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Produced by Marius Masi, Don Kretz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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) [root] stands for the root symbol; [alpha], [beta], etc. for greek
letters.
(6) The following typographical errors have been corrected:
ARTICLE GABEL, KRISTOFFER: "See Carl Frederik Bricka, Dansk.
Biograf. Lex. art "Gabel" (Copenhagen, 1887, &c.); Danmarks Riges
Historie (Copenhagen, 1897-1905), vol. v." '1905' amended from
'1005'.
ARTICLE GALLS: "The same authority (loc. cit. p. 550) mentions a
willow-gall which provides no less than sixteen insects with food
and protection; these are preyed upon by about eight others, so
that altogether some twenty-four insects,..." 'altogether' amended
from 'alltogether'.
ARTICLE GANNET: "... and orderly takes its place in the rear of the
string, to repeat its headlong plunge so soon as it again finds
itself above its prey." 'its' amended from 'is'.
ARTICLE GARDNER, PERCY: "... an account of excavations in Greece
and Asia Minor; Manual of Greek Antiquities (with F.B. Jevons, 2nd
ed. 1898);..." 'Asia' amended from 'Aisa'.
ARTICLE GARNET, HENRY: "... by the Jesuit L'Heureux, under the
pseudonym Eudaemon-Joannes, and Dr Robert Abbot's reply, Antilogia
versus Apologiam Eudaemon-Joannes,..." 'Eudaemon' amended from
'Endaemon'.
ARTICLE GARTH, SIR SAMUEL: "He wrote little besides his best-known
work The Dispensary and Claremont, a moral epistle in verse."
'epistle' amended from 'espistle'.
ARTICLE GAS ENGINE: "The Westinghouse Co. of Pittsburgh have also
built large engines, several of which are in operation at the
various works of the Carnegie Steel Co." 'Pittsburgh' amended from
'Pittsburg'.
ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
A DICTIONARY OF ARTS, SCIENCES, LITERATURE
AND GENERAL INFORMATION
ELEVENTH EDITION
VOLUME XI, SLICE IV
G to Gaskell, Elizabeth
ARTICLES IN THIS SLICE:
G GALLUPPI, PASQUALE
GABBRO GALLUS, CORNELIUS
GABEL, KRISTOFFER GALLUS, GAIUS AELIUS
GABELENTZ, HANS CONON VON DER GALLUS, GAIUS CESTIUS
GABELLE GALLUS, GAIUS SULPICIUS
GABERDINE GALOIS, EVARISTE
GABES GALSTON
GABII GALT, SIR ALEXANDER TILLOCH
GABINIUS, AULUS GALT, JOHN
GABION GALT
GABLE GALTON, SIR FRANCIS
GABLER, GEORG ANDREAS GALUPPI, BALDASSARE
GABLER, JOHANN PHILIPP GALVANI, LUIGI
GABLETS GALVANIZED IRON
GABLONZ GALVANOMETER
GABORIAU, EMILE GALVESTON
GABRIEL GALWAY (county of Ireland)
GABRIEL HOUNDS GALWAY (town of Ireland)
GABRIELI, GIOVANNI GAMA, VASCO DA
GABUN GAMALIEL
GACE BRULE GAMBETTA, LEON
GACHARD, LOUIS PROSPER GAMBIA (river of West Africa)
GAD GAMBIA (country of West Africa)
GADAG GAMBIER, JAMES GAMBIER,
GADARA GAMBIER
GADDI GAMBOGE
GADE, NIELS WILHELM GAMBRINUS
GADOLINIUM GAME
GADSDEN, CHRISTOPHER GAME LAWS
GADSDEN, JAMES GAMES, CLASSICAL
GADWALL GAMING AND WAGERING
GAEKWAR GAMUT
GAETA GANDAK
GAETANI GANDAMAK
GAETULIA GANDERSHEIM
GAGE, LYMAN JUDSON GANDHARVA
GAGE, THOMAS GANDIA
GAGE GANDO
GAGERN, HANS CHRISTOPH ERNST GANESA
GAHANBAR GANGES
GAIGNIERES, FRANCOIS ROGER DE GANGOTRI
GAIL, JEAN BAPTISTE GANGPUR
GAILLAC GANGRENE
GAILLARD, GABRIEL HENRI GANILH, CHARLES
GAINESVILLE (Florida, U.S.A.) GANJAM
GAINESVILLE (Texas, U.S.A.) GANNAL, JEAN NICOLAS
GAINSBOROUGH, THOMAS GANNET
GAINSBOROUGH GANODONTA
GAIRDNER, JAMES GANS, EDUARD
GAIRLOCH GANSBACHER, JOHANN BAPTIST
GAISERIC GANTE
GAISFORD, THOMAS GANYMEDE
GAIUS GAO
GAIUS CAESAR GAOL
GALAGO GAON
GALANGAL GAP
GALAPAGOS ISLANDS GAPAN
GALASHIELS GARARISH
GALATIA GARASHANIN, ILIYA
GALATIANS, EPISTLE TO THE GARAT, DOMINIQUE JOSEPH
GALATINA GARAT, PIERRE-JEAN
GALATZ GARAY, JANOS
GALAXY GARBLE
GALBA, SULPICIUS (Roman general) GARCAO, PEDRO ANTONIO JOAQUIM CORREA
GALBA, SULPICIUS (Roman emperor) GARCIA (DEL POPOLO VICENTO), MANOEL
GALBANUM GARCIA | 604.57761 |
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Produced by Pat Pflieger
THE LIFE AND PERAMBULATIONS OF A MOUSE
(1783-1784)
by Dorothy Kilner
INTRODUCTION
During a remarkably severe winter, when a prodigious fall of snow
confined everybody to their habitations, who were happy enough to have
one to shelter them from the inclemency of the season, and were hot
obliged by business to expose themselves to its rigour, I was on a visit
to Meadow Hall; where had assembled likewise a large party of young
folk, who all seemed, by their harmony and good humour, to strive who
should the most contribute to render pleasant that confinement which we
were all equally obliged to share. Nor were those further advanced
in life less anxious to contribute to the general satisfaction and
entertainment.
After the more serious employment of reading each morning was concluded,
we danced, we sung, we played at blind-man's-buff, battledore and
shuttlecock, and many other games equally diverting and innocent; and
when tired of them, drew our seats round the fire, while each one in
turn told some merry story to divert the company.
At last, after having related all that we could recollect worth
reciting, and being rather at a loss what to say next, a sprightly girl
in company proposed that every one should relate the history of their
own lives; 'and it must be strange indeed,' added she, 'if that will not
help us out of this difficulty, and furnish conversation for some days
longer; and by that time, perhaps, the frost will break, the snow will
melt, and set us all at liberty. But let it break when it will, I make a
law, that no one shall go from Meadow Hall till they have told their own
history: so take notice, ladies and gentlemen, take notice, everybody,
what you have to trust to. And because,' continued she, 'I will not be
unreasonable, and require more from you than you can perform, I will
give all you who may perhaps have forgotten what passed so many years
ago, at the beginning of your lives, two days to recollect and digest
your story; by which time if you do not produce something pretty and
entertaining, we will never again admit you to dance or play among us.'
All this she spoke with so good-humoured a smile, that every one was
delighted with her, and promised to do their best to acquit themselves
to her satisfaction; whilst some (the length of whose lives had not
rendered them forgetful of the transactions which had passed) instantly
began their memoirs, as they called them: and really some related their
narratives with such spirit and ingenuity, that it quite distressed us
older ones, lest we should disgrace ourselves when it should fall to
our turns to hold forth. However, we were all determined to produce
something, as our fair directress ordered. Accordingly, the next morning
I took up my pen, to endeavour to draw up some kind of a history, which
might satisfy my companions in confinement. I took up my pen, it is
true, and laid the paper before me; but not one word toward my appointed
task could I proceed. The various occurrences of my life were such as,
far from affording entertainment, would, I was certain, rather afflict;
or, perhaps, not interesting enough for that, only stupefy, and render
them more weary of the continuation of the frost than they were before I
began my narration. Thus circumstanced, therefore, although by myself,
I broke silence by exclaiming, 'What a task his this sweet girl
imposed upon me! One which I shall never be able to execute to my own
satisfaction or her amusement. The adventures of my life (though deeply
interesting to myself) will be insipid and unentertaining to others,
especially to my young hearers: I cannot, therefore, attempt it.'--'Then
write mine, which may be more diverting,' said a little squeaking voice,
which sounded as if close to me. I started with surprise, not knowing
any one to be near me; and looking round, could discover no object from
whom it could possibly proceed, when casting my eyes upon the ground, in
a little hole under the skirting-board, close by the fire, I discovered
the head of a mouse peeping out. I arose with a design to stop the
hole with a cork, which happened to lie on the table by me; and I was
surprised to find that it did not run away, but suffered me to advance
quite close, and then only retreated a little into the hole, saying in
the same voice as before, 'Will you write my history?' You may be sure
that I was much surprised to be so addressed by such an animal; but,
ashamed of discovering any appearance of astonishment, lest the
| 604.673443 |
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E-text prepared by sp1nd, Matthew Wheaton, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org/)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 42140-h.htm or 42140-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/greuzeocad00mackuoft
Masterpieces in Colour
Edited by--T. Leman Hare
GREUZE
1725-1805
* * * * * *
"MASTERPIECES IN COLOUR" SERIES
ARTIST. AUTHOR.
BELLINI. GEORGE HAY.
BOTTICELLI. HENRY B. BINNS.
BOUCHER. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
BURNE-JONES. A. LYS BALDRY.
CARLO DOLCI. GEORGE HAY.
CHARDIN. PAUL G. KONODY.
CONSTABLE. C. LEWIS HIND.
COROT. SIDNEY ALLNUTT.
DA VINCI. M. W. BROCKWELL.
DELACROIX. PAUL G. KONODY.
DUERER. H. E. A. FURST.
FRA ANGELICO. JAMES MASON.
FRA FILIPPO LIPPI. PAUL G. KONODY.
FRAGONARD. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
FRANZ HALS. EDGCUMBE STALEY.
GAINSBOROUGH. MAX ROTHSCHILD.
GREUZE. ALYS EYRE MACKLIN.
HOGARTH. C. LEWIS HIND.
HOLBEIN. S. L. BENSUSAN.
HOLMAN HUNT. MARY E. COLERIDGE.
INGRES. A. J. FINBERG.
LAWRENCE. S. L. BENSUSAN.
LE BRUN, VIGEE. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
LEIGHTON. A. LYS BALDRY.
LUINI. JAMES MASON.
MANTEGNA. MRS. ARTHUR BELL.
MEMLINC. W. H. J. & J. C. WEALE.
MILLAIS. A. LYS BALDRY.
MILLET. PERCY M. TURNER.
MURILLO. S. L. BENSUSAN.
PERUGINO. SELWYN BRINTON.
RAEBURN. JAMES L. CAW.
RAPHAEL. PAUL G. KONODY.
REMBRANDT. JOSEF ISRAELS.
REYNOLDS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
ROMNEY. C. LEWIS HIND.
ROSSETTI. LUCIEN PISSARRO.
RUBENS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
SARGENT. T. MARTIN WOOD.
TINTORETTO. S. L. BENSUSAN.
TITIAN. S. L. BENSUSAN.
TURNER. C. LEWIS HIND.
VAN DYCK. PERCY M. TURNER.
VAN EYCK. J. CYRIL M. WEALE.
VELAZQUEZ. S. L. BENSUSAN.
WATTEAU. C. LEWIS HIND.
WATTS. W. LOFTUS HARE.
WHISTLER. T. MARTIN WOOD.
_Others in Preparation._
* * * * * *
[Illustration: PLATE I.--L'ACCORDEE DU VILLAGE. (Frontispiece)
This picture, at first entitled "A Father handing over the
Marriage-portion of his Daughter," then "The Village Bride," is
the best of Greuze's subject pictures. The scene is more or less
naturally arranged, and informed with the tender homely sentiment
inspired by the subject; and the bride, with her fresh young face
and modest attitude, is a delicious figure. It was exhibited in the
Salon of 1761, and now hangs in the Louvre.]
GREUZE
by
ALYS EYRE MACKLIN
Illustrated with Eight Reproductions in Colour
[Illustration: IN SEMPITERNUM.]
London: T. C. & E. C. Jack
New York: Frederick A. Stokes Co.
CONTENTS
Chap. Page
I. Early Days and First Success 11
II. The Times in which Greuze Lived 20
III. Greuze's Moral Pictures 27
IV. The Pictures by which we know Greuze 35
V. The Vanity of Greuze 44
VI. "The Broken Pitcher" and other well-known Pictures 52
VII. Ruin and Death 62
VIII. The Art of Greuze 71
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Plate
I. L'Accordee du Village Frontispiece
In the Louvre
Page
II. L'Innocence tenant deux Pigeons 14
In the Wallace Collection
III. La Malediction paternelle 24
In the Louvre
IV. Portrait d'Homme 34
In the Louvre
V. L'Oiseau Mort 40
In the Louvre
VI. Les Deux Soeurs 50
In the Louvre
VII. La Cruche Cassee 60
In the Louvre
VIII. La Laitiere 70
In the Louvre
CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS AND FIRST SUCCESS
Few names suggest so much beauty as that of Greuze.
"Greuze"--"a Greuze"--you have only to hear the word and there rises
before your mental vision a radiant procession of maidens each
lovelier than the last, with the blue of a spring sky in their
shining eyes, rosy blood flushing delicate cheeks, soft silken hair
escaping in gold-touched curls at temples where the blue veins show,
lips like dewy carnations, rounded necks and curving bosoms that
suggest all the sweets of June. A veritable "garden of girls" in the
first fresh bloom of budding womanhood; and they come to you not so
much as painted pictures as delicate visions breathed on canvas from
which they might at any moment tremble into pulsing life.
Yet the Greuze to whom we owe this exquisite series was first known as
the painter of pictures of a very different kind. Before speaking of
these let us begin at the beginning, by seeing when and under what
conditions the child who was to become the poet-painter of a certain
type of womanhood first saw the world he was destined to enrich.
Born at Tournus, a little town near Macon in France, on August 21,
1725, the early life of Jean Baptiste Greuze curiously resembles in
its broad lines those of many other well-known artists. His parents
were humble people who lived in the tiny house at Tournus, now
decorated with a commemorative plaque; the father an overman slater;
and the godparents, who play such an important part in the life of the
French child, respectively a slater and a baker. The father seems to
have been ambitious, for he resolved to take his son into an evidently
expanding business, not as a workman, but as architect. At the usual
early age, however, the child's vocation declared itself. It was in
vain the father, alarmed by symptoms that threatened to disarrange his
plans, took materials from him and then whipped him for making
pictures all over the walls--anywhere, everywhere. The boy cared for
nothing but drawing of a kind that did not fall in with the cherished
architectural idea, and after many struggles he won the day by giving
his father for a birthday present a pen-and-ink drawing of the head of
St. James, well enough done to be at first mistaken for an engraving.
This had been copied at nights when he was supposed to be asleep, and
touched and convinced, the father finally gave in and sent him off to
Lyons to learn the business in the studio of the painter Grandon.
[Illustration: PLATE II.--L'INNOCENCE TENANT DEUX PIGEONS
"L'Innocence tenant deux Pigeons," or "Innocence holding two
Pigeons," is a typical example of the eyes Greuze never tired of
painting, large innocent orbs with a sparkle that suggests the
morning sun on flowers wet with dew. The moist half-open lips
you also find in most of his girl-heads. The lovely colour
scheme is particularly happy even for Greuze. The original is in
the Wallace Collection, London.]
The term "learn the business" is used advisedly. Grandon's studio was | 604.746732 |
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This eBook was converted to HTML and given additional editing by
Jose Menendez from the text edition produced by Geoffrey Cowling
[email protected]. Illustrations added by Eric Eldred.
Computer-generated MP3 audio was generated by Bud Alverson.
___________________________________________________________________
SOUTH!
THE STORY OF
SHACKLETON'S LAST EXPEDITION
1914-1917
BY SIR ERNEST SHACKLETON C.V.O.
TO
MY COMRADES
WHO FELL IN THE WHITE WARFARE
OF THE SOUTH AND ON THE
RED FIELDS OF FRANCE
AND FLANDERS
CONTENTS
I. INTO THE WEDDELL SEA
II. NEW LAND
III. WINTER MONTHS
IV. LOSS OF THE 'ENDURANCE'
V. OCEAN CAMP
VI. THE MARCH BETWEEN
VII. PATIENCE CAMP
VIII. ESCAPE FROM THE ICE
IX. THE BOAT JOUY
X. ACROSS SOUTH GEORGIA
XI. THE RESCUE
XII. ELEPHANT ISLAND
XIII. THE ROSS SEA PARTY
XIV. WINTERING IN McMURDO SOUND
XV. LAYING THE DEPOTS
XVI. THE 'AURORA'S' DRIFT
XVII. THE LAST RELIEF
XVIII. THE FINAL PHASE
APPENDIX I:
SCIENTIFIC WORK
SEA-ICE NOMENCLATURE
METEOROLOGY
PHYSICS
SOUTH ATLANTIC WHALES AND WHALING
APPENDIX II:
THE EXPEDITION HUTS AT McMURDO SOUND
INDEX
PREFACE
After the conquest of the South Pole by Amundsen, who, by a narrow
margin of days only, was in advance of the British Expedition under
Scott, there remained but one great main object of Antarctic
journeyings--the crossing of the South Polar continent from sea to sea.
When I returned from the 'Nimrod' Expedition on which we had to turn
back from our attempt to plant the British flag on the South Pole,
being beaten by stress of circumstances within ninety-seven miles of
our goal, my mind turned to the crossing of the continent, for I was
morally certain that either Amundsen or Scott would reach the Pole on
our own route or a parallel one. After hearing of the Norwegian
success I began to make preparations to start a last great journey--so
that the first crossing of the last continent should be achieved by a
British Expedition.
We failed in this object, but the story of our attempt is the subject
for the following pages, and I think that though failure in the actual
accomplishment must be recorded, there are chapters in this book of
high adventure, strenuous days, lonely nights, unique experiences, and,
above all, records of unflinching determination, supreme loyalty, and
generous self-sacrifice on the part of my men which, even in these days
that have witnessed the sacrifices of nations and regardlessness of
self on the part of individuals, still will be of interest to readers
who now turn gladly from the red horror of war and the strain of the
last five years to read, perhaps with more understanding minds, the
tale of the White Warfare of the South. The struggles, the
disappointments, and the endurance of this small party of Britishers,
hidden away for nearly two years in the fastnesses of the Polar ice,
striving to carry out the ordained task and ignorant of the crises
through which the world was passing, make a story which is unique in
the history of Antarctic exploration.
Owing to the loss of the 'Endurance' and the disaster to the 'Aurora',
certain documents relating mainly to the organization and preparation
of the Expedition have been lost; but, anyhow, I had no intention of
presenting a detailed account of the scheme of preparation, storing,
and other necessary but, to the general reader, unimportant affairs, as
since the beginning of this century, every book on Antarctic
exploration has dealt fully with this matter. I therefore briefly
place before you the inception and organization of the Expedition, and
insert here the copy of the programme which I prepared in order to
arouse the interest of the general public in the Expedition.
"The Trans-continental Party.
"The first crossing of the Antarctic continent, from sea to sea via
the Pole, apart from its historic value, will be a journey of great
scientific importance.
"The distance will be roughly 1800 miles, and the first half of this,
from the Weddell Sea to the Pole, will be over unknown ground. Every
step will be an advance in geographical science. It will be learned
whether the great Victoria chain of mountains, which has been traced
from the Ross Sea to the Pole, extends across the continent and thus
links up (except for the ocean break) with the Andes of South America,
and whether the great plateau around the Pole dips gradually towards
the Weddell Sea.
"Continuous magnetic observations will be taken on the journey. The
route will lead towards the Magnetic Pole, and the determination of the
dip of the magnetic needle will be of importance in practical
magnetism. The meteorological conditions will be carefully noted, and
this should help to solve many of our weather problems.
"The glaciologist and ge | 604.875585 |
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Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
ZISKA
THE PROBLEM OF A WICKED SOUL
BY
MARIE CORELLI
Other Books by the same Author
THE SORROWS OF SATAN BARABBAS A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS THE MIGHTY ATOM,
ETC., ETC.
TO THE PRESENT LIVING RE-INCARNATION OF ARAXES
ZISKA.
THE PROBLEM OF A WICKED SOUL.
PROLOGUE.
Dark against the sky towered the Great Pyramid, and over its apex hung
the moon. Like a wreck cast ashore by some titanic storm, the Sphinx,
reposing amid the undulating waves of grayish sand surrounding it,
seemed for once to drowse. Its solemn visage that had impassively
watched ages come and go, empires rise and fall, and generations of men
live and die, appeared for the moment to have lost its usual expression
of speculative wisdom and intense disdain--its cold eyes seemed to
droop, its stern mouth almost smiled. The air was calm and sultry; and
not a human foot disturbed the silence. But towards midnight a Voice
suddenly arose as it were like a wind in the desert, crying aloud:
"Araxes! Araxes!" and wailing past, sank with a profound echo into the
deep recesses of the vast Egyptian tomb. Moonlight and the Hour wove
their own mystery; the mystery of a Shadow and a Shape that flitted out
like a thin vapor from the very portals of Death's ancient temple, and
drifting forward a few paces resolved itself into the visionary
fairness of a Woman's form--a Woman whose dark hair fell about her
heavily, like the black remnants of a long-buried corpse's wrappings; a
Woman whose eyes flashed with an unholy fire as she lifted her face to
the white moon and waved her ghostly arms upon the air. And again the
wild Voice pulsated through the stillness.
