" he shouted aloud; and leaping from crag to
crag he galloped by valley and chasm, by torrent-bed and scar of
avalanche, until he came to the wandering leagues of the plain, and
left behind him for ever the Athraminaurian mountains.
His goal was Zretazoola, the city of Sombelene. What legend of
Sombelene's inhuman beauty or of the wonder of her mystery had ever
floated over the mundane plain to the fabulous cradle of the centaurs'
race, the Athraminaurian mountains, I do not know. Yet in the blood of
man there is a tide, an old sea-current rather, that is somehow akin
to the twilight, which brings him rumours of beauty from however far
away, as driftwood is found at sea from islands not yet discovered:
and this spring-tide of current that visits the blood of man comes from
the fabulous quarter of his lineage, from the legendary, the old; it
takes him out to the woodlands, out to the hills; he listens to
ancient song. So it may be that Shepperalk's fabulous blood stirred in
those lonely mountains away at the edge of the world to rumours that
only the airy twilight knew and only confided secretly to the bat, for
Shepperalk was more legendary even than man. Certain it was that he
headed from the first for the city of Zretazoola, where Sombelene in her
temple dwelt; though all the mundane plain, its rivers and mountains,
lay between Shepperalk's home and the city he sought.
When first the feet of the centaur touched the grass of that soft
alluvial earth he blew for joy upon the silver horn, he pranced and
caracoled, he gambolled over the leagues; pace came to him like a
maiden with a lamp, a new and beautiful wonder; the wind laughed as it
passed him. He put his head down low to the scent of the flowers, he
lifted it up to be nearer the unseen stars, he revelled through
kingdoms, took rivers in his stride; how shall I tell you, ye that
dwell in cities, how shall I tell you what he felt as he galloped? He
felt for strength like the towers of Bel-Narana; for lightness like
those gossamer palaces that the fairy-spider builds 'twixt heaven and
sea along the coasts of Zith; for swiftness like some bird racing up
from the morning to sing in some city's spires before daylight comes.
He was the sworn companion of the wind. For joy he was as a song; the
lightnings of his legendary sires, the earlier gods, began to mix with
his blood; his hooves thundered. He came to the cities of men, and all
men trembled, for they remembered the ancient mythical wars, and now
they dreaded new battles and feared for the race of man. Not by Clio
are these wars recorded; history does not know them, but what of that?
Not all of us have sat at historians' feet, but all have learned fable
and myth at their mothers' knees. And there were none that did not
fear strange wars when they saw Shepperalk swerve and leap along the
public ways. So he passed from city to city.
By night he lay down unpanting in the reeds of some marsh or a forest;
before dawn he rose triumphant, and hugely drank of some river in the
dark, and splashing out of it | 584.909117 |
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E-text prepared by Afra Ullah, Sjaani, and Project Gutenberg Distributed
Proofreaders
AUNT JANE'S NIECES IN SOCIETY
BY
EDITH VAN DYNE
1910
LIST OF CHAPTERS
CHAPTER
I UNCLE JOHN'S DUTY
II A QUESTION OF "PULL"
III DIANA
IV THE THREE NIECES
V PREPARING FOR THE PLUNGE
VI THE FLY IN THE BROTH
VII THE HERO ENTERS AND TROUBLE BEGINS
VIII OPENING THE CAMPAIGN
IX THE VON TAER PEARLS
X MISLED
XI LIMOUSINE
XII FOGERTY
XIII DIANA REVOLTS
XIV A COOL ENCOUNTER
XV A BEWILDERING EXPERIENCE
XVI MADAME CERISE, CUSTODIAN
XVII THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
XVIII A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS
XIX POLITIC REPENTANCE
XX A TELEPHONE CALL
XXI THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
XXII GONE
XXIII THE CRISIS
XXIV A MATTER OF COURSE
CHAPTER I
UNCLE JOHN'S DUTY
"You're not doing your duty by those girls, John Merrick!"
The gentleman at whom this assertion was flung in a rather angry tone
did not answer his sister-in-law. He sat gazing reflectively at the
pattern in the rug and seemed neither startled nor annoyed. Mrs.
Merrick, a pink-cheeked middle-aged lady attired in an elaborate morning
gown, knitted her brows severely as she regarded the chubby little man
opposite; then, suddenly remembering that the wrinkles might leave their
dreadful mark on her carefully rolled and massaged features, she
banished them with a pass of her ringed hand and sighed dismally.
"It would not have mattered especially had the poor children been left
in their original condition of friendless poverty," she said. "They were
then like a million other girls, content to struggle for a respectable | 585.03482 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "Old Squire Metcalf, as he went out to meet him, broke
into a roar of laughter." (Page 84.)]
THE WHITE
HORSES
BY
HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE
_Author of "Ricroft of Withers," "The Open Road,"
"A Chateau in Picardy," "The Strength of the Hills,"
etc._
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
1916
To my Sister's Memory
*CONTENTS.*
CHAPTER
I.--WHO RIDES FOR THE KING?
II.--SKIPTON-IN-CRAVEN
III.--SOME MEN OF FAIRFAX'S
IV.--THE LAST LAUGH
V.--THE LADY OF RIPLEY
VI.--HOW MICHAEL CAME TO YORK
VII.--A HALT AT KNARESBOROUGH
VIII.--HOW THEY SOUGHT RUPERT
IX.--THE LOYAL CITY
X.--THE RIDING IN
XI.--BANBURY CAKES
XII.--PAGEANTRY
XIII.--THE LADY OF LATHOM
XIV.--A STANLEY FOR THE KING
XV.--TWO JOLLY PURITANS
XVI.--THE SCOTS AT MICKLEGATE
XVII.--PRAYER, AND THE BREWING STORM
XVIII.--MARSTON MOOR
XIX.--WILSTROP WOOD
XX.--THE HOMELESS DAYS
XXI.--SIR REGINALD'S WIDOW
XXII.--MISS BINGHAM
XXIII.--YOREDALE
*Illustrations*
"Old Squire Metcalf, as he went out to meet him, broke into a roar of
laughter."...... _Frontispiece_ (Page 84.)
"'You're the Squire of Nappa, sir?' he said."
"'Yes, you can be of service,' he whispered."
"'Say, do you stand for the King?'"
"Without a word of any kind, a third prisoner was thrown against them."
"They saw, too, that his sword was out, and naked to the moonlight."
"'Well, sir?' she asked sharply. 'You rob me of sleep for some good
reason doubtless?'"
"They turned sharply as the door opened, and reached out for their
weapons."
"'We hold your life at our mercy,' said Rupert."
"'Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the
King.'"
"'If the end of the world came--here and now--you would make a jest of
it.'"
"Her eyes searched eagerly for one only of the company, and disdained
the rest."
*THE WHITE HORSES.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*WHO RIDES FOR THE KING?*
Up through the rich valley known now as Wensleydale, but in those days
marked by the lustier name of Yoredale, news had crept that there was
civil war in England, that sundry skirmishes had been fought already,
and that His Majesty was needing all leal men to rally to his standard.
It was an early harvest that year, as it happened, and John Metcalf, of
Nappa Hall, stood at his garden-gate, watching the sunset glow across
his ripening wheat. There were many acres of it, gold between green
splashes of grass-land; and he told himself that they would put the
sickle into the good crop before a fortnight's end. There was something
about Squire Metcalf--six feet four to his height, and broad in the
beam--that seemed part of the wide, lush country round him. Weather and
land, between them, had bred him; and the night's peace, the smell of
sweet-briar in the evening dew, were pleasant foils to his strength.
He looked beyond the cornfields presently. Far down the road he saw a
horseman--horse and rider small in the middle of the landscape--and
wondered what their errand was. When he had done with surmises, his
glance roved again, in the countryman's slow way, and rested on the
pastures above the house. In the clear light he could see two figures
standing there; one was his son Christopher, the other a trim-waisted
maid. Squire Metcalf frowned suddenly. He was so proud of his name, of
his simple squiredom, that he could not bear to see his eldest-born
courting defeat of this kind. This little lady was niece to his
neighbour, Sir Timothy Grant, a good neighbour and a friend, but one who
was richer than himself in lands and rank, one who went often to the
Court in London, and was in great favour with the King. Squire Metcalf
had seen these two together in his own house, and guessed Christopher's
secret without need of much sagacity; and he was sorely troubled on the
lad's account.
Christopher himself, away at the stile yonder, was not troubled at all
except by a pleasant heartache. He had youth, and Joan Grant beside him,
and a heart on fire for her.
"You are pleased to love me?" she was saying, facing him with maddening
grace. "What is your title to love me, sir?"
"Any man has the right to love," Kit protested sturdily. "He cannot
help it sometimes."
"Oh, granted; but not to tell it openly."
"What else should a man do? I was never one for secrets."
Joan laughed pleasantly, as if a thrush were singing. "You speak truth.
I would not trust you with a secret as far as from here to Nappa. If a
child met you on the road, she would read it in your face."
"I was bred that way, by your leave. We Metcalfs do not fear the
light."
"But, sir, you have every right to--to think me better than I am, but
none at all to speak of--of love. I had an old Scots nurse to teach me
wisdom, and she taught me--what, think you?"
"To thieve and raid down Yoredale," said Kit unexpectedly. "The Scots
had only that one trade, so my father tells me, till the Stuarts came to
reign over both countries."
"To thieve and raid? And I--I, too, have come to raid, you say--to
steal your heart?"
"You are very welcome to it."
"But do I want it?" She put aside her badinage, drew away from him with
a fine strength and defiance. "Listen, sir. My Scots nurse taught me
that a woman has only one heart to give in her lifetime; that, for her
peace, she must hide it in the branches of a tree so high that only a
strong man can climb it."
"I'm good at tree-climbing," said Christopher, with blunt acceptance of
the challenge.
"Then prove it."
"Now?" he asked, glancing at a tall fir behind them.
"Oh, sir, you are blunt and forthright, you men of Nappa! You do not
understand the heart of a woman."
Kit Metcalf stood to his brawny six-foot height. "I'm needing you, and
cannot wait," he said, fiery and masterful. "That's the way of a man's
heart."
"Then, by your leave, I shall bid you good e'en. No man will ever master
me until----"
"Until?" asked Kit, submissive now that he saw her retreating up the
pasture.
She dropped him another curtsey before going up the steep face of the
hills. "That is the woman's secret, sir. It lives at the top of a high
tree, that 'until.' Go climbing, Master Christopher!"
Kit went back to Nappa, in frank revolt against destiny and the blue
face of heaven. There was nothing in the world worth capturing except
this maid who eluded him at every turn, like a butterfly swift of wing.
He was prepared to be sorry for himself until he came face to face with
his father at the garden gate.
"I saw two young fools at the stile," said Squire Metcalf. "I've
watched you for half an hour. Best wed in your own station, Kit--no
more, no less. No Metcalf ever went dandying after great ladies yet.
We've our own proper pride."
Christopher, in spite of his six feet, looked a small man as he stood
beside his father; but his spirit was equal to its stubborn strength.
"I love her. There's no other for me," he said sharply.
The Squire glanced shrewdly at him. "Ah, well," he said at last, "if it
goes as deep as that, lad, you'll just have to go on crying out for the
moon. Sir Timothy has been away in London all the summer--trouble with
the Parliament, and the King needing him, they say. He'd have taken
Miss Joan with him if he'd guessed that a lad from Nappa thought he
could ever wed into the family."
"We've lands and gear enough," protested Kit.
"We have, but not as they count such matters. They've got one foot in
Yoredale, and t'other in London; and we seem very simple to them, Kit."
Shrewd common sense is abhorrent to all lovers, and Kit fell into a
stormy silence. He knew it true, that he felt rough, uncouth, in
presence of his mistress; but he knew also that at the heart of him
there was a love that was not uncouth at all.
The Squire left Kit to fight out his own trouble, and fell to watching
the horseman who was more than a speck now on the landscape. The rider
showed as a little man striding a little mare; both were weary, by the
look of them, and both were heading straight for Nappa Hall. They had a
mile to cover.
"Father, I need to get away from Nappa," said Kit, breaking the silence.
"Ay," said the Squire, with a tolerant laugh, "love takes all men that
way in the first flush of it. I was young myself once. You want to ride
out, lad, and kill a few score men, just to show little Miss Joan what a
likely man o' your hands you are. Later on, you'll be glad to be
shepherding the ewes, to pay for her new gowns and what not. Love's not
all mist and moonshine, Kit; the sturdier part comes later on."
Up the lane sounded the lolopping pit-a-pat of a horse that was tired
out and near to drop; and the rider looked in no better case as he drew
rein at the gate.
"You're the Squire of Nappa, sir?" he said, with a weary smile. "No
weary to ask the question. I was told to find a man as tall as an
oak-tree and as sturdy."
[Illustration: "'You're the Squire of Nappa, sir?' he said."]
"Yet it would have been like seeking a needle in a bundle of hay, if you
hadn't chanced to find me at the gate," the other answered. "There are
six score Metcalfs in this corner of Yoredale, and nobody takes notice
of my height."
"The jest is pretty enough, sir, but you'll not persuade me that there's
a regiment of giants in the dale."
"They're not all of my height--granted. Some are more, and a few less.
This is my eldest-born," he said, touching Christopher on the shoulder.
"We call him Baby Kit, because he's the smallest of us all."
The horseman saw a lad six foot high, who certainly looked dwarfed as he
stood beside his father. "Gad, the King has need of you! Undoubtedly he
needs all Metcalfs, if this is your baby-boy."
"As for the King, the whole six score of us have prayed for his welfare,
Sabbath in and Sabbath out, since we were breeked. It's good hearing
that he needs us."
"I ride on His Majesty's errand. He bids the Squire of Nappa get his
men and his white horses together."
"So the King has heard of our white horses? Well, we're proud o' them, I
own."
The messenger, used to the stifled atmosphere of Courts until this
trouble with the Parliament arrived, was amazed by the downright,
free-wind air the Squire of Nappa carried. It tickled his humour, tired
as he was, that Metcalf should think the King himself knew every detail
of his country, and every corner of it that bred white horses, or roan,
or chestnut. At Skipton-in-Craven, of course, they knew the dales from
end to end; and he was here because Sir John Mallory, governor of the
castle there, had told him the Metcalfs of Nappa were slow to leave the
beaten tracks, but that, once roused, they would not budge, or falter,
or retreat.
"The King needs every Metcalf and his white horse. He sent me with that
message to you, Squire."
"About when does he need us?" asked Metcalf guardedly.
"To-morrow, to be precise."
"Oh, away with you! There's all my corn to be gathered in. I'll come
nearer the back end o' the year, if the King can bide till then. By
that token, you're looking wearied out, you and your horse. Come
indoors, man, and we'll talk the matter over."
The messenger was nothing loath. At Skipton they had given an
importance to the Metcalf clan that he had not understood till now.
This was the end of to-day's journey, and his sole errand was to bring
the six score men and horses into the good capital of Craven.
"I ask no better cheer, sir. Can you stable the two of us for the
night? My little grey mare is more in need of rest than I am."
Christopher, the six-foot baby of the clan, ran forward to the mare's
bridle; and he glanced at his father, because the war in his blood was
vehement and lusty, and he feared the old check of discipline.
"Is it true, sir?" he asked the messenger. "Does the King need us?
I've dreamed of it o' nights, and wakened just to go out and tend the
land. I'm sick of tending land. Is it true the King needs us?"
The messenger, old to the shams and false punctilios of life, was
dismayed for a moment by this clean, sturdy zest. Here, he told
himself, was a cavalier in the making--a cavalier of Prince Rupert's
breed, who asked only for the hazard.
"It is true that the King needs a thousand such as you," he said drily.
"Be good to my little mare; I trust her to you, lad."
And in this solicitude for horseflesh, shown twice already, the
messenger had won his way already into the favour of all Metcalfs. For
they loved horses just a little less than they loved their King.
Within doors, as he followed the Squire of Nappa, he found a warm fire
of logs, and an evening meal to which the sons of the house trooped in
at haphazard intervals. There were only six of them, all told, but they
seemed to fill the roomy dining-room as if a crowd intruded. The
rafters of the house were low, and each stooped, from long habit, as he
came in to meat. Kit, the baby of the flock, was the last to come in;
and he had a queer air about him, as if he trod on air.
There was only one woman among them, a little, eager body, who welcomed
the stranger with pleasant grace. She had borne six sons to the Squire,
because he was dominant and thought little of girl-children; she had
gone through pain and turmoil for her lord, and at the end of it was
thankful for her pride in him, though she would have liked to find one
girl among the brood--a girl who knew the way of household worries and
the way of women's tears.
The messenger, as he ate and drank with extreme greediness, because need
asked, glanced constantly at the hostess who was like a garden flower,
growing here under the shade of big-boled trees. It seemed impossible
that so small a person was responsible for the six men who made the
rafters seem even lower than they were.
When the meal was ended, Squire Metcalf put his guest into the great
hooded chair beside the fire of peat and wood.
"Now, sir, we'll talk of the King, by your leave, and these lusty rogues
of mine shall stand about and listen. What is it His Majesty asks of
us?"
The messenger, now food and liquor had given him strength again, felt at
home in this house of Nappa as he had never done among the intrigues of
Court life. He had honest zeal, and he was among honest men, and his
tongue was fiery and persuasive.
"The King needs good horsemen and free riders to sweep the land clear of
Roundheads. He needs gentlemen with the strong arm and the simple heart
to fight his battles. The King--God bless him!--needs six-score
Metcalfs, on horses as mettled as their riders, to help put out this
cursed fire of insurrection."
"Well, as for that," said the Squire, lighting his pipe with a live peat
from the hearth, "I reckon we're here for that purpose. I bred my sons
for the King, when he was pleased to need them. But I'd rather he could
bide--say, for a month--till we get our corn in. Take our six-score men
from the land just now, and there'll be no bread for the house next
year, let alone straw for the beasts."
The messenger grew more and more aware that he had been entrusted with a
fine mission. This plain, unvarnished honesty of the Squire's was worth
fifty protestations of hot loyalty. The dogged love he had of his lands
and crops--the forethought of them in the midst of civil war--would make
him a staunch, cool-headed soldier.
"The King says you are to ride out to-morrow, Squire. What use to pray
for him on Sabbaths if you fail him at the pinch?"
Metcalf was roused at last, but he glanced at the little wife who sat
quietly in her corner, saying little and feeling much. "I've more than
harvesting to leave. She's small, that wife of mine, but God knows the
big love I have for her."
The little woman got up suddenly and stepped forward through the press
of big sons she had reared. Her man said openly that he loved her better
than his lands, and she had doubted it till now. She came and stood
before the messenger and dropped him a curtsey.
"You are very welcome, sir, to take all my men on the King's service.
What else? I, too, have prayed on Sabbaths."
The messenger rose, a great pity and chivalry stirring through his
hard-ridden, tired body. "And you, madam?" he asked gently.
"Oh, I shall play the woman's part, I hope--to wait, and be silent, and
shed tears when there are no onlookers."
"By God's grace," said Blake, the messenger, a mist about his eyes, "I
have come to a brave house!"
The next morning, an hour after daybreak, Blake awoke, stirred drowsily,
then sprang out of bed. Sleep was a luxury to him these days, and he
blamed himself for indolence.
Downstairs he found only a serving-maid, who was spreading the breakfast
table with cold meats enough to feed twenty men of usual size and
appetite. The mistress was in the herb-garden, she said, and the men
folk all abroad.
For a moment the messenger doubted his welcome last night. Had he
dreamed of six score men ready for the King's service, or was the
Squire's honesty, his frank promise to ride out, a pledge repented of
already?
He found the Squire's wife walking in the herb-garden, and the face she
lifted was tear-stained. "I give you good day," she said, "though
you've not dealt very well with me and mine."
"Is there a finer errand than the King's?" he asked brusquely.
"My heart, sir, is not concerned with glory and fine errands. It is
very near to breaking. Without discourtesy, I ask you to leave me here
in peace--for a little while--until my wounds are healing."
The Squire and his sons had been abroad before daybreak, riding out
across the wide lands of Nappa. Of the hundred odd grown men on their
acres, there was not one--yeoman, or small farmer, or hind--but was a
Metcalf by name and tradition. They were a clan of the old, tough Border
sort, welded together by a loyalty inbred through many generations; and
the law that each man's horse must be of the true Metcalf white was not
of yesterday.
Christopher's ride to call his kinsfolk in had taken him wide to the
boundary of Sir Timothy Grant's lands; and, as he trotted at the head of
his growing company, he was bewildered to see Joan step from a little
coppice on the right of the track. She had been thinking of him, as it
happened, till sleep would not come; and, like himself, she needed to
get out into the open. Very fresh she looked, as she stepped into the
misty sunlight--alert, free-moving, bred by wind and rain and sun. To
Kit she seemed something not of this world; and it is as well, maybe,
that a boy's love takes this shape, because in saner manhood the glamour
of the old day-dreams returns, to keep life wholesome.
Kit halted his company, heedless of their smiles and muttered jests, as
he rode to her side.
"You look very big, Christopher! You Nappa men--and your horses--are
you riding to some hunt?" She was cold, provocative, dismaying.
"Yes, to hunt the Roundheads over Skipton way. The King has sent for
us."
"But--the call is so sudden, and--I should not like to hear that you
were dead, Kit."
Her eyes were tender with him, and then again were mocking. He could
make nothing her, as how should he, when older men than he had failed to
understand the world's prime mystery.
"Joan, what did you mean by 'until,' last night at the stile? You said
none should master you until----"
"Why, yes, _until_---- Go out | 585.097712 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.0811060 | 30 | 36 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Andrew Templeton, JoAnn
Greenwood and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www | 585.101146 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.0812770 | 1,199 | 87 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
CHILD'S OWN BOOK
_of Great Musicians_
SCHUMANN
[Illustration]
_By_
THOMAS TAPPER
THEODORE PRESSER CO.
1712 CHESTNUT STREET
PHILADELPHIA
[Illustration]
Directions for Binding
Enclosed in this envelope is the cord and the needle with which to bind
this book. Start in from the outside as shown on the diagram here. Pass
the needle and thread through the center of the book, leaving an end
extend outside, then through to the outside, about 2 inches from the
center; then from the outside to inside 2 inches from the center at the
other end of the book, bringing the thread finally again through the
center, and tie the two ends in a knot, one each side of the cord on the
outside.
=THEO. PRESSER CO., Pub's., Phila., Pa.=
HOW TO USE THIS BOOK
* * * * *
This book is one of a series known as the CHILD'S OWN BOOK OF GREAT
MUSICIANS, written by Thomas Tapper, author of "Pictures from the Lives
of the Great Composers for Children," "Music Talks with Children,"
"First Studies in Music Biography," and others.
The sheet of illustrations included herewith is to be cut apart by the
child, and each illustration is to be inserted in its proper place
throughout the book, pasted in the space containing the same number as
will be found under each picture on the sheet. It is not necessary to
cover the entire back of a picture with paste. Put it only on the
corners and place neatly within the lines you will find printed around
each space. Use photographic paste, if possible.
After this play-work is completed there will be found at the back of the
book blank pages upon which the child is to write his own story of the
great musician, based upon the facts and questions found on the previous
pages.
The book is then to be sewed by the child through the center with the
cord found in the enclosed envelope. The book thus becomes the child's
own book.
This series will be found not only to furnish a pleasing and interesting
task for the children, but will teach them the main facts with regard to
the life of each of the great musicians--an educational feature worth
while.
* * * * *
This series of the Child's Own Book of Great Musicians includes at
present a book on each of the following:
Bach Grieg Mozart
Beethoven Handel Nevin
Brahms Haydn Schubert
Chopin Liszt Schumann
Dvorak MacDowell Tschaikowsky
Foster Mendelssohn Verdi
Wagner
[Illustration: Transcriber's note:
First page of illustrations: 1, 14, 15, 12, 11, 10, 13, 6]
[Illustration: Transcriber's note:
Second page of illustrations: 7, 8, 16, 9, 5, 3, 4, 2]
Robt. Schumann
The Story of the Boy Who
Made Pictures in Music
* * * * *
Made up into a Book by
........................................................
* * * * *
Philadelphia
Theodore Presser Co.
1712 Chestnut Str.
Copyright. 1916, by THEO. PRESSER CO.
Printed in the U.S.A.
[Illustration: No. 1
Cut the picture of Schumann
from the sheet of pictures.
Paste in here.
Write the composer's name
below and the dates also.]
........................................................
BORN
........................................................
DIED
........................................................
The Story of the Boy Who Made
Pictures in Music.
When Robert Schumann was a boy he used to amuse his friends by playing
their pictures on the piano. He could make the music imitate the person.
One day he said to them: This is the way the farmer walks when he comes
home singing from his work.
[Illustration: No. 2
THE HAPPY FARMER.]
Some day you will be able to play a lot of pieces by Schumann that
picture the pleasantest things so clearly that you can see them very
plainly indeed. In one of his books there is a music picture of a boy
riding a rocking horse.
Another of a little girl falling asleep.
_A March for Little Soldiers._ (That is, make-believes.)
And then there are _Sitting by the Fireside_, _What they Sing in
Church_, and a piece the first four notes of which spell the name of a
composer who was a good friend of Schumann's.
This composer came from Denmark.
[Illustration: No. 3
NIELS GADE.]
This is a picture of the house in Zwickau, Germany, where Robert
Schumann was born.
[Illustration: No. 4
SCHUMANN'S BIRTHPLACE.]
Schumann was a strong healthy youth who had many friends and loved life.
[Illustration: No. 5
SCHUMANN AS A YOUTH.]
What do you think the Father | 585.101317 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.0830720 | 2,983 | 9 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Golden Bowl, Volume II, by Henry James
#43 in our series by Henry James
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MADAME MIDAS
Fergus Hume
PROLOGUE
CAST UP BY THE SEA
A wild bleak-looking coast, with huge water-worn promontories jutting
out into the sea, daring the tempestuous fury of the waves, which dashed
furiously in sheets of seething foam against the iron rocks. Two of
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the presence of vegetation, and from thence it spread inland into
vast-rolling pastures ending far away at the outskirts of the bush,
above which could be seen giant mountains with snow-covered ranges. Over
all this strange contrast of savage ar | 585.103193 |
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BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY
THE AGE OF FABLE
THE AGE OF CHIVALRY
LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE
BY THOMAS BULFINCH
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME
[Editor's Note: The etext contains only LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE]
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE
No new edition of Bulfinch's classic work can be considered complete
without some notice of the American scholar to whose wide erudition and
painstaking care it stands as a perpetual monument. "The Age of Fable"
has come to be ranked with older books like "Pilgrim's Progress,"
"Gulliver's Travels," "The Arabian Nights," "Robinson Crusoe," and five
or six other productions of world-wide renown as a work with which
every one must claim some acquaintance before his education can be
called really complete. Many readers of the present edition will
probably recall coming in contact with the work as children, and, it
may be added, will no doubt discover from a fresh perusal the source of
numerous bits of knowledge that have remained stored in their minds
since those early years. Yet to the majority of this great circle of
readers and students the name Bulfinch in itself has no significance.
Thomas Bulfinch was a native of Boston, Mass., where he was born in
1796. His boyhood was spent in that city, and he prepared for college
in the Boston schools. He finished his scholastic training at Harvard
College, and after taking his degree was for a period a teacher in his
home city. For a long time later in life he was employed as an
accountant in the Boston Merchants' Bank. His leisure time he used for
further pursuit of the classical studies which he had begun at Harvard,
and his chief pleasure in life lay in writing out the results of his
reading, in simple, condensed form for young or busy readers. The plan
he followed in this work, to give it the greatest possible usefulness,
is set forth in the Author's Preface.
"Age of Fable," First Edition, 1855; "The Age of Chivalry," 1858; "The
Boy Inventor," 1860; "Legends of Charlemagne, or Romance of the Middle
Ages," 1863; "Poetry of the Age of Fable," 1863; "Oregon and Eldorado,
or Romance of the Rivers," 1860.
In this complete edition of his mythological and legendary lore "The
Age of Fable," "The Age of Chivalry," and "Legends of Charlemagne" are
included. Scrupulous care has been taken to follow the original text of
Bulfinch, but attention should be called to some additional sections
which have been inserted to add to the rounded completeness of the
work, and which the publishers believe would meet with the sanction of
the author himself, as in no way intruding upon his original plan but
simply carrying it out in more complete detail. The section on Northern
Mythology has been enlarged by a retelling of the epic of the
"Nibelungen Lied," together with a summary of Wagner's version of the
legend in his series of music-dramas. Under the head of "Hero Myths of
the British Race" have been included outlines of the stories of
Beowulf, Cuchulain, Hereward the Wake, and Robin Hood. Of the verse
extracts which occur throughout the text, thirty or more have been
added from literature which has appeared since Bulfinch's time,
extracts that he would have been likely to quote had he personally
supervised the new edition.
Finally, the index has been thoroughly overhauled and, indeed, remade.
All the proper names in the work have been entered, with references to
the pages where they occur, and a concise explanation or definition of
each has been given. Thus what was a mere list of names in the original
has been enlarged into a small classical and mythological dictionary,
which it is hoped will prove valuable for reference purposes not
necessarily connected with "The Age of Fable."
Acknowledgments are due the writings of Dr. Oliver Huckel for
information on the point of Wagner's rendering of the Nibelungen
legend, and M. I. Ebbutt's authoritative volume on "Hero Myths and
Legends of the British Race," from which much of the information
concerning the British heroes has been obtained.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which helps
to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in society, then
Mythology has no claim to the appellation. But if that which tends to
make us happier and better can be called useful, then we claim that
epithet for our subject. For Mythology is the handmaid of literature;
and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters of
happiness.
Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of our
own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron calls
Rome "the Niobe of nations," or says of Venice, "She looks a Sea-Cybele
fresh from ocean," he calls up to the mind of one familiar with our
subject, illustrations more vivid and striking than the pencil could
furnish, but which are lost to the reader ignorant of mythology. Milton
abounds in similar allusions. The short poem "Comus" contains more than
thirty such, and the ode "On the Morning of the Nativity" half as many.
Through "Paradise Lost" they are scattered profusely. This is one
reason why we often hear persons by no means illiterate say that they
cannot enjoy Milton. But were these persons to add to their more solid
acquirements the easy learning of this little volume, much of the
poetry of Milton which has appeared to them "harsh and crabbed" would
be found "musical as is Apollo's lute." Our citations, taken from more
than twenty-five poets, from Spenser to Longfellow, will show how
general has been the practice of borrowing illustrations from mythology.
The prose writers also avail themselves of the same source of elegant
and suggestive illustration. One can hardly take up a number of the
"Edinburgh" or "Quarterly Review" without meeting with instances. In
Macaulay's article on Milton there are twenty such.
But how is mythology to be taught to one who does not learn it through
the medium of the languages of Greece and Rome? To devote study to a
species of learning which relates wholly to false marvels and obsolete
faiths is not to be expected of the general reader in a practical age
like this. The time even of the young is claimed by so many sciences of
facts and things that little can be spared for set treatises on a
science of mere fancy.
But may not the requisite knowledge of the subject be acquired by
reading the ancient poets in translations? We reply, the field is too
extensive for a preparatory course; and these very translations require
some previous knowledge of the subject to make them intelligible. Let
any one who doubts it read the first page of the "Aeneid," and see what
he can make of "the hatred of Juno," the "decree of the Parcae," the
"judgment of Paris," and the "honors of Ganymede," without this
knowledge.
Shall we be told that answers to such queries may be found in notes, or
by a reference to the Classical Dictionary? We reply, the interruption
of one's reading by either process is so annoying that most readers
prefer to let an allusion pass unapprehended rather than submit to it.
Moreover, such sources give us only the dry facts without any of the
charm of the original narrative; and what is a poetical myth when
stripped of its poetry? The story of Ceyx and Halcyone, which fills a
chapter in our book, occupies but eight lines in the best (Smith's)
Classical Dictionary; and so of others.
Our work is an attempt to solve this problem, by telling the stories of
mythology in such a manner as to make them a source of amusement. We
have endeavored to tell them correctly, according to the ancient
authorities, so that when the reader finds them referred to he may not
be at a loss to recognize the reference. Thus we hope to teach
mythology not as a study, but as a relaxation from study; to give our
work the charm of a story-book, yet by means of it to impart a
knowledge of an important branch of education. The index at the end
will adapt it to the purposes of reference, and make it a Classical
Dictionary for the parlor.
Most of the classical legends in "Stories of Gods and Heroes" are
derived from Ovid and Virgil. They are not literally translated, for,
in the author's opinion, poetry translated into literal prose is very
unattractive reading. Neither are they in verse, as well for other
reasons as from a conviction that to translate faithfully under all the
embarrassments of rhyme and measure is impossible. The attempt has been
made to tell the stories in prose, preserving so much of the poetry as
resides in the thoughts and is separable from the language itself, and
omitting those amplifications which are not suited to the altered form.
The Northern mythological stories are copied with some abridgment from
Mallet's "Northern Antiquities." These chapters, with those on Oriental
and Egyptian mythology, seemed necessary to complete the subject,
though it is believed these topics have not usually been presented in
the same volume with the classical fables.
The poetical citations so freely introduced are expected to answer
several valuable purposes. They will tend to fix in memory the leading
fact of each story, they will help to the attainment of a correct
pronunciation of the proper names, and they will enrich the memory with
many gems of poetry, some of them such as are most frequently quoted or
alluded to in reading and conversation.
Having chosen mythology as connected with literature for our province,
we have endeavored to omit nothing which the reader of elegant
literature is likely to find occasion for. Such stories and parts of
stories as are offensive to pure taste and good morals are not given.
But such stories are not often referred to, and if they occasionally
should be, the English reader need feel no mortification in confessing
his ignorance of them.
Our work is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for the
philosopher, but for the reader of English literature, of either sex,
who wishes to comprehend the allusions so frequently made by public
speakers, lecturers, essayists, and poets, and those which occur in
polite conversation.
In the "Stories of Gods and Heroes" the compiler has endeavored to
impart the pleasures of classical learning to the English reader, by
presenting the stories of Pagan mythology in a form adapted to modern
taste. In "King Arthur and His Knights" and "The Mabinogeon" the
attempt has been made to treat in the same way the stories of the
second "age of fable," the age which witnessed the dawn of the several
states of Modern Europe.
It is believed that this presentation of a literature which held
unrivalled sway over the imaginations of our ancestors, for many
centuries, will not be without benefit to the reader, in addition to
the amusement it may afford. The tales, though not to be trusted for
their facts, are worthy of all credit as pictures of manners; and it is
beginning to be held that the manners and modes of thinking of an age
are a more important part of its history than the conflicts of its
peoples, generally leading to no result. Besides this, the literature
of romance is a treasure-house of poetical material, to which modern
poets frequently resort. The Italian poets, Dante and Ariosto, the
English, Spenser, Scott, and Tennyson, and our own Longfellow and
Lowell, are examples of this.
These legends are so connected with each other, so consistently adapted
to a group of characters strongly individualized in Arthur, Launcelot,
and their compeers, and so lighted up by the fires of imagination and
invention, that they seem as well adapted to the poet's purpose as the
legends of the Greek and Roman mythology. And if every well-educated
young person is expected to know the story of the Golden Fleece, why is
the quest of the Sangreal less worthy of his acquaintance? Or if an
allusion to the shield of Achilles ought not to pass unapprehended, why
should one to Excalibar, the famous sword of Arthur?--
"Of Arthur, who, to upper light restored,
With that terrific sword,
Which yet he brandishes for future war,
Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star."
[Footnote: Wordsworth]
It is an additional recommendation of our subject, that it tends to
cherish in our minds the idea of the source from which we sprung. We
are entitled to our full share in the glories and recollections of the
land of our forefathers, down to the time of colonization thence. The
associations which spring from this source must be fruitful of good
influences; among which not the least valuable is the increased
enjoyment which such associations afford to the American traveller when
he visits England, and sets his foot upon any of her renowned
localities.
The legends of Charlemagne and his peers are necessary to complete the
subject.
In an age when intellectual darkness enveloped Western Europe, a
constellation of brilliant writers arose in Italy. Of these, Pulci
(born in 1432), Boiardo (1434), and Ariosto (1474) took for their
subjects the romantic fables which had for many ages been transmitted
in the lays of bards and the legends of monkish chroniclers. These
fables they arranged in order, adorned with the embellishments of
fancy, amplified from their own invention, and stamped with
immortality. It may safely be asserted that as long as civilization
shall endure these productions will retain their place among the most
cherished creations of human genius.
In "Stories of Gods and Heroes," "King Arthur and His Knights" and "The
Mabinogeon" the aim has been to supply to the modern reader such
knowledge of the fables of classical and mediaeval literature as is
needed to render intelligible the allusions which occur in reading and
conversation. The "Legends of Charlemagne" is intended to carry out the
same design. Like the earlier portions of the work, it aspires to a
higher character than that of a piece of mere amusement. It claims to
be useful, in acquainting its readers with the subjects of the
productions of the great poets of Italy. Some knowledge of these is
expected of every well-educated young person.
In reading these romances, we cannot fail to observe how the primitive
inventions have been used, again and again, by successive generations
of fabulists. The Siren of Ulysses is the prototype of the Siren of
Orlando, and the character of Circe reappears in Alcina. The fountains
of Love and Hatred may be traced to the story of Cupid and Psyche; and
similar effects produced by a magic draught appear in the tale of
Tristram and Isoude, and, substituting a flower for the draught, in
Shakspeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream." There are many other instances
of the same kind which the reader will recognize without our assistance.
The sources whence we derive these stories are, first, the Italian
poets named above; next, the "Romans de Chevalerie" of the Comte de
Tressan; lastly, certain German collections of popular tales. Some
chapters have been borrowed from Leigh Hunt's Translations from the
Italian Poets. It seemed unnecessary to do over again what he had
already done so well; yet, on the other hand, those stories could not
be omitted from the series without leaving it incomplete.
THOMAS BULFINCH.
CONTENTS
LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE
Introduction
The Peers, or Paladins
The Tournament
The Siege of Albracca
Adventures of Rinaldo and Orlando
The Invasion of France
The Invasion of France (Continued)
Bradamante and Rogero
Astolpho and the Enchantress
The Orc
Astolpho's Adventures continued, and Isabella's begun.