"Araxes!... Araxes! Thou art here,
--and I pursue thee! Through life into
death; through death out into life again!
I find thee and I follow! I follow!
Araxes!..."
Moonlight and the Hour wove their own mystery; and ere the pale opal
dawn flushed the sky with hues of rose and amber the Shadow had
vanished; the Voice was heard no more. Slowly the sun lifted the edge
of its golden shield above the horizon, and the great Sphinx awaking
from its apparent brief slumber, stared in expressive and eternal scorn
across the tracts of sand and tufted palm-trees towards the glittering
dome of El-Hazar--that abode of profound sanctity and learning, where
men still knelt and worshipped, praying the Unknown to deliver them
from the Unseen. And one would almost have deemed that the sculptured
Monster with the enigmatical Woman-face and Lion-form had strange
thoughts in its huge granite brain; for when the full day sprang in
glory over the desert and illumined its large features with a burning
saffron radiance, its cruel lips still smiled as though yearning to
speak and propound the terrible riddle of old time; the Problem which
killed!
CHAPTER I.
It was the full "season" in Cairo. The ubiquitous Britisher and the no
less ubiquitous American had planted their differing "society"
standards on the sandy soil watered by the Nile, and were busily
engaged in the work of reducing the city, formerly called Al Kahira or
The Victorious, to a more deplorable condition of subjection and
slavery than any old-world conqueror could ever have done. For the
heavy yoke of modern fashion has been flung on the neck of Al Kahira,
and the irresistible, tyrannic dominion of "swagger" vulgarity has laid
The Victorious low. The swarthy children of the desert might, and
possibly would, be ready and willing to go forth and fight men with
men's weapons for the freedom to live and die unmolested in their own
native land; but against the blandly-smiling, white-helmeted,
sun-spectacled, perspiring horde of Cook's "cheap trippers," what can
they do save remain inert and well-nigh speechless? For nothing like
the cheap tripper was ever seen in the world till our present
enlightened and glorious day of progress; he is a new-grafted type of
nomad, like and yet unlike a man. The Darwin theory asserts itself
proudly and prominently in bristles of truth all over him--in his
restlessness, his ape-like agility and curiosity, his shameless
inquisitiveness, his careful cleansing of himself from foreign fleas,
his general attention to minutiae, and his always voracious appetite;
and where the ape ends and the man begins is somewhat difficult to
discover. The "image of God" wherewith he, together with his fellows,
was originally supposed to be impressed in the first fresh days of
Creation, seems fairly blotted out, for there is no touch of the Divine
in his mortal composition. Nor does the second created phase-the copy
of the Divineo--namely, the Heroic,--dignify his form or ennoble his
countenance. There is nothing of the heroic in the wandering biped who
swings through the streets of Cairo in white flannels, laughing at the
staid composure of the Arabs, flicking thumb and finger at the patient
noses of the small hireable donkeys and other beasts of burden,
thrusting a warm red face of inquiry into the shadowy recesses of
odoriferous bazaars, and sauntering at evening in the Esbekiyeh
Gardens, cigar in mouth and hands in pockets, looking on the scene and
behaving in it as if the whole place were but a reflex of Earl's Court
Exhibition. History affects the cheap tripper not at all; he regards
the Pyramids as "good building" merely, and the inscrutable Sphinx
itself as a fine target for empty soda-water bottles, while perhaps his
chiefest regret is that the granite whereof the ancient monster is hewn
is too hard for him to inscribe his distinguished name thereon. It is
true that there is a punishment inflicted on any person or persons
attempting such wanton work--a fine or the bastinado; yet neither fine
nor bastinado would affect the "tripper" if he could only succeed in
carving "'Arry" on the Sphinx's jaw. But he cannot, and herein is his
own misery. Otherwise he comports himself in Egypt as he does at
Margate, with no more thought, reflection, or reverence than dignify
the composition of his far-off Simian ancestor.
Taking him all in all, he is, however, no worse, and in some respects
better, than the "swagger" folk who "do" Egypt, or rather, consent in a
languid way to be "done" by Egypt. These are the people who annually
leave England on the plea of being unable to stand the cheery, frosty,
and in every respect healthy winter of their native country--that
winter, which with its wild winds, its sparkling frost and snow, its
holly trees bright with scarlet berries, its merry hunters galloping
over field and moor during daylight hours, and its great log fires
roaring up the chimneys at evening, was sufficiently good for their
forefathers to thrive upon and live through contentedly up to a hale
and hearty old age in the times when the fever of travelling from place
to place was an unknown disease, and home was indeed "sweet home."
Infected by strange maladies of the blood and nerves, to which even
scientific physicians find it hard to give suitable names, they shudder
at the first whiff of cold, and filling huge trunks with a thousand
foolish things which have, through luxurious habit, become necessities
to their pallid existences, they hastily depart to the Land of the Sun,
carrying with them their nameless languors, discontents and incurable
illnesses, for which Heaven itself, much less Egypt, could provide no
remedy. It is not at all to be wondered at that these physically and
morally sick tribes of human kind have ceased to give any serious
attention as to what may possibly become of them after death, or
whether there IS any "after," for they are in the mentally comatose
condition which precedes entire wreckage of brain-force; existence
itself has become a "bore;" one place is like another, and they repeat
the same monotonous round of living in every spot where they
congregate, whether it be east, west, north, or south. On the Riviera
they find little to do except meet at Rumpelmayer's at Cannes, the
London House at Nice, or the Casino at Monte-Carlo; and in Cairo they
inaugurate a miniature London "season" over again, worked in the same
groove of dinners, dances, drives, picnics, flirtations, and
matrimonial engagements. But the Cairene season has perhaps some
advantage over the London one so far as this particular set of
"swagger" folk are concerned--it is less hampered by the proprieties.
One can be more "free," you know! You may take a little walk into "Old"
Cairo, and turning a corner you may catch glimpses of what Mark Twain
calls "Oriental simplicity," namely, picturesquely-composed groups of
"dear delightful" Arabs whose clothing is no more than primitive custom
makes strictly necessary. These kind of "tableaux vivants" or "art
studies" give quite a thrill of novelty to Cairene-English Society,--a
touch of savagery,--a soupcon of peculiarity which is entirely lacking
to fashionable London. Then, it must be remembered that the "children
of the desert" have been led by gentle degrees to understand that for
harboring the strange locusts imported into their land by Cook, and the
still stranger specimens of unclassified insect called Upper Ten, which
imports itself, they will receive "backsheesh."
"Backsheesh" is a certain source of comfort to all nations, and
translates itself with sweetest euphony into all languages, and the
desert-born tribes have justice on their side when they demand as much
of it as they can get, rightfully or wrongfully. They deserve to gain
some sort of advantage out of the odd-looking swarms of Western
invaders who amaze them by their dress and affront them by their
manners. "Backsheesh," therefore, has become the perpetual cry of the
Desert-Born,--it is the only means of offence and defence left to them,
and very naturally they cling to it with fervor and resolution. And who
shall blame them? The tall, majestic, meditative Arab--superb as mere
man, and standing naked-footed on his sandy native soil, with his one
rough garment flung round his loins and his great black eyes fronting,
eagle-like, the sun--merits something considerable for condescending to
act as guide and servant to the Western moneyed civilian who clothes
his lower limbs in straight, funnel-like cloth casings, shaped to the
strict resemblance of an elephant's legs, and finishes the graceful
design by enclosing the rest of his body in a stiff shirt wherein he
can scarcely move, and a square-cut coat which divides him neatly in
twain by a line immediately above the knee, with the effect of
lessening his height by several inches. The Desert-Born surveys him
gravely and in civil compassion, sometimes with a muttered prayer
against the hideousness of him, but on the whole with patience and
equanimity,--influenced by considerations of "backsheesh." And the
English "season" whirls lightly and vaporously, like blown egg-froth,
over the mystic land of the old gods,--the terrible land filled with
dark secrets as yet unexplored,--the land "shadowing with wings," as
the Bible hath it,--the land in which are buried tremendous histories
as yet unguessed,--profound enigmas of the supernatural,--labyrinths of
wonder, terror and mystery,--all of which remain unrevealed to the
giddy-pated, dancing, dining, gabbling throng of the fashionable
travelling lunatics of the day,--the people who "never think because it
is too much trouble," people whose one idea is to journey from hotel to
hotel and compare notes with their acquaintances afterwards as to which
house provided them with the best-cooked food. For it is a noticeable
fact that with most visitors to the "show" places of Europe and the
East, food, bedding and selfish personal comfort are the first
considerations,--the scenery and the associations come last. Formerly
the position was reversed. In the days when there were no railways, and
the immortal Byron wrote his Childe Harold, it was customary to rate
personal inconvenience lightly; the beautiful or historic scene was the
attraction for the traveller, and not the arrangements made for his
special form of digestive apparatus. Byron could sleep on the deck of a
sailing vessel wrapped in his cloak and feel none the worse for it; his
well-braced mind and aspiring spirit soared above all bodily
discomforts; his thoughts were engrossed with the mighty teachings of
time; he was able to lose himself in glorious reveries on the lessons
of the past and the possibilities of the future; the attitude of the
inspired Thinker as well as Poet was his, and a crust of bread and
cheese served him as sufficiently on his journeyings among the then
unspoilt valleys and mountains of Switzerland as the warm, greasy,
indigestible fare of the elaborate table-d'hotes at Lucerne and
Interlaken serve us now. But we, in our "superior" condition, pooh-pooh
the Byronic spirit of indifference to events and scorn of trifles,--we
say it is "melodramatic," completely forgetting that our attitude
towards ourselves and things in general is one of most pitiable bathos.
We cannot write Childe Harold, but we can grumble at both bed and board
in every hotel under the sun; we can discover teasing midges in the air
and questionable insects in the rooms; and we can discuss each bill
presented to us with an industrious persistence which nearly drives
landlords frantic and ourselves as well. In these kind of important
matters we are indeed "superior" to Byron and other ranting dreamers of
his type, but we produce no Childe Harolds, and we have come to the
strange pass of pretending that Don Juan is improper, while we pore
over Zola with avidity! To such a pitch has our culture brought us!
And, like the Pharisee in the Testament, we thank God we are not as
others are. We are glad we are not as the Arab, as the African, as the
Hindoo; we are proud of our elephant-legs and our dividing coat-line;
these things show we are civilized, and that God approves of us more
than any other type of creature ever created. We take possession of
nations, not by thunder of war, but by clatter of dinner-plates. We do
not raise armies, we build hotels; and we settle ourselves in Egypt as
we do at Homburg, to dress and dine and sleep and sniff contempt on all
things but ourselves, to such an extent that we have actually got into
the habit of calling the natives of the places we usurp "foreigners."
WE are the foreigners; but somehow we never can see it. Wherever we
condescend to build hotels, that spot we consider ours. We are
surprised at the impertinence of Frankfort people who presume to visit
Homburg while we are having our "season" there; we wonder how they dare
do it! And, of a truth, they seem amazed at their own boldness, and | 604.877238 |
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Studies in Wives
By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES
NEW YORK
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
_2 East 29th Street_
_Copyright, 1910, by Mitchell Kennerly_
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. ALTHEA'S OPPORTUNITY 1
II. MR. JARVICE'S WIFE 47
III. A VERY MODERN INSTANCE 93
IV. ACCORDING TO MEREDITH 151
V. SHAMEFUL BEHAVIOUR? 205
VI. THE DECREE MADE ABSOLUTE 277
I
ALTHEA'S OPPORTUNITY
"His confidence shall be rooted out of his tabernacle, and it shall
bring him to the king of terrors."--JOB xviii. 14.
There came the sound of a discreet, embarrassed cough, and Althea Scrope
turned quickly round from the window by which she had been standing
still dressed in her outdoor things.
She had heard the door open, the unfolding of the tea-table, the setting
down of the tea-tray, but her thoughts had been far away from the old
house in Westminster which was now her home; her thoughts had been in
Newcastle, dwelling for a moment among the friends of her girlhood, for
whom she had been buying Christmas gifts that afternoon.
The footman's cough recalled her to herself, and to the present.
"Am I to say that you are at home this afternoon, ma'am?"
Althea's thoughtful, clear eyes rested full on the youth's anxious face.
He had not been long in the Scropes' service, and this was the first
time he had been left in such a position of responsibility, but Dockett,
the butler, was out, a rare event, for Dockett liked to be master in his
master's house. Before the marriage of Perceval Scrope, Dockett had been
Scrope's valet, and, as Althea was well aware, the man still regarded
her as an interloper. Althea did not like Dockett, but Perceval was very
fond of him, and generally spoke of him to his friends as "Trip." Althea
had never been able to discover the reason of the nickname, and she had
not liked to ask; her husband often spoke a language strange to her.
"I will see Mr. Bustard if he comes," she said gently.
Dockett would not have disturbed her by asking the question, for Dockett
always knew, by a sort of instinct, whom his master and mistress wished
to see or to avoid seeing.
Again she turned and stared out of the high, narrow, curtainless
windows. Perceval Scrope did not like curtains, and so of course there
were no curtains in his wife's drawing-room.
Snow powdered the ground. It blew in light eddies about the bare
branches of the trees marking the carriage road through St. James's
Park, and was caught in whirling drifts on the frozen sheet of water
which reflected the lights on the bridge spanning the little lake. Even
at this dreary time of the year it was a charming outlook, and one which
most of Althea's many acquaintances envied her.
And yet the quietude of the scene at which she was gazing so intently
oppressed her, and, suddenly, from having felt warm after her walk
across the park, Althea Scrope felt cold.
She moved towards the fireplace, and the flames threw a red glow on her
tall, rounded figure, creeping up from the strong serviceable boots to
the short brown skirt, and so to the sable cape which had been one of
her husband's wedding gifts, but which now looked a little antiquated in
cut and style.
It is a bad thing--a sign that all is not right with her--when a
beautiful young woman becomes indifferent to how she looks. This was the
case with Althea, and yet she was only twenty-two, and looked even
younger; no one meeting her by chance would have taken her to be a
married woman, still less the wife of a noted politician.
She took off her fur cape and put it on a chair. She might have sent for
her maid, but before her marriage she had always waited on herself, and
she was not very tidy--one of her few points of resemblance with her
husband, and not one which made for harmony. But Mrs. Scrope, if untidy,
was also conscientious, and as she looked at the damp fur cloak her
conscience began to trouble her.
She rang the bell. "Take my cloak and hang it up carefully in the hall,"
she said to the footman. And now the room was once more neat and tidy as
she knew her friend, Mr. Bustard, would like to see it.
It was a curious and delightful room, but it resembled and reflected the
woman who had to spend so much of her life there as little as did her
quaint and fanciful name of Althea. Her husband, in a fit of petulance
at some exceptional density of vision, had once told her that her name
should have been Jane--Jane, Maud, Amy, any of those old-fashioned,
early Victorian names would have suited Althea, and Althea's outlook on
life when she had married Perceval Scrope.
Althea's drawing-room attained beauty, not only because of its
proportions, and its delightful outlook on St. James's Park, but also
because quite a number of highly intelligent people had seen to it that
it should be beautiful.
Although Scrope, who thought he knew his young wife so well, would have
been surprised and perhaps a little piqued if he had been told it,
Althea preferred the house as it had been before her marriage, in the
days when it was scarcely furnished, when this room, for instance, had
been the library-smoking-room of its owner, an owner too poor to offer
himself any of the luxurious fitments which had been added to make it
suitable for his rich bride.
As soon as Scrope's engagement to the provincial heiress Althea then was
had been announced, his friends--and he was a man of many friends--had
delighted to render him the service of making the pleasant old house in
Delahay Street look as it perchance had looked eighty or a hundred years
ago. The illusion was almost perfect, so cleverly had the flotsam of
Perceval Scrope's ancestral possessions been wedded to the jetsam
gathered in curiosity shops and at country auctions--for the devotion of
Scrope's friends had gone even to that length.
This being so, it really seemed a pity that these same kind folk had not
been able to--oh! no, not _buy_, that is an ugly word, and besides it
had been Perceval who had been bought, not Althea--to acquire for Scrope
a wife who would have suited the house as well as the house suited
Scrope.
But that had not been possible.
Even as it was, the matter of marrying their friend had not been easy.
Scrope was so wilful--that was why they loved him! He had
barred--absolutely barred--Americans, and that although everybody knows
how useful an American heiress can be, not only with her money, but with
her brightness and her wits, to an English politician. He had also
stipulated for a country girl, and he would have preferred one straight
out of the school-room.
Almost all his conditions had been fulfilled. Althea was nineteen at the
time of her marriage, and, if not exactly country-bred--she was the only
child of a Newcastle magnate--she had seen nothing of the world to which
Scrope and Scrope's Egeria, the woman who had actually picked out Althea
to be Scrope's wife, had introduced her.
Scrope's Egeria? At the time my little story opens, Althea had long
given up being jealous--jealous, that is, in the intolerant, passionate
sense of the word; in fact, she was ashamed that she had ever been so,
for she now felt sure that Perceval would not have liked her, Althea,
any better, even if there had not been another woman to whom he turned
for flattery and sympathy.
The old ambiguous term was, in this case, no pseudonym for another and
more natural, if uglier, relationship on the part of a married man, and
of a man whom the careless public believed to be on exceptionally good
terms with his young wife.
Scrope's Egeria was twenty-four years older than Althea, and nine years
older than Scrope himself. Unfortunately she had a husband who, unlike
Althea, had the bad taste, the foolishness, to be jealous of her close
friendship with Perceval Scrope. And yet, while admitting to herself the
man's folly, Althea had a curious liking for Egeria's husband. There
was, in fact, more between them than their common interest in the other
couple; for he, like Althea, provided what old-fashioned people used to
call the wherewithal; he, like Althea, had been married because of the
gifts he had brought in his hands, the gifts not only of that material
comfort which counts for so much nowadays, but those which, to Scrope's
Egeria, counted far more than luxury, that is, beauty of surroundings
and refinement of living.
Mr. and Mrs. Panfillen--to give Egeria and her husband their proper
names--lived quite close to Althea and Perceval Scrope, for they dwelt
in Old Queen Street, within little more than a stone's throw of Delahay
Street.
Joan Panfillen, unlike Althea Scrope, was exquisitely suited to her
curious, old-world dwelling. She had about her small, graceful person,
her picturesque and dateless dress, even in her low melodious voice,
that harmony which is, to the man capable of appreciating it, the most
desirable and perhaps the rarest of feminine attributes.
There was one thing which Althea greatly envied Mrs. Panfillen, and that
was nothing personal to herself; it was simply the tiny formal garden
which divided the house in Old Queen Street from Birdcage Walk. This
garden looked fresher and greener than its fellows because, by Mrs.
Panfillen's care, the miniature parterres were constantly tended and
watered, while the shrubs both summer and winter were washed and
cleansed as carefully as was everything else likely to be brought in
contact with their owner's wife.
In spite of the fact that they lived so very near to one another, the
two women were not much together, and as a rule they only met, but that
was, of course, very often, when out in the political and social worlds
to which they both belonged.
Althea had a curious shrinking from the Panfillens' charming house. It
was there, within a very few weeks of her father's death, that she had
first met Perceval Scrope--and there that he had conducted his careless
wooing. It was in Mrs. Panfillen's boudoir, an octagon-shaped room on
the park side of the house, that he had actually | 604.945614 |
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Produced by David Widger
SAILORS' KNOTS
By W.W. Jacobs
1909
DESERTED
"Sailormen ain't wot you might call dandyfied as a rule," said the night-
watchman, who had just had a passage of arms with a lighterman and been
advised to let somebody else wash him and make a good job of it; "they've
got too much sense. They leave dressing up and making eyesores of
theirselves to men wot 'ave never smelt salt water; men wot drift up and
down the river in lighters and get in everybody's way."
He glanced fiercely at the retreating figure of the lighterman, and,
turning a deaf ear to a request for a lock of his hair to patch a
favorite doormat with, resumed with much vigor his task of sweeping up
the litter.
The most dressy sailorman I ever knew, he continued, as he stood the
broom up in a corner and seated himself on a keg, was a young feller
named Rupert Brown. His mother gave 'im the name of Rupert while his
father was away at sea, and when he came 'ome it was too late to alter
it. All that a man could do he did do, and Mrs. Brown 'ad a black eye
till 'e went to sea agin. She was a very obstinate woman, though--like
most of 'em--and a little over a year arterwards got pore old Brown three
months' hard by naming 'er next boy Roderick Alfonso.
Young Rupert was on a barge when I knew 'im fust, but he got tired of
always 'aving dirty hands arter a time, and went and enlisted as a
soldier. I lost sight of 'im for a while, and then one evening he turned
up on furlough and come to see me.
O' course, by this time 'e was tired of soldiering, but wot upset 'im
more than anything was always 'aving to be dressed the same and not being
able to wear a collar and neck-tie. He said that if it wasn't for the
sake of good old England, and the chance o' getting six months, he'd
desert. I tried to give 'im good advice, and, if I'd only known 'ow I
was to be dragged into it, I'd ha' given 'im a lot more.
As it 'appened he deserted the very next arternoon. He was in the Three
Widders at Aldgate, in the saloon bar--which is a place where you get a
penn'orth of ale in a glass and pay twopence for it--and, arter being
told by the barmaid that she had got one monkey at 'ome, he got into
conversation with another man wot was in there.
He was a big man with a black moustache and a red face, and 'is fingers
all smothered in di'mond rings. He 'ad got on a gold watch-chain as
thick as a rope, and a scarf-pin the size of a large walnut, and he had
'ad a few words with the barmaid on 'is own account. He seemed to take a
fancy to Rupert from the fust, and in a few minutes he 'ad given 'im a
big cigar out of a sealskin case and ordered 'im a glass of sherry wine.
[Illustration: He seemed to take a fancy to Rupert from the fust.]
"Have you ever thought o' going on the stage?" he ses, arter Rupert 'ad
told 'im of his dislike for the Army.
"No," ses Rupert, staring.
"You s'prise me," ses the big man; "you're wasting of your life by not
doing so."
"But I can't act," ses Rupert.
"Stuff and nonsense!" ses the big man. "Don't tell me. You've got an
actor's face. I'm a manager myself, and I know. I don't mind telling
you that I refused twenty-three men and forty-eight ladies only
yesterday."
"I wonder you don't drop down dead," ses the barmaid, lifting up 'is
glass to wipe down the counter.
The manager looked at her, and, arter she 'ad gone to talk to a gentleman
in the next bar wot was knocking double knocks on the counter with a pint
pot, he whispered to Rupert that she 'ad been one of them.
"She can't act a bit," he ses. "Now, look 'ere; I'm a business man and
my time is valuable. I don't know nothing, and I don't want to know
nothing; but, if a nice young feller, like yourself, for example, was
tired of the Army and wanted to escape, I've got one part left in my
company that 'ud suit 'im down to the ground."
"Wot about being reckernized?" ses Rupert.
The manager winked at 'im. "It's the part of a Zulu chief," he ses, in a
whisper.
Rupert started. "But I should 'ave to black my face," he ses.
"A little," ses the manager; "but you'd soon get on to better parts--and
see wot a fine disguise it is."
He stood 'im two more glasses o' sherry wine, and, arter he' ad drunk
'em, Rupert gave way. The manager patted 'im on the back, and said that
if he wasn't earning fifty pounds a week in a year's time he'd eat his
'ead; and the barmaid, wot 'ad come back agin, said it was the best thing
he could do with it, and she wondered he 'adn't thought of it afore.
They went out separate, as the manager said it would be better for them
not to be seen together, and Rupert, keeping about a dozen yards behind,
follered 'im down the Mile End Road. By and by the manager stopped
outside a shop-window wot 'ad been boarded up and stuck all over with
savages dancing and killing white people and hunting elephants, and,
arter turning round and giving Rupert a nod, opened the door with a key
and went inside.
"That's all right," he ses, as Rupert follered | 604.996986 |
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[Illustration]
[Illustration: GOING TO THE MIDSUMMER BALL.]
THE
FAIRY NIGHTCAPS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
THE FIVE NIGHTCAP BOOKS, "AUNT FANNY'S STORIES,"
ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
443 & 445 BROADWAY.
LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN.
1861.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
FANNY BARROW,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
TO MASSA CHARLES,
WHOSE MOST LOVABLE QUALITIES WERE BUT FAINTLY
PORTRAYED IN THE
FIRST NIGHTCAP BOOK,
THIS
THE SIXTH AND LAST OF THE SERIES,
IS AFFECTIONATELY
Dedicated.
PREFACE TO THE CHILDREN.
DEAR CHILDREN,
Here is the last Nightcap book, making six in all. The story of "The
Three Little Fishes" was taken (but very much altered) from a clever
book for grown folks, written, I believe, nearly two hundred years
ago; but all the rest is true, "real true."
I have written them out with my heart full of love and good wishes
for you, and _you_, and YOU; and my only desire in return is,
that down in a cosy corner of your dear little hearts, you will keep warm,
one kind thought of your loving
AUNT FANNY.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE FAIRIES' LIFE; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT THEY DID IN THE
BEAUTIFUL HOLLOW, 9
THE CHILDREN'S LIFE; WITH THEIR JOURNEY TO WEST POINT, 37
THE FAIRIES' LIFE; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE MIDSUMMER BALL, 77
THE CHILDREN'S LIFE; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF IDLEWILD, THE STAG DANCE,
THE BATTLE OF THE FAIRIES, &c., 145
THE DEATH OF CHARLEY, 209
FAIRY NIGHTCAPS.
THE FAIRIES' LIFE.
In the deep shadow of the Highlands, at the foot of the old Crow Nest
Mountain, is a wild and beautiful hollow, closed around on every side
by tall trees, interlaced together by the clasping tendrils of the
honeysuckle, and the giant arms of luxuriant wild grape-vines.
The mossy edge of this magic circle is thickly embroidered with
violets, harebells, perfumed clover-blossoms, and delicate, feathery
ferns. A little brook, overhung with grasses and whispering leaves,
dances and dimples in the bright sunlight and soft moonbeams, and then
trips away, to offer the wild-rose leaves that have fallen upon his
bosom to his beloved tributary lord, the great Hudson River.
Not a bat dare spread his unclean leathern wings across this charmed
place, and the very owls that wink and blink in the hollow trees near
by keep their unmusical "hoot toot" to themselves.
In the short young velvety grass, a starry daisy, or a sly little
cowslip, peeps up here and there, but nothing else disturbs the
lawn-like smoothness, save a tiny mound of green moss near the centre
of the hollow, shaped marvellously like a throne.
It was the night of the eighteenth of June; and evidently there was
something of importance about to happen in the beautiful hollow, for
presently a train of glow-worms came marching gravely in, and arranged
themselves in a circle around the mossy throne; while thousands of
fire-flies flashed and twinkled through the trees. The soft,
coquetting wind wandered caressingly among the flowers, and the
moonbeams rested with a sweeter, tenderer light, upon the little brook
which murmured and rippled, and gave back many a glancing, loving
beam.
Suddenly a silvery tinkling bell was heard, like music at a distance.
Twelve times it sounded; and immediately after an invisible chorus of
sweet tiny voices were heard singing:
"Hasten, Elfin! hasten, Fay!
From old Crow Nest wing your way;
Through the bush and dewy brake,
Fairies, hasten, for the sake
Of a mortal, whose pure breath
Soon will fade, and sink in death:
We for him sweet dreams will find,
We will fill with balm the wind;
Watch his young life glide away,
Deck with beauty its decay--
Till the closing earthly strife,
Opens into heavenly life."
Instantly the air seemed filled with streams of light like falling
stars; the booming sound of humble-bees was heard, as fairy knights
and ladies came hastening to the call through the moon-lit air; the
knights pricking their chargers with their wasp-sting spurs, and the
ladies urging theirs quite as fast with their sweet, coaxing voices.
The grave, elderly fairies, came more soberly. They crept out from
under the velvet mullen leaves, and gravely mounted their palfreys,
which were small field mice, and held them well in, with corn-silk
bridles; for elderly fairies are inclined to be gouty, and don't like
to do any thing in a hurry; like other people, they are apt to go too
fast when they are young--and to balance the matter, are very slow
coaches when they are old.
Several ancient ladies, who had been napping in a secluded nook at the
root of an old tree, waited for their nutshells and four to be brought
up; and as the coach-horses were represented by hairy, white
caterpillars--who were so short-legged, that they took the longest
possible time to get over the ground--and as the ancient fairies had
much ado to fold their wings, and arrange their crinoline in their
carriages, you may be sure they were very fashionably late.
And now a strain of delicious music filled the air, the glow-worms
lighted up brilliantly, and the dew grew heavy with fragrance, as the
Fairy Queen, with a bright train of attendants, floated past in dark
green phaetons, made of the leaves of the camelia, and drawn by
magnificently painted butterflies, harnessed and caparisoned with
gold.
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her conspicuous above the rest, even if her tiny golden crown and
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THE ARAN ISLANDS
BY
JOHN M. SYNGE
Introduction
The geography of the Aran Islands is very simple, yet it may need a
word to itself. There are three islands: Aranmor, the north island,
about nine miles long; Inishmaan, the middle island, about three
miles and a half across, and nearly round in form; and the south
island, Inishere--in Irish, east island,--like the middle island but
slightly smaller. They lie about thirty miles from Galway, up the
centre of the bay, but they are not far from the cliffs of County
Clare, on the south, or the corner of Connemara on the north.
Kilronan, the principal village on Aranmor, has been so much changed
by the fishing industry, developed there by the Congested Districts
Board, that it has now very little to distinguish it from any
fishing village on the west coast of Ireland. The other islands are
more primitive, but even on them many changes are being made, that
it was not worth while to deal with in the text.
In the pages that follow I have given a direct account of my life on
the islands, and of what I met with among them, inventing nothing,
and changing nothing that is essential. As far as possible, however,
I have disguised the identity of the people I speak of, by making
changes in their names, and in the letters I quote, and by altering
some local and family relationships. I have had nothing to say about
them that was not wholly in their favour, but I have made this
disguise to keep them from ever feeling that a too direct use had
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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 | 605.173177 |
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[Illustration]
THE WOODPECKERS
BY
FANNIE HARDY ECKSTORM
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1901
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY FANNIE HARDY ECKSTORM
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_To_ MY FATHER MR. MANLY HARDY _A Lifelong Naturalist_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
FOREWORD: THE RIDDLERS 1
I. HOW TO KNOW A WOODPECKER 4
II. HOW THE WOODPECKER CATCHES A GRUB 9
III. HOW THE WOODPECKER COURTS HIS MATE 15
IV. HOW THE WOODPECKER MAKES A HOUSE 20
V. HOW A FLICKER FEEDS HER YOUNG 24
VI. FRIEND DOWNY 28
VII. PERSONA NON GRATA. (YELLOW-BELLIED SAPSUCKER) 33
VIII. EL CARPINTERO. (CALIFORNIAN W | 605.276279 |
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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.
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TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE
OR
THE CASTAWAYS OF EARTHQUAKE ISLAND
BY VICTOR APPLETON
AUTHOR OF "TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-CYCLE," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR
BOAT," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE
BOAT," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
BOOKS BY VICTOR APPLETON
THE TOM SWIFT SERIES
TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-CYCLE
Or Fun and Adventures on the Road
TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-BOAT
Or the Rivals of Lake Carlopa
TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP
Or the Stirring Cruise of the Red Cloud
TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT
Or Under the Ocean for Sunken Treasure
TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT
Or the Speediest Car on the Road
TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE
Or the Castaways of Earthquake Island
TOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERS
Or the Secret of Phantom Mountain
TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE
Or the Wreck of the Airship
TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER
Or the Quickest Flight on Record
TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE
Or Daring Adventures in Elephant Land
(Other Volumes in Preparation)
TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE
CONTENTS
I. AN APPEAL FOR AID
II. MISS NESTOR'S NEWS
III. TOM KNOCKS OUT ANDY
IV. MR. DAMON WILL GO ALONG
V. VOL-PLANING TO EARTH
VI. THE NEW AIRSHIP
VII. MAKING SOME CHANGES
VIII. ANDY FOGER'S REVENGE
IX. THE WHIZZER FLIES
X. OVER THE OCEAN
XI. A NIGHT OF TERROR
XII. A DOWNWARD GLIDE
XIII. ON EARTHQUAKE ISLAND
XIV. A NIGHT IN CAMP
XV. THE OTHER CASTAWAY
XVI. AN ALARMING THEORY
XVII. A MIGHTY SHOCK
XVIII. MR. JENKS HAS DIAMONDS
XIX. SECRET OPERATIONS
XX. THE WIRELESS PLANT
XXI. MESSAGES INTO SPACE
XXII. ANXIOUS DAYS
XXIII. A REPLY IN THE DARK
XXIV. "WE ARE LOST!"
XXV. THE RESCUE-CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
AN APPEAL FOR AID
Tom Swift stepped from the door of the machine shop, where he was at
work making some adjustments to the motor of his airship, and
glanced down the road. He saw a cloud of dust, which effectually
concealed whatever was causing it.
"Some one must be in a hurry this morning," the lad remarked, "Looks
like a motor speeding along. MY! but we certainly do need rain," he
added, as he looked up toward the sky. "It's very dusty. Well, I may
as well get back to work. I'll take the airship out for a flight
this afternoon, if the wind dies down a bit."
The young inventor, for Tom Swift himself had built the airship, as
well as several other crafts for swift locomotion, turned to
re-enter the shop.
Something about the approaching cloud of dust, however, held his
attention. He glanced more intently at it.
"If it's an automobile coming along," he murmured, "it's moving very
slowly, to make so much fuss. And I never saw a motor-cycle that
would kick up as much sand, and not speed along more. It ought to be
here by now. I wonder what it can be?"
The cloud of highway dirt rolled along, making some progress toward
Tom's house and the group of shops and other buildings surrounding
it. But, as the lad had said, the dust did not move at all quickly
in comparison to any of the speedy machines that might be causing
it. And the cloud seemed momentarily to grow thicker and thicker.
"I wonder if it could be a miniature tornado, or a cyclone or
whirlwind?" and Tom spoke aloud, a habit of his when he was
thinking, and had no one to talk to. "Yet it can hardly be that." he
went on. "Guess I'll watch and see what it is."
Nearer and nearer came the dust cloud. Tom peered anxiously ahead, a
puzzled look on his face. A few seconds later there | 605.519771 |
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VOL. XXXIV. No. 8.
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
“To the Poor the Gospel is Preached.”
* * * * *
AUGUST, 1880.
_CONTENTS:_
EDITORIAL.
ANNUAL MEETINGS 225
FINANCIAL NOTICE 225
PARAGRAPHS 226
HARD CASES 228
TEACHER OR MISSIONARY, WHICH? 229
WRONGS OF THE PONCAS 230
THE <DW64> ON THE INDIAN 231
EADLE KEAHTAH TOH 232
BLACK MISSIONARIES FOR AFRICA: Rev. G.
D. Pike, D. D. 235
ITEMS FROM THE FIELD 237
AFRICAN NOTES 238
THE FREEDMEN.
ATLANTA UNIVERSITY—TALLADEGA COLLEGE 239
BEREA COLLEGE: Secretary Strieby 242
TOUGALOO UNIVERSITY: Pres’t De Forest 243
BREWER NORMAL SCHOOL: J.D. Backenstose 244
STORRS SCHOOL, ATLANTA, GA.—WOODBRIDGE, N. C. 245
ALABAMA: Rev. W. H. Ash 247
THE CHINESE.
MISSION WORK AMONG THE MINERS 248
RECEIPTS 250
CONSTITUTION 253
AIM, STATISTICS, WANTS 254
* * * * *
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relating to the work of the Association may be addressed to the
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Missionary,” to Rev. C. C. PAINTER, at the New York Office.
DONATIONS AND SUBSCRIPTION | 605.553284 |
2023-11-16 18:27:09.6750790 | 1,539 | 14 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "I ain't blamin' her, nor never will"]
CALEB WEST, MASTER DIVER
BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
MALCOLM FRASER AND ARTHUR I. KELLER
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1898
COPYRIGHT, 1897 AND 1898, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
I. The Cape Ann Sloop
II. A Morning's Mail
III. Captain Brandt at the Throttle
IV. Among the Blackfish and Tomcods
V. Aunty Bell's Kitchen
VI. A Little Dinner for Five
VII. Betty's First Patient
VIII. The "Heave Ho" of Lonny Bowles
IX. What the Butcher Saw
X. Strains from Bock's 'Cello
XI. Captain Joe's Telegram
XII. Captain Joe's Creed
XIII. A Shanty Door
XIV. Two Envelopes
XV. A Narrow Path
XVI. Under the Willows
XVII. The Song of the Fire
XVIII. The Equinoctial Gale
XIX. From the Lantern Deck
XX. At the Pines
XXI. The Record of Nickles, the Cook
XXII. After the Battle
XXIII. A Broken Draw
XXIV. The Swinging Gate
XXV. Under the Pitiless Stars
XXVI. Caleb Trims His Lights
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"I ain't blamin' her, nor never will"
"Swung back the gate with the gesture of a rollicking boy"
"Helen... in white muslin--not a jewel"
"No, it's my Betty"
"What's she but a chit of a child that don't know no better"
"Sanford... raised her hand to his lips"
"Thank God, Tony! Thank God!"
"Victory is ours!"
"The diver knelt in a passive, listless way"
"Ain't nothin' to skeer ye, child"
CALEB WEST, MASTER DIVER
CHAPTER I
THE CAPE ANN SLOOP
The rising sun burned its way through a low-lying mist that hid the
river, and flashed its search-light rays over the sleeping city. The
blackened tops of the tall stacks caught the signal, and answered in
belching clouds of gray steam that turned to gold as they floated
upwards in the morning air. The long rows of the many-eyed tenements
cresting the hill blinked in the dazzling light, threw wide their
shutters, and waved curling smoke flags from countless chimneys.
Narrow, silent alleys awoke. Doors opened and shut. Single figures
swinging dinner-pails, and groups of girls with baskets, hurried to
and fro. The rumbling of carts was heard and shrill street cries.
Suddenly the molten ball swung clear of the purple haze and flooded
the city with tremulous light. The vanes of the steeples flashed and
blazed. The slanting roofs, wet with the night dew, glistened like
silver. The budding trees, filling the great squares, flamed pink and
yellow, their tender branches quivering in the rosy light.
Now long, deep-toned whistles--reveille of forge, spindle, and
press--startled the air. Surging crowds filled the thoroughfares;
panting horses tugged at the surface cars; cabs rattled over the
cobblestones, and loaded trucks began to block the crossings.
The great city was astir.
At the sun's first gleam, Henry Sanford had waked with joyous start.
Young, alert, full of health and courage as he was, the touch of its
rays never came too early for him. To-day they had been like the hand
of a friend, rousing him with promises of good fortune.
Dressing with eager haste, he had hurried into the room adjoining his
private apartments, which served as his uptown business office.
Important matters awaited him. Within a few hours a question of vital
moment had to be decided,--one upon which the present success of his
work depended.
As he entered, the sunshine, pouring through the wide windows, fell
across a drawing-table covered with the plans of the lighthouse he was
then building; illumined a desk piled high with correspondence, and
patterned a wall upon which were hung photographs and sketches of the
various structures which had marked the progress of his engineering
career.
But it was toward a telegram lying open on his desk that Sanford
turned. He took it in his hand and read it with the quiet satisfaction
of one who knows by heart every line he studies. It was headed
Keyport, and ran as follows:--
To Henry Sanford, C. E., Washington
Square, New York.
Cape Ann sloop arrived and is a corker.
Will be at your uptown office in the morning.
Joseph Bell.
"Dear old Captain Joe, he's found her at last!" he said to himself,
and laughed aloud.
With a joyous enthusiasm that lent a spring and vitality to every
movement, he stepped to the window and raised the sash to let in the
morning air.
It was a gala-day for the young engineer. For months Captain Joe had
been in search of a sloop of peculiar construction,--one of so light a
draught that she could work in a rolling surf, and yet so stanch that
she could sustain the strain of a derrick-boom rigged to her mast.
Without such a sloop the building of the lighthouse Sanford was then
constructing for the government on Shark Ledge, lying eight miles from
Keyport, and breasting a tide running six miles an hour, could not go
on. With such a sloop its early completion was assured.
The specifications for this lighthouse provided that the island which
formed its base--an artificial one made by dumping rough stones over
the sunken rock known as Shark's Ledge--should be protected not only
from sea action, but from the thrust of floating ice. This Sanford was
to accomplish by paving its under-water <DW72>s with huge granite
blocks, to form an enrockment,--each block to be bedded by a diver.
The engineer-in-chief of the Lighthouse Board at Washington had
expressed grave doubts as to the practicability of the working methods
submitted by Sanford for handling these blocks, questioning whether a
stone weighing twelve tons could be swung overboard, as suggested by
him, from the deck of a vessel and lowered to a diver while the boat
was moored in a six-mile current. | 605.695119 |
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Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed.
Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text.
Illustration markings have been moved from mid-paragraph for ease of
reading. The printed French has not been corrected or modernized.
(etext transcriber's note)
CHANTILLY
[Illustration: _Mary Stuart at the age of nine years from the drawing in
the Musée Condé at Chantilly._]
CHANTILLY
IN HISTORY AND ART
BY LOUISE M. RICHTER
(MRS. J. P. RICHTER)
WITH PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1913
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO MY DEAR FRIEND
MRS. LUDWIG MOND
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
PREFACE
My first visit to Chantilly was in April 1904, when the Exhibition of
the French Primitives at the Pavillon Marsan, following close on that at
Bruges, raised interest and comment far outside the boundaries of
France. I visited the Musée Condé with the intention of studying some
more examples of the French fifteenth-and sixteenth-century art which
had so much attracted me in Paris.
The high expectations I had conceived were not disappointed, and the
result was that my studies in that marvellous collection were prolonged.
Weeks grew into months. The Limbourgs, Jean Fouquet, and the Clouets
held me in their spell; the Château of Chantilly, with the history of
its famous owners, aroused my interest more and more.
Through the great courtesy of the late M. Anatol Gruyer and of M.
Gustave Macon, Directors of the Musée Condé, I was given access to all
the art-treasures within its walls and I was allowed to while away my
time with the famous miniatures and drawings and with the pictures in
which I was so much interested. Tranquil and undisturbed, often quite
alone, meeting now and then only the furtive glance of one or other of
the Museum attendants, who were always ready at hand to be of service,
I was enabled to pursue my studies without interruption, owing to the
great kindness of my friend M. Macon. The excellent Library, too, was at
my disposal, as well as the manuscripts in the Cabinet des Livres.