Medoro
Orlando Mad
Zerbino and Isabella
Astolpho in Abyssinia
The War in Africa
Rogero and Bradamante
The Battle of Roncesvalles
Rinaldo and Bayard
Death of Rinaldo
Huon of Bordeaux
Huon of Bordeaux (Continued)
Huon of Bordeaux (Continued)
Ogier, the Dane
Ogier, the Dane (Continued)
Ogier, the Dane (Continued)
GLOSSARY
LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE
INTRODUCTION
Those who have investigated the origin of the romantic fables relating
to Charlemagne and his peers are of opinion that the deeds of Charles
Martel, and perhaps of other Charleses, have been blended in popular
tradition with those properly belonging to Charlemagne. It was indeed a
most momentous era; and if our readers will have patience, before
entering on the perusal of the fabulous annals which we are about to
lay before them, to take a rapid survey of the real history of the
times, they will find it hardly less romantic than the tales of the
poets.
In the century beginning from the year 600, the countries bordering
upon the native land of our Saviour, to the east and south, had not yet
received his religion. Arabia was the seat of an idolatrous religion
resembling that of the ancient Persians, who worshipped the sun, moon,
and stars. In Mecca, in the year 571, Mahomet was born, and here, at
the age of forty, he proclaimed himself the prophet of God, in dignity
as superior to Christ as Christ had been to Moses. Having obtained by
slow degrees a considerable number of disciples, he resorted to arms to
diffuse his religion. The energy and zeal of his followers, aided by
the weakness of the neighboring nations, enabled him and his successors
to spread the sway of Arabia and the religion of Mahomet over the
countries to the east as far as the Indus, northward over Persia and
Asia Minor, westward over Egypt and the southern shores of the
Mediterranean, and thence over the principal portion of Spain. All this
was done within one hundred years from the Hegira, or flight of Mahomet
from Mecca to Medina, which happened in the year 622, and is the era
from which Mahometans reckon time, as we do from the birth of Christ.
From Spain the way was open for the Saracens (so the followers of
Mahomet were called) into France, the conquest of which, if achieved,
would have been followed very probably by that of all the rest of
Europe, and would have resulted in the banishment of Christianity from
the earth. For Christianity was not at that day universally professed,
even by those nations which we now regard as foremost in civilization.
Great part of Germany, Britain, Denmark, and Russia were still pagan or
barbarous.
At that time there ruled in France, though without the title of king,
the first of those illustrious Charleses of whom we have spoken,
Charles Martel, the grandfather of Charlemagne. The Saracens of Spain
had made incursions into France in 712 and 718, and had retired,
carrying with them a vast booty. In 725, Anbessa, who was then the
Saracen governor of Spain, crossed the Pyrenees with a numerous army,
and took by storm the strong town of Carcassone. So great was the
terror excited by this invasion, that the country for a wide extent
submitted to the conqueror, and a Mahometan governor for the province
was appointed and installed at Narbonne. Anbessa, however, received a
fatal wound in one of his engagements, and the Saracens, being thus
checked from further advance, retired to Narbonne.
In 732 the Saracens again invaded France under Abdalrahman, advanced
rapidly to the banks of the Garonne, and laid siege to Bordeaux. The
city was taken by assault and delivered up to the soldiery. The
invaders still pressed forward, and spread over the territories of
Orleans, Auxerre and Sens. Their advanced parties were suddenly called
in by their chief, who had received information of the rich abbey of
St. Martin of Tours, and resolved to plunder and destroy it.
Charles during all this time had done nothing to oppose the Saracens,
for the reason that the portion of France over which their incursions
had been made was not at that time under his dominion, but constituted
an independent kingdom, under the name of Aquitaine, of which Eude was
king. But now Charles became convinced of the danger, and prepared to
encounter it. Abdalrahman was advancing toward Tours, when intelligence
of the approach of Charles, at the head of an army of Franks, compelled
him to fall back upon Poitiers, in order to seize an advantageous field
of battle.
Charles Martel had called together his warriors from every part of his
dominions, and, at the head of such an army as had hardly ever been
seen in France, crossed the Loire, probably at Orleans, and, being
joined by the remains of the army of Aquitaine, came in sight of the
Arabs in the month of October, 732. The Saracens seem to have been
aware of the terrible enemy they were now to encounter, and for the
first time these formidable conquerors hesitated. The two armies
remained in presence during seven days before either ventured to begin
the attack; but at length the signal for battle was given by
Abdalrahman, and the immense mass of the Saracen army rushed with fury
on the Franks. But the heavy line of the Northern warriors remained
like a rock, and the Saracens, during nearly the whole day, expended
their strength in vain attempts to make any impression upon them. At
length, about four o'clock in the afternoon, when Abdalrahman was
preparing for a new and desperate attempt to break the line of the
Franks, a terrible clamor was heard in the rear of the Saracens. It was
King Eude, who, with his Aquitanians, had attacked their camp, and a
great part of the Saracen army rushed tumultuously from the field to
protect their plunder. In this moment of confusion the line of the
Franks advanced, and, sweeping the field before it, carried fearful
slaughter amongst the enemy. Abdalrahman made desperate efforts to
rally his troops, but when he himself, with the bravest of his
officers, fell beneath the swords of the Christians, all order
disappeared, and the remains of his army sought refuge in their immense
camp, from which Eude and his Aquitanians had been repulsed. It was now
late, and Charles, unwilling to risk an attack on the camp in the dark,
withdrew his army, and passed the night in the plain, expecting to
renew the battle in the morning.
Accordingly, when daylight came, the Franks drew up in order of battle,
but no enemy appeared; and when at last they ventured to approach the
Saracen camp they found it empty. The invaders had taken advantage of
the night to begin their retreat, and were already on their way back to
Spain, leaving their immense plunder behind to fall into the hands of
the Franks.
This was the celebrated battle of Tours, in which vast numbers of the
Saracens were slain, and only fifteen hundred of the Franks. Charles
received the surname of Martel (the Hammer) in consequence of this
victory.
The Saracens, notwithstanding this severe blow, continued to hold their
ground in the south of France; but Pepin, the son of Charles Martel,
who succeeded to his father's power, and assumed the title of king,
successively took from them the strong places they held; and in 759, by
the capture of Narbonne, their capital, extinguished the remains of
their power in France.
Charlemagne, or Charles the Great, succeeded his father, Pepin, on the
throne in the year 768. This prince, though the hero of numerous
romantic legends, appears greater in history than in fiction. Whether
we regard him as a warrior or as a legislator, as a patron of learning
or as the civilizer of a barbarous nation, he is entitled to our
warmest admiration. Such he is in history; but the romancers represent
him as often weak and passionate, the victim of treacherous
counsellors, and at the mercy of turbulent barons, on whose prowess he
depends for the maintenance of his throne. The historical
representation is doubtless the true one, for it is handed down in
trustworthy records, and is confirmed by the events of the age. At the
height of his power, the French empire extended over what we now call
France, Germany, Switzerland, Holland, Belgium, and great part of Italy.
In the year 800 Charlemagne, being in Rome, whither he had gone with a
numerous army to protect the Pope, was crowned by the Pontiff Emperor
of the West. On Christmas day Charles entered the Church of St. Peter,
as if merely to take his part in the celebration of the mass with the
rest of the congregation. When he approached the altar and stooped in
the act of prayer the Pope stepped forward and placed a crown of gold
upon his head; and immediately the Roman people shouted, "Life and
victory to Charles the August, crowned by God the great and pacific
Emperor of the Romans." The Pope then prostrated himself before him,
and paid him reverence, according to the custom established in the
times of the ancient Emperors, and concluded the ceremony by anointing
him with consecrated oil.
Charlemagne's wars were chiefly against the pagan and barbarous people,
who, under the name of Saxons, inhabited the countries now called
Hanover and Holland. He also led expeditions against the Saracens of
Spain; but his wars with the Saracens were not carried on, as the
romances assert, in France, but on the soil of Spain. He entered Spain
by the Eastern Pyrenees, and made an easy conquest of Barcelona and
Pampeluna. But Saragossa refused to open her gates to him, and Charles
ended by negotiating and accepting a vast sum of gold as the price of
his return over the Pyrenees.
On his way back, he marched with his whole army through the gorges of
the mountains by way of the valleys of Engui, Eno, and Roncesvalles.
The chief of this region had waited upon Charlemagne, on his advance,
as a faithful vassal of the monarchy; but now, on the return of the
Franks, he had called together all the wild mountaineers who
acknowledged him as their chief, and they occupied the heights of the
mountains under which the army had to pass. The main body of the troops
met with no obstruction, and received no intimation of danger; but the
rear-guard, which was considerably behind, and encumbered with its
plunder, was overwhelmed by the mountaineers in the pass of
Roncesvalles, and slain to a man. Some of the bravest of the Frankish
chiefs perished on this occasion, among whom is mentioned Roland or
Orlando, governor of the marches or frontier of Brittany. His name
became famous in after times, and the disaster of Roncesvalles and
death of Roland became eventually the most celebrated episode in the
vast cycle of romance.
Though after this there were hostile encounters between the armies of
Charlemagne and the Saracens, they were of small account, and generally
on the soil of Spain. Thus the historical foundation for the stories of
the romancers is but scanty, unless we suppose the events of an earlier
and of a later age to be incorporated with those of Charlemagne's own
time.
There is, however, a pretended history, which for a long time was
admitted as authentic, and attributed to Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims,
a real personage of the time of Charlemagne. Its title is "History of
Charles the Great and Orlando." It is now unhesitatingly considered as
a collection of popular traditions, produced by some credulous and
unscrupulous monk, who thought to give dignity to his romance by
ascribing its authorship to a well-known and eminent individual. It
introduces its pretended author, Bishop Turpin, in this manner:
"Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, the friend and secretary of Charles the
Great, excellently skilled in sacred and profane literature, of a
genius equally adapted to prose and verse, the advocate of the poor,
beloved of God in his life and conversation, who often fought the
Saracens, hand to hand, by the Emperor's side, he relates the acts of
Charles the Great in one book, and flourished under Charles and his son
Louis, to the year of our Lord eight hundred and thirty."
The titles of some of Archbishop Turpin's chapters will show the nature
of his history. They are these: "Of the Walls of Pampeluna, that fell
of themselves." "Of the War of the holy Facundus, where the Spears
grew." (Certain of the Christians fixed their spears in the evening,
erect in the ground, before the castle; and found them, in the morning,
covered with bark and branches.) "How the Sun stood still for Three
Days, and of the Slaughter of Four Thousand Saracens."
Turpin's history has perhaps been the source of the marvellous
adventures which succeeding poets and romancers have accumulated around
the names of Charlemagne and his Paladins, or Peers. But Ariosto and
the other Italian poets have drawn from different sources, and
doubtless often from their own invention, numberless other stories
which they attribute to the same heroes, not hesitating to quote as
their authority "the good Turpin," though his history contains no trace
of them; and the more outrageous the improbability, or rather the
impossibility, of their narrations, the more attentive are they to cite
"the Archbishop," generally adding their testimonial to his
unquestionable veracity.
The principal Italian poets who have sung the adventures of the peers
of Charlemagne are Pulci, Boiardo, and Ariosto. The characters of
Orlando, Rinaldo, Astolpho, Gano, and others, are the same in all,
though the adventures attributed to them are different. Boiardo tells
us of the loves of Orlando, Ariosto of his disappointment and
consequent madness, Pulci of his death.
Ogier, the Dane, is a real personage. History agrees with romance in
representing him as a powerful lord who, originally from Denmark and a
Pagan, embraced Christianity, and took service under Charlemagne. He
revolted from the Emperor, and was driven into exile. He afterwards led
one of those bands of piratical Northmen which ravaged France under the
reigns of Charlemagne's degenerate successors. The description which an
ancient chronicler gives of Charlemagne, as described by Ogier, is so
picturesque, that we are tempted to transcribe it. Charlemagne was
advancing to the siege of Pavia. Didier, King of the Lombards, was in
the city with Ogier, to whom he had given refuge. When they learned
that the king was approaching they mounted a high tower, whence they
could see far and wide over the country. "They first saw advancing the
engines of war, fit for the armies of Darius or Julius Caesar. 'There
is Charlemagne,' said Didier. 'No,' said Ogier. The Lombard next saw a
vast body of soldiers, who filled all the plain. 'Certainly Charles
advanced with that host,' said the king. 'Not yet,' replied Ogier.
'What hope for us,' resumed the king, 'if he brings with him a greater
host than that?' At last Charles appeared, his head covered with an
iron helmet, his hands with iron gloves, his breast and shoulders with
a cuirass of iron, his left hand holding an iron lance, while his right
hand grasped his sword. Those who went before the monarch, those who
marched at his side, and those who followed him, all had similar arms.
Iron covered the fields and the roads; iron points reflected the rays
of the sun. This iron, so hard, was borne by a people whose hearts were
harder still. The blaze of the weapons flashed terror into the streets
of the city."
This picture of Charlemagne in his military aspect would be incomplete
without a corresponding one of his "mood of peace." One of the greatest
of modern historians, M. Guizot, has compared the glory of Charlemagne
to a brilliant meteor, rising suddenly out of the darkness of barbarism
to disappear no less suddenly in the darkness of feudalism. But the
light of this meteor was not extinguished, and reviving civilization
owed much that was permanently beneficial to the great Emperor of the
Franks. His ruling hand is seen in the legislation of his time, as well
as in the administration of the laws. He encouraged learning; he upheld
the clergy, who were the only peaceful and | 585.104095 |
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The Plant Hunters, by Captain Mayne Reid.
The Plant Hunters--by Captain Mayne Reid
CHAPTER ONE.
THE PLANT-HUNTER.
"A Plant-Hunter! what is that?
"We have heard of fox-hunters, of deer-hunters, of bear and
buffalo-hunters, of lion-hunters, and of `boy-hunters;' of a
plant-hunter never.
"Stay! Truffles are plants. Dogs are used in finding them; and the
collector of these is termed a truffle-hunter. Perhaps this is what the
Captain means?"
No, my boy reader. Something very different from that. My plant-hunter
is no fungus-digger. His occupation is of a nobler kind than
contributing merely to the capricious palate of the gourmand. To his
labours the whole civilised world is indebted--yourself among the rest.
Yes, you owe him gratitude for many a bright joy. For the varied sheen
of your garden you are indebted to him. The gorgeous dahlia that nods
over the flower-bed--the brilliant peony that sparkles on the parterre--
the lovely camelia that greets you in the greenhouse,--the kalmias, the
azaleas, the rhododendrons, the starry jessamines, the gerania, and a
thousand other floral beauties, are, one and all of them, the gifts of
the plant-hunter. By his agency England--cold cloudy England--has
become a garden of flowers, more varied in species and brighter in bloom
than those that blossomed in the famed valley of Cashmere. Many of the
noble trees that lend grace to our English landscape,--most of the
beautiful shrubs that adorn our villas, and gladden the prospect from
our cottage-windows, are the produce of his industry. But for him, many
fruits, and vegetables, and roots, and berries, that garnish your table
at dinner and dessert, you might never have tasted. But for him these
delicacies might never have reached your lips. A good word, then, for
the plant-hunter!
And now, boy reader, in all seriousness I shall tell you what I mean by
a "plant-hunter." I mean a person who devotes all his time and labour
to the collection of rare plants and flowers--in short, one who makes
this occupation his _profession_. These are not simply "botanists"--
though botanical knowledge they must needs possess--but, rather, what
has hitherto been termed "botanical collectors."
Though these men may not stand high in the eyes of the scientific
world--though the closet-systematist may affect to underrate their
calling, I dare boldly affirm that the humblest of their class has done
more service to the human race than even the great Linnaeus himself.
They are, indeed, the botanists of true value, who have not only
imparted to us a knowledge of the world's vegetation, but have brought
its rarest forms before our very eyes--have placed its brightest flowers
under our very noses, as it were--flowers, that but for them had been
still "blushing unseen," and "wasting their sweetness on the desert
air."
My young reader, do not imagine that I have any desire to underrate the
merits of the scientific botanist. No, nothing of the sort. I am only
desirous of bringing into the foreground a class of men whose services
in my opinion the world has not yet sufficiently acknowledged--I mean
the botanical collectors--the _plant-hunters_.
It is just possible that you never dreamt of the existence of such a
profession or calling, and yet from the earliest historic times there
have been men who followed it. There were plant-collectors in the days
of Pliny, who furnished the gardens of Herculaneum and Pompeii; there
were plant-collectors employed by the wealthy mandarins of China, by the
royal sybarites of Delhi and Cashmere, at a time when our semi-barbarous
ancestors were contented with the wild flowers of their native woods.
But even in England the calling of the plant-hunter is far from being
one of recent origin. It dates as early as the discovery and
colonisation of America; and the names of the Tradescants, the Bartrams,
and the Catesbys--true plant-hunters--are among the most respected in
the botanical world. To them we are indebted for our tulip-trees, | 585.104185 |
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E-text prepared by Al Haines
PAROCHIAL AND PLAIN SERMONS
by
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, B.D.
Formerly Vicar of St. Mary's, Oxford
In Eight Volumes
VOL. VIII.
New Edition
London
Longmans, Green, and Co.
and New York: 15 East 16th Street
1891
CONTENTS.
SERMON I.
Reverence in Worship.
"_Samuel ministered before the Lord, being a child, girded with a linen
ephod._"--1 Sam. ii. 18
SERMON II.
Divine Calls.
"_And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, Samuel,
Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak: for Thy servant heareth._"--1
Sam. iii. 10
SERMON III.
The Trial of Saul.
"_And Saul said, Bring hither a burnt offering to me, and peace
offerings. And he offered the burnt offering._"--1 Sam. xiii. 9
SERMON IV.
The Call of David.
"_So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a
stone._"--1 Sam. xvii. 50
SERMON V.
Curiosity of Temptation to Sin.
"_Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil
men. Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away._"--Prov.
iv. 14, 15
SERMON VI.
Miracles no Remedy for Unbelief.
"_And the Lord said unto Moses, How | 585.198023 |
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FLORENCE ON A CERTAIN NIGHT
AND OTHER POEMS
By Coningsby Dawson
New York: Henry Holt and Company
1914
TO
_JOHN KEATS_
WHO, IN EXCUSE FOR A LIKE OCCASION,
WROTE:
_"WERE I DEAD, I SHOULD LIKE A BOOK DEDICATED TO ME."_
A WARNING TO THE READER
Here thou shalt find grave thought--the shade of thine Most is of earth,
some little all divine. By hands God-given, mine, this tower doth
thrive; Thine are the clouds which round my turrets drive.
FLORENCE ON A CERTAIN NIGHT
I
(October, 1504)
_[Someone sings in the street below]_
Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness,
He knows not if To-morrow curse or bless,
Nor round what bend upon his travel-way
The bandit Death lurks armed--of Yesterday
His palely featured griefs he knows too well;
Therefore with jests To-day, come Heaven, come Hell,
He plucks with either hand what joys he may.
Joy is a flower
White-leafd or red,
None knows which colour
Till it is dead:
White gives forth fragrance
Pure as God's breath;
Red in its dying
Yields the gatherer death.
_[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_
So 'tis Lorenzo's song they sing to-night,
That haunting song which long years since he sang
When, with his gallants through the torch-
smirched dusk,
He laughing rode toward the Carnival,
And young girls loosened all abroad their hair
And flung up petals through the cool moonlight,
Some of which falling rested on his face,
Some of which falling covered up his eyes;
And girls there were who kissed his drooping
hands
And clasped his stirrups, begging him to stay,
To halt one little moment, stay with them:
_"Life is so short. Delay with us a while."_
But he rode on, and sang of joy and love.
Lorenzo il Magnifico is dead;
His lips are silent, and he now could halt
Oh, endlessly, if one of those fair maids
Should come to him imploring him to stay.
For twelve slow years within the sacristy
Of San Lorenzo he has never waked,
But has the rest he could not find in life--
Ungrateful now, because postponed too long.
If one should steal to him from out the past
And bending down should whisper low his name,
He would not hearken. True, she would be old,
As are all maids of that spent gala-night;
So, if he heard her, he would only smile,
For he loved only beauty in his day.
II
_[ Someone sings in the street below]_
Fair-fleeting Youth wends ever to the West,
He, like the sun, too soon must sink to rest.
Stars of Remorse, fast-following on his track,
Moon of Old-Age, can nothing turn ye back f
Ah, soon the golden Day'll have spent his breath!
Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death
When Youth, no longer young, all joys must lack.
_[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_
"Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death!"
'Tis true, for who in Tuscany to-day
Dares breathe the Medicean name aloud?
When a man dies, the watchers by the bed
Close down his eye-lids, so is he once dead;
Twice dead is he whose mem'ry men dang down
To dark oblivion when his soul is fled.
Florence forgets her singer, but his song
Still echoes through her streets on autumn nights,
And pausing at the door of some old friend,
Bids him remember all the hope he had
In spacious days, before Lorenzo died...
It seems Lorenzo's soul crept back to earth
Re-seeking Joy he coveted in life,
| 585.199824 |
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[Illustration]
The Columbia River
Its History, Its Myths,
Its Scenery, Its Commerce
By William Denison Lyman
Professor of History in Whitman College,
Walla Walla, Washington
_With 80 Illustrations and a Map_
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1909
COPYRIGHT, 1909
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO MY PARENTS
Horace Lyman and Mary Denison Lyman
PIONEERS OF 1849, WHO BORE THEIR PART IN LAYING THE
FOUNDATIONS OF CIVILIZATION UPON THE BANKS OF
THE COLUMBIA, THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR
I see the living tide roll on,
It crowns with rosy towers
The icy capes of Labrador,
The Spaniard's land of flowers;
It streams beyond the splintered ridge
That parts the northern showers.
From eastern rock to sunset wave,
The Continent is ours.
HOLMES.
PREFACE
As one of the American Waterways series, this volume is designed to be a
history and description of the Columbia River. The author has sought to
convey to his reader a lively sense of the romance, the heroism, and the
adventure which belong to this great stream and the parts of the
North-west about it, and he has aimed to breathe into his narrative
something of the spirit and sentiment--a spirit and sentiment more easily
recognised than analysed--which we call "Western." With this end in view,
his treatment of the subject has been general rather than detailed, and
popular rather than recondite. While he has spared no pains to secure
historical accuracy, he has not made it a leading aim to settle
controverted points, or to present the minutiae of historical research and
criticism. In short, the book is rather for the general reader than for
the specialist. The author hopes so to impress his readers with the
majesty of the Columbia as to fill their minds with a longing to see it
face to face.
Frequent reference in the body of the book to authorities renders it
unnecessary to name them here. Suffice it to say that the author has
consulted the standard works of history and description dealing with
Oregon--the old Oregon--and its River, and from the voluminous matter
there gathered has selected the facts that best combine to make a
connected and picturesque narrative. He has treated the subject
topically, but there is a general progression throughout, and the
endeavour has been to find a natural jointure of chapter to chapter and
era to era.
While the book has necessarily been based largely on other books, it may
be said that the author has derived his chief inspiration from his own
observations along the shores of the River and amid the mountains of
Oregon and Washington, where his life has mainly been spent, and from
familiar conversations in the cabins of pioneers, or at camp-fires of
hunters, or around Indian tepees, or in the pilot-houses of steamboats. In
such ways and places one can best catch the spirit of the River and its
history.
The author gladly takes this opportunity of making his grateful
acknowledgments to Prof. F. G. Young, of Oregon University, for his
kindness in reading the manuscript and in making suggestions which his
full knowledge and ripe judgment render especially valuable. He wishes
also to express his warmest thanks to Mr. Harvey W. Scott, editor of the
_Oregonian_, for invaluable counsel. Similar gratitude is due to Prof.
Henry Landes of Washington University for important assistance in regard
to some of the scientific features of the first chapter.
W. D. L.
WHITMAN COLLEGE,
WALLA WALLA, WASH.,
1909.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PART I.--THE HISTORY
CHAPTER I
THE LAND WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS 3
CHAPTER II
TALES OF THE FIRST WHITE MEN ALONG THE COAST 33
CHAPTER III
HOW ALL NATIONS SOUGHT THE RIVER FROM THE SEA AND HOW THEY
FOUND IT 43
CHAPTER IV
FIRST STEPS ACROSS THE WILDERNESS IN SEARCH OF THE RIVER 69
CHAPTER V
THE FUR-TRADERS, THEIR BATEAUX, AND THEIR STATIONS 98
CHAPTER VI
THE COMING OF THE MISSIONARIES TO THE TRIBES OF THE RIVER 136
CHAPTER VII
THE ERA OF THE PIONEERS, THEIR OX-TEAMS, AND THEIR FLATBOATS 159
CHAPTER VIII
CONFLICT OF NATIONS FOR POSSESSION OF THE RIVER 179
CHAPTER IX
THE TIMES OF TOMAHAWK AND FIREBRAND 202
CHAPTER X
WHEN THE "FIRE-CANOES" TOOK THE PLACE OF THE LOG-CANOES 234
CHAPTER XI
ERA OF THE MINER, THE COWBOY, THE FARMER, THE BOOMER, AND THE
RAILROAD-BUILDER 249
CHAPTER XII
THE PRESENT AGE OF EXPANSION AND WORLD COMMERCE 265
PART II.--A JOURNEY DOWN THE RIVER
CHAPTER I
IN THE HEART OF THE CANADIAN ROCKIES 273
CHAPTER II
THE LAKES FROM THE ARROW LAKES TO CHELAN 290
CHAPTER III
IN THE LAND OF WHEAT-FIELD, ORCHARD, AND GARDEN 313
CHAPTER IV
WHERE RIVER AND MOUNTAIN MEET, AND THE TRACES OF THE BRIDGE
OF THE GODS 332
CHAPTER V
A SIDE TRIP TO SOME OF THE GREAT SNOW-PEAKS 352
CHAPTER VI
THE LOWER RIVER AND THE OCEAN TIDES 374
INDEX 399
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
ST. PETER'S DOME, COLUMBIA RIVER, 2300 FEET HIGH _Frontispiece_
Copyright, Kiser Photograph Co., 1902.
MOUNT ADAMS FROM THE SOUTH 74
Photo. by W. D. Lyman.
CAPT. ROBERT GRAY 76
THE "COLUMBIA REDIVIVA" 76
MOUNT HOOD FROM LOST LAKE 82
Photo. by E. H. Moorehouse.
ELIOT GLACIER, MT. HOOD 84
Photo. by E. H. Moorehouse.
ASTORIA IN 1845 116
From an old print.
ASTORIA, LOOKING UP AND ACROSS THE COLUMBIA RIVER 116
Photo. by Woodfield.
ONE OF THE LAGOONS OF THE UPPER COLUMBIA RIVER, NEAR GOLDEN B. C. 120
Photo. by C. F. Yates, Golden.
SADDLE MOUNTAIN, OR SWALLALOCHORT NEAR ASTORIA, FAMOUS IN INDIAN
MYTH 120
Photo. by Woodfield.
STEAMER "BEAVER," THE FIRST STEAMER ON THE PACIFIC, 1836 124
PORTLAND, OREGON, IN 1851 124
From an old print.
GRAVE OF MARCUS WHITMAN AND HIS ASSOCIATE MARTYRS AT WAIILATPU 210
Photo. by W. D. Chapman.
CAYUSE BABIES--1 212
Copyright by Lee Moorehouse, 1898.
CAYUSE BABIES--2 212
Copyright by Lee Moorehouse, 1898.
COL. B. F. SHAW, WHO WON THE BATTLE OF GRANDE RONDE IN 1856 222
By courtesy of Lee Moorehouse.
FORT SHERIDAN ON THE GRANDE RONDE, BUILT BY PHILIP SHERIDAN IN
1855 224
By courtesy of Lee Moorehouse.
TULLUX HOLLIQUILLA, A WARM SPRINGS INDIAN CHIEF, FAMOUS IN THE
MODOC WAR AS A SCOUT FOR U. S. TROOPS 228
By courtesy of Lee Moorehouse.
HALLAKALLAKEEN (EAGLE WING) OR JOSEPH, THE NEZ PERCE CHIEF 230
By T. W. Tolman.
CAMP OF CHIEF JOSEPH ON THE NESPILEM, WASH. 232
Photo. by T. W. Tolman, Spokane.
TIRZAH TRASK, A UMATILLA INDIAN GIRL--TAKEN AS AN IDEAL OF
SACAJAWEA 234
Photo. by Lee Moorehouse, Pendleton.
OREGON PIONEER IN HIS CABIN 256
Photo. by E. H. Moorehouse.
OLD PORTAGE RAILROAD AT CASCADES IN 1860 258
A LOG-BOOM DOWN THE RIVER FOR SAN FRANCISCO 258
Photo. by Woodfield.
LUMBER MILL AND STEAMBOAT LANDING AT GOLDEN, B. C. 260
Photo. by C. F. Yates.
A TYPICAL LUMBER CAMP 262
Photo. by Trueman.
A LOGGING RAILROAD, NEAR ASTORIA 264
Photo. by Woodfield.
NATURAL BRIDGE, KICKING HORSE OR WAPTA RIVER, AND MT. STEPHEN,
B. C. 276
Photo. by C. F. Yates.
SUNRISE ON COLUMBIA RIVER, NEAR WASHOUGAL 276
Copyright, Kiser Photograph Co., 1902.
LA | 585.203076 |
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Produced by KD Weeks, David Edwards 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 Books project.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.
[Illustration: RALPH FINDS THE STOLEN GUNS.]
_FOREST AND STREAM SERIES._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SNAGGED AND SUNK;
OR, THE
ADVENTURES OF A CANVAS CANOE.
BY
HARRY CASTLEMON,
AUTHOR OF “GUNBOAT SERIES,” “ROCKY MOUNTAIN
SERIES,” “SPORTSMAN CLUB SERIES,” ETC.
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY T. COATES & CO.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.
---------------------
=GUNBOAT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 6 vols. 12mo.
FRANK THE YOUNG NATURALIST. FRANK ON A GUNBOAT.
FRANK IN THE WOODS. FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG.
FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI. FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE.
=ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS. FRANK AT DON CARLOS’ RANCH.
FRANK IN THE MOUNTAINS.
=SPORTSMAN’S CLUB SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB IN THE SADDLE. THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AMONG THE
TRAPPERS.
THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB AFLOAT.
=FRANK NELSON SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
SNOWED UP. THE BOY TRADERS. FRANK IN THE FORECASTLE.
=BOY TRAPPER SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
THE BURIED TREASURE. THE BOY TRAPPER. THE MAIL-CARRIER.
=ROUGHING IT SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
GEORGE IN CAMP. GEORGE AT THE WHEEL. GEORGE AT THE FORT.
=ROD AND GUN SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
DON GORDON’S SHOOTING BOX. ROD AND GUN CLUB.
THE YOUNG WILD FOWLERS.
=GO-AHEAD SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. l2mo. Cloth.
TOM NEWCOMBE. GO-AHEAD. NO MOSS.
=FOREST AND STREAM SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
JOE WAYRING. SNAGGED AND SUNK. STEEL HORSE.
=WAR SERIES.= By HARRY CASTLEMON. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
TRUE TO HIS COLORS. RODNEY THE PARTISAN.
RODNEY THE OVERSEER. MARCY THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.
MARCY THE REFUGEE.
_Other Volumes in Preparation._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY PORTER & COATES.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN WHICH I BEGIN MY STORY, 5
II. CAPTURED AGAIN, 28
III. IN THE WATCHMAN’S CABIN, 52
IV. A NIGHT ADVENTURE, 74
V. JAKE COYLE’S SILVER MINE, 98
VI. JAKE WORKS HIS MINE, 120
VII. AMONG FRIENDS AGAIN, 142
VIII. JOE WAYRING IN TROUBLE, 166
IX. TOM VISITS THE HATCHERY, 192
X. MORE TROUBLE FOR TOM BIGDEN, 217
XI. SAM ON THE TRAIL, 242
XII. ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS, 265
XIII. JOE WAYRING’S PLUCK, 289
XIV. THE GUIDE “SUR | 585.20392 |
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DES IMAGISTES
------------------------------------------------------------------------
«Καὶ κείνα Σικελά, καὶ ἐν Αἰτναίαισιν ἔπαιζεν
ἀόσι, καὶ μέλος ᾖδε τὸ Δώριον.»
Επιτάφιος Βίωνος
“And she also was of Sikilia and was gay in
the valleys of Ætna, and knew the Doric
singing.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DES IMAGISTES
AN ANTHOLOGY
NEW YORK
ALBERT AND CHARLES BONI
96 FIFTH AVENUE
1914
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1914
By
Albert and Charles Boni
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
RICHARD ALDINGTON
Choricos 7
To a Greek Marble 10
Au Vieux Jardin 11
Lesbia 12
Beauty Thou Hast Hurt Me Overmuch 13
Argyria 14
In the Via Sestina 15
The River 16
Bromios 17
To Atthis 19
H. D.
Sitalkas 20
Hermes of the Ways I 21
Hermes of the Ways II 22
Priapus 24
Acon 26
Hermonax 28
Epigram 30
F. S. FLINT
I 31
II Hallucination 32
III 33
IV 34
V The Swan 35
SKIPWITH CANNÉLL
Nocturnes 36
AMY LOWELL
In a Garden 38
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
Postlude 39
JAMES JOYCE
I Hear an Army 40
EZRA POUND
Δώρια 41
The Return 42
After Ch’u Yuan 43
Liu Ch’e 44
Fan-Piece for Her Imperial Lord 45
Ts’ai Chi’h 46
FORD MADOX HUEFFER
In the Little Old Market-Place 47
ALLEN UPWARD
Scented Leaves from a Chinese Jar 51
JOHN COURNOS after K. TETMAIER
The Rose 54
DOCUMENTS
To Hulme (T. E.) and Fitzgerald 57
Vates, the Social Reformer 59
Fragments Addressed by Clearchus H. to Aldi 62
_Bibliography_ 63
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHORICOS
The ancient songs
Pass deathward mournfully.
Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths,
Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings—
Symbols of ancient songs
Mournfully passing
Down to the great white surges,
Watched of none
Save the frail sea-birds
And the lithe pale girls,
Daughters of Okeanus.
And the songs pass
From the green land
Which lies upon the waves as a leaf
On the flowers of hyacinth;
And they pass from the waters,
The manifold winds and the dim moon,
And they come,
Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk,
To the quiet level lands
That she keeps for us all,
That she wrought for us all for sleep
In the silver days of the earth’s dawning—
Proserpina, daughter of Zeus.
And we turn from the Kuprian’s breasts,
And we turn from thee,
Phoibos Apollon,
And we turn from the music of old
And the hills that we loved and the meads,
And we turn from the fiery day,
And the lips that were over sweet;
For silently
Brushing the fields with red-shod feet,
With purple robe
Searing the flowers as with a sudden flame,
Death,
Thou hast come upon us.
And of all the ancient songs
Passing to the swallow-blue halls
By the dark streams of Persephone,
This only remains:
That we turn to thee,
Death,
That we turn to thee, singing
One last song.
O Death,
Thou art an healing wind
That blowest over white flowers
A-tremble with dew;
Thou art a wind flowing
Over dark leagues of lonely sea;
Thou art the dusk and the fragrance;
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ANABASIS
By Xenophon
Translation by H. G. Dakyns
Dedicated To
Rev. B. Jowett, M.A.
Master of Balliol College
Regius Professor of Greek in the University of Oxford
Xenophon the Athenian was born 431 B.C. He was a
pupil of Socrates. He marched with the Spartans,
and was exiled from Athens. Sparta gave him land
and property in Scillus, where he lived for many
years before having to move once more, to settle
in Corinth. He died in 354 B.C.
The Anabasis is his story of the march to Persia
to aid Cyrus, who enlisted Greek help to try and
take the throne from Artaxerxes, and the ensuing
return of the Greeks, in which Xenophon played a
leading role. This occurred between 401 B.C. and
March 399 B.C.
PREPARER'S NOTE
This was typed from Dakyns' series, "The Works of Xenophon," a
four-volume set. The complete list of Xenophon's works (though
there is doubt about some of these) is:
Work Number of books
The Anabasis 7
The Hellenica 7
The Cyropaedia 8
The Memorabilia 4
The Symposium 1
The Economist 1
On Horsemanship 1
The Sportsman 1
The Cavalry General 1
The Apology 1
On Revenues 1
The Hiero 1
The Agesilaus 1
The Polity of the Athenians and the Lacedaemonians 2
Text in brackets "{}" is my transliteration of Greek text into
English using an Oxford English Dictionary alphabet table. The
diacritical marks have been lost.
ANABASIS
BY
XENOPHON
ANABASIS
BOOK I
I.
Darius and Parysatis had two sons: the elder was named Artaxerxes, and 1
the younger Cyrus. Now, as Darius lay sick and felt that the end of
life drew near, he wished both his sons to be with him. The elder, as
it chanced, was already there, but Cyrus he must needs send for from
the province over which he had made him satrap, having appointed him
general moreover of all the forces that muster in the plain of the
Castolus. Thus Cyrus went up, taking with him Tissaphernes as his
friend, and accompanied also by a body of Hellenes, three hundred
heavy armed men, under the command of Xenias the Parrhasian (1).
(1) Parrhasia, a district and town in the south-west of Arcadia.
Now when Darius was dead, and Artaxerxes was established in the
kingdom, Tissaphernes brought slanderous accusations against Cyrus
before his brother, the king, of harbouring designs against him. And
Artaxerxes, listening to the words of Tissaphernes, laid hands upon
Cyrus, desiring to put him to death; but his mother made intercession
for him, and sent him back again in safety to his province. He then,
having so escaped through peril and dishonour, fell to considering,
not only how he might avoid ever again being in his brother's power,
but how, if possible, he might become king in his stead. Parysatis,
his mother, was his first resource; for she had more love for Cyrus
than for Artaxerxes upon his throne. Moreover Cyrus's behaviour
towards all who came to him from the king's court was such that, when
he sent them away again, they were better friends to himself than to 5
the king his brother. Nor did he neglect the barbarians in his own
service; but trained them, at once to be capable as warriors and
devoted adherents of himself. Lastly, he began collecting his Hellenic
armament, but with the utmost secrecy, so that he might take the king
as far as might be at unawares.