Nor was that all. When at the end of the day the Museum doors were
closed I could walk in the vast park of the Château along its shady
avenues and watch the swans gliding on the silent waters, whilst the
autumn leaves were the sport of the varying breezes. In that unbroken
solitude Time, now long past, brought before me once more kings and
queens, courtiers and warriors, ladies of beauty and fame: and amid my
reveries I seemed to recognise the well-known faces whose
representations I had just left in the galleries within. For was it not
here, in these woods and on these lakes, that they had lived and feasted
in the manner recorded in the chronicles of their time?
Thus, irresistibly attracted by degrees, I conceived the idea of writing
about the history and the art at Chantilly: and I undertook a task which
grew gradually in my hands to dimensions that at first I had not
anticipated.
My chief study, as mentioned above, was intended to be on the French
fifteenth-and sixteenth-century artists which the Duc d'Aumale so
successfully collected. To the Italian and the Northern Schools and the
later French periods at the Musée Condé I have purposely given but a
passing mention, since they are equally well or better represented in
other galleries.
The Bibliography which I have appended shows that much has been written
on early French Art in France, especially during the last fifteen years;
and I feel greatly indebted to authors such as Comte Leopold Delisle,
Comte Paul Durrieu, MM. George Lafenestre, Anatol Gruyer, Louis Dimier,
Gustave Macon, Moreau Nelaton, Sir Claude Phillips, Mr. Roger Fry and
others, by whose works I have greatly profited, as also by my husband's
expert knowledge. But no book exactly covering this ground has as yet
been written in the English language.
More than special acknowledgment and thanks are due to Mr. Robert H.
Hobart Cust for his help and valuable suggestions. In the arduous task
of revising the proofs of this book he was assisted by my son Mr. F. J.
P. Richter. I have also great pleasure in expressing my deep gratitude
to my dear friend Mrs. Ludwig Mond, whose constant encouragement was of
inestimable value to me.
I am indebted to Mr. Murray for the personal interest he has so kindly
shown in the many details which this work entails.
LOUISE M. RICHTER.
_London, October 1913._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE.....vii
AUTHORITIES CONSULTED.....xxv
FIRST PART
_CHANTILLY AND ITS HISTORY_
CHAPTER I
CHANTILLY AND ITS OWNERS: THE MONTMORENCYS
The Origin of Chantilly; the Gallo-Roman Cantillius; the Seigneurs of
Senlis; the Orgemonts; the Montmorencys; the Great Constable of France;
he builds the Petit-Château; the architects Jean Bullant and Pierre
des Iles; the fair Charlotte de Montmorency; Henri IV madly in love
with her; the last Montmorency condemned to the scaffold by Richelieu;
Chantilly becomes the property of the French Crown.....3
CHAPTER II
CHANTILLY AND THE CONDÉS
The origin of the Condés; their adherence to the Protestant Faith;
Eléonore de Roy, Princesse de Condé, a staunch Huguenot; the two
brothers, Antoine de Navarre and Louis I de Bourbon Condé; Catherine
de Medicis sides with Condé in order to counterbalance the ascendancy
of the Guises; she succeeds in estranging him from his wife; severe
censure of Calvin; premature death of the Prince de Condé; his son
Henri de Bourbon succeeds to the title; he sends all his family
jewels to Queen Elizabeth to help the Huguenot cause; Charlotte de la
Trémoille his second wife; his death; his son Henri II is heir to the
Crown until the birth of Louis XIII; he is imprisoned for political
reasons by Richelieu; his release; Louis XIII on his deathbed gives
back Chantilly to its rightful owners.....16
CHAPTER III
THE GRAND CONDÉ
The Duc d'Enghien; his _mariage de convenance_ with Claire-Clemence;
his attachment to Marthe de Vigeau; Richelieu appoints him General
of the French army; the Hero of Rocroy; after his father's death he
assumes his title but is styled the Grand Condé; his victories at
Fribourg, Nördlingen, and Lens; he puts down the Fronde and brings the
boy-king Louis XIV back to Paris.....33
CHAPTER IV
CLAIRE-CLEMENCE, PRINCESSE DE CONDÉ
The enmity between Mazarin and Condé; the latter and his brother
Conti are arrested; the courageous efforts made by Claire-Clemence
to liberate her husband; her flight from Chantilly; Turenne escorts
her to Bordeaux where she is received with great enthusiasm; Paris
clamours for the release of Condé; the Queen is obliged to send Mazarin
with an unconditional order for this purpose; his entry into Paris;
he | 605.772116 |
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Produced by David Reed
HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE
Edward Gibbon, Esq.
With notes by the Rev. H. H. Milman
VOLUME ONE
Introduction
Preface By The Editor.
The great work of Gibbon is indispensable to the student of history. The
literature of Europe offers no substitute for "The Decline and Fall of
the Roman Empire." It has obtained undisputed possession, as rightful
occupant, of the vast period which it comprehends. However some
subjects, which it embraces, may have undergone more complete
investigation, on the general view of the whole period, this history
is the sole undisputed authority to which all defer, and from which
few appeal to the original writers, or to more modern compilers. The
inherent interest of the subject, the inexhaustible labor employed upon
it; the immense condensation of matter; the luminous arrangement; the
general accuracy; the style, which, however monotonous from its
uniform stateliness, and sometimes wearisome from its elaborate ar.,
is throughout vigorous, animated, often picturesque always commands
attention, always conveys its meaning with emphatic energy, describes
with singular breadth and fidelity, and generalizes with unrivalled
felicity of expression; all these high qualifications have secured, and
seem likely to secure, its permanent place in historic literature.
This vast design of Gibbon, the magnificent whole into which he has cast
the decay and ruin of the ancient civilization, the formation and birth
of the new order of things, will of itself, independent of the laborious
execution of his immense plan, render "The Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire" an unapproachable subject to the future historian: [101] in the
eloquent language of his recent French editor, M. Guizot:--
[Footnote 101: A considerable portion of this preface has already appeared
before us public in the Quarterly Review.]
"The gradual decline of the most extraordinary dominion which has
ever invaded and oppressed the world; the fall of that immense empire,
erected on the ruins of so many kingdoms, republics, and states both
barbarous and civilized; and forming in its turn, by its dismemberment,
a multitude of states, republics, and kingdoms; the annihilation of the
religion of Greece and Rome; the birth and the progress of the two new
religions which have shared the most beautiful regions of the earth; the
decrepitude of the ancient world, the spectacle of its expiring glory
and degenerate manners; the infancy of the modern world, the picture of
its first progress, of the new direction given to the mind and character
of man--such a subject must necessarily fix the attention and excite
the interest of men, who cannot behold with indifference those memorable
epochs, during which, in the fine language of Corneille--
'Un grand destin commence, un grand destin s'acheve.'"
This extent and harmony of design is unquestionably that which
distinguishes the work of Gibbon from all other great historical
compositions. He has first bridged the abyss between ancient and modern
times, and connected together the two great worlds of history. The great
advantage which the classical historians possess over those of modern
times is in unity of plan, of course greatly facilitated by the narrower
sphere to which their researches were confined. Except Herodotus, the
great historians of Greece--we exclude the more modern compilers, like
Diodorus Siculus--limited themselves to a single period, or at 'east to
the contracted sphere of Grecian affairs. As far as the Barbarians
trespassed within the Grecian boundary, or were necessarily mingled up
with Grecian politics, they were admitted into the pale of Grecian
history; but to Thucydides and to Xenophon, excepting in the Persian
inroad of the latter, Greece was the world. Natural unity confined their
narrative almost to chronological order, the episodes were of rare
occurrence and extremely brief. To the Roman historians the course was
equally clear and defined. Rome was their centre of unity; and the
uniformity with which the circle of the Roman dominion spread around,
the regularity with which their civil polity expanded, forced, as it
were, upon the Roman historian that plan which Polybius announces as the
subject of his history, the means and the manner by which the whole
world became subject to the Roman sway. How different the complicated
politics of the European kingdoms! Every national history, to be
complete, must, in a certain sense, be the history of Europe; there is
no knowing to how remote a quarter it may be necessary to trace our most
domestic events; from a country, how apparently disconnected, may
originate the impulse which gives its direction to the whole course of
affairs.
In imitation of his classical models, Gibbon places Rome as the cardinal
point from which his inquiries diverge, and to which they bear constant
reference; yet how immeasurable the space over which those inquiries
range; how complicated, how confused, how apparently inextricable the
causes which tend to the decline of the Roman empire! how countless
the nations which swarm forth, in mingling and indistinct hordes,
constantly changing the geographical limits--incessantly confounding the
natural boundaries! At first sight, the whole period, the whole state
of the world, seems to offer no more secure footing to an historical
adventurer than the chaos of Milton--to be in a state of irreclaimable
disorder, best described in the language of the poet:--
--"A dark
Illimitable ocean, without bound,
Without dimension, where length, breadth, and height,
And time, and place, are lost: where eldest Night
And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand."
We feel that the unity and harmony of narrative, which shall comprehend
this period of social disorganization, must be ascribed entirely to the
skill and luminous disposition of the historian. It is in this sublime
Gothic architecture of his work, in which the boundless range, the
infinite variety, the, at first sight, incongruous gorgeousness of
the separate parts, nevertheless are all subordinate to one main and
predominant idea, that Gibbon is unrivalled. We cannot but admire the
manner in which he masses his materials, and arranges his facts in
successive groups, not according to chronological order, but to their
moral or political connection; the distinctness with which he marks his
periods of gradually increasing decay; and the skill with which, though
advancing on separate parallels of history, he shows the common tendency
of the slower or more rapid religious or civil innovations. However
these principles of composition may demand more than ordinary attention
on the part of the reader, they can alone impress upon the memory the
real course, and the relative importance of the events. Whoever would
justly appreciate the superiority of Gibbon's lucid arrangement, should
attempt to make his way through the regular but wearisome annals of
Tillemont, or even the less ponderous volumes of Le Beau. Both these
writers adhere, almost entirely, to chronological order; the consequence
is, that we are twenty times called upon to break off, and resume the
thread of six or eight wars in different parts of the empire; to suspend
the operations of a military expedition for a court intrigue; to hurry
away from a siege to a council; and the same page places us in the
middle of a campaign against the barbarians, and in the depths of the
Monophysite controversy. In Gibbon it is not always easy to bear in mind
the exact dates | 605.947839 |
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This is the February 1992 Project Gutenberg release of:
Paradise Lost by John Milton
The oldest etext known to Project Gutenberg (ca. 1964-1965)
(If you know of any older ones, please let us know.)
Introduction (one page)
This etext was originally created in 1964-1965 according to Dr.
Joseph Raben of Queens College, NY, to whom it is attributed by
Project Gutenberg. We had heard of this etext for years but it
was not until 1991 that we actually managed to track it down to
a specific location, and then it took months to convince people
to let us have a copy, then more months for them actually to do
the copying and get it to us. Then another month to convert to
something we could massage with our favorite 486 in DOS. After
that is was only a matter of days to get it into this shape you
will see below. The original was, of course, in CAPS only, and
so were all the other etexts of the 60's and early 70's. Don't
let anyone fool you into thinking any etext with both upper and
lower case is an original; all those original Project Gutenberg
etexts were also in upper case and were translated or rewritten
many times to get them into their current condition. They have
been worked on by many people throughout the world.
In the course of our searches for Professor Raben and his etext
we were never able to determine where copies were or which of a
variety of editions he may have used as a source. We did get a
little information here and there, but even after we received a
copy of the etext we were unwilling to release it without first
determining that it was in fact Public Domain and finding Raben
to verify this and get his permission. Interested enough, in a
totally unrelated action to our searches for him, the professor
subscribed to the Project Gutenberg listserver and we happened,
by accident, to notice his name. (We don't really look at every
subscription request as the computers usually handle them.) The
etext was then properly identified, copyright analyzed, and the
current edition prepared.
To give you an estimation of the difference in the original and
what we have today: the original was probably entered on cards
commonly known at the time as "IBM cards" (Do Not Fold, Spindle
or Mutilate) and probably took in excess of 100,000 of them. A
single card could hold 80 characters (hence 80 characters is an
accepted standard for so many computer margins), and the entire
original edition we received in all caps was over 800, | 605.961086 |
2023-11-16 18:27:09.9541950 | 3,835 | 294 |
Produced by Brownfox, Adrian Mastronardi, Wayne Hammond,
The Philatelic Digital Library Project at
http://www.tpdlp.net 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.)
AN ABSTRACT
OF THE
PROCEEDINGS OF THE SELECT COMMITTEE
OF THE
HOUSE OF COMMONS,
APPOINTED SESSION, 1849,
TO INQUIRE INTO THE CONTRACT PACKET SERVICE;
IN SO FAR AS THE SAME RELATES TO THE
PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL STEAM
NAVIGATION COMPANY;
WITH AN
INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT AND REMARKS.
Presented to the Court of Directors.
ABSTRACTED AND PRINTED FOR THE INFORMATION OF
THE PROPRIETORS OF THE COMPANY.
_November, 1849._
As the circumstances connected with the origin and progress of the
Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, and particularly with
its employment in the Contract Mail Packet Service, are but imperfectly
known to a great proportion of the present Proprietors; for their
better information it has been deemed advisable by the Directors to
authorise the printing and circulation of the following Statement and
Abstract.
References, it will be found, are occasionally made to parts of the
proceedings of the Select Committee of the House of Commons, which have
not been printed in this pamphlet, because they would have rendered it
too bulky for convenient perusal. But those who may wish to examine
these proceedings at length, can procure the Parliamentary Blue Book at
Hansard’s offices for the sale of Parliamentary Papers.
AN ABSTRACT,
_&c., &c._
In their last Report, presented to the Proprietors at the general
meeting held on the 31st of May last, the Directors stated that a
Committee of the House of Commons had been appointed, “to inquire
into the Contract Packet Service;” and expressed “their satisfaction
that such an inquiry had been instituted, feeling, as they did, that
as far as the interests of this Company were concerned, it would have
a beneficial tendency, by eliciting facts connected with the origin
and progress of the Company, and its employment in the Contract Mail
Service, which could not fail to show the important national benefits
which it has been the means of realising, and its consequent claim to
public support.”
It is no doubt known to some Proprietors of the Company, that for
several years past statements have been made, and circulated with
untiring pertinacity, to the effect, that the Contracts made by the
Government with this Company for the Mail Packet Service had been
obtained through undue favouritism, or corrupt jobbing[1]--that fair
competition had been denied to other parties,--and that the Company
had, in consequence, obtained a much larger remuneration for the
Service than ought to have been given, and were deriving enormous
profits from it.
Although the Directors were aware that these misstatements had obtained
some attention, even in influential quarters, they probably did not
consider it was consistent with the eminent position which the Company
occupies to take any legal proceedings against, or to enter into any
public controversy with, the parties who had been chiefly instrumental
in propagating them.
The forbearance of the Directors has led to a highly satisfactory
result. The continued propagation of these misstatements at last
attracted the attention of a member of the House of Commons so far as
to induce that honourable gentleman to move for a Select Committee to
inquire into the Contract Packet Service.
Although the Committee was moved for and appointed ostensibly to
inquire into the Service generally, its principal object was, as is
sufficiently obvious from its proceedings, to investigate the Contracts
and transactions of the Peninsular and Oriental Company. And the
earlier part of the proceedings of the Committee also show that the
honourable mover and Chairman of it, actuated, no doubt, by a sense
of public duty, entertained, at first, no very friendly views on the
subject in reference to this Company.
The facts elicited in the course of the inquiry, and the glaring
self-contradictions exhibited by the principal witness, when brought to
the test of an examination before the Committee, as well as the hostile
tone adopted by him towards this Company, appear, however, to have
satisfied the honourable gentleman that, while induced to believe that
he was prosecuting a public object, and undertaking a public duty, he
had been made use of, for the mere gratification of private feeling.
And the following two first paragraphs of the Committee’s Report,
which was drafted and proposed by the honourable member himself, are a
sufficient refutation of the misstatements which led to the inquiry.
1. “That so far as the Committee are able to judge, from the evidence
they have taken, it appears that the Mails are conveyed at a less cost
by hired packets than by Her Majesty’s vessels.
2. “That some of the existing Contracts have been put up to public
tender, and some arranged by private negotiation; and that a very
large sum beyond what is received from postage is paid on some of the
lines; but, considering that at the time these Contracts were arranged
the success of these large undertakings was uncertain, your Committee
see no reason to think better terms could have been obtained for the
public.”
As the detached and inconsecutive form in which the evidence of the
different officers of the Government departments was given to the
Committee does not afford a very clear view of the history of the
connexion of this Company with the Contract Packet Service--and, in
particular, does not show the important public advantages which have
been derived from the undertaking of these services by the Company--it
is considered expedient, previously to proceeding with the abstract
of the Committee’s proceedings, to give a brief consecutive statement
of the circumstances under which the various branches of the Contract
Packet Service were undertaken by the Company. And first,
No. I.
THE PENINSULAR MAILS.
Previous to the 4th of September, 1837, the arrangements for the Mail
Packet communication with the Peninsula were as follows:--
Mails to Lisbon were conveyed by sailing Post-office Packets, which
departed from Falmouth for Lisbon every week--wind and weather
permitting. Their departures and arrivals were, however, extremely
irregular; and it was no very infrequent occurrence for the Lisbon Mail
to be three weeks’ old on its arrival at Falmouth, instead of being
brought in five days, with an almost mail-coach or railway precision,
as is now the case.
The communication with Cadiz and Gibraltar was only once a month by a
steam packet.
The originators and original proprietors of the Peninsular Steam
Company, who had, for upwards of a year previously to the time above
mentioned, been running steam vessels at a considerable loss between
London and the principal Peninsular ports, finding themselves in
a position to effect a great improvement in the arrangements for
transmitting the Mails, applied to the Government of that day on the
subject, but were at first coldly received, and their suggestions
disregarded. They continued, however, to prosecute their enterprise;
and the celerity and regularity with which their steam packets made
their passages soon began to attract the attention of the public.
The merchants began to complain loudly of the inefficiency of the
transmission of the Mails by sailing packets; and it was at last
intimated, from an official quarter, to the Managers of the Peninsular
steamers, that if they had any plan or proposals to submit for an
improvement of the Peninsular Mail Service, the Government was then
prepared to receive and consider the same.
In consequence of this intimation, a plan and proposal was drawn up for
a weekly transmission of the Mails between Falmouth and Vigo, Oporto,
Lisbon, Cadiz, and Gibraltar, by efficient steam packets, and at a
cost to the public which should be less than that of the then existing
inferior arrangement--namely, sailing packets to and from the Port of
Lisbon, and a steam packet, once a month only, to and from Cadiz and
Gibraltar.
The plan, after due examination, was considered to embrace advantages
to the public far exceeding what the then existing arrangements
afforded; and its adoption was consequently intimated to the authors
and proposers of it; but, at the same time, they were informed that the
execution of it would be put up to public competition.
Accordingly, an advertisement was soon afterwards issued, inviting
tenders, from owners of steam vessels, for conveying the Mails between
Falmouth and the Peninsula, in conformity with the plan submitted by
the Peninsular Company; and the Contract for the Service was competed
for against that Company by the proprietors of some steam vessels,
who, under the designation of the British and Foreign Steam Navigation
Company, had a short time previously commenced running two small
steamers to the Peninsula, in opposition to the Peninsular Company’s
vessels.
This British and Foreign Company, not being able to satisfy the
Admiralty that they had the means of performing the proposed Service,
their tender was rejected. Upon which they addressed the Admiralty, and
requested that the Contract might be postponed, alleging, that if a
month more were given to them, they could provide sufficient vessels.
Their request was granted; and, contrary to all previous practice,
after the tender of the Peninsular Company had been given in, and the
amount of it, in all probability, known to their competitors, the
Contract was again advertised, and a month more given for receiving
tenders.
The British and Foreign Company again failed to show that they had any
adequate means of performing the Service; and a private negotiation
was then entered into by the Government, with the Peninsular Company,
with a view to reduce the sum required by them. This sum was £30,000
per annum, being about £5,000 less than the estimated annual cost to
the public of the sailing packets and steam packet previously employed
in conveying the Mails. This sum was ultimately reduced to £29,600,[2]
on which terms the Contract was concluded on the 22nd August, 1837,
and may be considered to have formed the basis upon which one of the
most extensive and successful steam enterprises yet known has been
established.
These facts, it is submitted, abundantly show, that so far from any
favour being shown, in regard to this Contract, to the originators of
this Company, they obtained it in the face of adverse circumstances,
and solely because they had, by their own enterprise, placed themselves
in a position to effect an important public improvement, combined with
a reduction of the public expenditure.
No. II.
_Contract for an accelerated Conveyance of the India and other
Mails between England and Malta, and Alexandria._
COMMENCED SEPTEMBER 1ST, 1840.
The efficiency with which the Peninsular Mail Packet Service was
performed elicited from the Admiralty repeated testimonials of
approbation; and, proving as it did, that that description of service
could be more advantageously conducted by private enterprise, under
Contract, than by Government vessels and establishments, paved the way
for the subsequent extension of Contract Mail communication which took
place with the West Indies, North America and the East Indies, China,
&c.
Previous to the 1st of September, 1840, the arrangements for
transmitting the India Mails to and from Egypt, to meet the East India
Company’s steamers plying monthly between Bombay and Suez, were as
follows:--
These Malls were forwarded, every fourth Saturday, by the Contract Mail
steamers of the Peninsular Company to Gibraltar, and there transferred
to an Admiralty steam packet, which carried them to Malta. They were
there transferred to another Admiralty packet, which carried them to
Alexandria. The homeward Mails were brought in a similar manner.
As the Peninsular packets had to call at Vigo, Oporto, Lisbon, and
Cadiz, in their passage to and from Gibraltar, and the Government
packets were of inferior power (about 140 horses) and speed, the
transmission of the India Mails by this route was very tardy, occupying
generally from three weeks to a month in their passage between England
and Alexandria.
Imperfect as this mode of transmission was, it probably would have been
continued for an indefinite period, had not some circumstances occurred
to render an alteration of it imperative.
About the middle of the year 1839, the British Government effected a
convention with the French Government, for transmitting letters and
despatches to and from India, &c., overland, through France, _viâ_
Marseilles, from whence a British Admiralty packet conveyed them to
Malta. From thence this portion of the Mail, and the larger and heavier
portion, forwarded by the Peninsular and Admiralty packets, _viâ_
Gibraltar, were carried together to Alexandria by another Admiralty
packet.
The portion of the Mails forwarded through France was despatched from
the Post-office on the 4th of every month, while the main, or heavier
portion, continued to be forwarded from Falmouth, by the Peninsular
packets, every fourth Saturday; this arrangement was found, in the
course of a few months, to work very awkwardly, inasmuch as the portion
of the Mail forwarded, _viâ_ Gibraltar, had become a fortnight or more
in advance of that forwarded _viâ_ Marseilles, and had to wait that
time at Malta for the arrival of the Marseilles packet.
This irregularity, which every succeeding Mail increased, together with
the suspicion that the British despatches, in their transit through
France, were not altogether safe from being tampered with, rendered the
Government very desirous of establishing a more accelerated means of
transmission, _viâ_ Gibraltar, for the main portion of the India Mails
and the public despatches.
The Managers of the Peninsular steamers were applied to, to submit
a plan for this object. They proposed to establish a line of large
and powerful steamers, to run direct from England to Alexandria, and
_vice versa_, touching at Gibraltar and Malta only, and, by such an
arrangement, to transmit the Mails in a time that should not exceed
by more than two to three days that occupied by the overland route
through France; and undertook to execute such service, with vessels
of 450-horse power, for a sum which should not exceed the cost to the
public of the small and inefficient Admiralty packets then employed in
the same service.
The plan was examined and adopted by the Government; but, as in the
case of the Peninsular Contract, the execution of it was put up to
public tender, by advertisement. And, as appears by the evidence of Mr.
T. C. Croker, of the Admiralty (see his answer to question No. 2,033),
no less than four competitors tendered for the Contract, viz.:--
Willcox and Anderson for £35,200 per annum.
J. P. Robinson ” 51,000 ”
Macgregor Laird ” 44,000 ”
G. M. Jackson ” 37,950 ”
The tender of Messrs. Willcox and Anderson who, as Managers of the
Peninsular Company, had furnished the plan, was accepted, _because it
was the lowest_. But Mr. Croker in his evidence (see Report) has made a
slight error in calculation, in stating the sum at £35,200 per annum.
The tender made was as follows:--
For the 1st year of the service £37,000
” 2nd year ” 35,000
” 3rd year ” 34,000
” 4th year ” 33,000
” 5th year ” 32,000[3]
-------
Divided by 5) 171,000
-------
Gives for the annual cost £34,200
=======
Besides this reduced sum, as compared with the demands of the other
competitors, the tender of Willcox and Anderson afforded further
important advantages to the public, in a reduced rate of passage-money
for officers travelling on the public service, conveyance free of
Admiralty packages, &c.
The vessels offered by Willcox and Anderson, were the “Oriental,” of
1,600 tons, and 450-horse power, and the “Great Liverpool,” of 1,540
tons, and 464-horse power, (originally destined for the transatlantic
line of communication, but which were placed at their disposal by the
Managers and Proprietors of that enterprise). They were also bound to
provide a subsidiary vessel, of not less than 250-horse power, besides
a vessel of 140-horse power, for the Malta and Corfu Service. The
estimate made at the Admiralty (see question No. 1411) of the cost of
the Government packets which performed the service, and which were
superseded by this Contract, was £33,912. But as that estimate did
not include any allowance for interest on their first cost, nor for
sea risk, nor for depreciation, the following per centages on these
accounts must be added to it, in order to present a tolerably correct
view of | 605.974235 |
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FAMOUS AFFINITIES OF HISTORY
THE ROMANCE OF DEVOTION
BY
LYNDON ORR
VOLUME II of IV.
CONTENTS
THE EMPRESS CATHARINE AND PRINCE POTEMKIN
MARIE ANTOINETTE AND COUNT FERSEN
THE STORY OF AARON BURR
GEORGE IV. AND MRS. FITZHERBERT
CHARLOTTE CORDAY AND ADAM LUX
NAPOLEON AND MARIE WALEWSKA
THE STORY OF PAULINE BONAPARTE
THE STORY OF THE EMPRESS MARIE LOUISE AND COUNT NEIPPERG
THE EMPRESS CATHARINE AND PRINCE POTEMKIN
It has often been said that the greatest Frenchman who ever lived was
in reality an Italian. It might with equal truth be asserted that the
greatest Russian woman who ever lived was in reality a German. But the
Emperor Napoleon and the Empress Catharine II. resemble each other in
something else. Napoleon, though Italian in blood and lineage, made
himself so French in sympathy and understanding as to be able to play
upon the imagination of all France as a great musician plays upon a
splendid instrument, with absolute sureness of touch and an ability to
extract from it every one of its varied harmonies. So the Empress
Catharine of Russia--perhaps the greatest woman who ever ruled a
nation--though born of German parents, became Russian to the core and
made herself the embodiment of Russian feeling and Russian aspiration.
At the middle of the eighteenth century Russia was governed by the
Empress Elizabeth, daughter of Peter the Great. In her own time, and
for a long while afterward, her real capacity was obscured by her
apparent indolence, her fondness for display, and her seeming
vacillation; but now a very high place is accorded her in the history
of Russian rulers. She softened the brutality that had reigned supreme
in Russia. She patronized the arts. Her armies twice defeated Frederick
the Great and raided his capital, Berlin. Had Elizabeth lived, she
would probably have crushed him.
In her early years this imperial woman had been betrothed to Louis XV.
of France, but the match was broken off. Subsequently she entered into
a morganatic marriage and bore a son who, of course, could not be her
heir. In 1742, therefore, she looked about for a suitable successor,
and chose her nephew, Prince Peter of Holstein-Gottorp.
Peter, then a mere youth of seventeen, was delighted with so splendid a
future, and came at once to St. Petersburg. The empress next sought for
a girl who might marry the young prince and thus become the future
Czarina. She thought first of Frederick the Great's sister; but
Frederick shrank from this alliance, though it would have been of much
advantage to him. He loved his sister--indeed, she was one of the few
persons for whom he ever really cared. So he declined the offer and
suggested instead the young Princess Sophia of the tiny duchy of
Anhalt-Zerbst.
The reason for Frederick's refusal was his knowledge of the
semi-barbarous conditions that prevailed at the Russian court.
The Russian capital, at that time, was a bizarre, half-civilized,
half-oriental place, where, among the very highest-born, a thin veneer
of French elegance covered every form of brutality and savagery and
lust. It is not surprising, therefore, that Frederick the Great was
unwilling to have his sister plunged into such a life.
But when the Empress Elizabeth asked the Princess Sophia of
Anhalt-Zerbst to marry the heir to the Russian throne the young girl
willingly accepted, the more so as her mother practically commanded it.
This mother of hers was a grim, harsh German woman who had reared her
daughter in the strictest fashion, depriving her of all pleasure with a
truly puritanical severity. In the case of a different sort of girl
this training would have crushed her spirit; but the Princess Sophia,
though gentle and refined in manner, had a power of endurance which was
toughened and strengthened by the discipline she underwent.
And so in 1744, when she was but sixteen years of age, she was taken by
her mother to St. Petersburg. There she renounced the Lutheran faith
and was received into the Greek Church, changing her name to Catharine.
Soon after, with great magnificence, she was married to Prince Peter,
and from that moment began a career which was to make her the most
powerful woman in the world.
At this time a lady of the Russian court wrote down a description of
Catharine's appearance. She was fair-haired, with dark-blue eyes; and
her face, though never beautiful, was made piquant and striking by the
fact that her brows were very dark in contrast with her golden hair.
Her complexion was not clear, yet her look was a very pleasing one. She
had a certain diffidence of manner at first; but later she bore herself
with such instinctive dignity as to make her seem majestic, though in
fact she was beneath the middle size. At the time of her marriage her
figure was slight and graceful; only in after years did she become
stout. Altogether, she came to St. Petersburg an attractive,
pure-minded German maiden, with a character well disciplined, and
possessing reserves of power which had not yet been drawn upon.
Frederick the Great's forebodings, which had led him to withhold his
sister's hand, were almost immediately justified in the case of
Catharine. Her Russian husband revealed to her a mode of life which
must have tried her very soul. This youth was only seventeen--a mere
boy in age, and yet a full-grown man in the rank luxuriance of his
vices. Moreover, he had eccentricities which sometimes verged upon
insanity. Too young to be admitted to the councils of his imperial
aunt, he occupied his time in ways that were either ridiculous or vile.
Next to the sleeping-room of his wife he kept a set of kennels, with a
number of dogs, which he spent hours in drilling as if they had been
soldiers. He had a troop of rats which he also drilled. It was his
delight to summon a court martial of his dogs to try the rats for
various military offenses, and then to have the culprits executed,
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THE
CHRISTMAS DREAM
OF
LITTLE CHARLES.
[Illustration: Line drawing of a colt]
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY J. S. REDFIELD
CLINTON HALL
[Illustration: Man on a horse]
THE CHRISTMAS DREAM
OF LITTLE CHARLES.
[Illustration: Decorative scroll]
ONE Christmas eve, little Charles Estabrook hung his
stocking carefully by the chimney corner, and, after saying
his prayers, got into bed, and soon fell asleep. Charles was
a good little boy; he was fond of horses, and took pleasure
in feeding them and attending to their wants. On the day
previous, a traveller came along; his horse was thirsty; so
little Charles got a pail, filled it with water, and gave the
horse to drink, for which the traveller rewarded him by
giving him a shilling.
[Illustration: Tying a shoe lace]
But, although so fond of horses, little Charles was not
unmindful of the claims of his sister Lizzy, as she was
familiarly called, and, in pleasant weather, would go out to
walk with her. In the engraving opposite, they are on their
way to school together, and have stopped that he may tie her
shoe, which has become unfastened.
Charles dreamed that he was in bed, peeping at his stocking,
over the bed-clothes, when he saw a very pleasant-looking
old gentleman come down the chimney, on a nice little | 606.047151 |
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPS AND CAPERS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: _Frontispiece--Caps and Capers_.
"NOW, GIRLS, COME ON! LET'S EAT OUR CREAM." See p. 92.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPS and CAPERS
A Story of Boarding-School Life
by
GABRIELLE E. JACKSON
Author of "Pretty Polly Perkins,"
"Denise and Ned Toodles," "By Love's
Sweet Rule," "The Colburn Prize,"
etc., etc.
With illustrations
by C. M. Relyea
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1901, by Henry Altemus
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To
the dear girls of "Dwight School,"
who, by their sweet friendship, have unconsciously helped to make
this winter one of the happiest she has ever known, this little
story is most affectionately inscribed by the AUTHOR.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Which Shall It Be? 13
II. "A Touch Can Make or a Touch Can Mar" 21
III. "A Feeling of Sadness and Longing" 29
IV. New Experiences 41
V. Two Sides of a Question 53
VI. Dull and Prosy 63
VII. The P. U. L. 71
VIII. Caps and Capers 81
IX. A Modern Diogenes 89
X. "They Could Never Deceive Me" 97
XI. "La Somnambula" 107
XII. "Have You Not Been Deceived This Time?" 119
XIII. English as She is Spelled 127
XIV. "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells" 135
XV. "Pride Goeth Before a Fall" 143
XVI. Letters 153
XVII. "Haf Anybody Seen My Umbrel?" 161
XVIII. The Little Hinge 169
XIX. "Fatal or Fated are Moments" 179
XX. "Now Tread We a Measure." 187
XXI. Conspirators 197
XXII. "We've Got 'em! We've Got 'em!" 205
XXIII. A Camera's Capers. 213
XXIV. Whispers 225
XXV. "What Are You Doing Up this Time of Night?" 233
XXVI. "Love (and Schoolgirls) Laugh at Locksmiths" 243
XXVII. Ariadne's Clue 253
XXVIII. "When Buds And Blossoms Burst" 261
XXIX. Commencement 271
XXX. "O Fortunate, O Happy Day" 279
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"Now, girls, come on! let's eat our cream." Frontispiece
"You could have popped me over from ambush." 37
"Do you wish to join the P. U. L.?" 71
"Go, tell Mrs. Stone she isn't up to snuff." 109
"Sthick to yer horses, Moik." 141
"Let us begin a brand new leaf to-day." 165
"I feel so sort of grown up and grand." 181
"An' have ye been in there all this time?" 207
"Away went Marie, vanishing bit by bit." 231
"Her hand resting lightly on the arm of her friend." 267
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER I
WHICH SHALL IT BE?
"And now that I have them, how am I to decide? That is the question?"
The speaker was a fine-looking man about thirty-five years of age, seated
before a large writing-table in a handsomely appointed library. It was
littered with catalogues, pamphlets, letters and papers sent from dozens
of schools, and from the quantity of them one would fancy that every
school in the country was represented. This was the result of an
advertisement in the "Times" for a school in which young children are
received, carefully trained, thoroughly taught, and which can furnish
unquestionable references regarding its social standing and other
qualifications.
It was a handsome, but seriously perplexed, face which bent over the
letters, and more than once the shapely hand was raised to the puckered
forehead and the fingers thrust impatiently through the golden brown hair,
setting it on end and causing its owner to look more distracted than
ever.
"Poor, wee lassie, you little realize what a problem you are to me. Would
to God the one best qualified to solve it could have been spared to you,"
and the handsome head fell forward upon the hands, as tears of bitter
anguish flooded the brown eyes.
Can anything be more pathetic than a strong man's tears? And Clayton
Reeve's were wrung from an almost despairing heart.
| 606.049079 |
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[Illustration: Book Cover]
[Illustration: HE TOOK UP THE ENVELOPE]
ASHTON-KIRK
SECRET AGENT
BY
John T. McIntyre
Author of "Ashton-Kirk Investigator," &c.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
RALPH L. BOYER
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1912
COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
_To_
_Helen Ray_
Introduction
Those who have read "Ashton-Kirk, Investigator" will recall references
to several affairs in which the United States government found the
investigator's unusual powers of inestimable service. In such matters,
tremendous interests often stand dangerously balanced, and the most
delicate touch is required if they are not to be sent toppling. As
Ashton-Kirk has said:
"When a crisis arises between two of the giant modern nations, with
their vast armies, their swift fleets, their dreadful engines of war,
the hands which control their affairs must be steady, secret, and sure.
Otherwise an unthinkable horror might be brought about."
It frequently happens that such a crisis arises, the issue is joined and
fought out to the bitter end, and the watchful public press never gets
even a hint of it. Indeed, if the secret archives of the nations were
thrown open for inspection, a long series of appalling dangers would be
shown to have been passed by each--dangers arising from small and
apparently remote things, but capable of swift and deadly growth.
Experience, steady courage, and sure talent are required in dealing
with such things; and these qualities Ashton-Kirk possesses in
abundance. To be sure, the departments of the government have the
"Secret Service" at their hand; but the specialist is called in when the
general practitioner is at a loss, and he is as much a part of the
structure as his regularly employed colleague.
The adventure of the present story is only one of many to be told of
Ashton-Kirk.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SOME PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES 11
II. ASHTON-KIRK GOES TO EASTBURY 33
III. AN INTERNATIONAL AFFAIR 50
IV. THE TAKING OFF OF DR. MORSE 64
V. THE HOUND STRIKES THE TRAIL 76
VI. THE VISIT OF OKIU 89
VII. THE METHYLENE STAIN 101
VIII. THE HOUSE ON FORDHAM ROAD 116
IX. OKIU ONCE MORE 126
X. SOME STARTLING INTELLIGENCE 135
XI. A RAY OF LIGHT 144
XII. KARKOWSKY GETS SOME ATTENTION 157
XIII. OLD NANON SPEAKS 167
XIV. OKIU WRITES A LETTER 176
XV. ALMOST! 181
XVI. IN THE DARK 195
XVII. THE SILHOUETTES 204
XVIII. GONE! 214
XIX. THE TAXI-CAB 223
XX. FRESH DEVELOPMENTS 240
XXI. THE MAN WITH THE DECORATION 247
XXII. THE GERMAN EMBASSY BALL 256
XXIII. WHAT VON STUNNENBERG THOUGHT 276
XXIV. SURPRISED! 284
XXV. CAUGHT! 295
XXVI. THE TRUTH 308
XXVII. CONCLUSION 321
Illustrations
PAGE
HE TOOK UP THE ENVELOPE _Frontispiece_
"WHO BROUGHT THE NEWS?" 73
THE GLITTERING EYES LIFTED 197
"MY TIME IS SHORT" 279
CHAPTER I
SOME PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES
Fuller studied the heavy, decided signature at the bottom of the typed
page; then he laid the letter upon the table.
"One who judges character by handwriting," said he, "would probably
think the secretary a strong man."
Ashton-Kirk took the stem of the long German pipe from between his lips.
"From your tone," said he, "you do not so consider him."
Fuller was looking down at the letter.
"With that looking me in the face, how can I? Here is a matter of
tremendous importance--one of the most guarded secrets of the government
is endangered. Yesterday, in what was undoubtedly a panic, he wired you,
begging help. Then, almost immediately after, he weakens and writes,
requesting you to do nothing."
Thick clouds arose from the Coblentz; the smoker snuggled down into the
big chair luxuriously.
"And from these things," said he, "you draw that he lacks force?"
"Yes; he quit before even catching a glimpse of the end."
There was a moment's silence, and then the secret agent spoke.
"There are times," remarked he, "when it is not altogether desirable to
catch that glimpse." He blew out a veil of smoke and watched it idly for
a moment. "It is possible, in pushing a thing to the end," he added, "to
force an entirely unexpected result. Take for example the case of the
Molineux chaplet, some little time since. Could there have been more
fire, more determination than that exhibited by old Colonel Molineux in
this room when he brought the matter to our attention? And yet, when I
showed him that his own daughter was the thief, he instantly subsided."
Fuller regarded his employer with questioning eyes.
"You think, then, that some one concerned in the government has been
found out as----"
But the other stopped him.
"Sometimes," said he, "we are even more anxious to spare an enemy than a
friend. And the reason usually is that we do not care to force the said
enemy into such a position that his only resource would be an open
blow."
"Ah!" Fuller's eyes widened. "They hesitate because they fear to bring
about a war." He looked at the secret agent, the question in his face
growing. "But with whom?"
Ashton-Kirk put aside the pipe and got up.
"For years," said he, "the specialists of the Navy Department have been
secretly working upon a gun designed to throw a tremendous explosive.
That it was delicate work was shown by the quality of the men employed
upon it; and that it was dangerous was proven by the lives lost from
time to time in the experiments. Six months ago the invention was
completed. The news leaked out, and naturally the powers were
interested. Then to the dismay of the heads of the department it was
learned that a most formidable plan to obtain possession of the secret
had been balked by the merest chance. The agents of the government were
at once put to work; not satisfied with this, the secretary wired me to
come to Washington at once. But I was in no haste to do so, because I
foresaw what would happen."
The questioning look in Fuller's eyes increased.
"I knew that the agents of a foreign government laid the plan,"
proceeded Ashton-Kirk. "Who else would desire information upon such a
point? And at this time there is but one government sufficiently
interested in us to go so far."
"You mean----"
Ashton-Kirk yawned widely and then asked:
"Have you seen the morning papers?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you noticed a speech by Crosby, the Californian, in Congress.
Rather a slashing affair. He continues to demand a permanent fleet for
the Pacific and increased coast defenses."
The windows were open; the high-pitched complaint from the mean street
drifted up and into the room. A bar of sunlight shot between two
up-rearing brick bulks across the way; it glittered among the racks of
polished instruments, slipped along the shelves of books and entered at
the door of the laboratory; here the vari- chemicals sparkled in
their round-bellied prisons; the grotesque retorts gleamed in swollen
satisfaction.
A knock came upon the door, and Stumph, Ashton-Kirk's grave-faced man
servant, entered with a card.
"It is the gentleman who called yesterday while you were out," said
Stumph.
The secret agent took the card and read:
"Mr. Philip Warwick."
"He asked me to say," proceeded Stumph, "that his business is urgent and
important."
"Let him come up."
Stumph went out. Fuller began fingering a packet of documents which he
took from the table.
"I suppose," said he, "that I may as well file these Schofield-Dempster
papers away."
"Yes, the matter is finished, so far as we are concerned. It was
interesting at first, but I'm rather glad to be rid of it. The piquancy
of the situation was lost when the 'forgeries' were found to have been
no forgeries at all; and the family despair is a trifle trying."
"Mr. Philip Warwick," said the low voice of Stumph, a few moments later.
A big, square-shouldered young man entered the room; he had thick, light
hair and wide open blue eyes. That he was an Englishman was
unmistakable. For a moment he seemed in doubt as to whom he should
address; but Fuller indicated his employer and the caller bowed his
thanks.