The manner in which he contrived the levying of the troops was as
follows: First, he sent orders to the commandants of garrisons in the
cities (so held by him), bidding them to get together as large a body
of picked Peloponnesian troops as they severally were able, on the
plea that Tissaphernes was plotting against their cities; and truly
these cities of Ionia had originally belonged to Tissaphernes, being
given to him by the king; but at this time, with the exception of
Miletus, they had all revolted to Cyrus. In Miletus, Tissaphernes,
having become aware of similar designs, had forestalled the
conspirators by putting some to death and banishing the remainder.
Cyrus, on his side, welcomed these fugitives, and having collected an
army, laid siege to Miletus by sea and land, endeavouring to reinstate
the exiles; and this gave him another pretext for collecting an
armament. At the same time he sent to the king, and claimed, as being
the king's brother, that these cities should be given to himself
rather than that Tissaphernes should continue to govern them; and in
furtherance of this end, the queen, his mother, co-operated with him,
so that the king not only failed to see the design against himself,
but concluded that Cyrus was spending his money on armaments in order
to make war on Tissaphernes. Nor did it pain him greatly to see the
two at war together, and the less so because Cyrus was careful to
remit the tribute due to the king from the cities which belonged to
Tissaphernes.
A third army was being collected for him in the Chersonese, over
against Abydos, the origin of which was as follows: There was a
Lacedaemonian exile, named Clearchus, with whom Cyrus had become
associated. Cyrus admired the man, and made him a present of ten
thousand darics (2). Clearchus took the gold, and with the money raised 9
an army, and using the Chersonese as his base of operations, set to
work to fight the Thracians north of the Hellespont, in the interests
of the Hellenes, and with such happy result that the Hellespontine
cities, of their own accord, were eager to contribute funds for the
support of his troops. In this way, again, an armament was being
secretly maintained for Cyrus.
(2) A Persian gold coin = 125.55 grains of gold.
Then there was the Thessalian Aristippus, Cyrus's friend (3), who,
under pressure of the rival political party at home, had come to Cyrus
and asked him for pay for two thousand mercenaries, to be continued
for three months, which would enable him, he said, to gain the upper
hand of his antagonists. Cyrus replied by presenting him with six
months' pay for four thousand mercenaries--only stipulating that
Aristippus should not come to terms with his antagonists without final
consultation with himself. In this way he secured to himself the
secret maintenance of a fourth armament.
(3) Lit. "guest-friend." Aristippus was, as we learn from the "Meno"
of Plato, a native of Larisa, of the family of the Aleuadae, and a
pupil of Gorgias. He was also a lover of Menon, whom he appears to
have sent on this expedition instead of himself.
Further, he bade Proxenus, a Boeotian, who was another friend, get
together as many men as possible, and join him in an expedition which
he meditated against the Pisidians (4), who were causing annoyance to
his territory. Similarly two other friends, Sophaenetus the
Stymphalian (5), and Socrates the Achaean, had orders to get together
as many men as possible and come to him, since he was on the point of
opening a campaign, along with Milesian exiles, against Tissaphernes.
These orders were duly carried out by the officers in question.
(4) Lit. "into the country of the Pisidians."
(5) Of Stymphalus in Arcadia.
II
But when the right moment seemed to him to have come, at which he 1
should begin his march into the interior, the pretext which he put
forward was his desire to expel the Pisidians utterly out of the
country; and he began collecting both his Asiatic and his Hellenic
armaments, avowedly against that people. From Sardis in each direction
his orders sped: to Clearchus, to join him there with the whole of his
army; to Aristippus, to come to terms with those at home, and to
despatch to him the troops in his employ; to Xenias the Arcadian, who
was acting as general-in-chief of the foreign troops in the cities, to
present himself with all the men available, excepting only those who
were actually needed to garrison the citadels. He next summoned the
troops at present engaged in the siege of Miletus, and called upon the
exiles to follow him on his intended expedition, promising them that
if he were successful in his object, he would not pause until he had
reinstated them in their native city. To this invitation they
hearkened gladly; they believed in him; and with their arms they
presented themselves at Sardis. So, too, Xenias arrived at Sardis with
the contingent from the cities, four thousand hoplites; Proxenus,
also, with fifteen hundred hoplites and five hundred light-armed
troops; Sophaenetus the Stymphalian, with one thousand hoplites;
Socrates the Achaean, with five hundred hoplites; while the Megarion
Pasion came with three hundred hoplites and three hundred peltasts (1).
This latter officer, as well as Socrates, belonged to the force
engaged against Miletus. These all joined him at Sardis.
(1) "Targeteers" armed with a light shield instead of the larger one
of the hoplite, or heavy infantry soldier. Iphicrates made great
use of this arm at a later date.
But Tissaphernes did not fail to note these proceedings. An equipment
so large pointed to something more than an invasion of Pisidia: so he
argued; and with what speed he might, he set off to the king, attended
by about five hundred horse. The king, on his side, had no sooner
heard from Tissaphernes of Cyrus's great armament, than he began to
make counter-preparations.
Thus Cyrus, with the troops which I have named, set out from Sardis,
and marched on and on through Lydia three stages, making
two-and-twenty parasangs (2 | 585.204885 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
SELECTED LETTERS OF
ST. JANE FRANCES DE CHANTAL
Nihil Obstat.
F. THOMAS BERGH, O.S.B.,
CENSOR DEPUTATUS.
Imprimatur.
EDM. CAN. SURMONT,
VICARIUS GENERALIS.
WESTMONASTERII,
_Die 6 Novembris, 1917._
[Illustration: ST. JANE FRANCES DE CHANTAL.
(_Foundress of the Order of the Visitation._)]
SELECTED LETTERS OF
SAINT JANE FRANCES
DE CHANTAL
TRANSLATED BY
THE SISTERS OF THE VISITATION
HARROW
WITH A PREFACE BY
HIS EMINENCE CARDINAL BOURNE
ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER
R. & T. WASHBOURNE, LTD.
PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
AND AT MANCHESTER, BIRMINGHAM, AND GLASGOW
_All rights reserved_
1918
PREFACE
We are all apt so to idealise the Saints whom we love to study and
honour, and strive to imitate, that we are in danger of forgetting that
they possessed a human nature like our own, subject to many trials,
weaknesses and frailties. They had to struggle as we have to struggle.
The only difference is that their constancy and perseverance were
greater far than ours.
Biographers are often responsible for the false tendency to which we
allude. They like to give us the finished portrait of the Saints, and
only too often they omit in great part the details of the long and weary
toil that went to make the picture which they delight to paint.
In the case of some of the Saints we are able to come nearer to the
reality by reading the letters which have been preserved, in which in
their own handwriting they have set down, without thought of those who
in later days might read their words, the details of their daily life
and struggle. Thus in the few selected Letters of the holy foundress of
the Visitation which are now being published in an English translation
we get glimpses of her real character and spiritual growth which may be
more helpful to us than many pages of formal biography. In one place she
excuses the brevity of a letter because she is "feeling the cold to-day
and pressed for time." In another she tells a Sister, "do everything to
get well, for it is only your nerves." Nerves are evidently not a new
malady nor a lately devised excuse. She knew the weariness of delay:
"still no news from Rome.... I think His Grace the Archbishop would be
glad to help us.... Beg him, I beseech you, to push on the matter."
Haste and weather had their effect on her as on us: "I write in such
haste that I forget half of what I want to say.... We will make a
chalice veil for you, but not until the very hot weather is over, for
one cannot work properly while it lasts."
What mother, especially in these days of sorrow and anxiety, can read
unmoved the Saint's own words as she speaks of her daughter's death, and
of her fears about her son. "I am almost in despair... so miserable am
I about it that I do not know which way to turn, if not to the
Providence of God, there to bury my longings, confiding to His hands not
only the honour but even the salvation of this already half lost child.
Oh! the incomparable anguish of this affliction. No other grief can come
near to it."
And then we feel her mingled grief and joy when at last she learnt that
this, her only son, had given up his life, fighting for his King, after
a humble and fervent reception of the Sacraments.
Thus in the midst of the daily small worries of life, and of the great
sorrows that at one time or other fall to the lot of all, we see a brave
and generous soul, with human gifts and qualities like to our own,
treading her appointed path to God.
No one can read her words without carrying therefrom fresh courage for
his life, and a new determination to battle steadfastly to the end.
FRANCIS CARDINAL BOURNE,
_Archbishop of Westminster._
FEAST OF ST. JANE FRANCES DE CHANTAL,
_August 21st, 1917._
TRANSLATORS' PREF | 585.205047 |
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[Transcriber's note: transliterated Greek is surrounded by plus signs,
e.g. "+agoniai+". Italicized text is surrounded by _underscores_. In
the phrase "_sov[)a]v sov[=e]v_", "[)a]" represents a-breve, "[=e]"
represents e-macron. "[oe]" represents the oe-ligature pair.]
[Frontispiece: J. A. Cramb]
THE
ORIGINS AND DESTINY
OF IMPERIAL BRITAIN
NINETEENTH CENTURY EUROPE
BY THE LATE
J. A. CRAMB, M.A.
PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY, QUEEN'S COLLEGE, LONDON
WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE AND PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1915
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: Greek text]
"For the noveltie and strangenesse of the matter which I determine and
deliberate to entreat upon, is of efficacie and force enough to draw
the mindes both of young and olde to the diligent reading and digesting
of these labours. For what man is there so despising knowledge, or any
so idle and slothfull to be found, which will eschew or avoide by what
policies or by what kinde of government the most part of nations in the
universall world were vanquished, subdued and made subject unto the one
empire of the Romanes, which before that time was never seen or heard?
Or who is there that hath such earnest affection to other discipline or
studie, that he suposeth any kind of knowledge to be of more value or
worthy to be esteemed before this?"
_The Histories of the most famous Chronographer_, POLYBIUS.
(Englished by C. W., and imprinted at London, Anno 1568).
PREFACE
The following pages are a reprint of a course of lectures delivered in
May, June, and July, 1900. Their immediate inspiration was the war in
South Africa (two of the lectures deal directly with that war), but in
these pages, written fifteen years ago, will be found foreshadowed the
ideals and deeds of the present hour. When the book first appeared,
Mr. Cramb wrote that he "had been induced to publish these reflections
by the belief or the hope that at the present grave crisis they might
not be without service to his country." In the same hope his lectures
are now reprinted.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
John Adam Cramb was born at Denny, in Scotland, on the 4th of May,
1862. On leaving school he went to Glasgow University, where he
graduated in 1885, taking 1st Class Honours in Classics. In the same
year he was appointed to the Luke Fellowship in English Literature. He
also studied at Bonn University. He subsequently travelled on the
Continent, and in 1887 married the third daughter of the late Mr.
Edward W. Selby Lowndes of Winslow, and left one son. From 1888 to
1890 he was Lecturer in Modern History at Queen Margaret College,
Glasgow. Settling in London in 1890 he contributed several articles to
the _Dictionary of National Biography_, and also occasional reviews to
periodicals. For many years he was an examiner for the Civil Service
Commission. In 1892 he was appointed Lecturer and in 1893 Professor of
Modern History at Queen's College, London, where he lectured until his
death. He was also an occasional lecturer on military history at the
Staff College, Camberley, and at York, Chatham, and other centres. In
London he gave private courses on history, literature, and philosophy.
His last series of lectures was delivered in February and March, 1913,
the subject being the relations between England and Germany. In
response to many requests he was engaged in preparing these lectures
for publication when, in October, 1913, he died.
CONTENTS
PART I
THE TESTIMONY OF THE PAST
LECTURE I
SECTION
WHAT IS IMPERIALISM?
1. THE UNCONSCIOUS AND THE CONSCIOUS IN HISTORY
2. ANCIENT AND MODERN IMPERIALISM
3. THE MANDATE OF DESTINY
LECTURE II
THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE POLITICAL IDEAL
1. OF THE ACTION OF STATES AND OF INDIVIDUALS
2. THE LAW OF TRAGEDY AS APPLIED TO HISTORY
3. THE LAW OF TRAGEDY: ITS SECOND ASPECT
LECTURE III
THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE RELIGIOUS IDEAL
1. RELIGION AND IMPERIALISM
2. THE PLACE OF RELIGION IN ENGLISH HISTORY
3. DISTINCTION OF THE RELIGION OF THE VIKINGS
4. WORLD-HISTORIC SIGNIFICANCE OF THE ENGLISH REFORMATION
5. THE TESTIMONY OF THE PAST: A FINAL CONSIDERATION
PART II
THE DESTINY OF IMPERIAL BRITAIN
LECTURE IV
THE WAR IN SOUTH AFRICA
1. HISTORICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE WAR IN SOUTH AFRICA
2. NATIONALITY AND IMPERIALISM
3. THE WAR OF A DEMOCRACY
4. COSMOPOLITANISM AND JINGOISM
5. MILITARISM
LECTURE V
WHAT IS WAR?
1. THE PLACE OF WAR IN WORLD-HISTORY
2. DEFINITION OF WAR
3. COUNT TOLSTOI AND CARLYLE UPON WAR
4. COUNT TOLSTOI AS REPRESENTATIVE OF THE SLAVONIC GENIUS
5. THE TEACHINGS OF CHRIST AND WAR
6. THE IDEAL OF UNIVERSAL PEACE
7. IMPERIALISM AND WAR
LECTURE VI
THE VICISSITUDES OF STATES AND EMPIRES
1. THE METAPHYSICAL ORIGIN OF THE STATE
2. THE STATE, EMPIRES, AND ART
3. THE FALL OF EMPIRES: THE THEORY OF RETRIBUTION
4. THE FALL OF EMPIRES: THE CYCLIC THEORY
5. WHAT IS MEANT BY THE "FALL OF AN EMPIRE"?
LECTURE VII
THE DESTINY OF IMPERIAL BRITAIN AND THE DESTINY OF MAN
1. THE PRESENT STAGE IN THE HISTORY OF IMPERIAL BRITAIN
2. THE DESTINY OF MAN
3. THE FOUR PERIODS OF MODERN HISTORY
4. THE IDEAL OF THE FOURTH AGE
5. THE "ACT" AND THE "THOUGHT"
6. BRITAIN'S WORLD-MISSION: THE WITNESS OF THE DEAD TO THE
MANDATE OF THE PRESENT
NINETEENTH CENTURY EUROPE
1. DOMINION OF THE IDEAL OF LIBERTY
2. NATIONALITY AND MODERN REPUBLICANISM
3. THE IDEALS OF A NEW AGE
PART I
THE TESTIMONY OF THE PAST
REFLECTIONS ON THE
ORIGINS AND DESTINY OF
IMPERIAL BRITAIN
LECTURE I
WHAT IS IMPERIALISM?
[_Tuesday, May_ 8_th_, 1900]
The present age has rewritten the annals of the world, and set its own
impress on the traditions of humanity. In no period has the burden of
the past weighed so heavily upon the present, or the interpretation of
its speculative import troubled the heart so profoundly, so intimately,
so monotonously.
How remote we stand from the times when Raleigh could sit down in the
Tower, and with less anxiety about his documents, State records, or
stone monuments than would now be imperative in compiling the history
of a county, proceed to write the History of the World! And in
speculation it is the Tale, the _fabula_, the procession of impressive
incidents and personages, which enthralls him, and with perfect fitness
he closes his work with the noblest Invocation to Death that literature
possesses. But beneath the variety or pathos of the Tale the present
age ever apprehends a deeper meaning, or is oppressed by a sense of
mystery, of wonder, or of sorrow unrevealed, which defies tears.
This revolution in our conception of History, this boundless industry
which in Germany, France, England, Italy, has led to the printing of
mountains of forgotten memoirs, correspondences, State papers, this
endless sifting of evidence, this treasuring above riches of the slight
results slowly and patiently drawn, is neither accident, nor transient
caprice, nor antiquarian frenzy, but a phase of the guiding impulse,
the supreme instinct of this age--the ardour to know all, to experience
all, to be all, to suffer all, in a word, to know the Truth of
things--if haply there come with it immortal life, even if there come
with it silence and utter death. The deepened significance of history
springs thus from the deepened significance of life, and the passion of
our interest in the past from the passion of our interest in the
present. The half-effaced image on a coin, the illuminated margin of a
mediaeval manuscript, the smile on a fading picture--if these have
become, as it were, fountains of unstable reveries, perpetuating the
Wonder which is greater than Knowledge, it is a power from the present
that invests them with this magic. Life has become more
self-conscious; not of the narrow self merely, but of that deeper Self,
the mystic Presence which works behind the veil.
World-history is no more the fairy tale whose end is death, but laden
with eternal meanings, significances, intimations, swift gleams of the
Timeless manifesting itself in Time. And the distinguishing function
of History as a science lies in its ceaseless effort not only to lay
bare, to crystallize the moments of all these manifestations, but to
discover their connecting bond, the ties that unite them to each other
and to the One, the hidden source of these varied manifestations,
whether revealed as transcendent thought, art, or action.
Hence, as in prosecuting elsewhere our inquiry into the origin of the
French Monarchy or the decline of oligarchic Venice, we examined not
only the characters, incidents, policies immediately connected with the
subject, but attempted an answer to the question--What is the place of
these incidents in the universal scheme of things? so in the treatment
of the theme now before us, the origins of Imperial Britain, pursuing a
similar plan, we have to consider not merely the relations of Imperial
Britain to the England and Scotland of earlier times, but its relations
to mediaeval Europe, and to determine so far as is possible its place
amongst the world-empires of the past. I use the phrase "Imperial
Britain," and not "British Empire," because from the latter territorial
associations are inseparable. It designates India, Canada, Egypt, and
the like. But by "Imperial Britain" I wish to indicate the informing
spirit, the unseen force from within the race itself, which in the past
has shapen and in the present continues to shape this outward, this
material frame of empire. With the rise of this spirit, this
consciousness within the British race of its destiny as an imperial
people, no event in recent history can fitly be compared. The unity of
Germany under the Hohenzollern is an imposing, a far-reaching
achievement. The aspirations of the period of the
_Aufklaerung_--Lessing, Schiller, Arndt, and Fichte--find in this
edifice their political realization. But the incident is not
unprecedented. Even the writings of Friedrich Gentz are not by it made
obsolete. It has affected the European State-system as the sudden
unity of Spain under Ferdinand or the completion of the French Monarchy
under Louis XIV affected it. But in this unobserved, this silent
growth of Imperial Britain--so unobserved that it presents itself even
now as an unreal, a transient thing--a force intrudes into the
State-systems of the world which, whether we view it in its effects
upon the present age or seek to gauge its significance to the future,
has few, if any, parallels in history.
Sec. I. THE UNCONSCIOUS AND THE CONSCIOUS IN HISTORY
What is the nature of this Consciousness? What is its historical
basis? Is it possible to trace the process by which it has emerged?
In the history of every conscious organism, a race, a State, or an
individual, there is a certain moment when the Unconscious desire,
purpose, or ideal passes into the Conscious. Life's end is then
manifest. The ideal unsuspected hitherto, or dimly discerned, now
becomes the fixed law of existence. Such moments inevitably are
difficult to localize. Bonaparte in 1793 fascinates the younger
Robespierre--"He has so much of the future in his mind." But it is
neither Toulon, nor Vendemiaire, nor Lodi, but the marshes of Arcola,
two years after Robespierre has fallen on the scaffold, that reveal
Napoleon to himself. So Diderot perceives the true bent of Rousseau's
genius long before the Dijon essay reveals it to the latter himself and
to France. Polybius discovers in the war of Regulus and of Mylae the
beginning of Rome's imperial career, but a juster instinct leads Livy
to devote his most splendid paragraphs to the heroism in defeat of
Thrasymene and Cannae. It was the singular fate of Camoens to voice
the ideal of his race, to witness its glory, and to survive its fall.
The prose of Osorius[1] does but prolong the echoes of Camoens' mighty
line. Within a single generation, Portugal traces the bounds of a
world-empire, great and impressive; the next can hardly discover the
traces. But to the limning of that sketch all the past of Portugal was
necessary, though then it emerged for the first time from the
Unconscious to the Conscious. Similarly in the England of the
seventeenth century the conscious deliberate resolve to be itself the
master of its fate takes complete possession of the nation. This is
the ideal which gives essential meaning to the Petition of Right, to
the Grand Remonstrance, to the return at the Restoration to the
"principles of 1640"; it is this which gives a common purpose to the
lives of Eliot, Pym, Shaftesbury, and Somers. It is the unifying
motive of the politics of the whole seventeenth century. The
eighteenth expands or curtails this, but originates nothing. An ideal
from the past controls the genius of the greatest statesmen of the
eighteenth century. But from the closing years of the century to the
present hour another ideal, at first existing unperceived side by side
with the former, has slowly but insensibly advanced, obscure in its
origins and little regarded in its first developments, but now
impressing the whole earth by its majesty--the Ideal of Imperial
Britain.
It is vain or misleading for the most part to fix precisely the first
beginnings of great movements in history. Nevertheless it is often
convenient to select for special study even arbitrarily some incident
or character in which that movement first conspicuously displays
itself. And if the question were asked--When does monarchical or
constitutional England first distinctively pass into Imperial Britain?
I should point to the close of the eighteenth century, to the heroic
patience with which the twenty-two years' war against France was borne,
hard upon the disaster of Yorktown and the loss of an empire; and
further, if you proceeded to search in speculative politics or actual
speeches for a deliberate expression of this transition, I should
select as a conspicuous instance Edmund Burke's great impeachment of
Warren Hastings. There this first awakening consciousness of an
Imperial destiny declares itself in a very dramatic and pronounced form
indeed. Yet Burke's range in speculative politics, compared with that
of such a writer as Montesquieu, is narrow. His conception of history
at its highest is but an anticipation of the picturesque but pragmatic
school of which Macaulay is coryphaeus. In religion he revered the
traditions, and acquiesced in the commonplaces of his time. His
literary sympathies were less varied, his taste less sure than those of
Charles James Fox. In constitutional politics he clung obstinately to
the ideals of the past; to Parliamentary reform he was hostile or
indifferent. As Pitt was the first great statesman of the nineteenth
century, so Burke was the last of the great statesmen of the
seventeenth century; for it is to the era of Pym and of Shaftesbury
that, in his constitutional theories, Burke strictly belongs. But if
his range was narrow, he is master there. "Within that circle none
durst walk but he." No cause in world-history has inspired a nobler
rhetoric, a mightier language. And if he is a reactionary in
constitutional politics, in his impeachment of Hastings he is the
prophet of a new era, the annunciator of an ideal which the later
nineteenth century slowly endeavours to realize--an empire resting not
on violence, but on justice and freedom. This ideal influences the
action, the policy, of statesmen earlier in the century; but in Chatham
its precise character, that which differentiates the ideal of Britain
from that, say, of Rome, is less clear than in Burke. And in the
seventeenth century, unless in a latent _unconscious_ form, it can
hardly be traced at all. In the speculative politics of that century
we encounter it again and again; but in practical politics it has no
part. I could not agree with Lord Rosebery when in an address he spoke
of Cromwell as "a great Briton." Cromwell is a great Englishman, but
neither in his actions nor in his policy, neither in his letters, nor
in any recorded utterance, public or private, does he evince definite
sympathy with, or clear consciousness of the distinctive ideal of
Imperial Britain. His work indeed leads towards this end, as the work
of Raleigh, of the elder Essex, or of Grenville, leads towards it, but
not consciously, not deliberately.
In Burke, however, and in his younger contemporaries, the conscious
influence, the formative power of a higher ideal, of wider aspirations
than moulded the actual statesmanship of the past, can no longer escape
us. The Empire is being formed, its material bounds marked out, here
definitely, there lost in receding vistas. On the battlefield or in
the senate-house, or at the counter of merchant adventurers, this work
is slowly elaborating itself. And within the nation at large the ideal
which is to be the spirit, the life of the Empire is rising into ever
clearer consciousness. Its influence throws a light upon the last
speeches of the younger Pitt. If the Impeachment be Burke's _chef
d'oeuvre_, Pitt never reached a mightier close than in the speech which
ended as the first grey light touched the eastern windows of
Westminster, suggesting on the instant one of the happiest and most
pathetic quotations ever made within those walls.[2] The ideal makes
great the life of Wilberforce; it exalts Canning; and Clarkson,
Romilly, Cobbett, Bentham is each in his way its exponent. "The Cry of
the Children" derived an added poignancy from the wider pity which,
after errors and failures more terrible than crimes, extended itself to
the suffering in the Indian village, in the African forest, or by the
Nile. The Chartist demanded the Rights of Englishmen, and found the
strength of his demand not diminished, but heightened, by the elder
battle-cry of the "Rights of Man." Thus has this ideal, grown
conscious, gradually penetrated every phase of our public life. It
removes the disabilities of religion; enfranchises the millions, that
they by being free may bring freedom to others. In the great
renunciation of 1846 it borrows a page from Roman annals, and sets the
name of Peel with that of Caius Gracchus. It imparts to modern
politics an inspiration and a high-erected effort, the power to falter
at no sacrifice, dread no responsibility.
Thus, then, as in the seventeenth century the ideal of national and
constituted freedom takes complete possession of the English people, so
in the nineteenth this ideal of Imperial Britain, risen at last from
the sphere of the Unconscious to the Conscious, has gradually taken
possession of all the avenues and passages of the Empire's life, till
at the century's close there is not a man capable of sympathies beyond
his individual walk whom it does not strengthen and uplift.
Sec. 2. ANCIENT AND MODERN IMPERIALISM
Definitions are perilous, yet we must now attempt to define this ideal,
to frame an answer to the question--What is the nature of this ideal
which has thus arisen, of this Imperialism which is insensibly but
surely taking the place of the narrower patriotism of England, of
Scotland, and of Ireland? Imperialism, I should say, is patriotism
transfigured by a light from the aspirations of universal humanity; it
is the passion of Marathon, of Flodden or Trafalgar, the ardour of a de
Montfort or a Grenville, intensified to a serener flame by the ideals
of a Condorcet, a Shelley, or a Fichte. This is the ideal, and in the
resolution deliberate and conscious to realize this ideal throughout
its dominions, from bound to bound, in the voluntary submission to this
as to the primal law of its being, lies what may be named the destiny
of Imperial Britain.
As the artist by the very law of his being is compelled to body forth
his conceptions in colour, in words, or in marble, so the race dowered
with the genius for empire is compelled to dare all, to suffer all, to
sacrifice all for the fulfilment of its fate-appointed task. This is
the distinction, this the characteristic of the empires, the imperial
races of the past, of the remote, the shadowy empires of Media, of
Assyria, of the nearer empires of Persia, Macedon, and Rome. To spread
the name, and with the name the attributes, the civilizing power of
Hellas, throughout the world is the ideal of Macedon. Similarly of
Rome: to subdue the world, to establish there her peace, governing all
in justice, marks the Rome of Julius, of Vespasian, of Trajan. And in
this measureless devotion to a cause, in this surplus energy, and the
necessity of realizing its ideals in other races, in other peoples,
lies the distinction of the Imperial State, whether city or nation.
The origin of these characteristics in British Imperialism we shall
examine in a later lecture.
Let me now endeavour to set the distinctive ideal of Britain before you
in a clearer light. Observe, first of all, that it is essentially
British. It is not Roman, not Hellenic. The Roman ideal moulds every
form of Imperialism in Europe, and even to a certain degree in the
East, down to the eighteenth century. The theory of the mediaeval
empire derives immediately from Rome. The Roman justice disguised as
righteousness easily warrants persecution, papal or imperial. The
Revocation of the Edict of Passau by a Hapsburg, and the Revocation of
the Edict of Nantes by a Bourbon, trace their origin without a break to
that emperor to whom Dante assigns so great a part in the
_Paradiso_.[3] Lord Beaconsfield, with the levity in matters of
scholarship which he sometimes displayed, once ascribed the phrase
_imperium ac libertas_ to a Roman historian. The voluntary or
accidental error is nothing; but the conception of Roman Imperialism
which it popularized is worth considering. It is false to the genius
of Rome. It is not that the phrase nowhere occurs in a Roman
historian; but no statesman, no Roman historian, not Sulla, not Caesar,
nor Marcus, could ever have bracketed these words. _Imperium ac
justitia_ he might have said; but he could never have used together the
conceptions of Empire and Freedom. The peoples subdued by Rome--Spain,
Gaul, Africa--received from Rome justice, and for this gift blessed
Rome's name, deifying her genius. But the ideal of Freedom, the
freedom that allows or secures for every soul the power to move in the
highest path of its being, this is no pre-occupation of a Roman
statesman! Yet it is in this ideal of freedom that the distinction, or
at least a distinction of Modern, as opposed to Roman or Hellenic,
Europe consists; in the effort, that is to say, to spiritualize the
conception of outward justice, of outward freedom, to rescue individual
life from the incubus of the State, transfiguring the State itself by
the larger freedom, the higher justice, which Sophocles seeks in vain
throughout Hellas, which Virgil in Rome can nowhere find. The common
traits in the Kreon of tragedy and the Kritias of history, in the hero
of the _Aeneid_ and the triumvir Octavianus, are not accident, but
arise from the revolt of the higher freedom of Art, conscious or
unconscious, against the essential egoism of the wrong masking as right
of the ancient State. And it is in the Empire of Britain that this
effort of Modern Europe is realized, not only in the highest, but in
the most original and varied forms. The power of the Roman ideal, on
the other hand, saps the preceding empires of Modern Europe down to the
seventeenth century, the empire of the German Caesars, the Papacy
itself, Venice, Spain, Bourbon France. Consider how completely the
ideals of these States are enshrined in the _De Monarchia_, and how
closely the _De Monarchia_ knits itself to Caesarian and to consular
Rome!
The political history of Venice, stripped of its tinsel and melodrama,
is tedious as a twice-told tale. Her art, her palaces, are her own
eternally, a treasury inexhaustible as the light and mystery of the
waters upon which she rests like a lily, the changeful element
multiplying her structured loveliness and the opalescent hues of her
sky. But in politics Venice has not enriched the world with a single
inspiring thought which Rome had not centuries earlier illustrated more
grandly, more simply, and with yet profounder meanings.
Spain falls, not as Carlyle imagines, because it "rejects the Faith
proffered by the visiting angel"--a Protestant Spain is impossible--but
because Spain seeks to stifle in the Netherlands, in Europe at large,
that freedom which modern Europe had come to regard as dearer than
life--freedom to worship God after the manner nearest to its heart.
But disaster taught Spain nothing--
[Illustration: Greek text]
Alas, for mortal history! In happy fortune
A shadow might overturn its height; whilst of disaster
A wet sponge at a stroke effaces the lesson;
And 'tis this last I deem life's greater woe.
The embittered wisdom of Aeschylus finds in all history no more shining
comment than the decline of Spain.[4]
The gloomy resolution of the Austrian Ferdinand II, the internecine war
of thirty years which he provokes, sullenly pursues, and in dying
bequeaths to his son, are visited upon his house at Leuthen, Marengo,
Austerlitz, and in the overthrow of the empire devised ten centuries
before by Leo III and Charlemagne.
And with the Revocation, with Le Tellier and the Bull _Unigenitus_, the
procession of the French kings begins, which ends in the Place de la
Revolution:--"Son of St. Louis, ascend to Heaven."
From this thraldom to the past, to the ideal of Rome, Imperial Britain,
first amongst modern empires, completely breaks. For it is a new
empire which Imperial Britain presents to our scrutiny, a new empire
moulded by a new ideal.
Let me illustrate this by a contrast--a contrast between two armies and
what each brings to the vanquished.
Who that has read the historian of Alva can forget the march of his
army through the summer months some three hundred and thirty years ago?
That army, the most perfect that any captain had led since the Roman
legions left the world, defies from the gorges of Savoy, and division
behind division advances through the passes and across the plains of
Burgundy and Lorraine. One simile leaps to the pen of every historian
who narrates that march, the approach of some vast serpent, the
glancing of its coils unwinding still visible through the June foliage,
fateful, stealthy, casting upon its victim the torpor of its
irresistible strength. And to the Netherlands what does that army
bring? Death comes with it--death in the shape most calculated to
break the resolution of the most dauntless--the rack, the solitary
dungeon, the awful apparel of the Inquisition torture-chamber, the
_auto-da-fe_, and upon the evening air that odour of the burning flesh
of men wherewith Philip of Spain hallowed his second bridals. These
things accompany the march of Alva. And that army of ours which day by
day advances not less irresistibly across the veldt of Africa, what
does that army portend? That army brings with it not the rack, nor the
dungeon, nor the dread _auto-da-fe_; it brings with it, and not to one
people only but to the vast complexity of peoples within her bounds,
the assurance of England's unbroken might, of her devotion to that
ideal which has exercised a conscious sway over the minds of three
generations of her sons, and quickened in the blood of the unreckoned
generations of the past--an ideal, shall I say, akin to that of the
prophet of the French Revolution, Diderot, "_elargissez Dieu!_"--to
liberate God within men's hearts, so that man's life shall be free, of
itself and in itself, to set towards the lodestar of its being, harmony
with the Divine. And it brings to the peoples of Africa, to whom the
coming of this army is for good or evil so eventful, so fraught with
consequences to the future ages of their race, some assurance from the
designs, the purposes which this island has in early or recent times
pursued, that the same or yet loftier purposes shall guide us still;
whilst to the nations whose eyes are fastened upon that army it offers
some cause for gratulation or relief, that in this problem, whose vast
issues, vista receding behind vista, men so wide apart as Napoleon I.
and Victor Hugo pondered spell-bound; that in this arena where
conflicts await us beside which, in renunciation, triumph, or despair,
this of to-day seems but a toy; that in this crisis, a crisis in which
the whole earth is concerned, the Empire has intervened, definitely and
for all time, which more than any other known to history represents
humanity, and in its dealings with race distinctions and religious
distinctions does more than any other represent the principle that "God
has made of one blood all the nations of the earth."
Sec. 3. THE MANDATE OF DESTINY
In these two armies then, and in what each brings to the vanquished,
the contrast between two forms of Imperialism outlines itself sharply.
The earlier, that of the ancient world, little modified by mediaeval
experiments, limits itself to concrete, to external justice, imparted
to subject peoples from above, from some beneficent monarch or tyrant;
the later, the Imperialism of the modern world, the Imperialism of
Britain, has for its end the larger freedom, the higher justice whose
root is in the soul not of the ruler but of the race. The former
nowhere looks beyond justice; this sees in justice but a means to an
end. It aims through freedom to secure that men shall find justice,
not as a gift from Britain, but as they find the air around them, a
natural presence. Justice so conceived is not an end in itself, but a
condition of man's being. In the ancient world, government ever tends
to identify itself with the State, even when, as in Rome or Persia,
that State is imperial. In the modern, government with concrete
justice, civic freedom as its aims, ever tends to become but a function
of the State whose ideal is higher.
The vision of the _De Monarchia_--one God, one law, one creed, one
emperor, semi-divine, far-off, immaculate, guiding the round world in | 585.205831 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.1859710 | 1,818 | 9 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of Private Life of Napoleon, by Constant, v6
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Title: The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v6
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**The Legal Small Print**
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***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
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credit
Transcribed from the 1841 Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longmans
edition by David Price, email [email protected]
[Picture: Decorative title page, with Goodrich castle (followed by proper
title page)]
THE WYE
AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS
A PICTURESQUE RAMBLE.
* * * * *
BY LEITCH RITCHIE, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "WANDERINGS BY THE LOIRE," "WANDERINGS BY THE SEINE,"
"THE MAGICIAN," ETC.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
LONDON:
LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND
LONGMANS.
1841.
* * * * *
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. HADDON, CASTLE STREET, FINSBURY.
ADVERTISEMENT,
A portion of the lower part of the Wye has been described by Gilpin,
Archdeacon Coxe, and some others; and the same portion has been touched
upon, with greater or less minuteness, by Prince Puckler Muscau, and
various Welsh tourists, as well as by Whateley in his Essay on Modern
Gardening. It seemed, however, to the writer of the present sketch, that
something more was due to the most celebrated river in England; and that
another book (not too large for the pocket, and yet aspiring to a place
in the library) which should point out the beauties of the Wye, and
connect them with their historical and romantic associations--beginning
at the source of the stream on Plinlimmon, and ending only at its
confluence with the Severn--might still be reckoned an acceptable service
by the lovers of the picturesque. Hence this little work, which may be
consulted at will either as a finger-post by the traveller, or as a
companion by the reading lounger at home.
_London_, _November_ 28_th_, 1840.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Page.
Philosophy of the picturesque--Peculiarities of English 1
scenery--Worcester--Immigration of peasant girls--The
Devils' Garden--The Rest on the
Stones--Plinlimmon--Inhabitants of the summit--The
Inn--Source of the Wye
CHAPTER II.
Descent of Plinlimmon--Singular 17
illusion--Llangerrig--Commencement of the
picturesque--The Fall of the Wye--Black Mountain--Course
of the river--Builth--Peculiarity of the
scenery--Approach to the English border--Castle of the
Hay--First series of the beauties of the Wye
CHAPTER III.
Clifford Castle--Lords-marchers--Fair Rosamond--Ruins of 31
the Castle--The silent cottage--Approach to
Hereford--Castle--Cathedral--Nell
Gwynn--Cider--Salmon--Wolves
CHAPTER IV.
Beauty and tameness--The travelling hill--Ross--The 45
silver tankard--The Man of Ross--The sympathetic
trees--Penyard Castle--Vicissitudes of the river--Wilton
Castle--A voyage to sea in a basket--Pencraig Hill
CHAPTER V.
Roman passes of the Wye--Goodrich 58
Castle--Keep--Fortifications--Apartments--Its
history--Goodrich Court--Forest of Dean--Laws of the
Miners--Military exploit--Wines of Gloucestershire
CHAPTER VI.
Iron furnaces of the Wye--Lidbroke--Nurse of Henry 74
V--Coldwell Rocks--Symond's Yat--New Weir--Monmouth
CHAPTER VII.
Monmouth--History of the Castle--Apartment of Henry of 87
Monmouth--Ecclesiastical remains--Benedictine
priory--Church of St. Mary--Church of St. Thomas--Monnow
Bridge--Modern town--Monmouth caps--The beneficent
parvenu
CHAPTER VIII.