"Sir," said he, "if I am intruding, I ask your pardon. I was directed to
you by Professor Hutchinson of Hampden College, with whom I have become
acquainted through our mutual interest in the Oriental languages."
"Ah, yes. Hutchinson is a very old friend of mine, a splendid fellow,
and a fine judge of tobacco. Will you sit down?"
"Thank you."
Mr. Philip Warwick sat down, and looked very big and strong and ill at
ease. There was a perplexed expression upon his handsome face; but he
said, quietly enough:
"I take this occasion, Mr. Ashton-Kirk, to express my appreciation of
your book upon the Lithuanian language. I spent some years in the Baltic
provinces, and am fairly familiar with the tongue."
Ashton-Kirk smiled, well pleased.
"A number of people have been good enough to notice that little book,"
said he, "though when I wrote it I did not expect it to get beyond my
own circle. You see, the Lithuanians have grown rather thick in this
section of the city; and the great similarity between their language and
the Sanskrit interested me."
"The work," said the young Englishman, "is very complete. But," and his
voice lowered a trifle, "much as I am delighted with it, still, that is
not why I have ventured to call upon you."
"No?" The secret agent settled himself in the big chair; his singular
eyes studied the visitor with interest. Fuller having finished with the
papers at the table now asked:
"Will you need me?"
"Perhaps."
The assistant thereupon sat down, took out a pencil and laid a pad of
paper upon his knee. Philip Warwick shifted uneasily in his chair; his
powerful fingers clasped and unclasped nervously.
"Professor Hutchinson informs me," said he, "that you take an interest
in those problems which spring up unexpectedly and confound the
inexperienced. Have I been correctly informed?"
The secret agent nodded.
"Am I to understand that you have brought me such a problem?" he asked.
The visitor bent forward a trifle.
"Perhaps," he said, "it will prove no problem to you. It may be, to some
extent, that our imaginations have been playing tricks upon us. But,
however that may be, the whole matter is utterly beyond our
comprehension. I have done what I can to get to the bottom of it and
failed. If you will be kind enough to hear and advise me, I shall be
profoundly grateful."
Ashton-Kirk gestured for him to go on.
"The affair," began the young Englishman, "is not my own, but that of my
employer, Dr. Simon Morse." He caught the look in the eyes of the secret
agent, and added: "No doubt you have heard of him; his theories
attracted wide attention some time ago."
"I recall him very well," said Ashton-Kirk. "A sort of scientific
anarchist, if I'm not mistaken; he had many daring ideas and
considerable hardihood in their expression."
"Any sort of government, human or divine, has in him an outspoken
enemy," said Warwick. "I know him to be a man of great learning and
splendid ability, but somewhere in his brain there is a something which
nullifies it all."
"You say the matter regarding which you came to see me is that of Dr.
Morse. Did he ask you to come?"
"No, no," young Warwick held up his hand, hastily. "He knows nothing of
it; and I much prefer that he should not. You see, he is a man of
peculiar temperament. He is very silent and secretive regarding his
private affairs; also he has," drily, "a somewhat violent temper."
"You picture a rather unpleasant character."
"But I do him no injustice," protested the young Englishman. "Frankly,
he is not at all my sort; and I should not remain with him a day, were
it not for Stella--Miss Corbin."
"I see."
"She is his niece--the only child of a younger sister; and the things
which I am about to relate have caused her much alarm. She fears that
some strange danger threatens him. He has always been kind to her, and
she is very much attached to him.
"Dr. Morse is an Englishman and a graduate in medicine; but having large
means has given but little time to the practice of his profession. As
his published works have shown, he detests all governments; however,
that of Russia has always been his pet aversion. He has declared it the
most corrupt system extant, and maintained that not a patriotic pulse
was to be found among the ruling class throughout the vast empire. Its
mighty army, he predicted, would crumble before the first determined
foe.
"When the war broke out between Japan and Russia, Dr. Morse at once
placed his niece in safe hands; then he disappeared for more than a
year. Upon his return it was learned that he had, somehow, managed to
have himself enrolled upon the medical staff of the Russian army, and
had witnessed most of the operations in Manchuria. Though he came back
rather worn and with a slow-healing wound, he seemed | 606.27331 |
2023-11-16 18:27:10.3552360 | 1,272 | 66 |
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
A Source Book of Philippine History
To Supply a Fairer View of Filipino Participation and Supplement the
Defective Spanish Accounts
PHILIPPINE PROGRESS PRIOR TO 1898
By AUSTIN CRAIG and CONRADO BENITEZ
Of the College of Liberal Arts Faculty of the University of the
Philippines
Philippine Education Co., Inc., Manila, 1916
The following 720 pages are divided into two volumes, each of which,
for the convenience of the reader, is paged separately and has its
index, or table of contents:
VOLUME I
I. The Old Philippines' Industrial Development
(Chapters of an Economic History)
I.--Agriculture and Landholding at the time of the Discovery
and Conquest. II.--Industries at the Time of Discovery and
Conquest. III.--Trade and Commerce at the Time of Discovery and
Conquest. IV.--Trade and Commerce; the Period of Restriction. V.--The
XIX Century and Economic Development.
By Professor Conrado Benitez
II. The Filipinos' Part in the Philippines' Past
(Pre-Spanish Philippine History A. D. 43-1565; Beginnings of Philippine
Nationalism.)
By Professor Austin Craig
VOLUME II
III. The Former Philippines thru Foreign Eyes
(Jagor's Travels in the Philippines; Comyn's State of the Philippines
in 1810; Wilkes' Manila and Sulu in 1842; White's Manila in 1819;
Virchow's Peopling of the Philippines; 1778 and 1878; English Views
of the People and Prospects of the Philippines; and Karuth's Filipino
Merchants of the Early 1890s)
Edited by Professor Craig
Made in Manila--Press of E. C. McCullough & Co.--The Work of Filipinos
EDITOR'S EXPLANATIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This work is pre-requisite to the needed re-writing of Philippine
history as the story of its people. The present treatment, as a chapter
of Spanish history, has been so long accepted that deviation from
the standard story without first furnishing proof would demoralize
students and might create the impression that a change of government
justified re-stating the facts of the past in the way which would
pander to its pride.
With foreigners' writing, the extracts herein have been extensive, even
to the inclusion of somewhat irrelevant matter to save any suspicion
that the context might modify the quotation's meaning. The choice of
matter has been to supplement what is now available in English, and,
wherever possible, reference data have taken the place of quotation,
even at the risk of giving a skeletony effect.
Another rule has been to give no personal opinion, where a quotation
within reasonable limits could be found to convey the same idea, and,
where given, it is because an explanation is considered essential. A
conjunction of circumstances fortunate for us made possible this
publication. Last August the Bureau of Education were feeling
disappointment over the revised school history which had failed to
realize their requirements; the Department of History, Economics and
Sociology of the University were regretting their inability to make
their typewritten material available for all their students; and
Commissioner Quezon came back from Washington vigorously protesting
against continuing in the public schools a Philippine history text
which took no account of what American scholarship has done to
supplement Spain's stereotyped story. Thus there were three problems
but the same solution served for all.
Commissioner Rafael Palma, after investigation, championed furnishing
a copy of such a book as the present work is and Chairman Leuterio of
the Assembly Committee on Public Instruction lent his support. With
the assistance of Governor-General Harrison and Speaker Osmena,
and the endorsement of Secretary Martin of the Department of Public
Instruction, the Bureau of Education obtained the necessary item
in their section of the general appropriation act. Possibly no one
deserves any credit for conforming to plain duty, but after listing
all these high officials, it may not be out of place to mention that
neither has there come from any one of them, nor from any one else
for that matter, any suggestion of what should be said or left unsaid
or how it should be said, nor has any one asked to see, or seen,
any of our manuscript till after its publication. Insular Purchasing
Agent Magee, who had been, till his promotion, Acting Director of the
Bureau of Education, Director Crone, returned from the San Francisco
Exposition, and Acting Auditor Dexter united to smoothe the way for
rapid work so the order placed in January is being filled in less than
three months. Three others whose endorsements have materially assisted
in the accomplishment of the work are President Villamor of our
University, Director Francisco Benitez of its School of Education, and
Director J. A. Robertson of the Philippine Library. And in recalling
the twelve years of study here which has shown the importance of
these notes there come to mind the names of those to whom I have
been accustomed to go for suggestion and advice: Mariano Ponce,
of the Assembly Library, Manuel Artigas, of the Filipiniana Section
of the Philippines Library, Manuel Iriarte of the Executive Bureau
Archives, Dr. T. H. Pardo de Tavera and Epifanio de los Santos,
associates in the Philippine Academy, Leon and Fernando Guerrero,
Jaime C. De Veyra, Valentin Ventura, of Barcelona, J. M. Ramirez, of
Paris, the late Rafael del Pan, Jose Basa, of Hongkong, and Doctor
Regidor, of London, all Filipinos, Doctor N. | 606.375276 |
2023-11-16 18:27:10.4274660 | 5,391 | 17 |
Produced by Dagny & Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
FIFTEEN
HUNDRED
MILES
AN HOUR
_Edited by_
CHARLES DIXON.
_Illustrated by Captain ARTHUR LAYARD, late R.E._
_LONDON_
BLISS, SANDS AND FOSTER
CRAVEN STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1895
[Illustration: "OUR VOYAGE BEGINS AT LAST."]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
WE PREPARE FOR OUR JOURNEY
CHAPTER II.
WE LEAVE EARTH IN THE "SIRIUS"
CHAPTER III.
OUR VOYAGE BEYOND THE CLOUDS
CHAPTER IV.
AWFUL MOMENTS
CHAPTER V.
THE GLORIES OF THE HEAVENS
CHAPTER VI.
WE NEAR MARS
CHAPTER VII.
OUR ARRIVAL AND SAFE DESCENT
CHAPTER VIII.
A STRANGE WORLD
CHAPTER IX.
THE MORROW--AND WHAT CAME OF IT
CHAPTER X.
CAPTIVITY
CHAPTER XI.
LOVE AND JEALOUSY
CHAPTER XII.
CONDEMNED TO DIE
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CRAG REMAGALOTH
CHAPTER XIV.
ACROSS THE DESERT CHADOS
CHAPTER XV.
RIVALS MEET AGAIN
CHAPTER XVI.
VOLINÈ
CHAPTER XVII.
AT THE TEMPLE ON THE HILL VEROSI
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE FIGHT FOR VOLINÈ
CHAPTER XIX.
WEDDED
CHAPTER XX.
THE LAST WORDS FROM YONDER
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"OUR VOYAGE BEGINS AT LAST" _Frontispiece_
"ALONE IN SPACE"
"ITS HUGE SCALY CARCASE"
"VOLINÈ"
"... THE 'SIRIUS'... BOLDLY OUTLINED AGAINST THE SKY"
"SCORES OF STRANGE BEASTS HURRIED OUT FROM UNDER THEM"
INTRODUCTION
The narrative contained in the papers which are given to the world in
this book, is of so marvellous a character as to have made me long
hesitate before venturing on their publication. Even now I do so in the
full expectation of scorn and unbelief.
I owe it to the world to state exactly how these papers came into my
hands. That done, I must leave it to their own appearance of truth to
command belief.
The year before last, I was travelling through Northern Africa on a
scientific expedition. It was early in the month of May that I reached
the northern confines of the Great Desert, amongst the feathery
palm-groves in the delicious oasis of Biskra.
I had started one day, with the first streak of dawn, upon a short
expedition into the desert. My two Arab followers were anxious to
cover as much distance as possible before the heat of the sun became
oppressive.
It was about ten o'clock before we halted for breakfast, and the oasis
of Biskra looked but a black spot on the northern horizon. The heavens
up to now were an intensely brilliant blue, but a dark cloud far away
over the distant desert could be seen rapidly increasing in size.
Gradually the whole vault of sky assumed a coppery aspect, and the
sun shone paler and paler each moment. The heat and oppressiveness
were almost unbearable; not a breath of air relieved the suffocating
atmosphere. The sun finally disappeared behind the curtain of lowering
cloud, and a darkness began to creep over the earth. The Arabs prepared
for the storm which they knew from experience was brewing. The dreaded
sandstorm was approaching. It came on the wings of the southern gale
with terrific speed, and suddenly the air became almost as dark as
midnight, full of fine blinding sand. We could not see twenty paces
ahead; and now the sluggish atmosphere was stirred with the rushing and
shrieking of a mighty wind.
As I gazed for one brief moment upwards during a lull in the storm, my
eyes were almost blinded by a brilliant light, brighter than the flame
from an incandescent lamp, and a thousand times as large, which seemed
to shoot from out of space. At the same awful moment the very dome of
heaven seemed cracked asunder by a loud report, different from anything
I had ever heard before. It was a solid and metallic sound, louder
and sharper than the report of tons of exploding nitro-glycerine.
The earth shook and trembled to its utmost foundations, and the rocks
seemed to recoil at the frightful explosion. The Arabs were struck
dumb and motionless with horror, and I, for several moments, was as
one stone-blind. With the report a huge body seemed to have struck the
rocks a short distance from us, but it was impossible to tell what it
was until the fury of the storm was somewhat spent. The worst was now
over; and the sand, the thunder, and the darkness vanished almost as
suddenly as they came. But we did not venture forth until the welcome,
glorious sun shone down again upon the wet rocks; and then the Arabs
engaged in fervent prayer to Allah for our miraculous deliverance from
a terrible fate.
Almost the first object that my eyes rested upon, as soon as we left
our retreat under the rocks, was a large round mass of dark-looking
substance, a hundred yards away. In amazement I walked towards the spot
where it lay hissing and steaming on the bare, wet rocks, surrounded by
a thick coating of hailstones, which the hot sun was rapidly melting.
It was a meteorolite of unusual dimensions, measuring exactly three
feet nine inches in height, and was shaped like a huge gourd. A large
crack extended completely down one side, about an inch across in its
widest part.
I cautioned the Arabs to preserve the strictest secrecy, and made them
swear by the Prophet's beard that they would reveal to no man what
they had seen, and then we returned to Biskra. It was my intention to
obtain a few suitable tools and requisites, and then return to the
meteorolite at once to investigate. It would evidently take some hours
to cool; besides, if we did not get back, search parties would be
scouring the desert in quest of us, and they might by chance discover
this wonderful "stone." I felt already that this stone belonged to me.
My interest in it was all-absorbing.
Early the next morning, with three Arabs, I went off, armed with
wedges, a heavy hammer, some drills, a quantity of gunpowder, and
fuse. We found the stone just as we left it on the previous day, and
evidently still unvisited by man.
I first of all tried to force open the crack with the wedges, but the
substance was exceedingly tough, the appliances at my command very
crude, and I made no progress. Then I set my followers to work to bore
two holes into the "stone," and fill them with gunpowder. This plan
worked admirably--the drill cutting its way through the soft spongy
mass with great quickness, and I was soon ready to fire my fuse, and
retire behind the rocks to wait events.
It was an anxious moment for me. We had not to wait long for the
reports, which sounded like a couple of rifle cracks, and then we ran
forward to examine our prize. Alas! it was shattered into fragments,
some of them blown to a distance of many yards.
The charges were too strong. I was profoundly disappointed, and set the
Arabs to work to gather up the largest pieces and load our camels with
them.
I was sitting dejectedly enough upon the sand, more interested in
the action of a pair of vultures than in the doings of my men, when
Achmed, one of my Arabs, made his appearance, holding in his arms a
very curious-looking fragment of the meteorolite. It looked like a
rusty piece of iron ore, oblong in shape, and had evidently undergone
great pressure. Examination told me that this substance was iron, and
its disproportionate lightness, together with a blow from the hammer,
revealed the fact that it was not solid! It looked for all the world
like a large conical shot. I set off alone on my camel to the oasis,
all impatient to get home and examine my prize.
I could neither eat nor sleep until I had finished my task. Locking
myself in my room, I began my investigation with a singular
presentiment that I was on the eve of some important discovery. Nor
were my feelings unjustified by events. With the aid of a hammer and
chisel, after some considerable trouble and labour, I broke open this
singular-looking mass of battered rusty iron, and its strange contents
rolled out on to the table! Of what were they composed? Nothing but a
long and carefully-folded pile of papers--so tightly packed that they
might have been under hydraulic pressure; but their appearance filled
me with the intensest surprise and most utter amazement! Here and
there the edges were burnt and charred, but otherwise they were in a
singularly good state of preservation, and the writing upon them was
almost as legible as when it was penned. The paper had evidently been
made on earth, for it bore the watermark of a well-known London firm.
The most singular part of all this strange occurrence, however, remains
now to be told. Most of these manuscripts were written in a good, bold,
upright hand, and they were addressed and dated from
"The City of Edos, Planet of Mars, or Gathma. December the 9th, 1878."
Was I awake or dreaming? Many times did I read those three lines,
walking about the room meantime to convince myself that all was
reality! This strange letter from an unknown world must have been ten
years in the air! These manuscripts were evidently of a scientific
as well as of a popular character; and as a scientific man myself,
I felt already that a bond of sympathy existed between my unknown
correspondent far away out yonder beyond the sky, and myself! A voice
from another world; a message from the vast unseen--how I longed
to read these papers, to examine them, to revel in their secrets,
and to enjoy them! What a hidden world of wonder, of adventure, of
exploration, lay before me if the documents were genuine!
I sat up the entire night, eagerly reading through these strange papers.
Africa had now, for the present, lost its charm. I set off back again
to Europe with all despatch, bent on investigating the whole matter.
Fortunately, my efforts were crowned with a most gratifying triumph.
Doctor Hermann, F.R.S., F.R.A.S., F.R.G.S., the author of a
considerable portion of these manuscripts, I discovered had been an
eccentric and little-known individual, living a very secluded life
on a small estate near the Yorkshire fells, a wild lonely spot, far
from cities. That he was a member of the Royal, the Astronomical, and
the Geographical Societies, I easily satisfied myself. He had been
absolutely devoted to science--for this all the other enjoyments and
obligations of life were discarded; he lived but for one object, the
study and investigation of Nature's choicest secrets. This was the
all-absorbing faith of his life. From information supplied in these
manuscripts, I learned the exact place of his strange abode, and
was able to visit it, and to make many enquiries in the immediate
neighbourhood concerning him. He was described to me as a tall, spare
man, with a benevolent-looking face, past the prime of life, with
grey beard and moustache, clear grey eyes, and close-cropped hair. In
nature, gentle and tender as a woman, but brave as a lion, and with a
reputation for firmness and great strength of will. I was also told
that he had a very big telescope erected in his barn, and some of
the old folks living in the fells always insisted that the Doctor and
the Devil were on quite too intimate terms. He had no friends in the
neighbourhood. One old serving-woman used to look after the house,
but she had been dead some years, and had not been on speaking terms
with any of the good people living near. His man-of-all-work, Sandy
Campbell, generally accompanied his master in all his wanderings. Sandy
was almost as much of a character as his master--a close, reticent
Scot, who could never be got to talk, even when under the influence of
whisky, a liquor he appeared to have been particularly fond of. The
Doctor had few visitors. John Temple, a Bradford cotton lord, had been
often seen in his company; and a young engineer from Leeds, called
Harry Graham, had been also known in the neighbourhood as a frequent
guest of the Doctor's. Singularly enough, these names were the ones
given in the manuscripts, and therefore help to confirm their truth.
I also learnt that, some fourteen years ago, Doctor Hermann and his man
suddenly disappeared from the neighbourhood, and it was said they had
gone abroad on a scientific expedition, the house having been denuded
of its furniture and left standing empty. From that day to this, no
one had occupied the premises. Pursuing my investigations further,
I found that at precisely the same time John Temple, the Bradford
millionaire, left this country, presumably on a voyage round the world;
and enquiries at the great firm of manufacturing engineers in Leeds
also revealed the fact that this Harry Graham, their cleverest manager,
left their employment to go abroad at the same date. Not one of these
persons has been heard of since.
The mystery of all these persons disappearing at the same time, and
never being heard of again by mortal man, is now cleared away! I hold
the secret, which was flashed to me on the wings of the storm, from
boundless space, upon the sands of the Sahara. The following weird and
startling story will satisfactorily explain the cause and purpose of
these individuals' departure, minutely describe their wonderful and
thrilling experiences, and publish to the world the reason why the
lonely house on the Yorkshire fells remains tenantless, and is rapidly
falling into ruins; and the rich estates of John Temple, cotton lord
and millionaire, are still amongst the unclaimed treasures in the
jealous keeping of the High Court of Chancery!
The following is in the Doctor's bold and characteristic handwriting.
_Extract from Dr. Hermann's instructions to the finder of the MSS._
"Should these manuscripts chance to fall into the hands of any
civilised man, it is my earnest wish, though of German extraction
myself, that they should be published--if published at all--in the
English tongue. Truth shall prevail, and our return to earth shall
scatter, like thistle-down before the autumn winds, the scepticism
which I mistake not will encircle them, as soon as man may read them.
It is my cherished hope to return to my mother world, and to tell in
person of that glorious life and those sublime wonders of a New World.
Adieu!"
This brief extract must suffice as introduction. The next chapter
will begin at once with the story proper, omitting the uninteresting
preliminary portion of the manuscripts.
_Fifteen Hundred Miles an Hour_
CHAPTER I.
WE PREPARE FOR OUR JOURNEY.