Welsh pedigree of queen Victoria--A poet's 100
flattery--Castles of Monmouthshire--Geoffrey of
Monmouth--Henry of Monmouth--The Kymin--Subsidiary
tour--Sir David Gam--White Castle--Scenfrith--The Castle
spectres--Grosmont--Lanthony Abbey
CHAPTER IX.
Raglan Castle--Description of the ruins--History of the 121
Castle--The old lord of Raglan--Surrender of the
fortress--Charles I. and his host--Royal weakness--The
pigeons of Raglan--Death of the old lord--Origin of the
steam engine
CHAPTER X.
Troy House--Anecdote--Antique custom--Village churches of 140
Monmouthshire--White-washing--The bard--Strewing graves
with flowers--St. Briavels' Castle--Llandogo--Change in
the character of the river--The Druid of the
Wye--Wordsworth's "Lines composed above Tintern Abbey"
CHAPTER XI.
Vales of the Wye--Valley of Tintern--Tintern 156
Abbey--History--Church--Character of the
ruin--Site--Coxe's description--Monmouth--Insecurity of
sepulchral fame--Churchyarde on Tombs--Opinions on
Tintern--Battle of Tintern
CHAPTER XII.
The Wye below Tintern--Benagor 174
Crags--Lancaut--Piercefield Bay--Chepstow--Ancient and
modern bridge--Chepstow Castle--Roger de
Britolio--Romance of History--Chepstow in the civil
wars--Marten the regicide
CHAPTER XIII.
Piercefield--Points of view--Curious appearance--Scenic 192
character of the place--View from Wyndcliff--Account of
Valentine Morris--Anecdotes--The Wye below Chepstow--Aust
Ferry--Black Rock Ferry--St. Theodoric--Conclusion
ENGRAVINGS.
Page.
GOODRICH CASTLE VIGNETTE TITLE.
LLANGERRIG 19
RHAIADYR 21
NEAR RHAIADYR 22
CLIFFORD CASTLE 35
HEREFORD 44
ROSS 48
THE NEW WEIR 81
TINTERN 158
TINTERN ABBEY 160
CHEPSTOW 177
VIEW FROM WYNDCLIFF 198
CHAPTER I.
Philosophy of the picturesque--Peculiarities of English
scenery--Worcester--Immigration of peasant girls--The Devils' Garden--The
Rest on the Stones--Plinlimmon--Inhabitants of the summit--The
Inn--Source of the Wye.
Foreigners have often expressed their surprise that the English should
travel so far in search of picturesque scenery, when they have abundance
at home: but the remark is conceived in an unphilosophical spirit. We do
not travel for the mere scenery. We do not leave the Wye unexplored, and
go abroad in search of some other river of its own identical character.
What we gaze at in strange lands is not wood, and water, and rock, but
all these seen through a new medium--accompanied by adjuncts which array
universal nature herself in a foreign costume. A tree peculiar to the
country--a peasant in an un-English garb--a cottage of unaccustomed
form--the slightest peculiarity in national manners--even the traces of a
different system of agriculture--all contribute to the impression of
novelty in which consists the excitement of foreign travel.
The proof of this is our keener perception of the beauties of English
scenery after returning from abroad. We are then capable of instituting
a comparison; and our national manners are no longer the sole medium, but
one of various media through which nature is viewed. An untravelled
Englishman is ignorant of his own country. He must cross the seas before
he can become acquainted with home. He must admire the romance of the
Rhine--the sublimity of the (mountain) Rhone--the beauty of the Seine and
the Loire--before he can tell what is the rank of the Wye, in picturesque
character, among the rivers of Europe.
The journey from London to Worcester, which is the direct route to the
Upper part of the Wye, discloses many of the peculiarities of English
scenery and character--peculiarities which to the natives are of so every
day a kind, that it is only by reflection and comparison they learn to
appreciate them. The country seats of the great land proprietors, with
their accompaniments of lawn and plantation, extending as far as the eye
can reach, form a part of the picture; and so do the cottages of the
village peasantry, with their little gardens before the door, admitting a
peep into the interior of the humble abode. In the aristocratical
dwellings, half hidden in that paradise of groves and glades, we find
every refinement that gold can purchase, or taste produce: in the huts,
comfort, and its inseparable adjunct cleanliness, are the most striking
characteristics.
The former speak of wealth, and the happiness that depends on wealth; the
latter of comparative poverty, and the home pleasures that are compatible
| 585.207093 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "Bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the
Nazarene."]
THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS.
(SANTA CLAUS)
A Story of Duty and Peril.
BY
GRANT BALFOUR,
Author of "The Fairy School of Castle Frank."
TORONTO:
THE POOLE PRINTING COMPANY, LIMITED,
PUBLISHERS.
Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine by A. BALFOUR GRANT, in the
office of the Minister of Agriculture.
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. Watching for the Prey
II. A Ministering Angel
III. Still on the Watch
IV. The Amphitheatre
V. The Influence Working
VI. The Indignation of Tharsos
VII. The Perplexity of Carnion
VIII. Waiting for the Victim
IX. In the Arena
X. The Lion
XI. The Man with the Dagger
XII. Discipline
XIII. Night
XIV. Day
XV. Saint Nicholas
THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS
(SANTA CLAUS).
CHAPTER I.
WATCHING FOR THE PREY.
Go back into the third century after Christ, travel east into the
famous Mediterranean Sea, survey the beautiful south-west coast of Asia
Minor, and let your eyes rest on the city of Patara. Look at it well.
Full of life then, dead and desolate now, the city has wonderful
associations in sacred and legendary lore--it saw the great reformer of
the Gentiles, and gave birth to the white-haired man of Christmas joy.
Persecution had beforetime visited Patara, in common with other parts
of the Roman Empire; and there were ominous signs, like the first
mutterings of an earthquake, that a similar calamity might come again.
The prejudice and malice of the common people were dangerously stirred
up to fight the quiet, persistent inroads of aggressive Christianity.
The authorities, perplexed and exasperated, were disposed to wink at
assault upon individual Christians, to try them on any plausible
pretext, and to shew them little quarter. If they could arrest the
ringleaders, especially people of rank or wealth, whether men or women,
in anything wrong or strongly suspicious, that they might apply
exemplary punishment, then the irritated majority might be satisfied,
and peace in the city restored.
In a recess at the corner of a busy street, leading towards the market
place, two men stood, waiting and watching for some particular person
to pass by. They were Demonicus and Timon, whose office or duty was
something like that of a modern detective.
Demonicus, clad in a brown _chiton_ or tunic reaching down to the
knees, was a powerfully built, dark man, with great bison-like
shoulders and thick neck, bristling eyebrows, and fierce, covetous
eyes. To him nothing was too perilous or too mean where there was
strife or the chance of gold. He was a wrestler and mighty swordsman,
he had often fought in the stadium or circus, and his fame had
travelled as far as Rome, to which he went at last, and greatly
distinguished himself for a time.
Timon, similarly clad, was only a man of ordinary strength; but he was
lithe, self-willed and shrewd, with a streak of courtesy and sympathy.
Camels, bullocks, horses, mules and wagons were passing by--a
picturesque train of noisy, dusty movement on an unpaved street--while
now and again a carriage or a litter appeared, whose occupants were
considered either arrogant, or effeminate.
"Her carriage must have passed," said Demonicus savagely.
"It cannot be," replied Timon civilly; "the lady, though unfettered by
custom, rarely takes her carriage; she usually passes on foot shortly
after the morning meal, and I came here to watch in ample time."
"We must arrest her to-day on some pretext or other," muttered
Demonicus. "I shall dog her steps everywhere, and if I cannot get a
good excuse I shall invent one. The bribe," added he with an impatient
gesture, "is too tempting for more delay."
Timon, though also grasping, was not heart and soul with Demonicus.
When on the watch alone he had had time to reflect, and his better
nature would now and again assert itself, as there stole over his
vision a beautiful figure with a noble work in hand. He wanted the
prize but was not in hot haste to win it, and while it seemed judicious
it also felt agreeable to suggest delay. After a brief silence he
remarked--
"There is to be a special gathering of the Christians in the Church of
the Triple Arch to-night. The bishop is away at Myra. But O | 585.208173 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.1889550 | 2,253 | 9 | LIGHT OF SALVATION***
Transcribed from the 1810 Ann Kemmish edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
SPIRITUAL VICTORIES,
THROUGH THE
_Light of Salvation_.
* * * * *
BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF A
SERMON,
Preached on SUNDAY, March the 11th, 1810,
AT THE
OBELISK CHAPEL,
* * * * *
BY J. CHURCH,
Minster of the Gospel.
* * * * *
_PUBLISHED BY REQUEST_.
* * * * *
“O House of Jacob, come ye, let us walk in the Light of the Lord.”
* * * * *
_SOUTHWARK_:
Printed by ANN KEMMISH, King-Street, Borough.
* * * * *
1810.
* * * * *
_PREFACE_.
_TO those Friends who requested the Publication of this Sermon_—_I have
only to say_, _I have endeavored to recollect a considerable part of it_;
_many ideas I have omitted_, _and others I have introduced_, _as I had
not the least intention of making this public_, _nor should I but for
your very pressing solicitation_. _I would remark by way of Preface_,
_that the success of Sermons_, _in point of usefulness_, _depends upon
the operations of God the divine Spirit_; _and these influences are
entirely sovereign_. _That although this Sermon was blest to you in the
hearing_, _it may not be so to you in the reading_—_nevertheless_, _as
the friends of immortal truth_—_you being in the possession of that love_
(_which rejoiceth in the truth_) _will also rejoice in every attempt to
exalt the Person of Jesus as the truth_; _to comfort and establish
Believers in the truth_, _and to encourage all the heralds of truth_, _to
be faithful unto death_. _I have sent forth the truth in a very plain
style_; _to you who know her excellencies she will shine with unfading
charms_; _while you adore the God of all grace_—_and I subscribe myself_,
_Your willing Servant in the cause of truth_,
_J. CHURCH_.
A SERMON.
JUDGES viith Chap. 20th Verse.
“_And the three companies blew the trumpets_, _and brake the
pitchers, and held the lamps in their left hands_, _and their
trumpets in their right_, _to blow withal_; _and they cried_, _The
Sword of the Lord and of Gideon_!”
THE history of the church of God, in all ages past, as recorded in the
Scriptures, is intended by the Spirit to exhibit many things of vast
importance to us, on whom the ends of the world are come.
FIRST.—The rebellion, ingratitude, and idolatry of the Israelites, give
us an awful proof of human depravity, and teach an humbling lesson to the
spiritual Israel, who have the same sinful nature, are prone to the same
sins, and would often fall into them and their consequences, but for the
grace of God.
SECONDLY.—The patience and long-suffering of God, particularly marked out
in this history—he bare long with them; his mercy was extended,
prolonged, and manifested to them, notwithstanding all their
provocations, in forgetting his deliverances of them in times past, and
practising the same sins he had before resented.
THIRDLY.—His disapprobation of their conduct, and the means he took to
testify it, are set before us. Our God is never at a loss for means to
accomplish his wise and holy purposes of justice or mercy, as is evident
from the history before us. The blessed Spirit operating upon the souls
of his people, often by his influence reproves their consciences of sin,
as it is so opposite to the purity of that divine nature, or holy
principle he has blessed them with. Sin, committed by a believer, is a
transgression of the law, or dictates of faith; for there is no sin,
condemned under the first covenant, but what, under the covenant of
grace, is pointed out in more odious colours.—Hence the idolatry,
rebellion, and ingratitude of the believer, are seen and lamented by him
as a child of God; and as God the Spirit communicates light to his
understanding, to discover it as sinful, he perpetually testifies that
his sins are more sinful than those who know not God.
FOURTHLY.—The inseparable connection between sin and sorrow, is felt by
all, both elect and non-elect. By nations, families, and individuals,
the moral and penal evils of the Fall, will be, must be, and are felt by
all. The non-elect feel it in many awful forms, as transgressors, in the
curse of the ground, in the calamities of war, in all the dreadful
horrors of a guilty conscience, and in the wrath of a sin-avenging God.
Nations feel it universally; this is evident by the calamities which
befell the land of Canaan—so the 6th Chapter begins: “And the children of
Israel did evil in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord delivered them
into the hand of Midian.” Their sin was resented in this form, by the
Lord—the prevailing of their enemies, which forced them to hide in dens,
caves, mountains, and strong holds—their enemies destroyed the increase
of their country, and reduced them almost to a famine; “and Israel was
greatly impoverished because of the Midianites” and people of Arabia.
FIFTHLY.—The tender mercy of God the Saviour appears as remarkable in
their deliverance; in the remembrance of his covenant of old, with their
fore-fathers; his good hand was seen in bringing them out of trouble,
although they had brought these troubles on themselves—what a solemn, but
gracious proof; “O! Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself! but in me is
thine help.” And what encouragement does this give to poor backsliders
to return to Jesus, their first husband; for although they have brought
these troubles on themselves, yet Jesus is ready to deliver them! What a
striking account does the pious Nehemiah give of the conduct of the
Israelites, and the goodness of God to man—9th chap. 28th verse; “But
after they had rest, they did evil again before thee, therefore thou
leftest them in the hands of their enemies, so that they had dominion
over them; yet when they cried unto thee thou heardest them from heaven;
and many times thou didst deliver them, according to thy tender mercies.”
SIXTHLY.—I remark again, that our God has ever manifested himself a God,
hearing prayer: the children of Israel cried unto the Lord, and the Lord
sent a prophet to them; and after reproving them, we have an account of a
deliverer, raised up by the Lord himself. What encouragement does this
give to us in all our trials, without and within, whether in body, soul,
circumstances, family, or nation. God has even condescended to hear the
cries of many who had no grace, yet, led by the light of nature to call
on him in trouble; and will he turn a deaf ear to his saints in trouble?
surely not. Believer, the remedy’s before thee—PRAY.
In taking one more view of this history, we must admire the conduct of
God in over-turning all the schemes of men, their wisdom, counsel, and
power: that in providence as well as in grace, his wisdom, power, and
faithfulness, might be clearly seen and adored by his people. His wisdom
in the permission of the Fall, and its awful consequences, seems to go
before, and make way for the displays of his love, mercy, power, and
faithfulness. This is seen in his dispensations, generally, and
particularly in grace & providence. How often has infinite wisdom
permitted heavy troubles to come on the Church, to wean her from the
creature—to shew her the value of Jesus, as a deliverer—and to lead her
to him by many intreaties; that while we feel our strength perfect
weakness, we may the more clearly discover the good hand of our God, in
our support and deliverance, and give him the glory due to his name for
it. The principal end God has in view in all his dispensations, is his
own glory—this is the first cause and last grand end of all things—“for
of him, and through him, and to him, are all things.” Had the victory we
are considering been gained by well disciplined men, led on by wise,
noble, valiant generals, who had often been successful in war—had this
been the case, the creature would have been extolled, and God nearly
forgotten. But this victory was a display of the power of Jehovah—his
hand clearly seen, his mercy displayed, and all the honor given to him to
whom it is due. The means, the feeble means the Lord made use of were
simply, a weak un-armed man, with only three hundred men, led by him,
with lamps, trumpets, and pitchers—to carnal reason a very unlikely
method to conquer two hundred thousand Midianites, well skilled in the
art of war. But this was God’s method, and we have a right to submit our
wisdom to God’s plan; “for my thoughts are not as your thoughts, nor my
ways as your ways, saith the Lord; for as the heavens are high above the
earth, so are my ways above your ways.” And this victory, through such
feeble means, is a confirmation of this truth—the angel Jehovah Jesus,
appeared to Gideon as he was threshing wheat, in a secret place, to hide
it from the enemy; and assured him | 585.208995 |
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Produced by Stewart A. Levin
THE
COUNTRY SCHOOL
An Entertainment in Two Scenes.
BY
M. R. ORNE.
Copyright, 1890, BY WALTER H. BAKER & CO.
BOSTON
SUGGESTIONS.
__________
THE characters in this little sketch should be played by prominent
citizens of your town, if such can be prevailed upon to appear--the
more elderly, staid, and incongruous in years and bearing, the better.
Dignified professors, judges, doctors, lawyers, teachers, etc.,
should be prevailed upon to forget their present greatness, don the
costumes and revive the scenes of their youth.
The dress may be left largely to individual taste. Short pantaloons,
jumpers, long-sleeved tires, caps, broad-brimmed straw hats, heavy
cowhide boots, are suggested for the gentlemen; while short dresses,
the historic pantalette, sun-bonnets, tires, aprons, etc., are
proposed for the ladies. The latter should have their hair braided
or hanging in long curls. All should be neatly dressed in "ye
olden time" costumes, except one or two, who may represent the
tatterdemalion fraternity. One of these may be the bright boy of the
class, the other the dullard, who stumbles through his lessons,
loses his place, has a passion for catching flies, throwing spit-balls,
etc. One boy may have a penchant for drawing pictures on his
slate or the blackboard, in which his teacher and mates play a
| 585.209085 |
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Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreaders at
http://www.fadedpage.net
[Illustration: With eye and ear alert the man paddles silently on. (_See
page 105._)]
_THE STORY OF THE WEST SERIES_
_EDITED BY RIPLEY HITCHCOCK_
THE STORY OF THE TRAPPER
* * * * *
The Story of the West Series.
EDITED BY RIPLEY HITCHCOCK.
Each Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth.
+The Story of the Railroad.+
By CY WARMAN, Author of "The Express Messenger." $1.50.
+The Story of the Cowboy.+
By E. HOUGH. Illustrated by William L. Wells and C. M. Russell. $1.50.
+The Story of the Mine.+
Illustrated by the Great Comstock Lode of Nevada.
By CHARLES HOWARD SHINN. $1.50.
+The Story of the Indian.+
By GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL, Author of "Pawnee Hero Stories," "Blackfoot
Lodge Tales," etc. $1.50.
+The Story of the Soldier.+
By Brevet Brigadier-General GEORGE A. FORSYTH, U. S. A. (retired).
Illustrated by R. F. Zogbaum. $1.50.
+The Story of the Trapper.+
By A. C. LAUT, Author of "Heralds of Empire." Illustrated by Hemment.
$1.25 net; postage, 12 cents additional.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE STORY
OF THE TRAPPER
BY
A. C. LAUT
AUTHOR OF HERALDS OF EMPIRE
AND LORDS OF THE NORTH
_ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR HEMING
AND OTHERS_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1902
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
* * * * *
TO ALL WHO KNOW
THE GIPSY YEARNING FOR THE WILDS
* * * * *
EDITOR'S PREFACE
The picturesque figure of the trapper follows close behind the Indian in
the unfolding of the panorama of the West. There is the explorer, but
the trapper himself preceded the explorers--witness Lewis's and Clark's
meetings with trappers on their journey. The trapper's hard-earned
knowledge of the vast empire lying beyond the Missouri was utilized by
later comers, or in a large part died with him, leaving occasional
records in the documents of fur companies, or reports of military
expeditions, or here and there in the name of a pass, a stream, a
mountain, or a fort. His adventurous warfare upon the wild things of the
woods and streams was the expression of a primitive instinct old as the
history of mankind. The development of the motives which led the first
pioneer trappers afield from the days of the first Eastern settlements,
the industrial organizations which followed, the commanding commercial
results which were evolved from the trafficking of Radisson and
Groseillers in the North, the rise of the great Hudson's Bay Company,
and the American enterprise which led, among other results, to the
foundation of the Astor fortunes, would form no inconsiderable part of a
history of North America. The present volume aims simply to show the
type-character of the Western trapper, and to sketch in a series of
pictures the checkered life of this adventurer of the wilderness.
The trapper of the early West was a composite figure. From the Northeast
came a splendid succession of French explorers like La Verendrye, with
_coureurs des bois_, and a multitude of daring trappers and traders
pushing west and south. From the south the Spaniard, illustrated in
figures like Garces and others, held out hands which rarely grasped the
waiting commerce. From the north and northeast there was the steady
advance of the sturdy Scotch and English, typified in the deeds of the
Henrys, Thompson, MacKenzie, and the leaders of the organized fur trade,
explorers, traders, captains of industry, carrying the flags of the
Hudson's Bay and North-West Fur companies across Northern America to the
Pacific. On the far Northwestern coast the Russian appeared as fur
trader in the middle of the eighteenth century, and the close of the
century saw the merchants of Boston claiming their share of the fur
traffic of that coast. The American trapper becomes a conspicuous figure
in the early years of the nineteenth century. The emporium of his
traffic was St. Louis, and the period of its greatest importance and
prosperity began soon after the Louisiana Purchase and continued for
forty years. The complete history of the American fur trade of the far
West has been written by Captain H. M. Chittenden in volumes which will
be included among the classics of early Western history. Although his
history is a publication designed for limited circulation, no student or
specialist in this field | 585.305218 |
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Produced by David Thomas
The
Curse of Kehama:
by
Robert Southey.
Καταραι, ως και τα αλεκτρυονονεοττα, οικον αει, οψε κεν επανηξαν
εγκαθισομεναι.
Αποφθ. Ανεκ. του Γυλιελ. του Μητ.
CURSES ARE LIKE YOUNG CHICKEN, THEY ALWAYS COME HOME TO ROOST.
THE THIRD EDITION.
_VOLUME THE SECOND._
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND
BROWN, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1812.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.
This book was originally digitized by Google and is intended for
personal, non-commercial use only.
Original page numbers are given in curly brackets. Footnotes have been
relocated to the end of the book. Passages originally rendered in
small-caps have been changed to all-caps in the text version of this
work.
Alteration: [p. 147] change "gross" to "grass".
CONTENTS
TO
VOLUME SECOND.
13. The Retreat
14. Jaga-Naut
15. The City of Baly
16. The Ancient Sepulchres
17. Baly
18. Kehama's Descent
19. Mount Calasay
20. The Embarkation
21. The World's End
22. The Gate of Padalon
23. Padalon
24. The Amreeta
Notes
Footnotes
THE CURSE OF KEHAMA.
XIII.
THE RETREAT.
{1}
1.
Around her Father's neck the Maiden lock'd
Her arms, when that portentous blow was given;
Clinging to him she heard the dread uproar,
And felt the shuddering shock which ran through Heaven.
Earth underneath them rock'd,
Her strong foundations heaving in commotion,
Such as wild winds upraise in raving Ocean,
As though the solid base were rent asunder.
{2}
And lo! where, storming the astonish'd sky,
Kehama and his evil host ascend!
Before them rolls the thunder,
Ten thousand thousand lightnings round them fly,
Upward the lengthening pageantries aspire,
Leaving from Earth to Heaven a widening wake of fire.
2.
When the wild uproar was at length allay'd,
And Earth, recovering from the shock, was still,
Thus to her father spake the imploring Maid.
Oh! by the love which we so long have borne
Each other, and we ne'er shall cease to bear,..
Oh! by the sufferings we have shar'd,
And must not cease to share,..
One boon I supplicate in this dread hour,
One consolation in this hour of woe!
Thou hast it in thy power, refuse not thou
The only comfort now
That my poor heart can know.
3.
O dearest, dearest Kailyal! with a smile
Of tenderness and sorrow, he replied,
{3}
O best belov'd, and to be lov'd the best
Best worthy,.. set thy duteous heart at rest.
I know thy wish, and let what will betide,
Ne'er will I leave thee wilfully again.
My soul is strengthen'd to endure its pain;
Be thou, in all my wanderings, still my guide;
Be thou, in all my sufferings, at my side.
4.
The Maiden, at those welcome words, imprest
A passionate kiss upon her father's cheek:
They look'd around them, then, as if to seek
Where they should turn, North, South, or East or West,
Wherever to their vagrant feet seem'd best.
But, turning from the view her mournful eyes,
Oh, whither should we wander, Kailyal cries,
Or wherefore seek in vain a place of rest?
Have we not here the Earth beneath our tread,
Heaven overhead,
A brook that winds through this sequester'd glade,
And yonder woods, to yield us fruit and shade!
The little all our wants require is nigh;
Hope we have none,.. why travel on in fear?
We cannot fly from Fate, and Fate will find us here.
{4}
5.
'Twas a fair scene wherein they stood,
A green and sunny glade amid the wood,
And in the midst an aged Banian grew.
It was a goodly sight to see
That venerable tree,
For o'er the lawn, irregularly spread,
Fifty straight columns propt its lofty head;
And many a long depending shoot,
Seeking to strike its root,
Straight like a plummet, grew towards the ground.
Some on the lower boughs, which crost their way,
Fixing their bearded fibres, round and round,
With many a ring and wild contortion wound;
Some to the passing wind at times, with sway
Of gentle motion swung,
Others of younger growth, unmov'd, were hung
Like stone-drops from the cavern's fretted height.
Beneath was smooth and fair to sight,
Nor weeds nor briars deform'd the natural floor,
And through the leafy cope which bower'd it o'er
Came gleams of checquered light.
So like a temple did it seem, that there
A pious heart's first impulse would be prayer.
{5}
6.
A brook, with easy current, murmured near;
Water so cool and clear
The peasants drink not from the humble well,
Which they with sacrifice of rural pride,
Have wedded to the cocoa-grove beside;
Nor tanks of costliest masonry dispense
To those in towns who dwell,
The work of Kings, in their beneficence.
Fed by perpetual springs, a small lagoon,
Pellucid, deep, and still, in silence join'd
And swell'd the passing stream. Like burnish'd steel
Glowing, it lay beneath the eye of noon;
And when the breezes, in their play,
Ruffled the darkening surface, then, with gleam
Of sudden light, around the lotus stem
It rippled, and the sacred flowers that crown
The lakelet with their roseate beauty, ride,
In gentlest waving rock'd, from side to side;
And as the wind upheaves
Their broad and buoyant weight, the glossy leaves
Flap on the twinkling waters, up and down.
7.
They built them here a bower; of jointed cane,
{6}
Strong for the needful use, and light and long
Was the slight frame-work rear'd, with little pain;
Lithe creepers, then, the wicker-sides supply,
And the tall jungle-grass fit roofing gave
Beneath that genial sky.
And here did Kailyal, each returning day,
Pour forth libations from the brook, to pay
The Spirits of her Sires their grateful rite;
In such libations pour'd in open glades,
Beside clear streams and solitary shades,
The Spirits of the virtuous dead delight.
And duly here, to Marriataly's praise,
The Maid, as with an Angel's voice of song,
Pour'd her melodious lays
Upon the gales of even,
And gliding in religious dance along,
Mov'd, graceful as the dark-eyed Nymphs of Heaven,
Such harmony to all her steps was given,
8.
Thus ever, in her Father's doting eye,
Kailyal perform'd the customary rite;
He, patient of his burning pain the while,
Beheld her, and approv'd her pious toil;
And sometimes, at the sight,
{7}
A melancholy smile
Would gleam upon his awful countenance,
He, too, by day and night, and every hour,
Paid to a higher Power his sacrifice;
An offering, not of ghee, or fruit, or rice,
Flower-crown, or blood; but of a heart subdued,
A resolute, unconquer'd fortitude,
An agony represt, a will resign'd,
To her, who, on her secret throne reclin'd,
Amid the milky Sea, by Veeshnoo's side,
Looks with an eye of mercy on mankind.
By the Preserver, with his power endued,
There Voomdavee beholds this lower clime,
And marks the silent sufferings of the good,
To recompense them in her own good time.
9.
O force of faith! O strength of virtuous will!
Behold him, in his endless martyrdom,
Triumphant still!
The Curse still burning in his heart and brain,
And yet doth he remain
Patient the while, and tranquil, and content!
The pious soul hath fram'd unto itself
{8}
A second nature, to exist in pain
As in its own allotted element.
10.
Such strength the will reveal'd had given
This holy pair, such influxes of grace,
That to their solitary resting place
They brought the peace of Heaven.
Yea all around was hallowed! Danger, Fear,
Nor thought of evil ever entered here.
A charm was on the Leopard when he came
Within the circle of that mystic glade;
Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid,
And offered to her touch his speckled side;
Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head,
And eyes half-clos'd for pleasure, would he stand,
Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.
11.
Trampling his path through wood and brake,
And canes which crackling fall before his way,
And tassel-grass, whose silvery feathers play
O'ertopping the young trees,
On comes the Elephant, to slake
{9}
His thirst at noon in yon pellucid springs.
Lo! from his trunk upturn'd, aloft he flings
The grateful shower; and now
Plucking the broad-leav'd bough
Of yonder plane, with waving motion slow,
Fanning the languid air,
He moves it to and fro.
But when that form of beauty meets his sight,
The trunk its undulating motion stops,
From his forgetful hold the plane-branch drops,
Reverent he kneels, and lifts his rational eyes
To her as if in prayer;
And when she pours her angel voice in song,
Entranced he listens to the thrilling notes,
Till his strong temples, bath'd with sudden dews,
Their fragrance of delight and love diffuse.
12.
Lo! as the voice melodious floats around,
The Antelope draws near,
The Tygress leaves her toothless cubs to hear,
The Snake comes gliding from the secret brake,
Himself in fascination forced along
By that enchanting song;
{10}
The antic Monkies, whose wild gambols late,
When not a breeze wav'd the tall jungle-grass,
Shook the whole wood, are hush'd, and silently
Hang on the cluster'd trees.
All things in wonder and delight are still;
Only at times the Nightingale is heard,
Not that in emulous skill that sweetest bird
Her rival strain would try,
A mighty songster, with the Maid to vie;
She only bore her part in powerful sympathy.
13.
Well might they thus adore that heavenly Maid!
For never Nymph of Mountain,
Or Grove, or Lake, or Fountain,
With a diviner presence fill'd the shade.
No idle ornaments deface
Her natural grace,
Musk-spot, nor sandal-streak, nor scarlet stain,
Ear-drop nor chain, nor arm nor ankle-ring,
Nor trinketry on front, or neck, or breast,
Marring the perfect form: she seem'd a thing
Of Heaven's prime uncorrupted work, a child
Of early Nature undefil'd,
{11}
A daughter of the years of innocence.
And therefore all things lov'd her. When she stood
Beside the glassy pool, the fish, that flies
Quick as an arrow from all other eyes,
Hover'd to gaze on her. The mother bird,
When Kailyal's steps she heard,
Sought not to tempt her from her secret nest,
But, hastening to the dear retreat, would fly
To meet and welcome her benignant eye.
14.
Hope we have none, said Kailyal to her Sire.
Said she aright? and had the Mortal Maid
No thoughts of heavenly aid,..
No secret hopes her inmost heart to move
With longings of such deep and pure desire,
As vestal Maids, whose piety is love,
Feel in their extasies, when rapt above,
Their souls unto their heavenly Spouse aspire?
Why else so often doth that searching eye
Roam through the scope of sky?
Why, if she sees a distant speck on high,
Starts there that quick suffusion to her cheek?
'Tis but the Eagle, in his heavenly height;
{12}
Reluctant to believe, she hears his cry,
And marks his wheeling flight,
Then languidly averts her mournful sight.
Why ever else, at morn, that waking sigh,
Because the lovely form no more is nigh
Which hath been present to her soul all night;
And that injurious fear
Which ever, as it riseth, is represt,
Yet riseth still within her troubled breast,
That she no more shall see the Glendoveer!
15.
Hath he forgotten me? The wrongful thought
Would stir within her, and, though still repell'd
With shame and self-reproaches, would recur.
Days after days unvarying come and go,
And neither friend nor foe
Approaches them in their sequestered bower.
Maid of strange destiny! but think not thou
Thou art forgotten now,
And hast no cause for farther hope or fear.
High-fated Maid, thou dost not know
What eyes watch over thee for weal and woe!
Even at this hour,
{13}
Searching the dark decrees divine,
Kehama, in the fulness of his power,
Perceives his thread of fate entwin'd with thine.
The Glendoveer, from his far sphere,
With love that never sleeps, beholds thee here,
And, in the hour permitted, will be near.
Dark Lorrinite on thee hath fix'd her sight,
And laid her wiles, to aid
Foul Arvalan when he shall next appear;
For well she ween'd his Spirit would renew
Old vengeance now, with unremitting hate;
The Enchantress well that evil nature knew,
The accursed Spirit hath his prey in view,
And thus, while all their separate hopes pursue,
All work, unconsciously, the will of Fate.
16.
Fate work'd its own the while. A band
Of Yoguees, as they roam'd the land,
Seeking a spouse for Jaga-Naut their God,
Stray'd to this solitary glade,
And reach'd the bower wherein the Maid abode.
Wondering at form so fair, they deem'd the power
Divine had led them to his chosen bride,
And seiz'd and bore her from her father's side.
XIV.
JAGA-NAUT.
1.
Joy in the city of great Jaga-Naut!
Joy in the seven-headed Idol's shrine!
A virgin-bride his ministers have brought,
A mortal maid, in form and face divine,
Peerless among all daughters of mankind;
Search'd they the world again from East to West,
In endless quest,
Seeking the fairest and the best,
No maid so lovely might they hope to find;..
For she hath breath'd celestial air,
And heavenly food hath been her fare,
And heavenly thoughts and feelings give her face
That heavenly grace.
{15}
Joy in the city of great Jaga-Naut,
Joy in the seven-headed Idol's shrine!
The fairest Maid his Yoguees sought,
A fairer than the fairest have they brought,
A maid of charms surpassing human thought,
A maid divine.
2.
Now bring ye forth the Chariot of the God!
Bring him abroad,
That through the swarming City he may ride;
And by his side
Place ye the Maid of more than mortal grace,
The Maid of perfect form and heavenly face!
Set her aloft in triumph, like a bride
Upon the bridal car,
And spread the joyful tidings wide and far,..
Spread it with trump and voice
That all may hear, and all who hear rejoice,..
The Mighty One hath found his mate! the God
Will ride abroad!
To-night will he go forth from his abode!
Ye myriads who adore him,
Prepare the way before him!
{16}
3.
Uprear'd on twenty wheels elate,
Huge as a Ship, the bridal car appear'd;
Loud creak its ponderous wheels, as through the gate
A thousand Bramins drag the enormous load.
There, thron'd aloft in state,
The image of the seven-headed God
Came forth from his abode; and at his side
Sate Kailyal like a bride;
A bridal statue rather might she seem,
For she regarded all things like a dream,
Having no thought, nor fear, nor will, nor aught
Save hope and faith, that liv'd within her still.
4.
O silent Night, how have they startled thee
With the brazen trumpet's blare!
And thou, O Moon! whose quiet light serene
Filleth wide heaven, and bathing hill and wood,
Spreads o'er the peaceful valley like a flood,
How have they dimm'd thee with the torches' glare,
Which round yon moving pageant flame and flare,
As the wild rout, with deafening song and shout,
Fling their long flashes out,
That, like infernal lightnings, fire the air.
{17 | 585.33571 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.3790040 | 47 | 7 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by the
Library of Congress)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[I | 585.399044 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.3815480 | 5,543 | 13 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DIAMOND LENS
By Fitz-James O'brien
I
FROM a very early period of my life the entire bent of my inclinations
had been toward microscopic investigations. When I was not more than
ten years old, a distant relative of our family, hoping to astonish my
inexperience, constructed a simple microscope for me by drilling in a
disk of copper a small hole in which a drop of pure water was sustained
by capillary attraction. This very primitive apparatus, magnifying some
fifty diameters, presented, it is true, only indistinct and imperfect
forms, but still sufficiently wonderful to work up my imagination to a
preternatural state of excitement.
Seeing me so interested in this rude instrument, my cousin explained to
me all that he knew about the principles of the microscope, related to
me a few of the wonders which had been accomplished through its agency,
and ended by promising to send me one regularly constructed, immediately
on his return to the city. I counted the days, the hours, the minutes
that intervened between that promise and his departure.
Meantime, I was not idle. Every transparent substance that bore the
remotest resemblance to a lens I eagerly seized upon, and employed
in vain attempts to realize that instrument the theory of whose
construction I as yet only vaguely comprehended. All panes of
glass containing those oblate spheroidal knots familiarly known as
"bull's-eyes" were ruthlessly destroyed in the hope of obtaining lenses
of marvelous power. I even went so far as to extract the crystalline
humor from the eyes of fishes and animals, and endeavored to press
it into the microscopic service. I plead guilty to having stolen the
glasses from my Aunt Agatha's spectacles, with a dim idea of grinding
them into lenses of wondrous magnifying properties--in which attempt it
is scarcely necessary to say that I totally failed.
At last the promised instrument came. It was of that order known as
Field's simple microscope, and had cost perhaps about fifteen dollars.
As far as educational purposes went, a better apparatus could not
have been selected. Accompanying it was a small treatise on the
microscope--its history, uses, and discoveries. I comprehended then for
the first time the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments." The dull veil of
ordinary existence that hung across the world seemed suddenly to
roll away, and to lay bare a land of enchantments. I felt toward my
companions as the seer might feel toward the ordinary masses of men.
I held conversations with nature in a tongue which they could not
understand. I was in daily communication with living wonders such as
they never imagined in their wildest visions, I penetrated beyond the
external portal of things, and roamed through the sanctuaries. Where
they beheld only a drop of rain slowly rolling down the window-glass,
I saw a universe of beings animated with all the passions common to
physical life, and convulsing their minute sphere with struggles as
fierce and protracted as those of men. In the common spots of mould,
which my mother, good housekeeper that she was, fiercely scooped
away from her jam-pots, there abode for me, under the name of mildew,
enchanted gardens, filled with dells and avenues of the densest foliage
and most astonishing verdure, while from the fantastic boughs of these
microscopic forests hung strange fruits glittering with green and silver
and gold.
It was no scientific thirst that at this time filled my mind. It was the
pure enjoyment of a poet to whom a world of wonders has been disclosed.
I talked of my solitary pleasures to none. Alone with my microscope, I
dimmed my sight, day after day and night after night, poring over the
marvels which it unfolded to me. I was like one who, having discovered
the ancient Eden still existing in all its primitive glory, should
resolve to enjoy it in solitude, and never betray to mortal the secret
of its locality. The rod of my life was bent at this moment. I destined
myself to be a microscopist.