"I tell you, Temple, that the thing can be done! From experiments
which I have carefully made, and from information which I have
laboriously collected during the best part of a lifetime devoted to
scientific research, I am in a position confidently to state that my
project is removed for ever from the realm of possibility, and is
now within measurable distance of becoming an accomplished fact. My
plans may seem complicated to you, but to me they are simple in the
extreme. You, my dear fellow, are better able to deal with intricate
financial questions, discounts, stocks, and bank rates, rather than the
delicate experiments of science. Believe me, I have here in this book
every item of my scheme carefully worked out, every design outlined
to its simplest detail--all I want is the necessary capital for its
accomplishment. My young friend, Harry Graham, here--let me introduce
him to you, Temple--whose interest in astronomy I have long been
fostering, is willing and ready to superintend the mechanical portion
of my undertaking. Our models have turned out satisfactory in every
way--all we want now is money. That, friend Temple, you half-promised
years ago. May I count upon your assistance still?"
"My dear Doctor, you may. If fifty thousand pounds, aye, or even a
hundred thousand, will help you, I am willing to speculate to that
amount; and, what is more, the novelty of your undertaking has so
captivated me that I am anxious to form one of your party. Who knows,
if your efforts are crowned with success, what grand financial harvests
may be reaped!"
"Then, Graham, there is nothing now to prevent us beginning to work in
real earnest. There is much for us to do; and I am sure we shall deem
it an honour to have the financier of our undertaking in our company.
Try another cigar, friends, and let Sandy bring us one more bottle
of port, and then I will endeavour to give you a brief outline of my
plans."
"As you know," continued the Doctor, "I have long been an ardent
supporter of the theory of the plurality of worlds. I am a firm
believer in the principle of Universal Law; and the theory that these
other worlds are the abode of living organisms is to me an almost
demonstrable fact. When I first began the study of this interesting
question I soon came to the conclusion that the only planet with which
I dared hope to obtain any success must be one whose conditions were as
nearly like those of our own world as possible. So far as I know, only
one orb in the entire planetary system can with any degree of fairness
be compared with Earth. That planet is Mars. In short, the beautiful
planet Mars is precisely similar in nearly every physical aspect to the
Earth--it is, in fact, only a smaller edition of our own world.
"But I am afraid I weary you, Temple, with all this scientific detail.
I will not trouble you with more, but come to the practical side of my
plans."
"Doctor, your remarks interest me exceedingly. Pray, say all you think
desirable."
"Well, then, Temple, the first difficulty I had to contend with was
that of bridging the mighty distance between our Earth and this planet.
My second task was the enormous journey itself, and the means of
obtaining air and sustenance during the progress. Both of these, after
many experiments and many failures, have been overcome.
"First, as to my means of conveyance. I have here a design for an air
carriage, propelled by electricity, capable of being steered in any
direction, and of attaining the stupendous speed of fifteen hundred
miles per hour. It can be made large enough to afford all necessary
accommodation for at least six persons, and its attendant apparatus
is capable of administering to their every requirement. Here is a
model of the machine. You will perceive that the material of which it
is composed is no metal in common use, nor is its composition, and
the method of its manufacture, known to any mortal man but myself.
It is remarkable for its extreme lightness, toughness, and power of
withstanding heat. Wrought-iron melts at something like 4,500 degrees
Fahrenheit; my metal will stand a fiery ordeal three times as great.
This is of the utmost importance, for our high rate of speed would soon
generate sufficient heat to melt any but the most enduring substance.
Here, again, is the exact model of another apparatus for making and
storing electricity sufficient for at least two years, working at
high pressure. And herein perhaps is the greatest of my discoveries.
The one grand problem which electricians have to solve before this
force can be of any great advantage to mankind is the method of
generating it direct, without the aid of any other motive power. I have
solved that problem; and have succeeded by the aid of this curious
apparatus in producing electricity direct, not from coal, but from
petroleum. By this wonderful invention I am able to carry enough fuel
for our journey, compressed into a space that is practicable for all
requirements, and the alarming waste of energy that now troubles the
electrical engineer is saved. The labour of the world will now be
revolutionised when I choose to make my discovery known; for the reign
of steam, glorious and wonderful as it has been, will then be over.
I can carry in my hand enough fuel to drive the biggest steamer that
ploughs the ocean, once round the world.
"But to return. This little attachment tells the exact rate of speed
the carriage is travelling. You will also perceive that my motors are
on the principle of the paddle-wheel and the screw-propeller combined.
The interior of my carriage is formed of a series of chambers one above
the other. There is a laboratory, sleeping and living chambers, engine
and apparatus room, and ample space for stores in the basement. The
door is situated near the top, and just above it I have placed, as you
see, a small balcony, for observations. My port-holes will be glazed
with glass of exceptional quality, made by myself, and every apartment
is lighted with electricity. The carriage is conical in form, that
shape being best adapted to a high rate of speed.
"My next consideration was the supply of air. I think we shall find
that the whole planetary system is pervaded with an atmosphere so
rare, in some parts of remotest space, as to remain undetected by any
instrument yet known to science, but still of sufficient density to
offer resistance and lend support to our carriage and its propellers.
My condensers are so formed that they will readily convert this ether
into air suited to man's requirements.
"I had now but one more task to overcome--food and water. As regards
food, I have here a little cake of animal and vegetable substances
which have undergone a certain chemical process, by means of which I
have been able to compress enough food to support a human being for
three days into a space not quite two cubic inches in extent. In this
other tablet I have dealt with wheaten flour in a similar satisfactory
manner. Tea, sugar, and other luxuries I can reduce to the smallest
proportions by a process of condensation and hydraulic pressure. So
that I can stow away in the store-room of my carriage enough food to
last six persons for nearly three years--a more than ample supply, as I
intend shortly to demonstrate.
"It has taken me nearly ten years to solve the problem of my water
supply. I have here a small electrical apparatus, by means of which I
hope to be able to distil water from ether. Should my experiment fail,
I have invented a small lozenge of soda and other chemicals, which will
allay thirst. I must also say that I have allowed sufficient space for
scientific instruments, a stock of methylated spirits, a selection of
books, firearms, and ammunition: nor have I omitted clothes, cigars,
tobacco, a few bottles of wine to be used on state occasions, and a
fair quantity of brandy and whiskey, so that you, Temple, shall not
be without your grog. A medicine chest, camera, and india-rubber
boat are also included in my list of necessaries. I calculate that
my air-carriage will be about forty feet in height, and nine feet in
width. What I have disclosed is but a portion of my grand scheme,
the one great work of my life, from which I hope to obtain the most
brilliant scientific results.
"The planet Mars will reach his perihelion, or nearest distance to
our Earth, in October, 1877. He is then in an unusually favourable
position, and affords us a chance of visiting him, which will not occur
again in a lifetime. Now, I calculate that our rate of speed will be
fifteen hundred miles per hour, so that the thirty-four millions of
miles we have to traverse will be accomplished in about two and a-half
years' time. We must leave Earth, therefore, not later than the first
day of May, 1875. Our stay, of course, will depend on circumstances,
which no | 606.447506 |
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Produced by Judith Boss
THE LOST CONTINENT
C. J. Cutliffe Hyne
CONTENTS
PREFATORY: THE LEGATEES OF DEUCALION
1 MY RECALL
2 BACK TO ATLANTIS
3 A RIVAL NAVY
4 THE WELCOME OF PHORENICE
5 ZAEMON'S CURSE
6 THE BITERS OF THE CITY WALLS
7 THE BITERS OF THE WALLS
(FURTHER ACCOUNT)
8 THE PREACHER FROM THE MOUNTAINS
9 PHORENICE, GODDESS
10 A WOOING
11 AN AFFAIR WITH THE BARBAROUS FISHERS
12 THE DRUG OF OUR LADY THE MOON
13 THE BURYING ALIVE OF NAIS
14 AGAIN THE GODS MAKE CHANGE
15 ZAEMON'S SUMMONS
16 SIEGE OF THE SACRED MOUNTAIN
17 NAIS THE REGAINED
18 STORM OF THE SACRED MOUNTAIN
19 DESTRUCTION OF THE ATLANTIS
20 ON THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP
PREFATORY:
THE LEGATEES OF DEUCALION
We were both of us not a little stiff as the result of sleeping out in
the open all that night, for even in Grand Canary the dew-fall and the
comparative chill of darkness are not to be trifled with. For myself on
these occasions I like a bit of a run as an early refresher. But here on
this rough ground in the middle of the island there were not three yards
of level to be found, and so as Coppinger proceeded to go through some
sort of dumb-bell exercises with a couple of lumps of bristly lava, I
followed his example. Coppinger has done a good deal of roughing it in
his time, but being a doctor of medicine amongst other things--he takes
out a new degree of some sort on an average every other year--he is
great on health theories, and practises them like a religion.
There had been rain two days before, and as there was still a bit of
stream trickling along at the bottom of the barranca, we went down there
and had a wash, and brushed our teeth. Greatest luxury imaginable, a
toothbrush, on this sort of expedition.
"Now," said Coppinger when we had emptied our pockets, "there's precious
little grub left, and it's none the better for being carried in a local
Spanish newspaper."
"Yours is mostly tobacco ashes."
"It'll get worse if we leave it. We've a lot more bad scrambling ahead
of us."
That was obvious. So we sat down beside the stream there at the bottom
of the barranca, and ate up all of what was left. It was a ten-mile
tramp to the fonda at Santa Brigida, where we had set down our traps;
and as Coppinger wanted to take a lot more photographs and measurements
before we left this particular group of caves, it was likely we should
be pretty sharp set before we got our next meal, and our next taste of
the PATRON'S splendid old country wine. My faith! If only they knew down
in the English hotels in Las Palmas what magnificent wines one could
get--with diplomacy--up in some of the mountain villages, the old
vintage would become a thing of the past in a week.
Now to tell the truth, the two mummies he had gathered already quite
satisfied my small ambition. The goatskins in which they were sewn up
were as brittle as paper, and the poor old things themselves gave out
dust like a puffball whenever they were touched. But you know what
Coppinger is. He thought he'd come upon traces of an old Guanche
university, or sacred college, or something of that kind, like the one
there is on the other side of the island, and he wouldn't be satisfied
till he'd ransacked every cave in the whole face of the cliff. He'd
plenty of stuff left for the flashlight thing, and twenty-eight more
films in his kodak, and said we might as well get through with the job
then as make a return journey all on purpose. So he took the crowbar,
and I shouldered the rope, and away we went up to the ridge of the
cliff, where we had got such a baking from the sun the day before.
Of course these caves were not easy to come at, or else they would have
been raided years before. Coppinger, who on principle makes out he
knows all about these things, says that in the old Guanche days they
had ladders of goatskin rope which they could pull up when they were at
home, and so keep out undesirable callers; and as no other plan occurs
to me, perhaps he may be right. Anyway the mouths of the caves were in
a more or less level row thirty feet below the ridge of the cliff, and
fifty feet above the bottom; and Spanish curiosity doesn't go in much
where it cannot walk.
Now laddering such caves from below would have been cumbersome, but a
light knotted rope is easily carried, and though it would have been hard
to climb up this, our plan was to descend on each cave mouth from above,
and then slip down to the foot of the cliffs, and start again AB INITIO
for the next.
Coppinger is plucky enough, and he has a good head on a height, but
there is no getting over the fact that he is portly and nearer fifty
than forty-five. So you can see he must have been pretty keen. Of course
I went first each time, and got into the cave mouth, and did what I
could to help him in; but when you have to walk down a vertical cliff
face fly-fashion, with only a thin bootlace of a rope for support, it
is not much real help the man below can give, except offer you his best
wishes.
I wanted to save him as much as I could, and as the first three caves
I climbed to were small and empty, seeming to be merely store-places,
I asked him to take them for granted, and save himself the rest. But
he insisted on clambering down to each one in person, and as he decided
that one of my granaries was a prison, and another a pot-making factory,
and another a schoolroom for young priests, he naturally said he hadn't
much reliance on my judgment, and would have to go through the whole
lot himself. You know what these thorough-going archaeologists are for
imagination.
But as the day went on, and the sun rose higher, Coppinger began clearly
to have had enough of it, though he was very game, and insisted on going
on much longer than was safe. I must say I didn't like it. You see
the drop was seldom less than eighty feet from the top of the cliffs.
However, at last he was forced to give it up. I suggested marching off
to Santa Brigida forthwith, but he wouldn't do that. There were three
more cave-openings to be looked into, and if I wouldn't do them for him,
he would have to make another effort to get there himself. He tried to
make out he was conferring a very great favour on me by offering to take
a report solely from my untrained observation, but I flatly refused to
look at it in that light. I was pretty tired also; I was soaked with
perspiration from the heat; my head ached from the violence of the sun;
and my hands were cut raw with the rope.
Coppinger might be tired, but he was still enthusiastic. He tried to
make me enthusiastic also. "Look here," he said, "there's no knowing
what you may find up there, and if you do lay hands on anything,
remember it's your own. I shall have no claim whatever."
"Very kind of you, but I've got no use for any more mummies done up in
goatskin bags."
"Bah! That's not a burial cave up there. Don't you know the difference
yet in the openings? Now, be a good fellow. It doesn't follow that
because we have drawn all the rest blank, you won't stumble across a
good find for yourself up there."
"Oh, very well," I said, as he seemed so set on it; and away I stumbled
over the fallen rocks, and along the ledge, and then scrambled up by
that fissure in the cliff which saved us the two-mile round which we had
had to take at first. I wrenched out the crowbar, and jammed it down
in a new place, and then away I went over the side, with hands smarting
worse at every new grip of the rope. It was an awkward job swinging into
the cave mouth because the rock above overhung, or else (what came to
the same thing) it had broken away below; but I managed it somehow,
although I landed with an awkward thump on my back, and at the same time
I didn't let go the rope. It wouldn't do to have lost the rope then:
Coppinger couldn't have flicked it into me from where he was below.
Now from the first glance I could see that this cave was of different
structure to the others. They were for the most part mere dens, rounded
out anyhow; this had been faced up with cutting tools, so that all the
angles were clean, and the sides smooth and flat. The walls inclined
inwards to the roof, reminding me of an architecture I had seen before
but could not recollect where, and moreover there were several rooms
connected up with passages. I was pleased to find that the other
cave-openings which Coppinger wanted me to explore were merely the
windows or the doorways of two of these other rooms.
Of inscriptions or markings on the walls there was not a trace, though I
looked carefully, and except for bats the place was entirely bare. I
lit a cigarette and smoked it through--Coppinger always thinks one is
slurring over work if it is got through too quickly--and then I went
to the entrance where the rope was, and leaned out, and shouted down my
news.
He turned up a very anxious face. "Have you searched it thoroughly?" he
bawled back.
"Of course I have. What do you think I've been doing all this time?"
"No, don't come down yet. Wait a minute. I say, old man, do wait a
minute. I'm making fast the kodak and the flashlight apparatus on the
end of the rope. Pull them up, and just make me half a dozen exposures,
there's a good fellow."
"Oh, all right," I said, and hauled the things up, and got them inside.
The photographs would be absolutely dull and uninteresting, but that
wouldn't matter to Coppinger. He rather preferred them that way. One has
to be careful about halation in photographing these dark interiors, but
there was a sort of ledge like a seat by the side of each doorway, and
so I lodged the camera on that to get a steady stand, and snapped off
the flashlight from behind and above.
I got pictures of four of the chambers this way, and then came to one
where the ledge was higher and wider. I put down the camera, wedged it
level with scraps of stone, and then sat down myself to recharge the
flashlight machine. But the moment my weight got on that ledge, there
was a sharp crackle, and down I went half a dozen inches.
Of course I was up again pretty sharply, and snapped up the kodak just
as it was going to slide off to the ground. I will confess, too, I was
feeling pleased. Here at any rate was a Guanche cupboard of sorts, and
as they had taken the trouble to hermetically seal it with cement, the
odds were that it had something inside worth hiding. At first there
was nothing to be seen but a lot of dust and rubble, so I lit a bit of
candle and cleared this away. Presently, however, I began to find that
I was shelling out something that was not cement. It chipped away, in
regular layers, and when I took it to the daylight I found that each
layer was made up of two parts. One side was shiny stuff that looked
like talc, and on this was smeared a coating of dark toffee-
material, that might have been wax. The toffee- surface was
worked over with some kind of pattern.
Now I do not profess to any knowledge on these matters, and | 606.473215 |
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E-text prepared by Albert László, Tom Cosmas, P. G. Máté, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 38866-h.htm or 38866-h.zip:
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or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38866/38866-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
Whole and fractional parts of numbers are displayed as 4-5/8
for four and five-eights or as a decimal number. Several of
the advertisements display another type of 'fraction' to
represent shillings and pence: 1/1-1/2 for one | 606.55189 |
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Produced by Delphine Lettau, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
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CHINESE POEMS
TRANSLATED BY
CHARLES BUDD
HENRY FROWDE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE
1912
OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
_PREFACE_
_The initiative of this little book was accidental. One day in the early
part of last summer, feeling weary of translating commercial documents,
I opened a volume of Chinese poetry that was lying on my desk and
listlessly turned over the pages. As I was doing so my eye caught sight
of the phrase, 'Red rain of peach flowers fell.' That would be
refreshing, I said to myself, on such a day as this; and then I went on
with my work again. But in the evening I returned to the book of Chinese
poetry and made a free translation of the poem in which I had seen the
metaphor quoted above. The translation seemed to me and some friends
pleasantly readable; so in leisure hours I have translated some more
poems and ballads, and these I now venture to publish in this volume,
thinking that they may interest readers in other lands, and also call
forth criticism that will be useful in preparing a larger volume which
I, or some better qualified | 606.577525 |
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Produced by Bryan Ness, Graeme Mackreth and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
PAX MUNDI.
PAX MUNDI
A CONCISE ACCOUNT OF THE PROGRESS OF
THE MOVEMENT FOR PEACE
BY MEANS OF ARBITRATION, NEUTRALIZATION,
INTERNATIONAL LAW AND DISARMAMENT
BY
K.P. ARNOLDSON
_Member of the Second Chamber of the Swedish Riksdag_
AUTHORIZED ENGLISH EDITION
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE BISHOP OF DURHAM
[Illustration]
London
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO.
PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1892
BUTLER & TANNER,
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS,
FROME, AND LONDON.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
ARBITRATION 8
NEUTRALITY 40
FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS 82
THE PROSPECTS 138
APPENDIX 165
PREFATORY NOTE.
This little work, written by one who has long been known as a
consistent and able advocate of the views herein maintained, has been
translated by a lady who has already rendered great services to the
cause, in the belief that it will be found useful by the increasing
number of those who are interested in the movement for the substitution
of Law for War in international affairs.
J.F.G.
INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.
It is natural that the advocates of international Peace should
sometimes grow discouraged and impatient through what they are tempted
to consider the slow progress of their cause. Sudden outbursts of
popular feeling, selfish plans for national aggrandisement, unremoved
causes of antipathy between neighbours, lead them to overlook the
general tendency of circumstances and opinions which, when it is
regarded on a large scale, is sufficient to justify their loftiest
hopes. It is this general tendency of thought and fact, corresponding
to the maturer growth of peoples, which brings to us the certain
assurance that the Angelic Hymn which welcomed the Birth of Christ
advances, slowly it may be as men count slowness, but at least
unmistakably, towards fulfilment. There are pauses and interruptions
in the movement; but, on the whole, no one who patiently regards the
course of human history can doubt that we are drawing nearer from
generation to generation to a practical sense of that brotherhood and
that solidarity of men--both words are necessary--which find their
foundation and their crown in the message of the Gospel.
Under this aspect the Essay of Mr. Arnoldson is of great value, as
giving a calm and comprehensive view of the progress of the course of
Peace during the last century, and of the influences which are likely
to accelerate its progress in the near future.
Mr. Arnoldson, who, as a member of the Swedish Parliament, is a
practical statesman, indulges in no illusions. The fulness with which
he dwells on the political problems of Scandinavia shows that he is
not inclined to forget practical questions under the attraction of
splendid theories. He marks the chief dangers which threaten the peace
of Europe, without the least sign of dissembling their gravity. And
looking steadily upon them, he remains bold in hope; for confidence
in a great cause does not come from disregarding or disparaging the
difficulties by which it is beset, but from the reasonable conviction
that there are forces at work which are adequate to overcome them.
We believe that it is so in the case of a policy of Peace; and the
facts to which Mr. Arnoldson directs attention amply justify the
belief. It is of great significance that since 1794 there have been "at
least sixty-seven instances in which disputes of a menacing character
have been averted by arbitration"; and perhaps the unquestioning
acceptance by England of the Genevan award will hereafter be reckoned
as one of her noblest services to the world. It is no less important
that since the principle of arbitration was solemnly recognised by
the Congress of Paris in 1856, arbitral clauses have been introduced
into many treaties, while the question of establishing a universal
system of international arbitration has been entertained and discussed
sympathetically by many parliaments.
At the same time Mr. Arnoldson justly insists on the steady increase of
the power of neutrals. Without accepting the possibility of "a Neutral
League," he points out how a necessary regard to the interests of
neutrals restrains the powers which are meditating war. And I cannot
but believe that he is right when he suggests that the problems of the
neutral | 606.796703 |
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Produced by Colin Bell, Delphine Lettau, Julia Neufeld and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: MARTIN LUTHER.
WILL^M COLLINS, GLASGOW.]
HISTORY
OF
THE REFORMATION
IN THE
SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY
J. H. MERLE D'AUBIGNE, D.D.
J'appelle accessoire, l'estat des affaires de ceste vie caduque et
transitoire. J'appelle principal, le gouvernement spirituel auquel
reluit souverainement la providence de Dieu.--THEODORE DE BEZE.