Of course, like every novice, I fancied myself a discoverer. I was
ignorant at the time of the thousands of acute intellects engaged in the
same pursuit as myself, and with the advantage of instruments a thousand
times more powerful than mine. The names of Leeuwenhoek, Williamson,
Spencer, Ehrenberg, Schultz, Dujardin, Schact, and Schleiden were then
entirely unknown to me, or, if known, I was ignorant of their patient
and wonderful researches. In every fresh specimen of cryptogamia which
I placed beneath my instrument I believed that I discovered wonders
of which the world was as yet ignorant. I remember well the thrill
of delight and admiration that shot through me the first time that I
discovered the common wheel animalcule (Rotifera vulgaris) expanding
and contracting its flexible spokes and seemingly rotating through the
water. Alas! as I grew older, and obtained some works treating of my
favorite study, I found that I was only on the threshold of a science
to the investigation of which some of the greatest men of the age were
devoting their lives and intellects.
As I grew up, my parents, who saw but little likelihood of anything
practical resulting from the examination of bits of moss and drops of
water through a brass tube and a piece of glass, were anxious that I
should choose a profession.
It was their desire that I should enter the counting-house of my uncle,
Ethan Blake, a prosperous merchant, who carried on business in New
York. This suggestion I decisively combated. I had no taste for trade; I
should only make a failure; in short, I refused to become a merchant.
But it was necessary for me to select some pursuit. My parents were
staid New England people, who insisted on the necessity of labor, and
therefore, although, thanks to the bequest of my poor Aunt Agatha, I
should, on coming of age, inherit a small fortune sufficient to place me
above want, it was decided that, instead of waiting for this, I should
act the nobler part, and employ the intervening years in rendering
myself independent.
After much cogitation, I complied with the wishes of my family, and
selected a profession. I determined to study medicine at the New York
Academy. This disposition of my future suited me. A removal from my
relatives would enable me to dispose of my time as I pleased without
fear of detection. As long as I paid my Academy fees, I might shirk
attending the lectures if I chose; and, as I never had the remotest
intention of standing an examination, there was no danger of my being
"plucked." Besides, a metropolis was the place for me. There I could
obtain excellent instruments, the newest publications, intimacy with
men of pursuits kindred with my own--in short, all things necessary to
ensure a profitable devotion of my life to my beloved science. I had an
abundance of money, few desires that were not bounded by my illuminating
mirror on one side and my object-glass on the other; what, therefore,
was to prevent my becoming an illustrious investigator of the veiled
worlds? It was with the most buoyant hope that I left my New England
home and established myself in New York.
II
My first step, of course, was to find suitable apartments. These I
obtained, after a couple of days' search, in Fourth Avenue; a very
pretty second floor, unfurnished, containing sitting-room, bedroom,
and a smaller apartment which I intended to fit up as a laboratory. I
furnished my lodgings simply, but rather elegantly, and then devoted
all my energies to the adornment of the temple of my worship. I visited
Pike, the celebrated optician, and passed in review his splendid
collection of microscopes--Field's Compound, Hingham's, Spencer's,
Nachet's Binocular (that founded on the principles of the stereoscope),
and at length fixed upon that form known as Spencer's Trunnion
Microscope, as combining the greatest number of improvements with an
almost perfect freedom from tremor. Along with this I purchased
every possible accessory--draw-tubes, micrometers, a _camera lucida_,
lever-stage, achromatic condensers, white cloud illuminators, prisms,
parabolic condensers, polarizing apparatus, forceps, aquatic boxes,
fishing-tubes, with a host of other articles, all of which would have
been useful in the hands of an experienced microscopist, but, as I
afterward discovered, were not of the slightest present value to me. It
takes years of practice to know how to use a complicated microscope. The
optician looked suspiciously at me as I made these valuable purchases.
He evidently was uncertain whether to set me down as some scientific
celebrity or a madman. I think he was inclined to the latter belief. I
suppose I was mad. Every great genius is mad upon the subject in which
he is greatest. The unsuccessful madman is disgraced and called a
lunatic.
Mad or not, I set myself to work with a zeal which few scientific
students have ever equaled. I had everything to learn relative to the
delicate study upon which I had embarked--a study involving the most
earnest patience, the most rigid analytic powers, the steadiest hand,
the most untiring eye, the most refined and subtle manipulation.
For a long time half my apparatus lay inactively on the shelves of
my laboratory, which was now most amply furnished with every possible
contrivance for facilitating my investigations. The fact was that I did
not know how to use some of my scientific implements--never having been
taught microscopies--and those whose use I understood theoretically were
of little avail until by practice I could attain the necessary delicacy
of handling. Still, such was the fury of my ambition, such the untiring
perseverance of my experiments, that, difficult of credit as it may
be, in the course of one year I became theoretically and practically an
accomplished microscopist.
During this period of my labors, in which I submitted specimens of every
substance that came under my observation to the action of my lenses, I
became a discoverer--in a small way, it is true, for I was very young,
but still a discoverer. It was I who destroyed Ehrenberg's theory that
the _Volvox globator_ was an animal, and proved that his "monads" with
stomachs and eyes were merely phases of the formation of a vegetable
cell, and were, when they reached their mature state, incapable of
the act of conjugation, or any true generative act, without which no
organism rising to any stage of life higher than vegetable can be said
to be complete. It was I who resolved the singular problem of rotation
in the cells and hairs of plants into ciliary attraction, in spite of
the assertions of Wenham and others that my explanation was the result
of an optical illusion.
But notwithstanding these discoveries, laboriously and painfully made
as they were, I felt horribly dissatisfied. At every step I found
myself stopped by the imperfections of my instruments. Like all active
microscopists, I gave my imagination full play. Indeed, it is a common
complaint against many such that they supply the defects of their
instruments with the creations of their brains. I imagined depths beyond
depths in nature which the limited power of my lenses prohibited me from
exploring. I lay awake at night constructing imaginary micro-scopes
of immeasurable power, with which I seemed to pierce through all the
envelopes of matter down to its original atom. How I cursed those
imperfect mediums which necessity through ignorance compelled me to
use! How I longed to discover the secret of some perfect lens, whose
magnifying power should be limited only by the resolvability of the
object, and which at the same time should be free from spherical and
chromatic aberrations--in short, from all the obstacles over which the
poor microscopist finds himself continually stumbling! I felt convinced
that the simple microscope, composed of a single lens of such vast yet
perfect power, was possible of construction. To attempt to bring the
compound microscope up to such a pitch would have been commencing at the
wrong end; this latter being simply a partially successful endeavor
to remedy those very defects of the simplest instrument which, if
conquered, would leave nothing to be desired.
It was in this mood of mind that I became a constructive microscopist.
After another year passed in this new pursuit, experimenting on every
imaginable substance--glass, gems, flints, crystals, artificial crystals
formed of the alloy of various vitreous materials--in short, having
constructed as many varieties of lenses as Argus had eyes--I found
myself precisely where I started, with nothing gained save an extensive
knowledge of glass-making. I was almost dead with despair. My parents
were surprised at my apparent want of progress in my medical studies
(I had not attended one lecture since my arrival in the city), and the
expenses of my mad pursuit had been so great as to embarrass me very
seriously.
I was in this frame of mind one day, experimenting in my laboratory on
a small diamond--that stone, from its great refracting power, having
always occupied my attention more than any other--when a young
Frenchman who lived on the floor above me, and who was in the habit of
occasionally visiting me, entered the room.
I think that Jules Simon was a Jew. He had many traits of the Hebrew
character: a love of jewelry, of dress, and of good living. There was
something mysterious about him. He always had something to sell, and yet
went into excellent society. When I say sell, I should perhaps have said
peddle; for his operations were generally confined to the disposal of
single articles--a picture, for instance, or a rare carving in ivory, or
a pair of duelling-pistols, or the dress of a Mexican _caballero_. When
I was first furnishing my rooms, he paid me a visit, which ended in my
purchasing an antique silver lamp, which he assured me was a Cellini--it
was handsome enough even for that--and some other knick-knacks for my
sitting-room. Why Simon should pursue this petty trade I never could
imagine. He apparently had plenty of money, and had the _entree_ of the
best houses in the city--taking care, however, I suppose, to drive no
bargains within the enchanted circle of the Upper Ten. I came at length
to the conclusion that this peddling was but a mask to cover some
greater object, and even went so far as to believe my young acquaintance
to be implicated in the slave-trade. That, however, was none of my
affair.
On the present occasion, Simon entered my room in a state of
considerable excitement.
"_Ah! mon ami!_" he cried, before I could even offer him the ordinary
salutation, "it has occurred to me to be the witness of the most
astonishing things in the world. I promenade myself to the house of
Madame ------. How does the little animal--_le renard_--name himself in
the Latin?"
"Vulpes," I answered.
"Ah! yes--Vulpes. I promenade myself to the house of Madame Vulpes."
"The spirit medium?"
"Yes, the great medium. Great heavens! what a woman! I write on a
slip of paper many of questions concerning affairs of the most
secret--affairs that conceal themselves in the abysses of my heart the
most profound; and behold, by example, what occurs? This devil of a
woman makes me replies the most truthful to all of them. She talks to me
of things that I do not love to talk of to myself. What am I to think? I
am fixed to the earth!"
"Am I to understand you, M. Simon, that this Mrs. Vulpes replied to
questions secretly written by you, which questions related to events
known only to yourself?"
"Ah! more than that, more than that," he answered, with an air of some
alarm. "She related to me things--But," he added after a pause, and
suddenly changing his manner, "why occupy ourselves with these follies?
It was all the biology, without doubt. It goes without saying that it
has not my credence. But why are we here, _mon ami?_ It has occurred to
me to discover the most beautiful thing as you can imagine--a vase with
green lizards on it, composed by the great Bernard Palissy. It is in my
apartment; let us mount. I go to show it to you."
I followed Simon mechanically; but my thoughts were far from Palissy and
his enameled ware, although I, like him, was seeking in the dark a great
discovery. This casual mention of the spiritualist, Madame Vulpes,
set me on a new track. What if, through communication with more subtle
organisms than my own, I could reach at a single bound the goal which
perhaps a life, of agonizing mental toil would never enable me to
attain?
While purchasing the Palissy vase from my friend Simon, I was mentally
arranging a visit to Madame Vulpes.
III
Two evenings after this, thanks to an arrangement by letter and the
promise of an ample fee, I found Madame Vulpes awaiting me at her
residence alone. She was a coarse-featured woman, with keen and rather
cruel dark eyes, and an exceedingly sensual expression about her mouth
and under jaw. She received me in perfect silence, in an apartment on
the ground floor, very sparsely furnished. In the centre of the room,
close to where Mrs. Vulpes sat, there was a common round mahogany table.
If I had come for the purpose of sweeping her chimney, the woman could
not have looked more indifferent to my appearance. There was no attempt
to inspire the visitor with awe. Everything bore a simple and practical
aspect. This intercourse with the spiritual world was evidently as
familiar an occupation with Mrs. Vulpes as eating her dinner or riding
in an omnibus.
"You come for a communication, Mr. Linley?" said the medium, in a dry,
businesslike tone of voice.
"By appointment--yes."
"What sort of communication do you want--a written one?"
"Yes, I wish for a written one."
"From any particular spirit?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever known this spirit on this earth?"
"Never. He died long before I was born. I wish merely to obtain from
him some information which he ought to be able to give better than any
other."
"Will you seat yourself at the table, Mr. Lin-ley," said the medium,
"and place your hands upon it?"
I obeyed, Mrs. Vulpes being seated opposite to me, with her hands also
on the table. We remained thus for about a minute and a half, when a
violent succession of raps came on the table, on the back of my chair,
on the floor immediately under my feet, and even on the window-panes.
Mrs. Vulpes smiled composedly.
"They are very strong to-night," she remarked. "You are fortunate." She
then continued, "Will the spirits communicate with this gentleman?"
Vigorous affirmative.
"Will the particular spirit he desires to speak with communicate?"
A very confused rapping followed this question.
"I know what they mean," said Mrs. Vulpes, addressing herself to me;
"they wish you to write down the name of the particular spirit that
you desire to converse with. Is that so?" she added, speaking to her
invisible guests.
That it was so was evident from the numerous affirmatory responses.
While this was going on, I tore a slip from my pocket-book and scribbled
a name under the table.
"Will this spirit communicate in writing with this gentleman?" asked the
medium once more.
After a moment's pause, her hand seemed to be seized with a violent
tremor, shaking so forcibly that the table vibrated. She said that a
spirit had seized her hand and would write. I handed her some sheets of
paper that were on the table and a pencil. The latter she held loosely
in her hand, which presently began to move over the paper with a
singular and seemingly involuntary motion. After a few moments had
elapsed, she handed me the paper, on which I found written, in a large,
uncultivated hand, the words, "He is not here, but has been sent for."
A pause of a minute or so ensued, during which Mrs. Vulpes remained
perfectly silent, but the raps continued at regular intervals. When the
short period I mention had elapsed, the hand of the medium was again
seized with its convulsive tremor, and she wrote, under this strange
influence, a few words on the paper, which she handed to me. They were
as follows:
"I am here. Question me.
"_Leeuwenhoek_."
I was astounded. The name was identical with that I had written beneath
the table, and carefully kept concealed. Neither was it at all probable
that an uncultivated woman like Mrs. Vulpes should know even the name
of the great father of microscopies. It may have been biology; but
this theory was soon doomed to be destroyed. I wrote on my slip--still
concealing it from Mrs. Vulpes--a series of questions which, to avoid
tediousness, I shall place with the responses, in the order in which
they occurred:
I.--Can the microscope be brought to perfection?
Spirit--Yes.
I.--Am I destined to accomplish this great task?
Spirit.--You are.
I.--I wish to know how to proceed to attain this end. For the love which
you bear to science, help me!
Spirit--A diamond of one hundred and forty carats, submitted to
electro-magnetic currents for a long period, will experience a
rearrangement of its atoms _inter se_ and from that stone you will form
the universal lens.
I.--Will great discoveries result from the use of such a lens?
Spirit--So great that all that has gone before is as nothing.
I.--But the refractive power of the diamond is so immense that the image
will be formed within the lens. How is that difficulty to be surmounted?
Spirit--Pierce the lens through its axis, and the difficulty is
obviated. The image will be formed in the pierced space, which will
itself serve as a tube to look through. Now I am called. Good-night.
I can not at all describe the effect that these extraordinary
communications had upon me. I felt completely bewildered. No biological
theory could account for the _discovery_ of the lens. The medium might,
by means of biological _rapport_ with my mind, have gone so far as to
read my questions and reply to them coherently. But biology could
not enable her to discover that magnetic currents would so alter the
crystals of the diamond as to remedy its previous defects and admit of
its being polished into a perfect lens. Some such theory may have
passed through my head, it is true; but if so, I had forgotten it. In
my excited condition of mind there was no course left but to become a
convert, and it was in a state of the most painful nervous exaltation
that I left the medium's house that evening. She accompanied me to
the door, hoping that I was satisfied. The raps followed us as we went
through the hall, sounding on the balusters, the flooring, and even the
lintels of the door. I hastily expressed my satisfaction, and escaped
hurriedly into the cool night air. I walked home with but one thought
possessing me--how to obtain a diamond of the immense size required. My
entire means multiplied a hundred times over would have been inadequate
to its purchase. Besides, such stones are rare, and become historical. I
could find such only in the regalia of Eastern or European monarchs.
IV
There was a light in Simon's room as I entered my house. A vague
impulse urged me to visit him. As I opened the door of his sitting-room
unannounced, he was bending, with his back toward me, over a Carcel
lamp, apparently engaged in minutely examining some object which he held
in his hands. As I entered, he started suddenly, thrust his hand into
his breast pocket, and turned to me with a face crimson with confusion.
"What!" I cried, "poring over the miniature of some fair lady? Well,
don't blush so much; I won't ask to see it."
Simon laughed awkwardly enough, but made none of the negative
protestations usual on such occasions. He asked me to take a seat.
"Simon," said I, "I have just come from Madame Vulpes."
This time Simon turned as white as a sheet, and seemed stupefied, as
if a sudden electric shock had smitten him. He babbled some incoherent
words, and went hastily to a small closet where he usually kept his
liquors. Although astonished at his emotion, I was too preoccupied with
my own idea to pay much attention to anything else.
"You say truly when you call Madame Vulpes a devil | 585.401588 |
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Transcribed from the [1832] W. Upcroft edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
THE TRIBUTE;
A
_Panegyrical Poem_
DEDICATED
TO THE HONORABLE
THE LADY ANN COKE,
OF
_HOLKHAM HALL_.
* * * * *
BY PHILO.
* * * * *
“So be it mine to touch the sounding string,
The FRIEND, the PATRIOT, and the MAN to sing,
And though unused to raise the tuneful song,
The MIGHTY THEME shall make my numbers strong;
Bright TRUTH shall guide me like the solar rays,
Illume my darkness and direct my praise!
Inspire each thought and breathe in ev’ry line,
And grace my Eulogy with rays divine;
And, while I paint the scene, the fact recite,
Still burst upon me in a blaze of light.”
_Page_ 2.
* | 585.603177 |
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Produced by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
_June 1866._
[Illustration]
Works Published
BY
HATCHARD AND CO.
Booksellers to H.R.H. the Princess of Wales,
187 PICCADILLY, LONDON, W.
Messrs. HATCHARD & Co.
BOOKSELLERS TO H.R.H. THE PRINCESS OF WALES,
_Respectfully invite an Inspection of their Stock, which
consists of one of the Largest Assortments in London of_
Religious Works, Illustrated Books for the Table, Juvenile Books,
Standard Works, and Books of Reference,
In every variety of Morocco, Calf, and Cloth Bindings.
Also of Bibles, Prayer-Books, and Church Services,
Of the best quality, and in the newest styles.
A Liberal Discount for Cash.
_THE LARGEST TYPE MORNING AND EVENING CHURCH SERVICE
IN SEPARATE VOLUMES._
Just published,
A NEW EDITION OF THE HON. CHARLOTTE GRIMSTON'S
Arrangement of the Common Prayer and Lessons,
In 2 vols. 12mo. morocco plain, 25_s._; best morocco plain, 30_s._;
extra or antique, 35_s._
Also in various ornamental bindings, in cases suitable for Christmas
or Wedding Presents, from 2 to 7 guineas.
A NEW CHRISTENING PRESENT.
_THE SPONSORS' BIBLE_,
A Portable Volume, with a Clear Type, an Illuminated Title-page,
and Presentation Fly-leaf, handsomely bound in antique morocco,
price 21_s._; with massive clasp, 25_s._
LONDON: HATCHARD AND CO. 187 PICCADILLY,
Booksellers to H.R.H. the Princess of Wales.
A Change and Many a Change. Fcap. cloth, 3_s._ 6_d._
"A little tale with a moral and religious bearing, showing how
the sorrows and struggles of Fanny Powell, the daughter of a Welsh
clergyman, served to develope her spiritual nature, and to make
her the beloved of all."--_London Review._
=ANDERSON, Rev. R.=--A Practical Exposition of the Gospel of St. John.
By the late Rev. ROBERT ANDERSON, Perpetual Curate of Trinity Chapel,
Brighton. 2 vols. 12mo. cloth, 14_s._
---- Ten Discourses on the Communion Office of the Church of England.
With an Appendix. Second Edition. 12mo. cloth, 7_s._
=ANDREWES, Bishop.=--Selections from the Sermons of LANCELOT ANDREWES,
sometime Lord Bishop of Winchester, with a Preface by the Venerable the
ARCHDEACON OF SURREY. Fcap. cloth, 3_s._
=ANLEY, Miss C.=--Earlswood: a Tale for the Times. By CHARLOTTE ANLEY.
Second Thousand. Fcap. cloth, 5_s._
"A pleasing and gracefully written tale, detailing the process by
which persons of piety are sometimes perverted to Romish
error."--_English Review._
"This tale is singularly well conceived."--_Evangelical Magazine._
"We can recommend it with confidence."--_Christian Times._
---- Miriam; or, the Power of Truth. A Jewish Tale. Tenth Edition, with
a Portrait. Fcap. cloth, 6_s._
=BACON, Rev. H. B.=--Lectures for the Use of Sick Persons. By the Rev.
H. B. BACON, M.A. Fcap. cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._
"The Lectures possess two very great recommendations. First,--they
are brief, concise, and to the point; and secondly,--the language
is plain, free from ambiguity, and scriptural. * * * It may be very
profitably meditated upon by the sick; and young clergymen will not
lay it down after perusal without having derived some
instruction."--_Christian Guardian._
=BATEMAN, Mrs.=--The Two Families; or, the Power of Religion. By
J. C. BATEMAN, Author of "The Netherwoods of Otterpool." Fcap. cloth,
3_s._ 6_d._
"This is an entertaining book, written in an unambitious and clear
style, showing the elevating influence of religion, and the baneful
effects of neglecting it. The moral of the story is healthful and
not overdrawn, although rather hackney | 585.702634 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.6850730 | 2,254 | 6 |
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
THE DAFFODIL FIELDS
BY
JOHN MASEFIELD
AUTHOR OF "THE EVERLASTING MERCY," "THE WIDOW IN
THE BYE STREET," "THE STORY OF A
ROUND-HOUSE," ETC.
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1915
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1918,
BY JOHN MASEFIELD.
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1913.
Reprinted July, December, 1913; August, 1915.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co. -- Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
THE DAFFODIL FIELDS
I
Between the barren pasture and the wood
There is a patch of poultry-stricken grass,
Where, in old time, Ryemeadows' Farmhouse stood,
And human fate brought tragic things to pass.
A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass,
It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime,
Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time.
Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook,
But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring,
Past the Ryemeadows' lonely woodland nook
Where many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing,
On, by the woodland side. You hear it sing
Past the lone copse where poachers set their wires,
Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires.
Another water joins it; then it turns,
Runs through the Ponton Wood, still turning west,
Past foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and ferns,
And many a blackbird's, many a thrush's nest;
The cattle tread it there; then, with a zest
It sparkles out, babbling its pretty chatter
Through Foxholes Farm, where it gives white-faced cattle water.
Under the road it runs, and now it slips
Past the great ploughland, babbling, drop and linn,
To the moss'd stumps of elm trees which it lips,
And blackberry-bramble-trails where eddies spin.
Then, on its left, some short-grassed fields begin,
Red-clayed and pleasant, which the young spring fills
With the never-quiet joy of dancing daffodils.
There are three fields where daffodils are found;
The grass is dotted blue-gray with their leaves;
Their nodding beauty shakes along the ground
Up to a fir-clump shutting out the eaves
Of an old farm where always the wind grieves
High in the fir boughs, moaning; people call
This farm The Roughs, but some call it the Poor Maid's Hall.
There, when the first green shoots of tender corn
Show on the plough; when the first drift of white
Stars the black branches of the spiky thorn,
And afternoons are warm and evenings light,
The shivering daffodils do take delight,
Shaking beside the brook, and grass comes green,
And blue dog-violets come and glistening celandine.
And there the pickers come, picking for town
Those dancing daffodils; all day they pick;
Hard-featured women, weather-beaten brown,
Or swarthy-red, the colour of old brick.
At noon they break their meats under the rick.
The smoke of all three farms lifts blue in air
As though man's passionate mind had never suffered there.
And sometimes as they rest an old man comes,
Shepherd or carter, to the hedgerow-side,
And looks upon their gangrel tribe, and hums,
And thinks all gone to wreck since master died;
And sighs over a passionate harvest-tide
Which Death's red sickle reaped under those hills,
There, in the quiet fields among the daffodils.
When this most tragic fate had time and place,
And human hearts and minds to show it by,
Ryemeadows' Farmhouse was in evil case:
Its master, Nicholas Gray, was like to die.
He lay in bed, watching the windy sky,
Where all the rooks were homing on slow wings,
Cawing, or blackly circling in enormous rings.
With a sick brain he watched them; then he took
Paper and pen, and wrote in straggling hand
(Like spider's legs, so much his fingers shook)
Word to the friends who held the adjoining land,
Bidding them come; no more he could command
His fingers twitching to the feebling blood;
He watched his last day's sun dip down behind the wood,
While all his life's thoughts surged about his brain:
Memories and pictures clear, and faces known--
Long dead, perhaps; he was a child again,
Treading a threshold in the dark alone.
Then back the present surged, making him moan.
He asked if Keir had come yet. "No," they said.
"Nor Occleve?" "No." He moaned: "Come soon or I'll be dead."
The names like live things wandered in his mind:
"Charles Occleve of The Roughs," and "Rowland Keir--
Keir of the Foxholes"; but his brain was blind,
A blind old alley in the storm of the year,
Baffling the traveller life with "No way here,"
For all his lantern raised; life would not tread
Within that brain again, along those pathways red.
Soon all was dimmed but in the heaven one star.
"I'll hold to that," he said; then footsteps stirred.
Down in the court a voice said, "Here they are,"
And one, "He's almost gone." The sick man heard.
"Oh God, be quick," he moaned. "Only one word.
Keir! Occleve! Let them come. Why don't they come?
Why stop to tell them that?--the devil strike you dumb.
"I'm neither doll nor dead; come in, come in.
Curse you, you women, quick," the sick man flamed.
"I shall be dead before I can begin.
A sick man's womaned-mad, and nursed and damed."
Death had him by the throat; his wrath was tamed.
"Come in," he fumed; "stop muttering at the door."
The friends came in; a creaking ran across the floor.
"Now, Nick, how goes it, man?" said Occleve. "Oh,"
The dying man replied, "I am dying; past;
Mercy of God, I die, I'm going to go.
But I have much to tell you if I last.
Come near me, Occleve, Keir. I am sinking fast,
And all my kin are coming; there, look there.
All the old, long dead Grays are moving in the air.
"It is my Michael that I called you for:
My son, abroad, at school still, over sea.
See if that hag is listening at the door.
No? Shut the door; don't lock it, let it be.
No faith is kept to dying men like me.
I am dipped deep and dying, bankrupt, done;
I leave not even a farthing to my lovely son.
"Neighbours, these many years our children played,
Down in the fields together, down the brook;
Your Mary, Keir, the girl, the bonny maid,
And Occleve's Lion, always at his book;
Them and my Michael: dear, what joy they took
Picking the daffodils; such friends they've been--
My boy and Occleve's boy and Mary Keir for queen.
"I had made plans; but I am done with, I.
Give me the wine. I have to ask you this:
I can leave Michael nothing, and I die.
By all our friendship used to be and is,
Help him, old friends. Don't let my Michael miss
The schooling I've begun. Give him his chance.
He does not know I am ill; I kept him there in France.
"Saving expense; each penny counts. Oh, friends,
Help him another year; help him to take
His full diploma when the training ends,
So that my ruin won't be his. Oh, make
This sacrifice for our old friendship's sake,
And God will pay you; for I see God's hand
Pass in most marvellous ways on souls: I understand
"How just rewards are given for man's deeds
And judgment strikes the soul. The wine there, wine.
Life is the daily thing man never heeds.
It is ablaze with sign and countersign.
Michael will not forget: that son of mine
Is a rare son, my friends; he will go far.
I shall behold his course from where the blessed are."
"Why, Nick," said Occleve, "come, man. Gather hold.
Rouse up. You've given way. If times are bad,
Times must be bettering, master; so be bold;
Lift up your spirit, Nicholas, and be glad.
Michael's as much to me as my dear lad.
I'll see he takes his school." "And I," said Keir.
"Set you no keep by that, but be at rest, my dear.
"We'll see your Michael started on the road."
"But there," said Occleve, "Nick's not going to die.
Out of the ruts, good nag, now; zook the load.
Pull up, man. Death! Death and the fiend defy.
We'll bring the farm round for you, Keir and I.
Put heart at rest and get your health." "Ah, no,"
The sick man faintly answered, "I have got to go."
Still troubled in his mind, the sick man tossed.
"Old friends," he said, "I once had hoped to see
Mary and Michael wed, but fates are crossed,
And Michael starts with nothing left by me.
Still, if he loves her, will you let it be?
So in the grave, maybe, when I am gone,
I'll know my hope fulfilled, and see the plan go on."
"I judge by hearts, not money," answered Keir.
"If Michael suits in that and suits my maid,
I promise you, let Occleve witness here
He shall be free for me to drive his trade.
Free, ay, and welcome, too. Be not afraid,
I'll stand by Michael as I hope some | 585.705113 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, David Garcia 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]
LECTURES ON VENTILATION:
BEING A COURSE DELIVERED IN THE FRANKLIN INSTITUTE, OF PHILADELPHIA,
DURING THE WINTER OF 1866-67.
BY LEWIS W. LEEDS,
Special Agent of the Quartermaster-General, for the Ventilation
of Government Hospitals during the War; and Consulting Engineer
of Ventilation and Heating for the U. S. Treasury Department.
=Man's own breath is his greatest enemy.=
NEW YORK:
JOHN WILEY & SON, PUBLISHERS,
2 Clinton Hall, Astor Place.
1869.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
LEWIS W. LEEDS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
New York Printing Company,
81, 83, _and_ 85 _Centre Street_,
New York.
PREFACE.
These Lectures were not originally written with any view to their
publication; but as they were afterwards requested for publication in the
Journal of the Franklin Institute, and there attracted very favorable
notice, I believed the rapidly increasing interest in the subject of
ventilation would enable the publishers to sell a sufficient number
to pay the expense of their publication; and, if so, that this very
spirit of inquiry which would lead to the perusal of even so small a
work, might be one step forward towards that much-needed more general
education on this important subject.
It was not my desire to give an elaborate treatise on the subject of
ventilation. I believed a few general principles, illustrated in a
familiar way, would be much more likely to be read; and, I hoped, would
act as seed-grain in commencing the growth of an inquiry which, when once
started in the right direction, would soon discover the condition of the
air we breathe to be of so much importance that the investigation would
be eagerly pursued.
L. W. L.
CONTENTS.
LECTURE I.
Philadelphia a healthy city--Owing to the superior ventilation
of its houses--But the theory of ventilation still imperfectly
understood--About forty per cent. of all deaths due to foul
air--The death rate for 1865--Expense of unnecessary sickness--In
London--In Massachusetts--In New York--In Philadelphia--Consumption
the result of breathing impure air--Entirely preventable--Infantile
mortality--Report on warming and ventilating the Capitol--Copies
of various tables therefrom--Carbonic acid taken as the
test, but not infallible--The uniform purity of the external
atmosphere--Illustrated by the city of Manchester--Overflowed
lands unhealthy--Air of Paris, London and other cities--Carbonic
acid in houses--Here we find the curse of foul air--Our own
breath is our greatest enemy--Scavengers more healthy than
factory operatives--Wonderful cures of consumption by placing
the patients in cow stables--City buildings prevent ventilation,
consequently are unhealthy--The air from the filthiest street
more wholesome than close bed-room air--Unfortunate prejudice
against night air--Dr. Franklin's opinion of night air--Compared
with the instructions of the Board of Health, 1866--Sleeping with
open windows--Fire not objectionable--A small room ventilated is
better than a large room not ventilated--Illustration--Fresh
air at night prevents cholera--Illustrated by New York
workhouse--Dr. Hamilton's report--Night air just as healthy
as day air--Candle extinguished by the breath--The breath falls
instead of rises--Children near the floor killed first--Physicians'
certificates do not state "killed by foul air"--Open fire-places
are excellent ventilators--All fire-boards should be used for
kindling wood--Illustration showing when ceiling ventilation
is necessary.
PAGE 3
LECTURE II.
The effect produced by heat upon the movements of air--Air
a real substance--Exerts a pressure of fifteen tons on an
ordinary sized man--It cannot be moved without the expenditure
of power--The sun's rays the great moving power--They pass
through the forty-five miles of atmosphere without heating it,
and heat the solid substances of the earth's surface--Experiments
showing the effect of radiant heat and reflected heat--The air
of the room not pure and dry--The ordinary moisture absorbs
from fifty to seventy times as much as the air--Many gases
absorb much more--The moisture in the air the great regulator of
heat--Air is heated by coming in immediate contact with hotter
substances--Impossibility of any air remaining at rest--The
practical application of these principles--The open fire acts like
the sun, heating by radiation only--Probable electric or ozonic
change in furnace-heated air--The stove heats both by radiation
and circulation--The stove nor the open fire not suitable for
large crowded rooms--Circulating warmed air best--Erroneous views
in regard to ventilation--Experiments with liquids of different
densities--When warming and ventilating by circulating air, the
escape for the used air should be from the bottom of the room--But
when ventilating with cooler air the escape should be from the
top of the room--Windows should lower from the top and flues open
at the bottom of the room--The fashionable system of heating by
direct radiation, without any fresh air, very objectionable.
PAGE 18
LECTURE III.
One breath of impure air shortens our life--Difficulty of getting
pure air to breathe in houses and cars--Foul air in steam
cars--Want of the proper knowledge regarding ventilation among
all classes--Want of ventilation in this lecture room--Want
of ventilation in the Cooper Institute, and in many other new
and splendid buildings--Street cars very foul--My own chamber
fully ventilated--I have no new patent idea, sufficient for all
time without further thought--Constantly varying conditions
require separate intelligent thought and action--The air
moves horizontally in summer--Flues are then of no account--We
must depend on open doors and windows--How to ventilate a sick
room in the morning--The same in the evening--Windows should
always lower from the top--To make air move in the summer is
the great desideratum--When in motion the cold air falls and
warm air rises; when at rest, it is arranged in horizontal
layers, according to temperature--A flue is simply a passage
for air of different temperatures--Experiments with flues
of different temperatures--Expansion of air by heat--Weight
required to keep it from expanding--Heating air weakens it
instead of giving it power--Experiments showing draughts by
lighted candles--Ventilation of churches--Illustrations not
exaggerated--Examination of church in neighborhood--Fresh air
taken from foul cellar--No fresh air supplied to churches used as
hospitals in Washington--Depending on a sham ventilator painted
on the solid wall--Foul air in Philadelphia schools--New York
public schools--Many of the ventilators perfect shams--Covered up
air-tight by the capping stones--Importance of the evaporation
of water--A strong fire in basement will draw gas out of
second story stove--A strong fire up stairs will draw foul
gases from untrapped sewers--A very healthy location may
thus be made very unhealthy--Drs. Palmer, Ford and Earle's
report of epidemic at Maple Wood Institute--An arrangement for
ventilation that ought to be in every house--Flues generally
too small, especially in Philadelphia--Very large ones put in
government hospitals, which proved thoroughly efficient--The
leading points in regard to heating--The fresh air must be
warmed before entering in winter--A hot water furnace requires
additional moisture--Heating by steam--Steam-pipes ought to be
laid through the street the same as gas and water--Two-thirds
of heating surface should be for heating the fresh air and one
third for direct radiation--Forty pounds of water required to
be evaporated every minute for U. S. Senate Chamber--All stoves
should have fresh-air boxes--Dampers in fresh air-boxes not
good--Experience has fully demonstrated that careful attention
to these things will be amply rewarded by increased health,
strength, happiness and longevity.
PAGE 31
Article relating to the Grand Prize awarded to Hospital Ventilation
and other Sanitary arrangements, Paris Exhibition.
PAGE 51
LECTURES ON VENTILATION.
LECTURE I.
Philadelphia is one of the healthiest cities in the United States, and,
in proportion to the number of its inhabitants, few more healthy cities
exist in the world.
This is not owing especially to its more salubrious situation, but
should be attributed, in a great measure, to the accidental superiority
of the ventilation of a large proportion of its dwelling-houses.
Notwithstanding this comparative excellence, the theory of ventilation
is not so thoroughly understood, nor is the practice so perfect, even
in this city, that no advantage can be gained by further knowledge upon
the subject.
Far from it. From the very best information we can command, and with
the most accurate statistics at our disposal, we are forced to the
conclusion that about forty per cent. of all the deaths that are
constantly occurring are due to the influence of foul air.
The Registrar of Records of New York gives nearly half the deaths in
that city as resulting from this cause.
The deaths in this city for 1865, according to the report of the Board
of Health, were seventeen thousand one hundred and sixty-nine; the
average age of those who died was between twenty-three and twenty-four
years. It ought to have been twice that, as shown by some districts in
the city and also in the country, where the houses are so arranged that
they frequently have good ventilation.
Taking the deaths caused by foul air at a very low estimate, say forty
per cent. of the whole, (the per centage from that cause is not so great
as in New York,) we have six thousand eight hundred and sixty-eight
deaths in this city, caused alone by impure air, in one year.
It is estimated by physicians that there are from twenty-five to thirty
days of sickness to every death occurring; there would therefore be
something like two hundred thousand days of sickness annually as an
effect of foul air.
We all know how very expensive sickness is, but few persons realize
the enormous aggregate expense of unnecessary sickness in a city like
Philadelphia.[1]
This subject has awakened much interest in Europe of late years, and
has led to the expenditure of immense sums of money, for the purpose
of improving the sanitary condition of its cities.
Dr. Hutchinson estimated the loss to the city of London, growing out of
preventable deaths and sickness, at twenty millions of dollars annually,
and Mr. Mansfield estimates the loss from this cause to the United
Kingdom at two hundred and fifty millions of dollars.
In the single State of Massachusetts, an estimate exhibits an annual
loss of over sixty millions of dollars by the premature death of persons
over fifteen years of age.
It is estimated that a few only of the principal items of expense
incurred by preventable sickness in the city of New York amount to
over five millions of dollars annually.
And if it is thought that Philadelphia is exempt from such enormous
unnecessary expense, just glance at the report of the Board of Health
for last year, and see how the deaths from disease of the lungs largely
exceed those from any other disease.
Consumption is almost entirely the result of breathing impure air,--it
is as preventable by the exclusive use of pure air as _maniaa potuor_
drunkenness is by the exclusive use of pure water. And see, too, what
slaughter among the innocents--over twenty-five per cent. of the whole
deaths were under one year of age.
The infantile mortality is by many considered the most delicate sanitary
test. But why does such an intelligent community as this so neglect
its own interest?
They have listened to and satisfied the first imperative demands of
nature--shelter from the elements and warmth,--and in doing this they
have not brought into use that much higher order of intellect which can
alone teach them how to supply, in connection with an agreeable warmth,
an abundance of pure air in their otherwise air-tight houses.
| 585.90221 |
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[Frontispiece: "YOU ARE SO GENEROUS TO ME" (page 24)]
AVERY
_By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps_
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1902
COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY HARPER & BROS.
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October, 1902_
_Avery_ originally appeared as a serial in _Harper's Magazine_ under
the title of _His Wife_.
AVERY
PART I
"Oh, Pink! Mother _can't_ lift you.... I would if I could.... Yes, I
know I used to--
"Molly, take the baby. Couldn't you amuse him, somehow? Perhaps, if
you tried hard, you could keep him still. When he screams so, it seems
to hit me--here. It makes it harder to breathe. He cried'most all
night. And if you could contrive to keep Pink, too--
"What is it, Kate? You'll have to manage without me this morning.
Pick up anything for luncheon--I don't care. I couldn't eat. You can
warm over that mutton for yourselves. We must keep the bills down.
They were too large last month. Order a grouse for Mr. Avery. He says
he will dine at home to-night--
"There's the telephone! Somebody answer it. I can't get down,
myself.... Is it Mr. Avery?... Wants me?... I don't see how I
can.... Yes. Hold the wire. I 'll try--
"Did you speak to me, Molly?... No, I'm not feeling any worse. It's
only getting up the stairs, and... something that tired me a little.
I don't want Dr. Thorne. I can't call the doctor so often. I'm no
worse than... I sometimes... am. It's only that I cannot breathe....
Molly! _Molly_! Quick, Molly! The window! Air!"
As Molly dashed the window up, Mrs. Avery's head fell back upon the
pillows of the lounge. They were blue pillows, and her blanching cheek
took a little reflection from the color. But she was not ghastly; she
never was. At the lowest limit of her strength she seemed to challenge
death with an indomitable vitality.
There was a certain surprise in the discovery that so blond a being
could have so much of it. She was very fair--blue of eye, yellow of
hair, pearly of skin; but all her coloring was warm and rich; when she
was well, it was an occupation to admire her ear, her cheek, her
throat; and when she was ill her eye conquered. Every delicate trait
and feature of her defied her fate, except her mouth; this had begun to
take on a pitiful expression. The doctor's blazing eye flashed on it
when he was summoned hastily. It had become a symptom to him, and was
usually the first one of which he took note.
Dr. Esmerald Thorne had the preoccupations of his eminence, and his
patients waited their turns with that undiscouraged endurance which is
the jest and the despair of less-distinguished physicians. Women took
their crochet work to his office, and men bided their time with gnawed
mustache and an unnatural interest in the back-number magazines upon
his table. Indifferent ailments received his belated attention, and to
certain patients he came when he got ready. Mrs. Avery's was not one
of these cases.
When Molly's tumultuous telephone call reached him that dav, it found
him at the hospital, sewing up an accident. He drew the thread through
the stitch, handed the needle to the house surgeon, who was standing
by, and ran downstairs. The hospital was two miles from Marshall
Avery's house. Dr. Thorne's horse took the distance on a gallop, and
Dr. Thorne took Avery's stairs two at a time.
He came into her room, however, with the theatrical calm and the
preposterous smile which men of his profession and his kind assume in
the presence of danger that unconsciousness has not blotted from the
patient's intelligence. Through the wide window the late October air
bit in. She was lying full in the surly breeze on the lounge pillow,
as Molly had left her. Her blue morning gown was clutched and torn
open at the throat. No one had thought to cover her. Her hands were
as purple as her lips. She was not gasping now: she had no longer the
strength to fight for her breath.
Dr. Thorne's professional smile went out like a Christmas candle in a
hurricane. He opened his mouth and began to swear.
The corners of her lips twitched when she heard him--for she was
altogether conscious, | 585.902999 |
2023-11-16 18:26:49.8832540 | 392 | 82 |
Produced by Steven Giacomelli, Constanze Hofmann and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images produced by Core
Historical Literature in Agriculture (CHLA), Cornell
University)
[Illustration:
So work the Honey Bees.
Creatures that by a rule in Nature, teach
The art of order to a peopled kingdom.--_Shakspeare._]
[Illustration: Worker. Drone. Queen.
The above are a very accurate representations of the QUEEN, the WORKER
and the DRONE. The group of bees in the title page, represents the
attitude in which the bees surround their Queen or Mother as she rests
upon the comb.]
LANGSTROTH
ON THE
HIVE AND THE HONEY-BEE,
A Bee Keeper's Manual,
BY
REV. L. L. LANGSTROTH.
[Illustration: EVERY GOOD MOTHER SHOULD BE THE
HONORED QUEEN OF A HAPPY FAMILY.]
NORTHAMPTON:
HOPKINS, BRIDGMAN & COMPANY.
1853.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
L. L. LANGSTROTH,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
C. A. MIRICK, PRINTER, GREENFIELD.
PREFACE.
This Treatise on the Hive and the Honey-Bee, is respectfully submitted
by the Author, to the candid consideration of those who are interested
in the culture of the most useful as well as wonderful Insect, in all
the range of Animated Nature. The information which it contains will be
found to be greatly in advance of anything which has yet been presented
to the English Reader; and, as far as facilities for practical
management are concerned, | 585.903294 |
2023-11-16 18:27:06.2560490 | 1,266 | 13 |
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 | 602.276089 |
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generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)
THE AFFECTING CASE OF THE UNFORTUNATE _THOMAS DANIELS_.
_LONDON_
_Thomas Daniels_, the person named in the Pamphlet hereunto annexed,
Intitled, "_The Affecting Case of the unfortunate Thomas Daniels_ &c."
maketh Oath and saith that the said Pamphlet (containing twenty-four
pages) is a just and faithful Narrative of his Case; and that the same
is published at his particular desire of having the Public truly
informed of the whole and every circumstance of his case, with a view to
the removing all unfavourable prejudices against him.
_THOMAS DANIELLS._
Sworn this 23d of _November_,
1761, before me
_W. ALEXANDER._
THE AFFECTING CASE OF THE UNFORTUNATE _THOMAS DANIELS_, WHO WAS
Tried at the SESSIONS held at the OLD BAILEY, _September_, 1761,
FOR THE Supposed MURDER of his WIFE;
By casting her out of a CHAMBER WINDOW:
And for which he was sentenced to die, but received his MAJESTY'S
most GRACIOUS and FREE PARDON.
IN WHICH IS CONTAINED,
A circumstantial Account of the Behaviour of that unhappy Woman,
from her Husband's first Acquaintance with her, to the Day of her Death.
Drawn up and authenticated by the said DANIELS himself;
And faithfully prepared for the PRESS, by
An IMPARTIAL HAND.
LONDON:
Printed for E. CABE, in _Ave-Mary-Lane_.
MDCCLXI.
THE AFFECTING CASE OF THE UNFORTUNATE _THOMAS DANIELS_.
The calamitous circumstance of having been condemned to death by the
laws of his country, for the most hateful of all crimes; and his most
extraordinary deliverance from an ignominious fate, and being restored
to liberty unconditionally and free! will naturally render the case of
_Thomas Daniels_ a subject of eager curiosity and warm debate. That
persons in the superior stations of life should sometimes find means to
evade the punishments incurred by infringing the laws of their country,
and by disturbing the order of society, does not greatly excite our
wonder; an experience of the manners and customs of the world, occasions
our hearing such instances as things of course; we make a natural
reflection or two on the occasions, and think no more of them. But when
a person in one of the lowest classes of mankind, by a fatal accident,
appears before a court of justice with apparent evidences of guilt,
sufficient to influence a jury of his impartial countrymen to sentence
him to the most severe penalty the law can inflict; when this man,
meerly from the advantage of a good character in the narrow circle of
his acquaintance, and from a re-examination into the probability of the
fact, for which he was condemned, shall have the inferences drawn from
the depositions on his trial, totally invalidated, so that the sentence
passed on him is freely remitted! it is _such a sanction_ of his
innocence, that it would be cruel and unjust, in particulars, afterward
to retain any suspicions injurious to him.
It ought to be principally attended to in this affair, that his Majesty,
whose regal virtues are so generally known and acknowledged, cannot
appear in a more amiable view, than in the attention with which he is
said to have endeavoured to discover the merits of the intercession made
for this poor convict. An instance which, as it may be deemed too
trivial to engage any particular share of princely consideration, yet is
certainly one of the truly parental duties of a Monarch, and will endear
him in the hearts of many of his useful subjects, who are beneath caring
for the retention of _Guadalupe_ or _Canada_. And it is doing justice to
the poor fellow, to own, that he seems to retain a grateful, if not a
politely expressed, sensibility of the great obligation he owes to the
royal parent of this his second period of existence.
But as an imputation of so base a nature, confirmed by a court of
justice, would naturally prejudice female minds universally against him,
too strongly for any after testimony in his favour easily to efface; and
as Mr. _Daniels_ is not yet old enough to relinquish all thoughts of
matrimony, and seems to possess too happy a share of vivacity to be
totally depressed by his past misfortunes, however severe they have
been; it is probable he may be hardy enough yet to venture on a second
trial of that state, can he find any good girl candid enough _to venture
on him_: but however this may be, from many important considerations the
poor man is willing to give the world all the satisfaction in his power,
relating to the unhappy woman who was lately his wife, and on whose
account he has gone through so much trouble and anxiety from his first
connexion with her: and it is charitably hoped, that, as he has so
solemnly authenticated the particulars of it, the same degree of
credibility will be allowed _him_, which would be granted to any other
person of fair character and good estimation.
The following particulars concerning this unfortunate couple, were
penned by _Thomas Daniels_ himself, since his enlargement; and are
faithfully exhibited with no other alterations than what were absolutely
necessary, with regard to spelling, style, and disposition, to render
the narrative in some measure clear and fit for perusal. This dressing
was not intended to give any undue colouring to facts, but simply to
supply the deficiencies of the writer; whose laborious situation in life
has denied him those literary advantages indispensable to the writing
his story with tolerable propriety.
Thus much being premised, it is time to let the principal offer his
plea, as candidate for the favourable opinion of his readers.
"It was in the year 1757 that I first became acquainted with _Sarah
Carridine_, by living in the same neighbourhood. She was a very pretty
girl; and I had a great affection for her, as I imagined her to be a
good industrious person. I made my friends acquainted with my regard for
her, but they were entirely against my having her, because of her living
in a public-house: but I was obstinate, and told them I loved her and
would marry her at all adventures, as I believed she would make a good
wife: upon this they said I might have another far preferable to her,
but that if I was resolved not to listen to their advice, they would
have nothing more to say to me, and I should never come near them more.
Finding therefore it was in vain to hope for my father's consent in this
affair, I consulted with her what to do, and at her desire I agreed that
she should take a lodging for us both, and her mother took one
accordingly. I then left my former lodging and lived with her; but as I
still worked with my father as before, he soon found that I had changed
my lodging, and upon what account. This discovery made him very angry,
and we had a quarrel about it, which made me resolve not to work with
him any more. This laid me under a necessity of seeking for business
elsewhere; and in my walks for this purpose, I met with some
acquaintance, who told me they had entered on board the _Britannia_
privateer, and that she was a fine ship. By their encouragement I
entered myself also. I went home, and told _Sarah Carridine_ what I had
done; she cried sadly, but I begged her to make herself easy, for that
the cruize was but for six months, that we were going to make our
fortunes, and that I would marry her when I came back; and in the mean
time would advise her to go to service. This pacified her, and she
promised so to do.
"We sailed on the 30th of _August_, on our cruize, but had very bad luck,
and I returned home in _April_, 1758. As soon as I came to _London_, I
went to my master, Mr. _Archer_, who keeps the sign of the _White Bear_,
the corner of _Barbican_ in _Aldersgate Street_; there I sent for my
father and mother, and we spent the evening together very agreeably,
much rejoiced at our meeting again. I enquired of my mistress where I
could find _Sarah Carridine_? She referred me to Mr. _John Jones_ the
founder, who she said could inform me. _Jones_ took me over the water to
an alehouse at the bridge foot, where I saw her. I used in the evenings
to go and sup with her, at her mother's, after my day's work; and Mr.
_Jones_, lodging in the same house with me, frequently went with me.
_Jones_ and I had been old acquaintance for some years; he pretended
great friendship for me and _Sarah Carridine_, and offered to be father
to her and give her away. This was very agreeable to me, and I fixed
upon _St. James's_ day for our marriage. I informed my friends of my
intention, but I could not obtain their consent. I asked my master to
lend me a guinea to defray the wedding charges; but being refused,
_Jones_ advised me not to be beholden to any of them, but to raise some
money upon my watch: I therefore put it in his hands, and he pawned it
for me. This will serve to shew how officious he was in this
transaction.
"We lived for some time after our marriage in ready-furnished lodgings,
until my wife's mother persuaded us to come and lodge with her; she
lived in _Catharine-Wheel Alley, Whitechapel_. This we did until I
procured some goods of my own. While we lived there, she used to be
frequently abroad when I came home from my work. I cannot but take
notice in this place, that, however wrong it may be esteemed by others,
and however disagreeable to me, to speak ill of the dead; yet the
peculiarity of my situation will, I hope, excuse the obligation I am
under of declaring the truth, this being now the discharge of a duty I
owe to myself. Whenever I asked her mother where she was gone? she would
tell me she was gone to see some young women in _Spital Fields_. When
she came home she was often in liquor, and I would then say, '_Sally_,
what makes you drink so much?' her mother would reply, 'Lord, a little
matter gets in her head, for she is a poor drinker.' I then resolved to
take a little shop to employ her: I did so, and put her in a little shop
in the _Minories_, to sell pork, greens, and other articles; and she
might have done very well there if she had minded her business, and not
have gone to see the young women so often as she pretended. At last
however I went to see where these young women lived, but they had not
seen her a long time. As I was returning back, I saw my wife with Mr.
_Jones_, going before me, whom I followed until I saw they turned into a
public-house. On this I went back to her mother, and enquired whether
she was returned? she replied, 'Lord, I suppose they will not let her
come yet.' With that I said, it is very odd, but I believe I know where
she is; I will go and see. When I went back there they were both
together. So, said I, this is your going to see _Bett Reed_! She
replied, I am but just come back. Pray, said I, how came Mr. _Jones_
here? She answered, she found him there, and believed he came to see
me. I then said, I rather believe he came to see you; I saw you both
come in, arm in arm. She was then drunk, which made me send her home. I
told him he had no business to keep my wife from me; but if he was a man
he would come out, and try who had the best right to her. He would not,
but went away.
"When I came home, my wife and her mother and I, quarelled, and I had
them both upon me at once: she then ran away, and staid all night. The
next day by her mother's persuasions we made it up, and agreed that she
should go and mind her shop, and never go into _Jones_'s company more.
After this he did not come near us until the next Lord Mayor's Day, when
he knew, I suppose, that I was gone to my master's hall. My shopmate and
I went to carry my master's great coat; my master gave us a bottle of
wine, and we went into the kitchin and got some victuals to it; this we
carried home to my wife, thinking to enjoy it quietly there. I asked her
mother where _Sally_ was? She said she was gone to the _Three Kings_,
and bid me go and call her. Before I went I heard a noise upon the
stairs, and, upon taking a candle to see what was the matter, there
stood my wife; and hearing somebody going down to the cellar, there
stood _John Jones_!
"My wife and I had a great quarrel on this occasion; she pretended that
he came only to give her some ribbons, as he had been a whiffler in the
procession. Perceiving what a loose disposition she was of, I resolved
she should keep shop no more; I therefore shut it up. There are people
enough in that neighbourhood sufficiently acquainted with these
transactions; and with my wife's general behaviour.
"I then thought we should be rather more quiet if I moved her from her
mother's, for we were always quarrelling. I got some goods of my own,
and my wife and _my_ mother took a room for me in the _Little Minories_,
when for some time we lived more loving than before. However she quickly
began her old irregularities again, which occasioned fresh quarrels, to
the great uneasiness of our landlady, for the people of the house were
very good sort of people. She would often talk to my wife, and give her
wholesome advice, but all to no purpose; which determined me to leave
her. I again entered on board the _Britannia_ privateer as carpenter's
mate, without acquainting any body with my intention, and went down to
_Greenhithe_ where the ship lay, to work on board her. Before I had been
there many days, to my great surprize down came my wife with _John
Jones_! They staid on board all night, my wife crying bitterly to
persuade me to come home again, promising an entire reformation in her
conduct. I said I could not come back now, because I had entered myself;
but she lamenting and behaving like a mad woman, I was persuaded to
return home with her. To do this, I obtained leave of our lieutenant to
go to _London_, to bring my tools down, when my wife prevailed on me to
stay at home. I then went to work again in town, and my wife said if I
would try her once more, by putting her in a shop, she would be very
good. Then it was I took a house, at the corner of _Hare Court,
Aldersgate Street_, where, for some time, she managed | 602.37541 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
THE LIFEBOAT, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE BEGINNING--IN WHICH SEVERAL IMPORTANT PERSONAGES ARE INTRODUCED.
There existed, not many years ago, a certain street near the banks of
old Father Thames which may be described as being one of the most modest
and retiring little streets in London.
The neighbourhood around that street was emphatically dirty and noisy.
There were powerful smells of tallow and tar in the atmosphere,
suggestive of shipping and commerce. Narrow lanes opened off the main
street affording access to wharves and warehouses, and presenting at
their termini segmentary views of ships' hulls, bowsprits, and booms,
with a background of muddy water and smoke. There were courts with
unglazed windows resembling doors, and massive cranes clinging to the
walls. There were yards full of cases and barrels, and great anchors
and chains, which invaded the mud of the river as far as was consistent
with safety; and adventurous little warehouses, which stood on piles, up
to the knees, as it were, in water, totally regardless of appearances,
and utterly indifferent as to catching cold. As regards the population
of this locality, rats were, perhaps, in excess of human beings; and it
might have been observed that the former were particularly frolicsome
and fearless.
Farther back, on the landward side of our unobtrusive street, commercial
and nautical elements were more mingled with things appertaining to
domestic life. Elephantine horses, addicted to good living, drew
through the narrow streets wagons and vans so ponderous and gigantic
that they seemed to crush the very stones over which they rolled, and
ran terrible risk of sweeping little children out of the upper windows
of the houses. In unfavourable contrast with these, donkeys, of the
most meagre and starved aspect, staggered along with cartloads of fusty
vegetables and dirty-looking fish, while the vendors thereof howled the
nature and value of their wares with deliberate ferocity. Low
pawnbrokers (chiefly in the "slop" line) obtruded their seedy wares from
doors and windows halfway across the pavement, as if to tempt the naked;
and equally low pastry-cooks spread forth their stale viands in unglazed
windows, as if to seduce the hungry.
Here the population was mixed and varied. Busy men of business and of
wealth, porters and wagoners, clerks and warehousemen, rubbed shoulders
with poor squalid creatures, men and women, whose business or calling no
one knew and few cared to know except the policeman on the beat, who,
with stern suspicious glances, looked upon them as objects of special
regard, and as enemies; except, also, the earnest-faced man in seedy
black garments, with a large Bible (_evidently_) in his pocket, who
likewise looked on them as objects of special regard, and as friends.
The rats were much more circumspect in this locality. They were what
the Yankees would call uncommonly "cute," and much too deeply intent on
business to indulge in play.
In the lanes, courts, and alleys that ran still farther back into the
great hive, there was an amount of squalor, destitution, violence, sin,
and misery, the depth of which was known only to the people who dwelt
there, and to those earnest-faced men with Bibles who made it their work
to cultivate green spots in the midst of such unpromising wastes, and to
foster the growth of those tender and beautiful flowers which sometimes
spring and flourish where, to judge from appearances, one might be
tempted to imagine nothing good could thrive. Here also there were
rats, and cats too, besides dogs of many kinds; but they all of them led
hard lives of it, and few appeared to think much of enjoying themselves.
Existence seemed to be the height of their ambition. Even the kittens
were depressed, and sometimes stopped in the midst of a faint attempt at
play to look round with a scared aspect, as if the memory of kicks and
blows was strong upon them.
The whole neighbourhood, in fact, teemed with sad yet interesting sights
and scenes, and with strange violent contrasts. It was not a spot which
one would naturally select for a ramble on a summer evening after
dinner; nevertheless it was a locality where time might have been
profitably spent, where a good lesson or two might have been learned by
those who have a tendency to "consider the poor."
But although the neighbourhood was dirty and noisy, our modest street,
which was at that time known by the name of Redwharf Lane, was
comparatively clean and quiet. True, the smell of tallow and tar could
not be altogether excluded, neither could the noises; but these scents
and sounds reached it in a mitigated degree, and as the street was not a
thoroughfare, few people entered it, except those who had business
there, or those who had lost their way, or an occasional street boy of
an explorative tendency; which last, on finding that it was a quiet
spot, invariably entered a protest against such an outrageous idea as
quietude in "the City" by sending up a series of hideous yells, and
retiring thereafter precipitately.
Here, in Redwharf Lane, was the office of the firm of Denham, Crumps,
and Company.
Mr Denham stood with his back to the fire, for it was a coldish autumn
day, with his coat-tails under his arms. He was a big bald man of
five-and-forty, with self-importance enough for a man of
five-hundred-and-forty. Mr Crumps sat in a small back-office, working
so diligently that one might have supposed he was endeavouring to bring
up the arrears of forty years' neglect, and had pledged himself to have
it done before dinner. He was particularly small, excessively thin,
very humble, rather deaf, and upwards of sixty. Company had died of
lockjaw two years previous to the period of which we write, and is
therefore unworthy of farther notice. A confidential clerk had taken,
and still retained, his place.
Messrs. Denham, Crumps, and Company, were shipowners. Report said that
they were rich, but report frequently said what was not true in those
days. Whether it has become more truthful in the present days, remains
an open question. There can be no question, however, that much business
was done at the office in Redwharf Lane, and that, while Denham lived in
a handsome mansion in Russell Square, and Crumbs dwelt in a sweet
cottage in Kensington, Company had kept a pony phaeton, and had died in
a snug little villa on Hampstead Heath.
The office of Denham, Crumps, and Company was small and unpretending, as
was the street in which it stood. There was a small green door with a
small brass plate and a small brass knocker, all of which, when opened
by their attendant, a small tiger in blue, with buttons, gave admittance
to a small passage that terminated in a small room. This was the outer
office, and here sat the four clerks of the establishment on four tall
stools, writing in four monstrous volumes, as furiously as if they were
decayed authors whose lives depended on the result. Their salaries did,
poor fellows, and that was much the same thing!
A glass door, with scratches here and there, through which the head of
the firm could gaze unseen, separated "the office" from Denham's room,
and a wooden door separated that from Crumps' room, beyond which there
was a small closet or cell which had been Company's room before that
gentleman died. It was now used as a repository for ancient books and
papers.
"Very odd," said Mr Denham, and as he said so he touched a small silver
bell that stood on his writing-table.
The tiger in blue and buttons instantly appeared.
"Here, Peekins, post these letters. Has no one called this afternoon; I
mean, no one resembling a sailor?"
The boy in blue started, and his face became very red.
"Why, what's the matter, boy? What do you mean by staring at me,
instead of answering my question?"
"Please, sir," stammered Peekins meekly, "I didn't mean no 'arm, sir,
but you see, sir, his face was so drefful fierce, and he looked sich a
wild--"
"Boy, are you mad?" interrupted Mr Denham, advancing and seizing the
tiger by his blue collar; "what are you talking about? Now, answer my
question at once, else I'll shake the little life you have out of your
body. Did any sailor-like man call at the office this afternoon?"
"Oh, sir, yes, sir,--I--I--thought he was drunk and wouldn't let 'im in,
sir; he's bin a standin' stampin' at the door for more than--"
The end of the sentence was cut short by Mr Denham suddenly ejecting
the boy from the room and shouting, "Let him in!"
In a few seconds a heavy tread was heard in the outer office, and the
boy ushered in a tall young man, of unusually large proportions, with
extremely broad shoulders, and apparently about twenty-three years of
age, whose rough pilot-coat, wide pantaloons, and glazed hat bespoke him
a sailor. His countenance was flushed, and an angry frown contracted
his brow as he strode into the room, pulled off his hat and stood before
the head of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company.
"I beg pardon, sir," began the sailor, somewhat sharply, yet without
disrespect, "when I am asked to come--"
"Yes, yes, Bax," interposed Mr Denham, "I know what you would say.
Pray calm yourself. It is a pity you should have been kept waiting
outside, but the fact is that my boy is a new one, and apparently he is
destitute of common sense. Sit down. I sent for you to say that I wish
you to take the `Nancy' to Liverpool. You will be ready to start at
once, no doubt--"
"Before the schooner is overhauled?" inquired Bax, in surprise.
"Of course," said Denham, stiffly; "I see no occasion for _another_
overhaul. That schooner will cost us more than she is worth if we go on
repairing at the rate we have been doing the last two years."
"She needs it all, sir," rejoined Bax, earnestly. "The fact is, Mr
Denham, I feel it to be my duty to tell you that there ain't a sound
plank or timber in her from stem to stern, and I'm pretty sure that if
she costs you money, she's likely to cost me and the men aboard of her
our lives. I strongly advise you to strike her off the books, and get a
new one."
"Mr Bax," said Denham, pompously, "you are too young a man to offer
your advice unless it is asked. I believe the engineer employed by me
to examine into the condition of my vessels is quite competent to judge
in these matters, and I have unbounded confidence in him. When I placed
you in command of the `Nancy,' I meant you to navigate, not to criticise
her; but if you are afraid to venture--"
"Afraid!" cried the young sailor, reddening. "Is anxiety about the
lives of your men and the safety of your property to be called fear?
_I_ am willing to sail in the `Nancy' as long as a plank of her will
hold to her ribs, but--"
Bax paused and bit his lip, as if to keep back words which had better
not be spoken.
"Well, then," rejoined Mr Denham, affecting to disregard the pause,
"let me hear no more about repairs. When these require to be done, they
_shall_ be done. Meanwhile, go and make preparation to sail by the
morning tides which serves about--what hour, think you?"
"Flood at half after six," said Bax, curtly.
"Very well, come up here at half-past five, one of the clerks will see
you. You will have to run down to Dover in the first place, and when
there my agent will give you further instructions. Good afternoon!"
Bax rose and quitted the room with a stern "Good day, sir."
As he passed through the outer office he was arrested by one of the
clerks laying a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, Mr Foster," said Bax, a bright smile chasing the frown from his
face, "it seems we're to swim if we can, or sink if we can't this
winter;--but what want ye with me?"
"You are to call me Guy, not _Mister_ Foster," said the lad, gaily. "I
want to know where you are to be found after six this evening."
"At the `Three Jolly Tars,'" answered Bax, clapping on his glazed hat.
"All right, I'll look you up. Good-day."
"Guy Foster," shouted Mr Denham from the inner room.
"Yes, uncle," and in another moment the youth was standing, pen in hand,
in the august presence of his relative, who regarded him with a cold
stare of displeasure.
There could scarcely have been conceived a stronger contrast in nature
than that which existed between the starched, proud, and portly uncle,
and the tall, handsome, and hearty young nephew, whose age was scarcely
twenty years.
"How often am I to tell you, sir," said Mr Denham, "that `yes, uncle,'
is much too familiar and unbusinesslike a phrase to be used in this
office in the hearing of your fellow-clerks?"
"I beg pardon, uncle, I'm sure I had no intention of--"
"There, that will do, I want no apology, I want obedience and attention
to my expressed wishes. I suppose that you expect to get away for a few
days' holiday?"
"Well, unc--, sir, I mean, if it is quite convenient I should--"
"It is _not_ quite convenient," interrupted the uncle. "It cannot
possibly, at any time, be convenient to dispense with the services of a
clerk in a house where no supernumeraries are kept to talk slang and
read the newspapers. I see no reason whatever in young men in ordinary
health expecting as a right, two or three weeks' leave each year without
deduction of salary. _I_ never go to the country or to the sea-side
from one year's end to the other."
"You'd be much the better for it if you did, uncle," interposed Guy.
"That, _sir_," retorted Denham with emphasis, "is _your_ opinion, and
you will allow me to say that it is erroneous, as most of your opinions,
I am sorry to find, are. _I_ find that no change is necessary for my
health. I am in better condition than many who go to Margate every
summer. I thrive on town air, sir, and on city life."
There was much truth in these observations. The worthy merchant did | 602.473223 |
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MEMOIRS
OF THE
Marchioness of Pompadour.
WRITTEN BY HERSELF.
Wherein are Displayed
The Motives of the Wars, Treaties of Peace, Embassies, and
Negotiations, in the several Courts of Europe:
The Cabals and Intrigues of Courtiers; the Characters of Generals,
and Ministers of State, with the Causes of their Rise and Fall;
and, in general, the most remarkable Occurrences at the Court of
France, during the last twenty Years of the Reign of Lewis XV.
Translated from the French.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
Printed for P. VAILLANT, in the Strand; and
W. JOHNSTON, in Ludgate-Street.
MDCCLXVI.
THE
EDITOR’S PREFACE.
The following work must be acknowledged highly interesting to these
times; and to posterity will be still more so. These are not the memoirs
of a mere woman of pleasure, who has spent her life in a voluptuous
court, but the history of a reign remarkable for revolutions, wars,
intrigues, alliances, negotiations; the very blunders of which are not
beneath the regard of politicians, as having greatly contributed to give
a new turn to the affairs of Europe.
The Lady who drew the picture was known to be an admirable colourist.
They who were personally acquainted with Mademoiselle Poisson, before
and since her marriage with M. le Normand, know her to have been
possessed of a great deal of that wit, which, with proper culture,
improves into genius.
The King called her to court at a tempestuous season of life, when the
passions reign uncontrouled, and by corrupting the heart, enlarge the
understanding.
They who are near the persons of Kings, for the most part, surpass the
common run of mankind, both in natural and acquired talents; for
ambition is ever attended with a sort of capacity to compass its ends;
and all courtiers are ambitious.
No sooner does the Sovereign take a mistress, than the courtiers flock
about her. Their first concern is to give her her cue; for as they
intend to avail themselves of her interest with the King, she must be
made acquainted with a multitude of things: she may be said to receive
her intelligence from the first hand, and to draw her knowledge at the
fountain head.
Lewis XV. intrusted the Marchioness de Pompadour with the greatest
concerns of the nation; so that if she had been without those abilities
which distinguished her at Paris, she must still have improved in the
school of Versailles.
Her talents did not clear her in the public eye; never was a favourite
more outrageously pelted with pamphlets, or exposed to more clamorous
invectives. Of this her Memoirs are a full demonstration; her enemies
charged her with many very odious vices, without so much as allowing her
one good quality. The grand subject of murmur was the bad state of the
finances, which they attributed to her amours with the King.
They who brand the Marchioness with having run Lewis XV. into vast
expences, seem to have forgot those which his predecessor’s mistresses
had brought on the state.
Madame de la Valiere, even before she was declared mistress to Lewis
XIV. induced him to give entertainments, which cost the nation more than
ever Madame de Pompadour’s fortune amounted to.
Madame de Montespan put the same Prince to very enormous expences; she
appeared always with the pomp and parade of a Queen, even to the having
guards to attend her.
Scarron’s widow carried her pride and ostentation still further: she
drew the King in to marry her, and this mistress came to be queen, an
elevation which will be an eternal blot on the Prince’s memory.
This clandestine commerce gave rise to an infamous practice at court,
with which Madame de Pompadour cannot be charged. All these concubines
having children, to gratify their vanity, they must be legitimated; and,
afterwards, they found means to marry these sons, or daughters, of
prostitution, to the branches of the royal blood; a flagrant debasement
of the house which were in kin to the crown: for though a Sovereign can
legitimate a bastard, to efface the stain of bastardy is beyond his
power. The consequence was, that the descendants of that clandestine
issue aspired to the throne; and, through the King’s scandalous amours,
that lustre which is due only to virtue, fell to the portion of vice.
It was given out in France, and over all Europe, that Madame de
Pompadour was immensely rich: but nothing of this appeared at her death,
except her magnificent moveables, and these were rather the
consequences of her rank at court, than the effects of her vanity. This
splendor his Majesty partook of, as visiting her every day.
The public is generally an unfair judge of those who hold a considerable
station at court, deciding from vague reports, which are often the
forgeries of ill-grounded prejudice. Madame de Pompadour has been
charged with insatiable avarice. Had this been the case, she might have
indulged herself at will: she was at the spring-head of opulence; the
King never refused her any thing; so that she might have amassed any
money; which she did not. There are now existing, in France, fifty
wretches of financiers, each of a fortune far exceeding her’s.
It was also said, that the best thing which could happen to France, was
to be rid of this rapacious favourite. Well; she is no more; and what is
France the better for it? Has her death been followed by one of those
sudden revolutions in the government, which usher in a better form of
administration? Have they who looked on this Lady as an unsurmountable
obstacle to France’s greatness, proposed any better means for raising it
from its present low state? Is there more order in the government? are
the finances improved? is there more method and oeconomy? No, affairs
are still in the same bad ways the lethargy continues as profound as
ever. The ministry, which before Madame de Pompadour’s death was fast
asleep, is not yet awake. Every thing remains in _statu quo_. Some
European governments have no regular motion; they advance either too
fast, or too slow; their steps are either precipitate, or sluggish.
In this favourite’s time, there was too much shifting and changing in
the ministry; now she is gone, there is none at all, &c. &c.
I am very far from intending a panegyric on Madame de Pompadour. Faults
she had, which posterity will never forgive. All the calamities of
France were imputed to her, and she should have resigned in compliance
to the public: a nation is to be respected even in its prejudices. With
any tolerable share of patriotism, Madame de Pompadour would have
quitted the court, and thus approved herself deserving of the favour for
which she was execrated; but her soul was not capable of such an act of
magnanimity: she knew nothing of that philosophy which, inspiring a
contempt of external grandeur, endears the subject to the Prince, and
exalts him above the throne.
There is great appearance that this Lady intended to revise both her
Memoirs and her will, and that death prevented her: she used to write,
by starts, detached essays, without any coherence; and these on separate
bits of paper. These were very numerous and diffuse, as generally are
the materials intended to form a book, if she really had any such
design.
We were obliged to throw by on all sides, and clear our way through an
ocean of writings, a long and tiresome business.
It is far from being improbable, that Madame de Pompadour got some
statesman, well versed in such matters, to assist her in compiling this
book: however that be, we give it as it stands in her original
manuscript.
[Illustration: text decoration]
MEMOIRS
OF THE
Marchioness of Pompadour.
The following narrative is not confined to the particular history of my
life. My design is more extensive: I shall endeavour to give a true
representation of the court of France under the reign of Lewis XV. The
private memoirs of a King’s mistress are in themselves of small import;
but to know the character of the Prince who raises her to favour; to be
let into the intrigues of his reign, the genius of the courtiers, the
practices of the ministers, the views of the great, the projects of the
ambitious; in a word, into the secret springs of politics, is not a
matter of indifference.
It is very seldom that the public judges rightly of what passes in the
cabinet: they hear that the King orders armies to take the field; that
he wins or loses battles; and on these occurrences they argue according
to their particular prejudices.
History does not come nearer the mark; the generality of annalists being
only the echoes of the public mistakes.
These papers I do not intend to publish in my life-time; but should they
appear after my death, posterity will see in them a faithful draught of
the several parts of the administration, which were acted, in some
measure, under my eye. Had I never lived at Versailles, the events of
our times might have been an inexplicable riddle to posterity; so
complicated are the incidents, and in many particulars so
contradictory, that, without a key, there is no decyphering them.
Ministers and other place-men are not always acquainted with the means,
which they themselves make use of for attaining certain ends. A
plenipotentiary very well knows that he signs a treaty of peace, but he
is ignorant of the King’s motives for putting an end to the war.
Every politician strikes out a system in his own sagacious brain; the
speculatists have often fathered on France what she never dreamed of;
and many refined schemes have been attributed to her ministers, which
never made part of their plan.
It is not long since a minister of a certain court said to me at
Versailles, That the two last German wars, which cost France so much
blood, and three hundred millions of livres, was the greatest stroke of
policy which the age afforded; as this court had thereby insensibly, and
unknown to the rest of Europe, reduced the power of the Queen of
Hungary: for, added he, if, on the demise of Charles VI. this crown had
openly bent all its forces against the house of Austria, a general
alliance would have opposed it; whereas it has weakened that house by a
series of little battles and repeated losses, &c. &c.
The inserting such an anecdote in the annals of our age would be
sufficient to disfigure the whole history. The truth is, that they who
were at the head of the French affairs, during these two wars, had no
manner of genius.
All details not relative to the state I shall carefully omit, as rather
writing the age of Lewis XV. than the history of my private life. The
transactions of a King’s favourite concern only the reign of that
Prince; but truth is of perpetual concern.
I hope the public does not expect from me a circumstantial journal of
Lewis XV’s gallantries: the King had many transitory amours during my
residence at Versailles; but none of his mistresses were admitted into
the public affairs. The reign of the far greater part began and ended in
the Prince’s bed. These foibles, so closely connected with human nature,
belong rather to a King’s private life, than to the public history of a
Monarch: I may sometimes mention them, but it will only be by the way. I
shall likewise be silent in regard to my family. The particular favour
with which I have been honoured by Lewis XV. has placed my origin in
broad day-light. A Monarch in raising a woman to the summit of grandeur,
of course lays open the blemishes of her birth. The annals of the
universe have been overlooked, to make a singular case of what has been
almost a general practice in the world.
The Roman Emperors often raised so favour and eminence women of more
obscure birth | 603.174185 |
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and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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LITTLE MASTERPIECES OF SCIENCE
[Illustration: Louis Pasteur.]
Little Masterpieces of Science
Edited by George Iles
HEALTH AND HEALING
_By_
Sir James Paget, M.D. Patrick Geddes and
Sir J. R. Bennett, M.D. J. Arthur Thomson
T. M. Prudden, M.D. B. W. Richardson, M.D.
G. M. Sternberg, M.D. Buel P. Colton
Robson Roose, M.D. J. S. Billings, M.D.
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1902
Copyright, 1902, by Doubleday, Page & Co.
Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers
Copyright, 1901, by Popular Science Monthly
Copyright, 1900, by D. C. Heath & Co.
Copyright, 1901, by Evening Post Publishing Co.
Copyright, 1901, by G. P. Putnam's Sons
PREFACE
When we remember that sound health is the foundation of every other
good, of all work fruitful and enjoyed, we see that in this field
new knowledge and new skill have won their most telling victories.
Pain, long deemed as inevitable as winter's cold, has vanished at the
chemist's bidding: the study of minutest life is resulting in measures
which promise to rid the world of consumption itself. Dr. Billings's
masterly review of medical progress during the nineteenth century,
following upon chapters from other medical writers of the first
rank, strikes Prevention as its dominant note. To-day the aim of the
great physicians is not simply to restore health when lost, but the
maintenance of health while still unimpaired.
Worthy of remark is the co-operation in this good task which the
physician receives at the hands of the inventor and the man of
business. To-day the railroad, quick and cheap, disperses crowded
cities into country fields: even the poorest of the poor may take a
summer outing on mountain <DW72>s, on the shores of lake or sea. As
easily may the invalid escape the rigors of a Northern winter as he
journeys to the Gulf of Mexico. For those who stay at home the railroad
is just as faithfully at work. It exchanges the oranges of Florida for
the ice of Maine, and brings figs and peaches from California to New
England and New York. These, together with the cold storage warehouse
and the cannery, have given the orchard and the kitchen garden all
seasons for their own. Nor must we forget the mills that offer a dozen
palatable cereals for the breakfast table, most of the drudgery of
preparation shifted from the kitchen to the factory. Because food is
thus various and wholesome as never before, the health and strength
of the people steadily gains, while medicine falls into less and less
request; for what is medicine three times in ten but a corrective for a
poor or ill-balanced diet?
But if the best health possible is to be enjoyed by everybody, the
co-operation with the physician must include everybody. Already a
considerable and increasing number of men and women understand this.
If they have any reason to suspect organic weakness of any kind, they
have recourse to the physician's advice, to the end that a suitable
regimen, or a less exacting mode of livelihood, may forefend all
threatened harm. A few pages of this volume set forth the due care
of the eyes: the work from which those pages is taken gives hints of
equal value regarding the care of the ears, the lungs and other bodily
organs, so much more easily kept sound than restored to soundness after
the assail of disease.
GEORGE ILES.
CONTENTS
PAGET, SIR JAMES, M.D.
ESCAPE FROM PAIN. THE HISTORY OF A DISCOVERY
About 1800 Humphry Davy experimented with nitrous oxide gas
and suggested its use in surgery. Horace Wells, a dentist
of Hartford, Conn., uses the gas for the painless extraction
of teeth. Sulphuric ether also observed to produce insensibility
to pain. Dr. Crauford Long, of Jefferson, Ga., uses it in
1842 for the excision of a tumour. Wm. T. G. Morton, Boston,
employs ether in dentistry, and Dr. Warren in surgery. Dr.
Simpson, Edinburgh, introduces chloroform to prevent the
pains of childbirth. Anæsthesia not only abolishes pain,
it broadens the scope of surgery and makes operations safe
which formerly were most perilous. 3
BENNETT, SIR J. R., M.D.
JENNER AND PASTEUR
Jenner's indebtedness to John Hunter. Jenner's early observations
in natural history. He hears a countrywoman say, "I can't
take small-pox for I have had cow-pox." This sets him thinking.
He finds that of various forms of cow-pox but one gives
protection against small-pox. In 1796 successfully vaccinates
a patient. Holds that small-pox and cow-pox are modifications
of the same disease and that if the system be impregnated
with the milder disease, immunity from the severer is conferred.
Immense saving of life by vaccination.
Pasteur, a chemist, studies fermentation, which is due to
the rapid multiplication of organisms. Similar organisms he
detects as the cause of the silkworm disease and of anthrax
in cattle. He adopts the method of Jenner, prepares an
attenuated virus and protects cattle from anthrax. 25
GEDDES, PATRICK, AND J. ARTHUR THOMSON
PASTEUR AND HIS WORK
Distinguishes minute facets, not before observed, in certain
chemical compounds. Proves that the fermentation of tartrate
of lime is due to a minute organism and that a similar
agency underlies many other kinds of fermentation. Protects
wine from fermentation by heating it for a minute to 50° C.
Disproves the theory of spontaneous generation. Discovers
an antitoxin for hydrophobia. 51
PRUDDEN, T. M., M.D.
TUBERCULOSIS AND ITS PREVENTION
In Nature an extremely important part is played by minute
organisms. Some of them take up their abode in the human
body and there set up diseases of which consumption is the
chief. The tubercle bacillus is the sole cause of consumption:
its entrance may be prevented, mainly by destroying the
spittle of patients. Susceptibility to consumption may be
inherited: the disease itself is not. Any cause which lowers
vitality increases susceptibility. Dust is a source of danger
both out-of-doors and in. Dust in houses should be removed,
not simply stirred up. Encouragement for sufferers in early
stages of disease. 63
STERNBERG, G. M., M.D.
MALARIA AND MOSQUITOES
Malaria, long believed to be due to bad air, is really
chargeable to a mosquito discovered by Dr. Laveran, 1880,
and first detected in America by Dr. Sternberg, 1886.
Healthy individuals inoculated with blood containing the
parasite develop malarial fever. The mosquito theory of
infection was advanced by Dr. A. F. A. King, Washington,
1883. Dr. Manson and Dr. Ross confirmed the theory by
observation and experiment. Five individuals exposed to the
July air of the Roman Campagna escape malaria by using
screens on doors and windows and nets over their beds. 89
ROOSE, ROBSON, M.D.
THE ART OF PROLONGING LIFE
What is the natural term of life? One hundred years the
extreme limit. Longevity runs in families. Clergymen are
long-lived. Abstemiousness, sound digestion, capacity for
sleep usually found in the long-lived. Work is healthy,
especially intellectual work. Reasonable hobbies are good.
Beyond middle life exercise should be judicious. Diet should
be digestible and moderate. Clothing should be sensible
and cleanliness habitual. 107
RICHARDSON, B. W., M.D.
NATURAL LIFE AND DEATH
Man should be as unconscious of death as of birth. To this
end let him observe the rules of Health.
RULES OF HEALTH
The health of the unborn should be ensured. Many diseases
usual in children may be avoided by isolation and disinfection.
An equable temperature should be maintained. Regular and
various mental labour is a benefit. Physical exercise
should be moderate. The passions should obey the reason.
Alcohol and tobacco are harmful. Opium, and other narcotics
should be shunned. Not too much meat. Water the natural
beverage. Air should be pure and not damp. Rest and recreation
gainful. Idleness injurious. Sleep should be adequate. 137
COLTON, BUEL P.
CARE OF THE EYES
Light should fall from behind and above: it should be equal
for both eyes. An Argand lamp is best. Reading out-of-doors
is harmful. The range of the eye should not be too short.
Frequent rests do good. Light should be strong enough. The
easiest reading should be saved for the evening. Reading
during convalescence is hurtful. How to remove foreign
substances from the eye. Cleanliness essential. 155
BILLINGS, J. S., M.D.
PROGRESS OF MEDICINE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
More medical progress in the nineteenth century than in the
two thousand years preceding. The surgeon does more and
better work than ever: he can locate a tumour of the brain.
Deformities ameliorated. Perils of maternity reduced. Blindness
in many cases prevented. Human life lengthening. The prevention
of disease has made great strides. Pure water-supply, proper
drainage and sewerage. Diphtheria, typhoid and consumption
are largely preventable. Scientific nursing introduced.
Improvements in hospital construction and management. 161
HEALTH AND HEALING
ESCAPE FROM PAIN: THE HISTORY OF A DISCOVERY
SIR JAMES PAGET, M.D.
[Sir James Paget was one of the most eminent English surgeons
of the last century: his writings on surgical themes are of
the first authority. The essay, the chief portions of which
follow, appeared in the _Nineteenth Century Magazine_,
December, 1879. The editor's permission to reprint is
thankfully acknowledged. The essay is contained in "Selected
Essays and Addresses," by Sir James Paget, published by
Longmans, Green & Co., 1902. The same firm publishes "Memoirs
and Letters of Sir James Paget," edited by Stephen Paget, one
of his sons.]
The history of the discovery of methods for the prevention of pain in
surgical operations deserves to be considered by all who study either
the means by which knowledge is advanced or the lives of those by whom
beneficial discoveries are made. And this history may best be traced in
the events which led to and followed the use of nitrous oxide gas, of
sulphuric ether, and of chloroform as anæsthetics--that is, as means by
which complete insensibility may be safely produced and so long
maintained that a surgical operation, of whatever severity and however
prolonged, may be absolutely painless.
In 1798, Mr. Humphry Davy, an apprentice to Mr. Borlase, a surgeon at
Bodmin, had so distinguished himself by zeal and power in the study of
chemistry and natural philosophy, that he was invited by Dr. Beddoes, of
Bristol, to become the "superintendent of the Pneumatic Institution
which had been established at Clifton for the purpose of trying the
medicinal effects of different gases." He obtained release from his
apprenticeship, accepted the appointment, and devoted himself to the
study of gases, not only in their medicinal effects, but much more in
all their chemical and physical relations. After two years' work he
published his _Researches, Chemical and Philosophical, chiefly
concerning Nitrous Oxide_, an essay proving a truly marvelous ingenuity,
patience, and courage in experiments, and such a power of observing and
of thinking as has rarely if ever been surpassed by any scientific man
of Davy's age; for he was then only twenty-two.
In his inhalations of the nitrous oxide gas he observed all the
phenomena of mental excitement, of exalted imagination, enthusiasm,
merriment, restlessness, from which it gained its popular name of
"laughing gas"; and he saw people made, at least for some short time and
in some measure, insensible by it. So, among other suggestions or
guesses about probable medicinal uses of inhalation of gases, he wrote,
near the end of his essay: "As nitrous oxide in its extensive operation
appears capable of destroying physical pain, it may probably be used
with advantage during surgical operations in which no great effusion of
blood takes place."
It seems strange that no one caught at a suggestion such as this. True,
the evidence on which it was founded was very slight; it was with a rare
scientific power that Davy had thought out so far beyond his facts; but
he had thought clearly, and as clearly told his belief. Yet no one
earnestly regarded it. The nitrous oxide might have been of as little
general interest as the carbonic or any other, had it not been for the
strange and various excitements produced by its inhalation. These made
it a favourite subject with chemical lecturers, and year after year, in
nearly every chemical theatre, it was fun to inhale it after the lecture
on the gaseous compounds of nitrogen; and among those who inhaled it
there must have been many who, in their intoxication, received sharp and
heavy blows, but, at the time, felt no pain. And this went on for more
than forty years, exciting nothing worthy to be called thought or
observation, till, in December, 1844, Mr. Colton, | 603.277731 |
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+-----------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Transliterated Greek words are marked with |
| +'s like so: +Greek+. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------+
ASBESTOS
ITS PRODUCTION AND USE
WITH
_SOME ACCOUNT OF THE ASBESTOS MINES OF CANADA_
BY ROBERT H. JONES
[Illustration]
LONDON:
CROSBY LOCKWOOD AND SON
7, STATIONERS' HALL COURT, LUDGATE HILL
1888
PREFACE.
The substance of the following pages was originally comprised in a
series of Letters from Canada to a friend in London, who was desirous of
obtaining all the authentic information possible on a subject on which
so little appears to be generally known.
The use of Asbestos in the arts and manufactures is now rapidly assuming
such large proportions that, it is believed, it will presently be found
more difficult to say to what purposes it cannot be applied than to what
it can and is.
Under these circumstances, although much of the information here given
is not new, but has been gathered from every available source, it is
hoped that the compilation in its present shape may be found acceptable.
R. H. J.
HOTEL VICTORIA,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE
_April 20, 1888._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTORY 5-8
ASBESTOS AT THE AMERICAN EXHIBITION 9, 10
WHERE FOUND 12-15
ITALIAN AND CANADIAN ASBESTOS COMPARED 16-18
WHERE USED 18
THE ASBESTOS OF ITALY 19-24
CANADIAN MINING FOR ASBESTOS 24-29
ASBESTOS MINES OF CANADA--
THE THETFORD GROUP 29-36
THE COLERAINE GROUP 36-42
BROUGHTON 42-46
DANVILLE 46
SOUTH HAM 47-50
WOLFESTOWN 50
USES TO WHICH ASBESTOS IS APPLIED 55-72
INDEX 75, 76
ASBESTOS.
One of Nature's most marvellous productions, asbestos is a physical
paradox. It has been called a mineralogical vegetable; it is both
fibrous and crystalline, elastic yet brittle; a floating stone, which
can be as readily carded, spun, and woven into tissue as cotton or the
finest silk.
Called by geologists "asbestus" (the termination in os being the
adjective form of the word), the name of the mineral in its Greek form
as commonly used (+asbestos+), signifies "indestructible." The French
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THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS
JOINT EDITORS
ARTHUR MEE Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge
J.A. HAMMERTON Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia
VOL. IX LIVES AND LETTERS
MCMX
* * * * *
Table of Contents
ABELARD AND HELOISE
Love-Letters
AMIEL, H.F.
Fragments of an Intimate Diary
AUGUSTINE, SAINT
Confessions
BOSWELL, JAMES
Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.
BREWSTER, SIR DAVID
Life of Sir Isaac Newton
BUNYAN, JOHN
Grace Abounding
CARLYLE, ALEXANDER
Autobiography
CARLYLE, THOMAS
Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell
Life of Schiller
CELLINI, BENVENUTO
Autobiography
CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANCOIS RENE DE
Memoirs from Beyond the Grave
CHESTERFIELD, EARL OF
Letters to His Son
CICERO, MARCUS TULLIUS
Letters
COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR
Biographia Literaria
COWPER, WILLIAM
Letters
DE QUINCEY, THOMAS
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
DUMAS, ALEXANDRE
Memoirs
EVELYN, JOHN
Diary
FORSTER, JOHN
Life of Goldsmith
FOX, GEORGE
Journal
FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN
Autobiography
GASKELL, MRS.
The Life of Charlotte Bronte
GIBBON, EDWARD
Memoirs
GOETHE, J.W. VON
Letters to Zelter
Poetry and Truth
Conversations with Eckermann
GRAY, THOMAS
Letters
HAMILTON, ANTONY
Memoirs of the Count De Grammont
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL
Our Old Home
A Complete Index of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the end
of Volume XX.
* * * * *
ABELARD AND HELOISE
Love-Letters
In the Paris cemetery of Pere-Lachaise, on summer Sundays,
flowers and wreaths are still laid on the tomb of a woman who
died nearly 750 years ago. It is the grave of Heloise and of
her lover Abelard, the hero and heroine of one of the world's
greatest love stories. Born in 1079, Abelard, after a
scholastic activity of twenty-five years, reached the highest
academic dignity in Christendom--the Chair of the Episcopal
School in Paris. When he was 38 he first saw Heloise, then a
beautiful girl of 17, living with her uncle, Canon Fulbert.
Abelard became her tutor, and fell madly in love with her. The
passion was as madly returned. The pair fled to Brittany,
where a child was born. There was a secret marriage, but
because she imagined it would hinder Abelard's advancement,
Heloise denied the marriage. Fulbert was furious. With hired
assistance, he invaded Abelard's rooms and brutally mutilated
him. Abelard, distressed by this degradation, turned monk. But
he must have Heloise turn nun; she agreed, and at 22 took the
veil. Ten years later she learned that Abelard had not found
content in his retirement, and wrote to him the first of the
five famous letters. Abelard died in 1142, and his remains
were given into the keeping of Heloise. Twenty years
afterwards she died, and was buried beside him at Paraclete.
In 1800 their remains were taken to Paris, and in 1817
interred in Pere-Lachaise Cemetery. The love-letters,
originally written in Latin, about 1128, were first published
in Paris in 1616.
_I.--Heloise to Abelard_
Heloise has just seen a "consolatory" letter of Abelard's to a friend.
She had no right to open it, but in justification of the liberty she
took, she flatters herself that she may claim a privilege over
everything which comes from that hand.
"But how dear did my curiosity cost me! What disturbance did it
occasion, and how surprised I was to find the whole letter filled with a
particular and melancholy account of our misfortunes! Though length of
time ought to have closed up my wounds, yet the seeing them described by
you was sufficient to make them all open and bleed afresh. Surely all
the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them through the eyes. Upon
reading your letter I feel all mine renewed. Observe, I beseech you, to
what a wretched condition you have reduced me; sad, afflicted, without
any possible comfort unless it proceed from you. Be not then unkind, nor
deny me, I beg of you, that little relief which you only can give. Let
me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know
everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs with
yours I may make your sufferings less, for it has been said that all
sorrows divided are made lighter.
"I shall always have this, if you please, and it will always be
agreeable to me that, when I receive a letter from you, I shall know you
still remember me. I have your picture in my room. I never pass it
without stopping to look at it. If a picture, which is but a mute
representation of an object, can give such pleasure, what cannot letters
inspire? We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not
denied us. I shall read that you are my husband, and you shall see me
sign myself your wife. In spite of all our misfortunes, you may be what
you please in your letter. Having lost the substantial pleasures of
seeing and possessing you, I shall in some measure compensate this loss
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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 | 603.604369 |
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[Illustration: "WHY, MIGNON, I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE HOME FROM SEVERN
BEACH! HOW DO YOU DO?"]
MARJORIE DEAN
High School Senior
By
PAULINE LESTER
AUTHOR OF
"Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman"
"Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore"
"Marjorie Dean, High School Junior"
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers--New York
Copyright, 1917
By A. L. BURT COMPANY
MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Pretense of Friendship 3
II. A Humble Senior 13
III. Missing: a Letter 25
IV. Laying a Cornerstone 36
V. The Hard Road of Duty 50
VI. Strictly Local Politics 63
VII. A Step Toward Popularity 69
VIII. The Rule of Rules 77
IX. A Real Lookout 86
X. Hallowe'en Mysteries 99
XI. An Unwilling Cavalier 112
XII. A Discouraged Reformer 128
XIII. Jerry Declares Herself 141
XIV. An Unrepentant Sinner 154
XV. The Fulfillment of the Plan 165
XVI. A Puzzling Young Person 176
XVII. Choosing a Victim 186
XVIII. Not at Home? 199
XIX. The Sign 212
XX. When Friends Fall Out 223
XXI. A Message from Jerry 236
XXII. Marjorie Decides 244
XXIII. A Stormy Session 254
XXIV. A Treasureless Treasurer 262
XXV. The Treacherous Treasurer and the Slippery Sleuth 272
XXVI. Her Better Self 282
XXVII. Commencement 299
MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR
CHAPTER I--A PRETENSE OF FRIENDSHIP
"Marjorie! Marjorie Dean!" The black-eyed girl in the runabout
accompanied her high-pitched call by a gradual slowing down of the smart
little car she was driving.
The dainty, white-gowned figure on the sidewalk tilted a white parasol
over one shoulder and turned a pair of startled brown eyes in the
direction of the voice. "Why, Mignon, I didn't know you were home from
Severn Beach! How do you do?" Advancing to the runabout, Marjorie Dean
stretched forth a white-gloved hand.
"I've been in Sanford since Wednesday," returned Mignon. Leaning out of
the runabout, she lightly clasped the proffered fingers. "Get into my
car and I'll take you wherever you want to go. I'm glad I saw you. It's
been deadly dull in Sanford with most of the girls still away." Her
elfish eyes noting that Marjorie's smart attire betokened a possible
luncheon or tea, Mignon was consumed with a lively curiosity to learn
the pretty senior's destination. "You look as though you were going to
an afternoon tea," she continued artfully. "Say where and I'll ride you
there."
"Thank you, but I don't believe I'll ride. I was out in the car all
morning with General. It's so lovely this afternoon I'd rather walk. I'm
not bound for a tea, though. I am going to make a call."
Mignon's dark brows drew together in a faint frown. "Oh, pshaw!" she
exclaimed. "Why not ride? Unless you don't wish me to know where you are
going?" she added suspiciously.
"I never thought of that," was Marjorie's honest protest. Yet now that
Mignon had mentioned it, it struck Marjorie rather forcibly that she was
not specially anxious to reveal her destination. "I am going to call on
Miss Archer," she informed her, making an effort to be casual.
"Then I'll take you there. I should like to see her, too," announced
Mignon calmly. She had decided that to call on the principal in
Marjorie's company would be of great advantage to her. "Come on," she
urged.
Too well-bred to exhibit pointed reluctance, Marjorie resigned herself
to the inevitable and stepped into the runabout. Her visit to Miss
Archer was of a somewhat personal nature. Still, she reflected, it was
nothing very secret, after all. Should her mission prove successful,
Mignon would, under any circumstances, soon learn the result.
"How do you know Miss Archer will be at home?" inquired Mignon as she
drove slowly down the shady avenue. "I thought she was still in the
West."
"She came home only yesterday. I telephoned her," returned Marjorie.
"This call of mine is really more like a business appointment. I would
rather have waited until she had her house fairly opened again, but I
couldn't very well. It might be too late."
"Oh!" Mignon was burning to demand further information, but the finality
in Marjorie's tones warned her to go slowly. Between herself and the
latter there remained always a curious wall of reserve created by their
mental attitude toward each other. Mignon did not believe that
Marjorie's friendliness toward herself was sincere. On the other hand,
Marjorie sensed the note of unbelief. She felt that Mignon did not trust
her and it made her uncomfortable when in the French girl's presence.
It was a comparatively short ride to the spacious, old-fashioned house,
set in the midst of giant elms, which the last three generations of
Archers had called home. Of them all Miss Archer and an elder sister
alone remained. The two women had arrived in Sanford from a visit to
Western relatives on the previous day. Even in that short time the big
house had taken on an air of new life. The shuttered windows and
boarded-up doors were now open and a hospitable array of comfortable
wicker and willow chairs on the wide veranda proclaimed that someone was
at home.
"We'll leave the runabout here," decreed Mignon, as they brought up
outside the tall iron gate. She alighted from it in her lithe, cat-like
manner, her restless eyes fixed on the house. Quite forgetting that she
was merely a second party to the call, Mignon motioned impatiently for
Marjorie to follow and set off up the walk in her most imposing manner.
Divided between amusement and vexation, Marjorie gave a little sigh and
stepped quickly after the French girl.
By the time she had reached the veranda, Mignon had rung the door bell.
A moment and it was answered by a young woman whose blue bungalow apron
and dust cap marked her as maid of all work. "Good afternoon," she said
politely. To Marjorie she appeared a trifle embarrassed. "She must be a
new maid," was her first thought. "I wonder if Hulda has left the
Archers." As a frequent guest at Miss Archer's, Marjorie had always
delighted in Hulda, the good-natured Swedish maid. Impulsively she asked
with a winning smile, "Isn't Hulda here any more?"
"Hulda!" The young woman stared curiously at Marjorie, then replied
quickly. "She will be here next week. I am trying to take her place
until she comes." A faint flickering smile touched the corners of her
red lips as she said this.
"Kindly tell Miss Archer that Miss La Salle and Miss Dean are here"
broke in Mignon haughtily. She had already decided that, for a servant,
this girl appeared to feel herself above her position. It was partially
Marjorie's fault. It was always a mistake to treat a servant as an
equal.
The maid favored Mignon with another strange, inscrutable glance. "Miss
La Salle and Miss Dean," she repeated. "Please come into the drawing
room. I will tell Miss Archer that you are here." Politely ushering them
into the long, cool drawing room, the maid obsequiously bowed them to
seats and vanished.
"What a pretty girl," was Marjorie's first remark when they were left to
themselves. "She had such lovely golden brown hair and big gray eyes."
"I didn't notice. All maids look alike to me," shrugged Mignon. "I
thought she was altogether too presuming for a servant."
"I thought she was sweet," came Marjorie's earnest reply. She had taken
an instantaneous liking to the new maid. "After all, we're just human
beings, you know, and free and equal. Why, Delia is as much a part of
our home as I am."
"It's very unwise to give servants too much liberty," disagreed Mignon
loftily. "Every one of ours has to keep his or her place. I see to that.
My father is quite apt to let them do as they please. It takes _me_ to
manage them."
Marjorie felt a strong return of her ancient dislike for Mignon sweep
over her. Quickly she conquered it, adroitly turning the conversation
into a more pleasant channel. It was at least ten minutes before the
maid reappeared in the wide curtained doorway. Announcing that Miss
Archer would be with them directly, she nodded almost curtly and
disappeared.
"Good afternoon, Marjorie. I am very glad to see you again," was the
principal's cordial salutation as she entered the room. "How do you do,
Mignon?" Although she gave the French girl her hand, there was an almost
imperceptible reserve in her greeting. To her, Mignon's call was as
unexpected as her sudden decision to pay it had been to Marjorie. "You
must excuse the unsettled appearance of things. We have not yet found
time to take the covers off most of the furniture. When we left for the
West, I sent Hulda off on a visit to her father and mother. She will not
return until next week. Fortunately, my sister and I have Veronica to
help us."
"Veronica," repeated Mignon. "That is a queer name for a maid, isn't
it?"
"'What's in a name?'" quoted Miss Archer lightly. There was a faint
touch of amusement in her quiet tones that nettled Mignon. She concluded
that, as she never had liked Miss Archer, she now merely liked her a
trifle less.
"As you are so busy, Miss Archer, we must not detain you long. I really
ought to apologize for breaking in upon you before you are rested from
your long journey, but I had something quite important to ask you. So I
thought I had better not wait. This may seem like a very personal
question, but----Have you engaged a secretary for this year?" Marjorie
colored faintly at her own temerity.
"No." An expression of annoyance leaped into Miss Archer's fine eyes.
"Miss Lansing, as you know, was graduated last June. That leaves her
place vacant. I cannot tell you how much I have missed Marcia Arnold.
She made an ideal secretary. As I have always selected my secretary from
among those of the Sanford High School girls who are anxious to do extra
work, I suppose I shall have to attend to it as soon as possible. Were
you thinking of applying for the position, Marjorie?" she questioned
humorously.
Marjorie laughed. "Oh, no; I am not clever enough. But I know a girl who
is. She would like the position, too. I am speaking of Lucy Warner. She
really needs the work, Miss Archer, and I am sure she could do it and
keep up in her classes. She is _so_ bright."
"Lucy Warner. Ah, yes, I had not thought of her. She is a remarkably
bright girl. I imagine she would suit me admirably. She seems extremely
capable." Miss Archer appeared signally pleased with the prospect of
Lucy as her secretary. "What do you wish me to do, Marjorie? Shall I
write her?"
"I shall be ever so glad if you will, Miss Archer." Marjorie spoke as
gratefully as though it were she who was the most interested party to
the affair. "I am sure she will accept. Thank you for listening to my
suggestion."
After a little further exchange of conversation, Marjorie rose to make
graceful farewell. Mignon followed suit, a trace of contempt lurking in
her black eyes. She had confidently expected that their call would take
on a purely social tone. As it was, Marjorie had held the floor, giving
her no opportunity to make a favorable impression on Miss Archer. And
all for that frumpy, green-eyed Lucy Warner! It was just like Marjorie
Dean to interest herself in such dowdy persons.
"And is that what your wonderful business appointment was about?" she
asked pettishly as the two girls strolled down the pebbled walk bordered
on each side with clumps of sweet alyssum. "I can't see why you should
trouble yourself about a girl like Lucy Warner. She used to hate you.
She told me so. I suppose the reason she turned around all of a sudden
and began to be nice to you was because she thought you would use your
influence with Miss Archer to get her that position. She knows you are
Miss Archer's pet."
"I am not Miss Archer's pet." Marjorie's voice quivered with vexation.
"She likes ever so many other girls in Sanford High as well as she likes
me." Striving hard to regain her composure, she added, "Lucy hasn't the
least idea that I tried to get her the secretaryship. I know that at one
time she didn't like me. It was a misunderstanding. But it was cleared
up long ago."
"What was it about?" queried Mignon, always eager for a bit of gossip to
retail at her pleasure. "You must tell me."
"It lies between Lucy and me. I have never told anyone about it. I
intend never to tell anyone."
"Oh, I don't care to know." Mignon tossed her head. "I'm sorry now that
I bothered myself to call on Miss Archer. I really shouldn't have taken
the time. I'll have to drive fast to make up for it."
"Don't let me trouble you," assured Marjorie evenly. "I won't be going
back the way we came. I intend to walk on to Gray Gables." By this time
they had passed through the gateway to the runabout.
"As you please," returned Mignon indifferently. "Come over and see me
before school opens, if you have time. Better telephone beforehand,
though, else I may not be at home when you call."
"Thank you." Not forgetting courtesy, Marjorie added, "The same applies
to you in regard to me."
"Thank you. Good-bye," returned Mignon coolly.
"Good-bye." Marjorie turned from the French girl to begin her walk to
Gray Gables. "It's no use," she told herself soberly. "We are both
pretending to be friendly when really we can never be friends. I ought
to feel awfully cross with Mignon. Somehow I feel sorry for her, just as
I've always felt toward her. But for her father's sake, he's such a
splendid man, I'm going to keep on trying. Poor Mignon. It seems as
though she must have started wrong when she was a baby and can never get
set right. She may, perhaps, some day, but I'm afraid that some day is a
long way off."
CHAPTER II--A HUMBLE SENIOR
"Did you see that latest addition to the senior class?" Mignon La
Salle's voice rose in profound disgust as she hurled the question at
Jerry Macy, who had entered the senior locker room directly behind her.
"Of course I saw her. I have eyes," reminded Jerry gruffly. "Pretty
girl, isn't she?" This last comment was a naughty inspiration on Jerry's
part. The French girl's contemptuous tone informed her that the newest
senior had already become a mark for ridicule in Mignon's eyes. She,
therefore, took a contrary stand.
"_Pretty!_" Mignon's tones rose still higher. "That staring-eyed,
white-faced creature! _Your_ eyes can't be very keen. She's a servant,
too; a _servant_."
"You can't expect me to see that," retorted Jerry. "All the more credit
to her if she is. A girl who has to work for her living, but is smart
enough to walk into a strange school and into the senior class is good
enough for anybody to know. You're a snob, Mignon, and you ought to be
ashamed to say such things." Coolly turning her back on the scowling
girl, Jerry busied herself with her locker. Privately she wondered how
Mignon happened to know so much about the newcomer.
Mignon watched her resentfully, longing to say something particularly
cutting, but not daring to do so. When it came to an argument, Jerry
Macy was capable of more than holding her own. As the seniors were now
beginning to arrive in numbers, she had no wish to be publicly worsted.
She could not resist saying satirically, however, as Marjorie Dean
passed her: "Did you see that servant girl of Miss Archer's in our
section this morning?"
"Servant girl?" chorused two or three bystanders, crowding closer to
their informant. "What do you mean? Whom do you mean?"
Marjorie's sweet face clouded at the intentional cruelty of Mignon's
speech. How could she exhibit such heartlessness toward one whom she
hardly knew? "Are you referring to Veronica Browning?" she asked in a
clear, decided voice. "I am ever so glad she is going to be in our
class. I think she's a dear."
"Veronica Browning," repeated Mignon, laughing. "I wonder how she came
by such a high-sounding name. Most servants are satisfied | 603.668325 |
2023-11-16 18:27:07.7678950 | 2,070 | 7 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, KD Weeks 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.)
Transcriber's Note
Footnotes and section headers were both printed in the margins as
sidenotes.
For this text version, numbered marginal footnotes have been moved to
the end of their paragraphs. The headers have been moved to appear on a
separate line at the beginning of each section. Redundant sidenotes
merely indicating Part and Section numbers have been removed. Those
marginal notes which serve as paragraph descriptions, at or near the
head of a paragraph, precede that paragraph. Those which serve to
annotate specific points are inserted parenthetically as [SN: notes].
The Annotator's note which precedes Religio Medici uses marginal notes
as references to the relevant sections and pages in the printed text.
On occasion, the Latin passages employ a scribal abbreviation 'q;' for
'qus', which has been retained.
Descriptive notes have been inserted at the beginning of the sentence to
which they refer, like this: [Sidenote: Use of Italics] Italics are used
freely, and have been rendered using _underscore_ characters.
Please consult the more detailed notes at the end of this text.
THE ENGLISH LIBRARY
THE WORKS OF
SIR THOMAS BROWNE
VOLUME I
[Illustration]
THE WORKS OF
SIR THOMAS BROWNE
Edited by
CHARLES SAYLE
VOLUME I
LONDON
GRANT RICHARDS
1904
PREFATORY NOTE
This edition is an endeavour to arrive at a more satisfactory text of
the work of Sir Thomas Browne, and to reproduce the principal part of
it, as faithfully as seems advisable, in the form in which it was
presented to the public at the time of his death. For this purpose, in
the first volume, the text of the _Religio Medici_ follows more
particularly the issue of 1682. The _Pseudodoxia Epidemica_ here given
is based upon the sixth edition of ten years earlier, with careful
revision. In every case in which a spelling or punctuation was dubious,
a comparison was made of nearly all the issues printed during the
lifetime of the writer, and their merits weighed. By this means it is
hoped that the true flavour of the period has been preserved.
The Annotations upon the _Religio Medici_, which were always reprinted
with the text during the seventeenth century, are here restored. They
will appeal to a certain class of readers which has a right to be
considered. It is to be regretted that every quotation given in these
pages has not been verified. Several have been corrected; but to have
worked through them all, in these busy days, would have been a labour
of some years, which it is not possible to devote to the purpose. It has
been thought best to leave these passages therefore, in the main, as
they stand.[1]
The portrait of Sir Thomas Browne here prefixed is reproduced from the
engraving published in 1672 with the edition of the _Religio Medici_ and
_Pseudodoxia Epidemica_.
C.S.
_August, 1903._
[1] The quotation, now corrected, from Montaigne, on p. xxii, is a
typical example of the pitfall into which one is liable to stumble.
The passage there cited is in chapter xl. of the French author's
later arrangement: a clear indication of the edition of the _Essais_
used by the author of the Annotations. What is one to make of the
readings in Lucretius on p. xxv? No light is thrown upon these
difficulties by the edition of Browne's works published in 1686.
Wilkin did not reprint the Annotations, except in selection.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFATORY NOTE BY THE EDITOR, v
ANNOTATIONS UPON 'RELIGIO MEDICI,' ix
A LETTER SENT UPON THE INFORMATION OF ANIMADVERSIONS, 1
TO THE READER. 3
RELIGIO MEDICI, 7
PSEUDODOXIA EPIDEMICA, 113
TO THE READER, 115
THE FIRST BOOK:
1. Of the Causes of Common Errors, 121
2. A further Illustration of the same, 127
3. Of the second cause of Popular Errors; the
erroneous disposition of the People, 132
4. Of the nearer and more Immediate Causes
of Popular Errors, 140
5. Of Credulity and Supinity, 147
6. Of Adherence unto Antiquity, 152
7. Of Authority, 161
8. A brief enumeration of Authors, 168
9. Of the Same, 178
10. Of the last and common Promoter of false
Opinions, the endeavours of Satan, 182
11. A further Illustration, 193
THE SECOND BOOK:
1. Of Crystal, 202
2. Concerning the Loadstone, 216
3. Concerning the Loadstone, 233
4. Of Bodies Electrical, 254
5. Compendiously of sundry other common
Tenents, concerning Mineral and Terreous
Bodies, 262
6. Of sundry Tenets concerning Vegetables or
Plants, 285
7. Of some Insects, and the Properties of
several Plants, 299
THE THIRD BOOK, CHAPTERS I.-X.:
1. Of the Elephant, 308
2. Of the Horse, 314
3. Of the Dove, 317
4. Of the Bever, 321
5. Of the Badger, 326
6. Of the Bear, 328
7. Of the Basilisk, 331
8. Of the Wolf, 338
9. Of the Deer, 340
10. Of the King-fisher, 348
ANNOTATIONS UPON
RELIGIO MEDICI
_Nec satis est vulgasse fidem._--
Pet. Arbit. fragment.
THE ANNOTATOR TO THE READER
A. Gellius (noct. Attic. l. 20. cap. _ult._) _notes some Books that had
strange Titles_; Pliny (Prefat. Nat. Hist.) _speaking of some such,
could not pass them over without a jeer: So strange (saith he) are the
Titles of some Books_, Ut multos ad vadimonium deferendum compellant.
_And_ Seneca _saith, some such there are_, Qui patri obstetricem
parturienti filiae accersenti moram injicere possint. _Of the same fate
this present Tract_ Religio Medici _hath partaken: Exception by some
hath been taken to it in respect of its Inscription, which say they,
seems to imply that_ Physicians _have a Religion by themselves, which is
more than Theologie doth warrant: but it is their Inference, and not the
Title that is to blame; for no more is meant by that, or endeavoured to
be prov'd in the_ Book _then that (contrary to the opinion of the
unlearned_) Physitians _have Religion as well as other men_.
_For the Work it self, the present Age hath produced none that has had
better Reception amongst the learned; it has been received and fostered
by almost all, there having been but one that I knew of_ (_to verifie_
that Books have their Fate from the Capacity of the Reader) _that has
had the face to appear against it; that is_ Mr. Alexander[2] Rosse; _but
he is dead, and it is uncomely to skirmish with his shadow. It shall be
sufficient to remember to the_ Reader, _that the noble and most learned_
Knight, _Sir_ Kenelm Digby, _has delivered his opinion of it in another
sort, who though in some things he differ from the_ Authors _sense, yet
hath he most candidly and ingeniously allow'd it to be a_ very learned
and excellent Piece; _and I think no Scholar will say there can be an
approbation more authentique. Since the time he Published his
Observations upon it, one_ Mr. Jo. Merryweather, _a_ Master _of_ Arts
_of the_ University _of_ Cambridge, _hath deem'd it worthy to be put
into the universal Language, which about the year_ 1644 _he performed;
and that hath carried the Authors name not only into the_ Low-Countries
_and_ France (_in both which places the Book in_ Latin _hath since been
printed_) _but into_ Italy _and_ Germany; _and in_ Germany _it hath
since fallen into the hands of a Gentleman | 603.787935 |
2023-11-16 18:27:07.7696580 | 819 | 24 |
This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler.
“_Whatever your occupation may be_, _and however crowded_
_your hours with affairs_, _do not fail to secure at least_
_a few minutes every day for refreshment of your_
_inner life with a bit of poetry_.”
* * * * *
Poems
You Ought to Know
* * * * *
SELECTED BY
ELIA W. PEATTIE
(_Literary Editor of the Chicago Tribune_)
* * * * *
ILLUSTRATED BY
ELLSWORTH YOUNG
* * * * *
[Picture: Publisher’s logo]
* * * * *
CHICAGO NEW YORK TORONTO
Fleming H. Revell Company
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
* * * * *
Copyright, 1902
By Tribune Company
* * * * *
Each illustration copyrighted separately
* * * * *
Copyright, 1903
Fleming H. Revell Company
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION
Each morning, for several months, THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE has published at
the head of its first column, verses under the caption: “Poems You Ought
to Know.” It has explained its action by the following quotation from
Professor Charles Eliot Norton:
“_Whatever your occupation may be_, _and however crowded your hours
with affairs_, _do not fail to secure at least a few minutes every
day for refreshment of your inner life with a bit of poetry_.”
By publishing these poems THE TRIBUNE hopes to accomplish two things:
first, to inspire a love of poetry in the hearts of many of its readers
who have never before taken time or thought to read the best poems of
this and other centuries and lands; and, secondly, to remind those who
once loved song, but forgot it among the louder voices of the world, of
the melody that enchanted them in youth.
The title has carried with it its own standard, and the poems have been
kept on a plane above jocularity or mere prettiness of versification;
rather have they tried to teach the doctrines of courage, of nature-love,
of pure and noble melody. It has been the ambition of those selecting
the verses to choose something to lift the reader above the “petty round
of irritating concerns and duties,” and the object will have been
achieved if it has helped anyone to “play the man,” “to go blithely about
his business all the day,” with a consciousness of that abounding beauty
in the world of thought which is the common property of all men.
No anthology of English verse can be complete, and none can satisfy all.
The compiler’s individual taste, tempered and guided by established
authority, is almost the only standard. This collection has been
compiled not by one but by many thousands, and their selections here
appear edited and winnowed as the idea of the series seemed to dictate.
The book appears at the wide-spread and almost universal request of those
who have watched the bold experiment of a great Twentieth-Century
American newspaper giving the place of honor in its columns every day to
a selection from the poets.
For permission to reprint certain poems by Longfellow, Lowell, Harte,
Hay, Bayard Taylor, Holmes, Whittier, Parsons, and Aldrich, graciously
accorded by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the publishers, thanks are
gratefully acknowledged. To Charles Scribner’s Sons, for an extract from
Lanier’s poems, and, lastly, to the many thousand readers, who, by their
sympathy, appreciation, and help have encouraged the continu | 603.789698 |
2023-11-16 18:27:07.8294850 | 3,634 | 21 |
Produced by Tonya Allen, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
MY BOYHOOD
By John Burroughs
With A Conclusion By His Son Julian Burroughs
FOREWORD
In the beginning, at least, Father wrote these sketches of his boyhood
and early farm life as a matter of self-defense: I had made a determined
attempt to write them and when I did this I was treading on what was to
him more or less sacred ground, for as he once said in a letter to
me, "You will be homesick; I know just how I felt when I left home
forty-three years ago. And I have been more or less homesick ever since.
The love of the old hills and of Father and Mother is deep in the very
foundations of my being." He had an intense love of his birthplace and
cherished every memory of his boyhood and of his family and of the old
farm high up on the side of Old Clump--"the mountain out of whose loins
I sprang"--so that when I tried to write of him he felt it was time he
took the matter in hand. The following pages are the result.
JULIAN BURROUGHS.
CONTENTS
MY BOYHOOD By John Burroughs
MY FATHER By Julian Burroughs
WAITING
Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst Time or Fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own, and draw
The brook that springs in yonder heights;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delights.
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave comes to the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
MY BOYHOOD, BY JOHN BURROUGHS
You ask me to give you some account of my life--how it was with me, and
now in my seventy-sixth year I find myself in the mood to do so. You
know enough about me to know that it will not be an exciting narrative
or of any great historical value. It is mainly the life of a country man
and a rather obscure man of letters, lived in eventful times indeed, but
largely lived apart from the men and events that have given character to
the last three quarters of a century. Like tens of thousands of
others, I have been a spectator of, rather than a participator in, the
activities--political, commercial, sociological, scientific--of the
times in which I have lived. My life, like your own, has been along the
by-paths rather than along the great public highways. I have known but
few great men and have played no part in any great public events--not
even in the Civil War which I lived through and in which my duty plainly
called me to take part. I am a man who recoils from noise and strife,
even from fair competition, and who likes to see his days "linked each
to each" by some quiet, congenial occupation.
The first seventeen years of my life were spent on the farm where I was
born (1837-1854); the next ten years I was a teacher in rural district
schools (1854-1864); then I was for ten years a government clerk in
Washington (1864-1873); then in the summer of 1873, while a national
bank examiner and bank receiver, I purchased the small fruit farm on
the Hudson where you were brought up and where I have since lived,
cultivating the land for marketable fruit and the fields and woods for
nature literature, as you well know. I have gotten out of my footpaths a
few times and traversed some of the great highways of travel--have been
twice to Europe, going only as far as Paris (1871 and 1882)--the first
time sent to London by the Government with three other men to convey
$50,000,000 of bonds to be refunded; the second time going with my
family on my own account. I was a member of the Harriman expedition to
Alaska in the summer of 1899, going as far as Plover Bay on the extreme
N. E. part of Siberia. I was the companion of President Roosevelt on a
trip to Yellowstone Park in the spring of 1903. In the winter and spring
of 1909 I went to California with two women friends and extended the
journey to the Hawaiian Islands, returning home in June. In 1911 I again
crossed the continent to California. I have camped and tramped in
Maine and in Canada, and have spent part of a winter in Bermuda and in
Jamaica. This is an outline of my travels. I have known but few great
men. I met Carlyle in the company of Moncure Conway in London in
November, 1871. I met Emerson three times--in 1863 at West Point; in
1871 in Baltimore and Washington, where I heard him lecture; and at
the Holmes birthday breakfast in Boston in 1879. I knew Walt Whitman
intimately from 1863 until his death in 1892. I have met Lowell and
Whittier, but not Longfellow or Bryant; I have seen Lincoln, Grant,
Sherman, Early, Sumner, Garfield, Cleveland, and other notable men of
those days. I heard Tyndall deliver his course of lectures on Light in
Washington in 1870 or '71, but missed seeing Huxley during his visit
here. I dined with the Rossettis in London in 1871, but was not
impressed by them nor they by me. I met Matthew Arnold in New York and
heard his lecture on Emerson. My books are, in a way, a record of my
life--that part of it that came to flower and fruit in my mind. You
could reconstruct my days pretty well from those volumes. A writer who
gleans his literary harvest in the fields and woods reaps mainly where
he has sown himself. He is a husbandman whose crop springs from the seed
of his own heart.
My life has been a fortunate one; I was born under a lucky star. It
seems as if both wind and tide had favoured me. I have suffered no great
losses, or defeats, or illness, or accidents, and have undergone no
great struggles or privations; I have had no grouch, I have not wanted
the earth. I am pessimistic by night, but by day I am a confirmed
optimist, and it is the days that have stamped my life. I have found
this planet a good corner of the universe to live in and I am not in a
hurry to exchange it for any other. I hope the joy of living may be as
keen with you, my dear boy, as it has been with me and that you may have
life on as easy terms as I have. With this foreword I will begin the
record in more detail.
I have spoken of my good luck. It began in my being born on a farm, of
parents in the prime of their days, and in humble circumstances. I deem
it good luck, too, that my birth fell in April, a month in which so
many other things find it good to begin life. Father probably tapped
the sugar bush about this time or a little earlier; the bluebird and the
robin and song sparrow may have arrived that very day. New calves
were bleating in the barn and young lambs under the shed. There were
earth-stained snow drifts on the hillside, and along the stone walls and
through the forests that covered the mountains the coat of snow showed
unbroken. The fields were generally bare and the frost was leaving the
ground. The stress of winter was over and the warmth of spring began to
be felt in the air. I had come into a household of five children, two
girls and three boys, the oldest ten years and the youngest two. One had
died in infancy, making me the seventh child. Mother was twenty-nine and
father thirty-five, a medium-sized, freckled, red-haired man, showing
very plainly the Celtic or Welsh strain in his blood, as did mother,
who was a Kelly and of Irish extraction on the paternal side. I had come
into a family of neither wealth nor poverty as those things were looked
upon in those days, but a family dedicated to hard work winter and
summer in paying for and improving a large farm, in a country of wide
open valleys and long, broad-backed hills and gentle flowing mountain
lines; very old geologically, but only one generation from the stump in
the history of the settlement. Indeed, the stumps lingered in many
of the fields late into my boyhood, and one of my tasks in the dry
mid-spring weather was to burn these stumps--an occupation I always
enjoyed because the adventure of it made play of the work. The climate
was severe in winter, the mercury often dropping to 30 deg. below, though we
then had no thermometer to measure it, and the summers, at an altitude
of two thousand feet, cool and salubrious. The soil was fairly good,
though encumbered with the laminated rock and stones of the Catskill
formation, which the old ice sheet had broken and shouldered and
transported about. About every five or six acres had loose stones and
rock enough to put a rock-bottomed wall around it and still leave enough
in and on the soil to worry the ploughman and the mower. All the farms
in that section reposing in the valleys and bending up and over
the broad-backed hills are checker-boards of stone walls, and the
right-angled fields, in their many colours of green and brown and yellow
and red, give a striking map-like appearance to the landscape. Good
crops of grain, such as rye, oats, buckwheat, and yellow corn, are
grown, but grass is the most natural product. It is a grazing country
and the dairy cow thrives there, and her products are the chief source
of the incomes of the farms.
I had come into a home where all the elements were sweet; the water and
the air as good as there is in the world, and where the conditions of
life were of a temper to discipline both mind and body. The settlers of
my part of the Catskills were largely from Connecticut and Long Island,
coming in after or near the close of the Revolution, and with a good
mixture of Scotch emigrants.
My great-grandfather, Ephraim Burroughs, came, with his family of eight
or ten children, from near Danbury, Conn., and settled in the town
of Stamford shortly after the Revolution. He died there in 1818. My
grandfather, Eden, came into the town of Roxbury, then a part of Ulster
County.
I had come into a land flowing with milk, if not with honey. The maple
syrup may very well take the place of the honey. The sugar maple was the
dominant tree in the woods and the maple sugar the principal sweetening
used in the family. Maple, beech, and birch wood kept us warm in winter,
and pine and hemlock timber made from trees that grew in the deeper
valleys formed the roofs and the walls of the houses. The breath of kine
early mingled with my own breath. From my earliest memory the cow was
the chief factor on the farm and her products the main source of the
family income; around her revolved the haying and the harvesting. It was
for her that we toiled from early July until late August, gathering the
hay into the barns or into the stacks, mowing and raking it by hand.
That was the day of the scythe and the good mower, of the cradle and
the good cradler, of the pitchfork and the good pitcher. With the modern
agricultural machinery the same crops are gathered now with less than
half the outlay of human energy, but the type of farmer seems to have
deteriorated in about the same proportion. The third generation of
farmers in my native town are much like the third steeping of tea, or
the third crop of corn where no fertilizers have been used. The large,
picturesque, and original characters who improved the farms and paid for
them are about all gone, and their descendants have deserted the farms
or are distinctly of an inferior type. The farms keep more stock and
yield better crops, owing to the amount of imported grain consumed
upon them, but the families have dwindled or gone out entirely, and the
social and the neighbourhood spirit is not the same. No more huskings
or quiltings, or apple cuts, or raisings or "bees" of any sort. The
telephone and the rural free delivery have come and the automobile and
the daily newspaper. The roads are better, communication quicker,
and the houses and barns more showy, but the men and the women, and
especially the children, are not there. The towns and the cities are
now colouring and dominating the country which they have depleted of its
men, and the rural districts are becoming a faded replica of town life.
The farm work to which I was early called upon to lend a hand, as I have
said, revolved around the dairy cow. Her paths were in the fields and
woods, her sonorous voice was upon the hills, her fragrant breath was
upon every breeze. She was the centre of our industries. To keep her
in good condition, well pastured in summer and well housed and fed in
winter, and the whole dairy up to its highest point of efficiency--to
this end the farmer directed his efforts. It was an exacting occupation.
In summer the day began with the milking and ended with the milking; and
in winter it began with the foddering and ended with the foddering, and
the major part of the work between and during both seasons had for its
object, directly or indirectly, the well-being of the herd. Getting the
cows and turning away the cows in summer was usually the work of the
younger boys; turning them out of the stable and putting them back in
winter was usually the work of the older. The foddering them from the
stack in the field in winter also fell to the lot of the older members
of the family.
In milking we all took a hand when we had reached the age of about ten
years, Mother and my sisters usually doing their share. At first we
milked the cows in the road in front of the house, setting the pails of
milk on the stone work; later we milked them in a yard in the orchard
behind the house, and of late years the milking is done in the stable.
Mother said that when they first came upon the farm, as she sat milking
a cow in the road one evening, she saw a large black animal come out
of the woods out where the clover meadow now is, and cross the road and
disappear in the woods on the other side. Bears sometimes carried off
the farmers' hogs in those days, boldly invading the pens to do so. My
father kept about thirty cows of the Durham breed; now the dairy herds
are made up of Jerseys or Holsteins. Then the product that went to
market was butter, now it is milk. Then the butter was made on the farm
by the farmer's wife or the hired girl, now it is made in the creameries
by men. My mother made most of the butter for nearly forty years,
packing thousands of tubs and firkins of it in that time. The milk was
set in tin pans on a rack in the milk house for the cream to rise, and
as soon as the milk clabbered it was skimmed.
About three o'clock in the afternoon during the warm weather Mother
would begin skimming the milk, carrying it pan by pan to the big cream
pan, where with a quick movement of a case knife the cream was separated
from the sides of the pan, the pan tilted on the edge of the cream | 603.849525 |
2023-11-16 18:27:07.9545350 | 1,270 | 9 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Steven desJardins, and Distributed
Proofreaders
Bullets & Billets
By Bruce Bairnsfather
1916
TO MY OLD PALS,
"BILL," "BERT," AND "ALF,"
WHO HAVE SAT IN THE MUD WITH ME
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
Landing at Havre--Tortoni's--Follow the tram lines--Orders
for the Front.
CHAPTER II
Tortuous travelling--Clippers and tablets--Dumped at a
siding--I join my Battalion.
CHAPTER III
Those Plugstreet trenches--Mud and rain--Flooded out--A
hopeless dawn.
CHAPTER IV
More mud--Rain and bullets--A bit of cake--"Wind up"--Night
rounds.
CHAPTER V
My man Friday--"Chuck us the biscuits"--Relieved--Billets.
CHAPTER VI
The Transport Farm--Fleeced by the Flemish--Riding--Nearing
Christmas.
CHAPTER VII
A projected attack---Digging a sap--An 'ell of a night--The
attack--Puncturing Prussians.
CHAPTER VIII
Christmas Eve--A lull in hate--Briton cum Boche.
CHAPTER IX
Souvenirs--A ride to Nieppe--Tea at H.Q.--Trenches once more.
CHAPTER X
My partial escape from the mud--The deserted village--My
"cottage."
CHAPTER XI
Stocktaking--Fortifying--Nebulous Fragments.
CHAPTER XII
A brain wave--Making a "funk hole"--Plugstreet Wood--Sniping.
CHAPTER XIII
Robinson Crusoe--That turbulent table.
CHAPTER XIV
The Amphibians--Fed-up, but determined--The gun parapet.
CHAPTER XV
Arrival of the "Johnsons"--"Where did that one go?"--The
First Fragment dispatched--The exodus--Where?
CHAPTER XVI
New trenches--The night inspection--Letter from the
_Bystander_.
CHAPTER XVII
Wulverghem--The Douve--Corduroy boards--Back at our farm.
CHAPTER XVIII
The painter and decorator--Fragments forming--Night on the
mud prairie.
CHAPTER XIX
Visions of leave--Dick Turpin--Leave!
CHAPTER XX
That Leave train--My old pal--London and home--The call of
the wild.
CHAPTER XXI
Back from leave--That "blinkin' moon"--Johnson 'oles--Tommy
and "frightfulness"--Exploring expedition.
CHAPTER XXII
A daylight stalk--The disused trench--"Did they see me?"--A
good sniping position.
CHAPTER XXIII
Our moated farm--Wulverghem--The Cure's house--A shattered
Church--More "heavies"--A farm on fire.
CHAPTER XXIV
That ration fatigue--Sketches in request--Bailleul--Baths and
lunatics--How to conduct a war.
CHAPTER XXV
Getting stale--Longing for change--We leave the Douve--On the
march--Spotted fever--Ten days' rest.
CHAPTER XXVI
A pleasant change--Suzette, Berthe and Marthe--"La jeune
fille farouche"--Andre.
CHAPTER XXVII
Getting fit--Caricaturing the Cure--"Dirty work ahead"--A
projected attack--Unlooked-for orders.
CHAPTER XXVIII
We march for Ypres--Halt at Locre--A bleak camp and meagre
fare--Signs of battle--First view of Ypres.
CHAPTER XXIX
Getting nearer--A lugubrious party--Still nearer--Blazing
Ypres--Orders for attack.
CHAPTER XXX
Rain and mud--A trying march--In the thick of it--A wounded
officer--Heavy shelling--I get my "quietus!"
CHAPTER XXXI
Slowly recovering--Field hospital--Ambulance train--Back in
England.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Bruce Bairnsfather: a photograph
The Birth of "Fragments": Scribbles on the farmhouse walls
That Astronomical Annoyance, the Star Shell
"Plugstreet Wood"
A Hopeless Dawn
The usual line in Billeting Farms
"Chuck us the biscuits, Bill. The fire wants mendin'"
"Shut that blinkin' door. There's a 'ell of a draught in 'ere"
A Memory of Christmas, 1914
The Sentry
A Messines Memory: "'Ow about shiftin' a bit further down the road, Fred?"
"Old soldiers never die"
Photograph of the Author. St. Yvon, Christmas Day, 1914
Off "in" again
"Poor old Maggie! She seems to be 'avin' it dreadful wet at 'ome!"
The Tin-opener
"They're devils to snipe, ain't they, Bill?"
Old Bill
FOREWORD
_Down South, in the Valley of the Somme, far
from the spots recorded in this book, I began
to write this story._
_In billets it was. I strolled across the old
farmyard and into the wood beyond. Sitting
by a gurgling little stream, I began, with the
aid of a notebook and a pencil, to record the
joys and sorrows of my first six months in
France._
_I do not claim any unique quality for these
experiences. Many thousands have had the
same. I have merely, by request, made a
record of my times out there, in the way that
they appeared to me_.
BRUCE BAIRNSFATHER.
CHAPTER I
LANDING AT HAVRE--TORTONI'S--FOLLOW
THE TRAM LINES--ORDERS FOR THE FRONT
[Ill | 603.974575 |
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Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
WOMEN AND ECONOMICS
A Study of the Economic Relation Between Men and Women as a Factor in
Social Evolution
By
Charlotte Perkins Stetson
[Illustration]
London: G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Boston: Small, Maynard & Company
1900
PROEM
_In dark and early ages, through the primal forests faring,
Ere the soul came shining into prehistoric night,
Twofold man was equal; they were comrades dear and daring,
Living wild and free together in unreasoning delight._
_Ere the soul was born and consciousness came slowly,
Ere the soul was born, to man and woman, too,
Ere he found the Tree of Knowledge, that awful tree and holy,
Ere he knew he felt, and knew he knew._
_Then said he to Pain, “I am wise now, and I know you!
No more will I suffer while power and wisdom last!”
Then said he to Pleasure, “I am strong, and I will show you
That the will of man can seize you,—aye, and hold you fast!”_
_Food he ate for pleasure, and wine he drank for gladness.
And woman? Ah, the woman! the crown of all delight!
His now,—he knew it! He was strong to madness
In that early dawning after prehistoric night._
_His,—his forever! That glory sweet and tender!
Ah, but he would love her! And she should love but him!
He would work and struggle for her, he would shelter and defend her,—
She should never leave him, never, till their eyes in death were dim._
_Close, close he bound her, that she should leave him never;
Weak still he kept her, lest she be strong to flee;
And the fainting flame of passion he kept alive forever
With all the arts and forces of earth and sky and sea._
_And, ah, the long journey! The slow and awful ages
They have labored up together, blind and crippled, all astray!
Through what a mighty volume, with a million shameful pages,
From the freedom of the forests to the prisons of to-day!_
_Food he ate for pleasure, and it slew him with diseases!
Wine he drank for gladness, and it led the way to crime!
And woman? He will hold her,—he will have her when he pleases,—
And he never once hath seen her since the prehistoric time!_
_Gone the friend and comrade of the day when life was younger,
She who rests and comforts, she who helps and saves.
Still he seeks her vainly, with a never-dying hunger;
Alone beneath his tyrants, alone above his slaves!_
_Toiler, bent and weary with the load of thine own making!
Thou who art sad and lonely, though lonely all in vain!
Who hast sought to conquer Pleasure and have her for the taking,
And found that Pleasure only was another name for Pain_—
_Nature hath reclaimed thee, forgiving dispossession!
God hath not forgotten, though man doth still forget!
The woman-soul is rising, in despite of thy transgression—
Loose her now, and trust her! She will love thee yet!_
_Love thee? She will love thee as only freedom knoweth!
Love thee? She will love thee while Love itself doth live!
Fear not the heart of woman! No bitterness it showeth!
The ages of her sorrow have but taught her to forgive!_
PREFACE
_This book is written to offer a simple and natural explanation of one
of the most common and most perplexing problems of human life,—a problem
which presents itself to almost every individual for practical solution,
and which demands the most serious attention of the moralist, the
physician, and the sociologist_—
_To show how some of the worst evils under which we suffer, evils long
supposed to be inherent and ineradicable in our natures, are but the
result of certain arbitrary conditions of our own adoption, and how, by
removing those conditions, we may remove the evils resultant_—
_To point out how far we have already gone in the path of improvement,
and how irresistibly the social forces of to-day are compelling us
further, even without our knowledge and against our violent
opposition,—an advance which may be greatly quickened by our recognition
and assistance_—
_To reach in especial the thinking women of to-day, and urge upon | 604.073235 |
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Produced by David Widger
ROUGHING IT
by Mark Twain
1880
Part 2.
CHAPTER XI.
And sure enough, two or three years afterward, we did hear him again.
News came to the Pacific coast that the Vigilance Committee in Montana
(whither Slade had removed from Rocky Ridge) had hanged him. I find an
account of the affair in the thrilling little book I quoted a paragraph
from in the last chapter--"The Vigilantes of Montana; being a Reliable
Account of the Capture, Trial and Execution of Henry Plummer's Notorious
Road Agent Band: By Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale, Virginia City, M.T."
Mr. Dimsdale's chapter is well worth reading, as a specimen of how the
people of the frontier deal with criminals when the courts of law prove
inefficient. Mr. Dimsdale makes two remarks about Slade, both of which
are accurately descriptive, and one of which is exceedingly picturesque:
"Those who saw him in his natural state only, would pronounce him to be a
kind husband, a most hospitable host and a courteous gentleman; on the
contrary, those who met him when maddened with liquor and surrounded by a
gang of armed roughs, | 604.07809 |
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Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD"
Contents of this Volume
_My Friend the Dutchman. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._
_My College Friends. No. II. Horace Leicester._
_The Emerald Studs. By Professor Aytoun._
_My College Friends. No. III. Mr W. Wellington Hurst._
_Christine: a Dutch Story. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._
_The Man in the Bell._
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD."
MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN.
BY FREDERICK HARDMAN.
[_MAGA._ OCTOBER 1847.]
"And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?"
"Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame
Van Haubitz."
"You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true
position?"
"Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a
scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch
of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old
story; going out for wool and returning shorn."
The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in
the public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the
Hill--then an insignificant handful of houses, officiating as capital
of the important landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hote had been
over some time; the guests had departed to repose in their apartments
until the hour of evening promenade should summon them to the excellent
band of music, provided by the calculating liberality of the
gaming-house keepers, and to loiter round the _brunnen_ of more or less
nauseous flavour, the pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and
gamblers. The waiters had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from
the public table, and to doze away the time till the approach of supper
renewed their activity. My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the
deserted apartment, was a man of about thirty years of age, whose dark
hair and mustaches, marked features, spare person, and complexion
bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled him to pass for a native of southern
Europe, or even of some more ardent clime. Nevertheless he answered to
the very Dutch patronymic of Van Haubitz, and was a native of Holland,
in whose principal city his father was a banker of considerable wealth
and financial influence.
It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had
been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys,
who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne
to Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects passed as soon
as perceived; drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as
Steinberger-Cabinet, eating vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and
excellent ones in the capital hotels which British cash and patronage
have raised upon the banks of the most renowned of German streams. On
the contrary, I had early dispensed with the aid of steam, to wander on
foot, with the occasional assistance of a lazy country diligence or
rickety _einspaenner_, through the many beautiful districts that lie upon
either bank of the river; pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing
myself in the Odenwald, and pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a
trout out of the numerous streamlets that dash and meander through dell
and ravine, on their way to swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At
last, weary of solitude--scarcely broken by an occasional gossip with a
heavy German boor, village priest, or strolling student--I thirsted
after the haunts of civilisation, and found myself, within a day of the
appearance of the symptom, installed in a luxurious hotel in the free
city of Frankfort on the Maine. But Frankfort at that season is
deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape as fast as possible from
its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, after glancing over an
English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll in the beautiful
garden surrounding the city, and another through the Jew-quarter--always
interesting and curious, although anything but savoury at that warm
season--I gathered together my baggage and was off to Homburg. There I
could not complain of solitude, of deserted streets and shuttered
windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of gaily dressed belles
and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, who, from six in the
morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the walks, watered
themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions in the
golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three
middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town
of Homburg. Manage it they did, however; crept into their narrow cells
at night, to emerge next morning, like butterflies from the chrysalis,
gay, bright, and brilliant, and to recommence the never-varying but
pleasant round of eating, sauntering, love-making, and gambling. Homburg
was not then what it has since become. That great house of cards, the
new Cursaal, had not yet arisen; and its table-d'hote, reading-room, and
profane mysteries of roulette and rouge-et-noir, found temporary
domicile in a narrow, disreputable-looking den in the main street, where
accommodation of all kinds, but especially for dinner, was scanty in the
extreme. The public tables at the hotels were consequently thronged, and
there acquaintances were soon made. The day of my arrival at Homburg I
was seated next to Van Haubitz; his manner was off-hand and frank; we
entered into conversation, took our after-dinner cigar and evening
stroll together, and by bed-time had knocked up that sort of intimacy
easily contracted at a watering-place, which lasts one's time of
residence, and is extinguished and forgotten on departure. Van Haubitz,
like many Continentals and very few Englishmen, was one of those
free-and-easy communicative persons who are as familiar after twelve
hours' acquaintance as if they had known you twelve years, and who do
not hesitate to confide to a three days' acquaintance the history of
their lives, their pursuits, position, and prospects. I was soon made
acquainted, to a very considerable extent, at least, with those of my
friend Van Haubitz, late lieutenant of artillery in the service of his
majesty the King of Holland. He was the youngest of four sons, and
having shown, at a very early age, a wild and intractable disposition
and precocious addiction to dissipation, his father pronounced him
unsuited to business, and decided on placing him in the army. To this
the _Junker_ (he claimed nobility, and displayed above his arms a
species of coronet, bearing considerable resemblance to a fragment of
chevaux-de-frise, which he might have been puzzled to prop with a
parchment) had no particular objection, and might have made a good
enough officer, but for his reckless, spendthrift manner of life, which
entailed negligence of duty and frequent reprimands. Extravagant beyond
measure, unable to deny himself any gratification, squandering money as
though millions were at his command, he was constantly overwhelmed with
debts and a martyr to duns. At last his father, after thrice clearing
him with his creditors, consented to do so a fourth time only on
condition of his getting transferred to a regiment stationed in the
Dutch East Indies, and remaining there until his return had the paternal
sanction. To avoid a prison, and perhaps not altogether sorry to leave a
country where his cash and credit were alike exhausted, he embarked for
Batavia. But any pleasant day-dreams he may have cherished of tropical
luxuries, of the indulgence of a _farniente_ life in a grass hammock,
gently balanced by Javan houris beneath banana shades, of spice-laden
breezes and cool sherbets, and other attributes of a Mohammedan
paradise, were speedily dissipated by the odious realities of filth and
vermin, marsh-fever and mosquitoes. He wrote to his father, describing
the horrors of the place, and begging to be released from his pledge and
allowed to return to Holland. His obdurate progenitor replied by a
letter of reproach, and swore that if he left Batavia he might live on
his pay, and never expect a stiver from the paternal strong-box, either
as gift or bequest. To live upon his pay would have been no easy matter,
even for a more prudent person than Van Haubitz. He grumbled
immoderately, swore like a pagan, but remained where he was. A year
passed and he could hold out no longer. Disregarding the paternal
displeasure, and reckless of consequences, he applied to the chief
military authority of the colony for leave of absence. He was asked his
plea, and alleged ill health. The general thought he looked pretty well,
and requested the sight of a medical certificate of his invalid state.
Van Haubitz assumed a doleful countenance and betook him to the
surgeons. They agreed with the general that his aspect was healthy:
asked for symptoms; could discover none more alarming than regularity of
pulse, sleep, appetite, and digestion, laughed in his face and refused
the certificate. The sickly gunner, who had the constitution of a
rhinoceros, and had never had a day's illness since he got over the
measles at the age of four years, waited a little, and tried the second
"dodge," usually resorted to in such cases. "Urgent private affairs"
were now the pretext. The general expressed his regret that urgent
public affairs rendered it impossible for him to dispense with the
valuable services of Lieutenant Van Haubitz. Whereupon Lieutenant Van
Haubitz passed half an hour in heaping maledictions on the head of his
disobliging commander, and then sat down and wrote an application for an
exchange to the authorities in Holland. The reply was equally
unsatisfactory, the fact being that Haubitz senior, like an implacable
old savage as he was, had made interest at the war-office for the
refusal of all such requests on the part of his scapegrace offspring.
Haubitz junior took patience for another year, and then, in a moment of
extreme disgust and ennui, threw up his commission and returned to
Europe, trusting, he told me, that after five years' absence, the
governor's bowels would yearn towards his youngest-born. In this he was
entirely mistaken; he greatly underrated the toughness of paternal
viscera. Far from killing the fatted calf on the prodigal's return, the
incensed old Hollander refused him the smallest cutlet, and, shutting
the door in his face, consigned him, with more energy than affection, to
the custody of the evil one. Van Haubitz found himself in an awkward
fix. Credit was dead, none of his relatives would notice or assist him;
his whole fortune consisted of a dozen gold Wilhelms. At this critical
moment an eccentric maiden aunt, to whom, a year or two previously, he
had sent a propitiatory offering of a ring-tailed monkey and a leash of
pea-green parrots, and who had never condescended to acknowledge the
present, departed this life, bequeathing him ten thousand florins as a
return for the addition to her menagerie. A man of common prudence, and
who had seen himself so near destitution, would have endeavoured to
employ this sum, moderate as it was, in some trade or business, or, at
any rate, would have lived sparingly till he found other resources. But
Haubitz had not yet sown all his wild-oats; he had a soul above barter,
a glorious disregard of the future, the present being provided for. He
left Holland, shaking the dust from his boots, dashed across Belgium,
and was soon plunged in the gaieties of a Paris carnival. Breakfasts at
the Rocher, dinners at the Cafe, balls at the opera, and the concomitant
_petits soupers_ and ecarte parties with the fair denizens of the
Quartier Lorette, soon operated a prodigious chasm in the monkey-money,
as Van Haubitz irreverently styled his venerable aunt's bequest. Spring
having arrived, he beat a retreat from Paris, and established himself at
Homburg, where he was quietly completing the consumption of the ten
thousand florins, at rather a slower pace than he would have done at
that headquarters of pleasant iniquity, the capital of France. From
hints he let fall, I suspected a short time would suffice to see the
last of the legacy. On this head, however, he had been less confidential
than on most other matters, and certainly his manner of living would
have led no one to suppose he was low in the locker. Nothing was too
good for him; he drank the best of wines, got up parties and pic-nics
for the ladies, and had a special addiction to the purchase of costly
trinkets, which he generally gave away before they had been a day in his
possession. He did not gamble; he had done so, he told me, once since
he was at Homburg, and had won, but he had no faith in his luck, or
taste for that kind of excitement, and should play no more. He was
playing another game just now, which apparently interested him greatly.
A few days before myself, a young actress, who, within a very short
time, had acquired considerable celebrity, had arrived at Homburg,
escorted by her mother. Frauelein Emilie Sendel was a lively lady of
four-and-twenty or thereabouts, possessing a smart figure and pretty
face, the latter somewhat wanting in refinement. Her blue eyes, although
rather too prominent, had a merry sparkle; her cheeks had not yet been
entirely despoiled by envious rouge of their natural healthful tinge;
her hair, of that peculiar tint of red auburn which the French call a
_blonde hasarde_, was more remarkable for abundance and flexibility than
for fineness of texture. As regarded her qualities and accomplishments,
she was good-humoured and tolerably unaffected, but wilful and
capricious as a spoiled child; she spoke her own language pretty well,
with an occasional slight vulgarism or bit of greenroom slang; had a
smattering of French, and played the piano sufficiently to accompany the
ballads and vaudeville airs which she sang with spirit and considerable
freedom of style. I had met German actresses who were far more lady-like
off the stage, but there was nothing glaringly or repulsively vulgar
about Emilie, and as a neighbour at a public dinner-table, she was
amusing and quite above par. As if to vindicate her nationality, she
would occasionally look sentimental; but the mood sat ill upon her, and
never lasted long: comedy was evidently her natural line. Against her
reputation, rumour, always an inquisitive censor, often a mean libeller,
of ladies of her profession, had as yet, so far as I could learn, found
nothing to allege. Her mother, a dingy old dowager, with bad teeth,
dowdy gowns, a profusion of artificial flowers, and a strong addiction
to tea and knitting | 604.152162 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
The Third Part of The Greville Memoirs contains two volumes, of which
this is the second. The first volume is available from Project Gutenberg
at http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40680
All spellings are as they appeared in the original text save for those
that were obviously printer's errors.
All phrases that are in languages other than English have been
italicised for consistency. The oe ligature is replaced by the separate
letters oe.
There are two styles of footnotes used in this work. Footnotes enclosed
in square brackets [ ] are by the editor. Footnotes not enclosed in
square brackets are by the author.
1 [This note is by the editor.]
2 This note is by the author.
THE
GREVILLE MEMOIRS
(THIRD PART)
VOL. II.
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
_THE GREVILLE MEMOIRS_
(_THIRD PART_)
A JOURNAL OF THE REIGN
OF
QUEEN VICTORIA
FROM 1852 TO 1860
BY THE LATE
CHARLES C. F. GREVILLE, ESQ.
CLERK OF THE COUNCIL
IN TWO VOLUMES--VOL. II.
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
1887
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAPTER XI.
France and Prussia--The Emperor's Speech--Faint Hopes of
Peace--Favourable View of the Policy of Russia--Progress of the
Negotiations--Russia accepts the Terms of Peace--The Acceptance
explained--Popular Feeling in Favour of the War--Lord Stratford
and General Williams--Mr. Disraeli's Prospects--Meeting of
Parliament--Baron Parke's Life Peerage--The Debate on the
Address--Debate on Life Peerages--Report on the Sufferings of the
Army--Strained Relations with France--Lord Clarendon goes to the
Congress at Paris--Opening of the Conference--Sabbatarianism--Progress
of the Negotiations--Kars--Nicolaieff--The Life Peerage
Question--Blunders and Weakness of the Government--A Visit
to Paris--Count Orloff's View of the War--Lord Cowley on the
Negotiations--Princess Lieven on the War--An Evening at the
Tuileries--Opening of the Legislative Chamber--Lord Cowley's Desponding
Views--The Austrian Proposals--Bitterness in French Society--Necessity
of Peace to France--Conversation with M. Thiers--A Stag Hunt at St.
Germains--The Emperor yields to the Russians--Birth of the Prince
Imperial _page_ 1
CHAPTER XII.
Lord Clarendon's favourable View of the Peace--General Evans' Proposal
to embark after the Battle of Inkerman--Sir E. Lyons defends Lord
Raglan--Peace concluded--Sir J. Graham's gloomy View of Affairs--Edward
Ellice's Plan--Favourable Reception of the Peace--A Lull in Politics--A
Sabbatarian Question--The Trial of Palmer for Murder--Defeat of
the Opposition--Danger of War with the United States--Ristori as
an Actress--Defeat of the Appellate Jurisdiction Bill--Return
of the Guards--Baron Parke on the Life Peerage--Close of the
Session--O'Donnell and Espartero in Spain--Chances of War--Coronation
of the Czar--Apathy of the Nation--Expense of the Coronation at
Moscow--Interference at Naples--Foreign Relations--Progress of
Democracy in England--Russia, France, England, and Naples--Russian
Intrigues with France--The Bolgrad Question--The Quarrel with
Naples--The Formation of Lord Palmerston's Government in 1855--Death of
Sir John Jervis--Sir Alexander Cockburn's Appointment--James Wortley
Solicitor-General--Conference on the Treaty of Paris--Low Church
Bishops--Leadership of the Opposition--Coolness in Paris--Dictatorial
Policy to Brazil _page_ 35
CHAPTER XIII.
State of England after the War--Prussia and Neufchatel--Sir Robert
Peel's Account of the Russian Coronation--An Historical Puzzle--The
Death of Princess Lieven--Mr. Spurgeon's Preaching--Mr. Gladstone
in Opposition--Tit for Tat--Difficult Relations with France--Lord
John in Opposition--The Liddell _v._ Westerton Case--Death of
Lord Ellesmere--Violent Opposition to the Government on the
China Question--Languid Defence of the Government--Impending
Dissolution--Popularity of Lord Palmerston--Despotism of
Ministers--Parliament dissolved--Judgement on Liddell v.
Westerton--Lord Palmerston's Address--The Elections--Defeat of the
Manchester Leaders--Fear of Radical Tendencies--The Country approves
the Chinese Policy--Death of Lady Keith _page_ 72
CHAPTER XIV.
Results of the Elections--Defeat of Cobden and Bright--The War with
China--Death of Lady Ashburton--Lord Palmerston's Success | 604.19847 |
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