By _accessory_ I mean the state of affairs in this fading and
transitory life. By principal I mean the spiritual government in
which the providence of God is sovereignly displayed.
A NEW TRANSLATION:
(CONTAINING THE AUTHOR'S LAST IMPROVEMENTS,)
BY HENRY BEVERIDGE, ESQ. ADVOCATE.
VOLUME FIRST.
GLASGOW:
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM COLLINS.
LONDON: R. GROOMBRIDGE AND SONS.
1845.
GLASGOW:
WILLIAM COLLINS AND CO.,
PRINTERS.
TRANSLATOR'S ADVERTISEMENT.
D'Aubigne's History of the Reformation is so well known and so highly
appreciated as to make it not only unnecessary, but almost
presumptuous, for a mere Translator to say any thing in commendation
of it. The public feeling unquestionably is, that of the works which
have recently appeared, it is one of the most talented, interesting,
important, and seasonable. The mere lapse of time, aided by the active
misrepresentations of the Romish party, had begun to make an
impression in some degree unfavourable to the principles of the
Reformation. This admirable work has again placed these principles in
their true light. By its vivid display of what Rome was and did, it
has impressively reminded us of what she still is, and is prepared to
do. Her great boast is, that she has never changed. If so, she longs
to return to her former course, and will return to it the first moment
that circumstances enable her to do so. Being thus warned, our duty is
plain. We must prepare for the combat; and of all preparations, none
promises to be more effectual than that of thoroughly embuing the
public mind with the facts so graphically delineated, and the
principles so luminously and forcibly expounded in this work of
D'Aubigne.
But, it may be asked, Has not this purpose been effected already, or
at least may it not be effected without the instrumentality of a new
translation?
To this question the Translator answers, _First_, The form of the
present translation and the price at which it is published place the
work within the reach of thousands to whom it might otherwise be a
sealed book. _Second_, While this Translation is the cheapest in
existence, it is also the only one which can, in strict truth, be
regarded as genuine. The edition from which this translation is made
was published in 1842. The date would have been of little consequence
if the work had continued the same; but the fact is, that the edition
of 1842 is not a reprint, but a complete revision of the one which
preceded it. Numerous passages of considerable length and great
importance have been introduced, while others which had, on a careful
examination, been deemed redundant or inaccurate, have been expunged.
Surely, after all the pains which the distinguished author has
expended on the improvement of his work, it is scarcely doing justice
either to him or to the English reader to leave his improvements
unknown. In another respect the present Translation exclusively
contains what is conceived to be a very decided improvement. All the
Notes, the meaning of which is not given in the Text, have been
literally translated. It seemed somewhat absurd while translating
French for the benefit of the English reader, to be at the same time
presenting him with a large number of passages of untranslated Latin.
While the work has been printed in a form to which the most fastidious
cannot object, it has been issued at a price which makes it accessible
to all. The result, it is hoped, will be, that D'Aubigne's History of
the Reformation will obtain a circulation somewhat adequate to its
merits, and by its introduction into every family become what it well
deserves to be--a household book.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
STATE OF MATTERS BEFORE THE REFORMATION.
PAGE
CHAP. I.
Christianity--Formation of the Papacy--Unity of the Church--The
Decretals--Hildebrand--Corruption of Doctrine, 13
CHAP. II.
Grace and Works--Pelagianism--Penances--Indulgences--
Supererogation--Purgatory--Taxation--Jubilee, 27
CHAP. III.
Relics--Easter Merriment--Corruption of the Clergy--A Priest's
Family--Education--Ignorance, 34
CHAP. IV.
Christianity Imperishable--Opposition to Rome--Frederick the
Wise--His Character--His Anticipation, 42
CHAP. V.
The Empire--National Character--Switzerland--Italy--Spain--
Portugal--France--Netherlands--England--Scotland--The
North--Russia--Poland--Bohemia--Hungary, 48
CHAP. VI.
State of Theology--Witnesses for the Truth--The Vaudois--
Wickliffe---Huss--Savonarola--John Wessel--Proles, 58
CHAP. VII.
Literature--Dante--Printing--Reuchlin--His Struggle with the
Dominicans, 71
CHAP. VIII.
Erasmus--His Genius--His 'Praise of Folly'--His Greek Testament--
His Influence--His Failings, 82
CHAP. IX.
The Nobles--Huetten--'Letters of some Obscure Men'--Seckingen--
Cronberg--Hans Sachs--General Fermentation, 94
BOOK II.
YOUTH, CONVERSION, AND FIRST LABOURS, OF LUTHER.
CHAP. I.
Luther--His Parentage--The Paternal Roof--Strict Discipline--
School--The Shunammite--His Studies--University, 103
CHAP. II.
Scholasticism and the Classics--Luther's Piety--His Discovery
of a Bible--His Sickness--The Thunderstorm--His Entrance
into a Convent, 112
CHAP. III.
His Father's Anger--Servile Employments--His Studies--The
Bible--Hebrew and Greek--His Agony during Mass--Faints, 118
CHAP. IV.
Staupitz--His Piety--His Visitation--His Conversation--Presents
Luther with a Bible--The Old Monk--Luther's Consecration--
His Call to Wittemberg, 126
CHAP. V.
The University of Wittemberg--Luther's First Employment--
Biblical Lectures--Preaching at Wittemberg--The Old
Chapel, 136
CHAP. VI.
Luther's Journey to Rome--A Convent on the Po--Luther's
Behaviour at Rome--Corruption of the Romish Clergy--
Prevailing Immorality--Pilate's Staircase, 140
CHAP. VII.
Doctor's Degree--Carlstadt--Luther's Oath--First Views of
Reformation--The Schoolmen--Spalatin, 149
CHAP. VIII.
'Popular Declamations'--Moral Purity of Luther--Mysticism--
Spenlein--Justification by Faith--Necessity of Works, 156
CHAP. IX.
First Theses--Visit to the Convents--Dresden--Erfurt--Tornator
Peace and the Cross--Labours--The Plague, 163
CHAP. X.
Luther and the Elector--Duke George--Luther at Court--Dinner
Emser's Supper, 167
CHAP. XI.
Theses--Human Nature--Rationalism--Eck--Urban Regius--Luther's
Modesty, 172
Book III.
THE INDULGENCES AND THESES.
CHAP. I.
Cortege--Tezel--His Discourse--Sale of Indulgences--Public
Penance--Letter of Indulgence--Feasting and Debauchery, 180
CHAP. II.
The Soul in the Burying-Ground--Shoemaker of Hagenau--Myconius--
Stratagem--Miner of Schneeberg, 187
CHAP. III.
Leo X--His Necessities--Albert--His Character--Franciscans and
Dominicans, 193
CHAP. IV.
Tezel Approaches--Luther in the Confessional--Tezel's Rage--
Luther's Discourse--The Elector's Dream, 197
CHAP. V.
Luther's Theses--Letter to Albert--Dissemination of the Theses, 203
CHAP. VI.
Reuchlin--Erasmus--Flek--Bibra--The Emperor--The Pope--Myconius--
The Monks--Adelman--An Old Priest--Bishop of Brandenburg--
Luther's Moving Principle, 213
CHAP. VII.
Tezel's Attack--Luther's Reply--Luther and Spalatin--Study of
Scripture--Scheurl and Luther--Luther pleads for the
People--A new Suit, 221
CHAP. VIII.
Disputation at Frankfort--Tezel's Theses--Knipstrow--Luther's
Theses burnt--Tezel's Theses burnt, 227
CHAP. IX.
Prierio--His Dialogue--Luther's Reply--Hochstraten--Eck--'The
Obelisks'--'The Asterisks,' 235
CHAP. X.
Popular Writings--Lord's Prayer--Sermon on Repentance, 244
CHAP. XI.
Apprehensions of Luther's Friends--Journey to Heidelberg--
Bibra--The Palatinate Castle--The Paradoxes--Bucer--
Brentz--Snepf--The Old Professor, 249
BOOK FOURTH.
LUTHER BEFORE THE LEGATE.
CHAP. I.
'Solutions'--Leo X--Luther to the Bishop--To the Pope--To
the Vicar-General--Rovere to the Elector--Discourse on
Excommunication, 258
CHAP. II.
Diet of Augsburg--The Emperor to the Pope--Luther cited to
Rome--Luther's Peace--Intercession of the University--
Papal Brief--The Pope to the Elector, 266
CHAP. III.
Schwarzerd--His Wife--Philip Melancthon--His Genius--His
Studies--Call to Wittemberg--Leipsic--Parallel between
Luther and Melancthon--Education, 273
CHAP. IV.
Luther and Staupitz--Order to Appear--Luther's Departure for
Augsburg--Weimar--Nuremberg, 280
CHAP. V.
Arrival at Augsburg--De Vio--Serra-Longa--Safe-Conduct--Luther
to Melancthon, 285
CHAP. VI.
First Appearance--Conditions of Rome--Propositions to Retract--
Luther's Reply--Impressions on both Sides--Arrival of
Staupitz, 293
CHAP. VII.
Communication to the Legate--Second Appearance--Luther's
Declaration--The Legate's Reply--The Legate's Volubility--
Luther's Request, 299
CHAP. VIII.
Third Appearance--Treasury of Indulgences--Humble Request--
Legate's Rage--Luther Retires, 303
CHAP. IX.
De Vio and Staupitz--Staupitz and Luther--Luther and Spalatin
Communion--Departure of Staupitz and Link--Luther to
Cajetan--Luther's Departure--Appeal to the Pope, 307
CHAP. X.
Luther's Flight--Luther's Wish--The Legate to the Elector--The
Elector to the Legate--Prosperity of the University, 316
CHAP. XI.
Thoughts of Departure--Adieus to the Church--Critical Moment--
Luther's Courage--Discontentment at Rome--Papal Bull--
Appeal to a Council, 321
PREFACE TO THE LAST EDITION.
My purpose is not to write the history of a party, but that of one of
the greatest revolutions which has taken place among men--the history
of a mighty impulse which was given to the world three centuries ago,
and the influence of which is still, in our day, every where
perceived. The history of the Reformation is different from the
history of Protestantism. In the former, every thing bears testimony
to a revival of human nature, to a transformation, social and
religious, emanating from God. In the latter are too often seen a
remarkable degeneracy from primitive principles, party intrigue, a
sectarian spirit, and the impress of petty private feelings. The
history of Protestantism might interest none but Protestants; the
history of the Reformation is for all Christians, or rather all men.
The historian has a choice in the field in which he is to labour. He
may describe the great events which change the face of a people, or
the face of the world; or he may narrate the calm and progressive
course, whether of a nation, the Church, or mankind, which usually
follows great social changes. Both fields of history are highly
important; but the preference, in point of interest, seems due to
those epochs which, under the name of Revolutions, introduce a nation
or society at large to a new era and a new life.
Such a transformation I have attempted to describe with very humble
powers, hoping that the beauty of the subject will compensate for my
want of ability. In styling it a _Revolution_, I give it a name which
in our day is in discredit with many, who almost confound it with
_revolt_. This is a mistake. A revolution is a change which takes
place in the world's affairs. It is something new evolved (_revolvo_)
from the bosom of humanity; and, indeed, before the end of the last
century, the term was oftener used in a good than a bad sense. They
spoke of "a happy," a "marvellous" revolution. The Reformation being a
re-establishment of the principles of primitive Christianity, is the
opposite of a revolt. For that which behoved to revive it was a
regenerating--for that which must always subsist, a conservative
movement. Christianity and the Reformation, while establishing the
grand principle that all souls are equal in the sight of God, and
overthrowing the usurpations of a haughty priesthood, which presumed
to place itself between the Creator and his creature, lay it down as a
fundamental principle of social order, that all power is of God, and
cry aloud to all, "Love your brethren, fear God, honour the king."
The Reformation differs essentially from the revolutions of antiquity,
and from the greater part of those of modern times. In these,
political changes are in question, and the object is to establish or
overthrow the ascendancy of one, or it may be of many. The love of
truth, of holiness, and eternity, was the simple, yet powerful, spring
by which our Reformation was effected. It marks a step which human
nature has taken in advance. In fact, if man, instead of pursuing only
material, temporal, earthly interests, proposes to himself a higher
aim, aspiring to immaterial and immortal blessings, he advances and
makes progress. The Reformation is one of the brightest days of this
glorious advance. It is a pledge that the new struggle, which is now
being decided, will terminate in favour of truth, with a triumph still
more pure, spiritual, and splendid.
Christianity and the Reformation are the two greatest revolutions on
record. Unlike the different political movements of which we read,
they took place not in one nation merely, but in several nations, and
their effects must be felt to the end of the world.
Christianity and the Reformation are the same revolution, effected at
different times, and under different circumstances. They vary in
secondary features, but are identical in their primary and principal
lineaments. The one is a repetition of the other. The one ended the
old, the other began the new world; the middle ages lie between. The
one gave birth to the other, and if, in some respects, the daughter
bears marks of inferiority, she on the other hand has her own peculiar
properties.
One of these is the rapidity of her action. The great revolutions
which have issued in the fall of a monarchy, and the change of a whole
political system, or which have thrown the human mind on a new course
of development, were slowly and gradually prepared. The old power had
long been undermined, and its principal buttresses had one after
another disappeared. It was so on the introduction of Christianity.
But the Reformation is seen, at the first glance, to present a
different aspect. The Church of Rome appears, under Leo X, in all its
power and glory. A monk speaks, and over the half of Europe this power
and glory crumble away, thus reminding us of the words in which the
Son of God announces his second advent: "As the lightning cometh out
of the east, and shineth even unto the west, so shall also the coming
of the Son of man be." (Matth., xxiv, 27.)
This rapidity is inexplicable to those who see, in this great event,
only a _reform_, and regard it as simply an act of criticism, which
consisted in making a choice among doctrines, discarding some,
retaining others, and arranging those retained, so as to form them
into a new system.
How could a whole nation, how could several nations, have so quickly
performed an operation so laborious? How could this critical
examination have kindled that fire of enthusiasm which is essential to
great, and, above all, to rapid revolutions? The Reformation, as its
history will show, was altogether different. It was a new effusion of
the life which Christianity brought into the world. It was the triumph
of the greatest of doctrines, that which animates those who embrace it
with the purest and strongest enthusiasm--the doctrine of faith, the
doctrine of grace. Had the Reformation been what many Catholics and
many Protestants in our day imagine,--had it been that negative system
of negative reason, which childishly rejects whatever displeases it,
and loses sight of the great ideas and great truths of Christianity,
it had never passed the narrow limits of an academy, a cloister, or a
cell. It had nothing in common with what is generally understood by
Protestantism. Far from being a worn-out, emaciated body, it rose up
like a man of might and fire.
Two considerations explain the rapidity and the extent of this
revolution. The one must be sought in God, the other among men. The
impulse was given by a mighty and invisible hand, and the change
effected was a Divine work. This is the conclusion at which an
impartial and attentive observer, who stops not at the surface,
necessarily arrives. But the historian's task is not finished; for God
works by second causes. A variety of circumstances, many of them
unperceived, gradually prepared men for the great transformation of
the sixteenth century, and, accordingly, the human mind was ripe when
the hour of its emancipation pealed.
The task of the historian is to combine these two great elements in
the picture which he presents, and this has been attempted in the
present history. We shall be easily understood, when we come to trace
the second causes which contributed to the Reformation, but some
perhaps will not understand us so well, and will even be tempted to
tax us with superstition, when we attribute the accomplishment of the
work to God. The idea, however, is particularly dear to us. This
history, as indicated by the inscription on its title-page, places in
front and over its head the simple and prolific principle, GOD IN
HISTORY. But this principle being generally neglected, and sometimes
disputed, it seems necessary to expound our views with regard to it,
and thereby justify the method which we have seen it proper to adopt.
History cannot, in our day, be that lifeless series of events which
the greater part of previous historians deemed it sufficient to
enumerate. It is now understood that in history as in man are two
elements, matter and spirit. Our great historians, unable to satisfy
themselves with a detail of facts, constituting only a barren
chronicle, have sought for a principle of life to animate the
materials of past ages.
Some have borrowed this principle from art, aiming at vivid, faithful,
and graphic description, and endeavouring to make their narrative live
with the life of the events themselves.
Others have applied to philosophy for the spirit which should give
fruit to their labours. To facts they have united speculative views,
instructive lessons, political and philosophical truths, enlivening
their narrative by the language which they have made it speak, and the
ideas which it has enabled them to suggest.
Both methods doubtless are good, and should be employed within certain
limits. But there is another source to which, above all others, it is
necessary to apply for the spirit and life of the past--I mean
Religion. History should be made to live with its own proper life. God
is this life. God must be acknowledged--God proclaimed--in history.
The history of the world should purport to be annals of the government
of the Supreme King.
I have descended into the field to which the narratives of our
historians invited me, and there seen the actions of men and of states
in energetic development and violent collision: of the clang of arms,
I have heard more than I can tell; but no where have I been shown the
majestic form of the Judge who sits umpire of the combat.
And yet in all the movements of nations, there is a living principle
which emanates from God. God is present on the vast stage on which the
generations of men successively appear. True! He is there a God
invisible; but if the profane multitude pass carelessly by, because He
is concealed, profound intellects, spirits which feel a longing for
the principle of their existence, seek him with so much the more
earnestness, and are not satisfied until they are prostrated before
Him. And their enquiries are magnificently rewarded. For, from the
heights which they must reach in order to meet with God, the history
of the world, instead of exhibiting to them, as to the ignorant crowd,
a confused chaos, is seen like a majestic temple, on which the
invisible hand of God himself is at work, and which, from humanity, as
the rock on which it is founded, is rising up to his glory.
Shall we not see God in those great phenomena, those great personages,
those great states, which rise, and suddenly, so to speak, spring from
the dust of the earth, giving to human life a new impulse, form, and
destiny? Shall not we see Him in those great heroes who start up in
society, at particular epochs, displaying an activity and a power
beyond the ordinary limits of man, and around whom individuals and
nations come without hesitation, and group themselves as around a
higher and mysterious nature? Who flung forward into space those
comets of gigantic form and fiery tail, which only appear at long
intervals, shedding on the superstitious herd of mortals either plenty
and gladness, or pestilence and terror? Who, if not God?... Alexander
seeks his origin in the abodes of Divinity; and in the most
irreligious age there is no great renown which strives not to connect
itself in some way with heaven.
And do not those revolutions, which cast down dynasties, or even whole
kingdoms into the dust; those huge wrecks which we fall in with in the
midst of the sands; those majestic ruins which the field of humanity
presents, do not those cry loud enough, God in History? Gibbon,
sitting amid the wrecks of the Capitol, and contemplating the
venerable ruins, acknowledges the intervention of a higher power. He
sees, he feels it, and in vain would turn away from it. This spectre
of a mysterious power reappears behind each ruin, and he conceives the
idea of describing its influence in the history of the disorganisation,
the decline and fall of this Roman power, which had subjugated the
nations. This powerful hand, which a man of distinguished genius, one,
however, who had not bent the knee before Jesus Christ, perceives
athwart scattered fragments of the tomb of Romulus, reliefs of Marcus
Aurelius, busts of Cicero and Virgil, statues of Caesar and Augustus,
trophies of Trajan, and steeds of Pompey, shall not we discover amid
all ruins, and recognise as the hand of our God?
Strange! this interposition of God in human affairs, which even Pagans
had recognised, men reared amid the grand ideas of Christianity treat
as superstition.
The name which Grecian antiquity gave to the Sovereign God, shows us
that it had received primitive revelations of this great truth of a
God, the source of history, and of the life of nations. It called him
_Zeus_,[1] that is to say, He who gives _life_ to all that lives, to
individuals and nations. To his altars kings and subjects come to take
their oaths, and from his mysterious inspirations Minos and other
legislators pretend to have received their laws. Nay more, this great
truth is figured by one of the most beautiful myths of Pagan
antiquity. Even Mythology might teach the sages of our day. This is a
fact which it may be worth while to establish; perhaps there are
individuals who will oppose fewer prejudices to the lessons of
Paganism than to those of Christianity. This Zeus, then, this
Sovereign God, this Eternal Spirit, the principle of life, is father
of Clio, the Muse of History, whose mother is Mnemosyne or Memory.
Thus, according to antiquity, history unites a celestial to a
terrestrial nature. She is daughter of God and man. But, alas! the
short-sighted wisdom of our boasted days is far below those heights of
Pagan wisdom. History has been robbed of her divine parent, and now an
illegitimate child, a bold adventurer, she roams the world, not well
knowing whence she comes, or whither she goes.
[1] From _zao_, I live.
But this divinity of Pagan antiquity is only a dim reflection, a
flickering shadow of the Eternal Jehovah. The true God whom the
Hebrews worship, sees meet to imprint it on the minds of all nations
that he reigns perpetually on the earth, and for this purpose gives,
if I may so express it, a bodily form to this reign in the midst of
Israel. A visible Theocracy behoved for once to exist on the earth,
that it might incessantly recall the invisible Theocracy which will
govern the world for ever.
And what lustre does not the great truth--God in History--receive from
the Christian Dispensation? Who is Jesus Christ, if he be not God in
History? It was the discovery of Jesus Christ that gave John Mueller,
the prince of modern historians, his knowledge of history. "The
Gospel," he says, "is the fulfilment of all hopes, the finishing point
of all philosophy, the explanation of all revolutions, the key to all
the apparent contradictions of the physical and moral world; in short,
life and immortality. Ever since I knew the Saviour, I see all things
clearly; with him there is no difficulty which I cannot solve."[2]
[2] Letter to Charles Bonnet.
So speaks this great historian; and, in truth, is not the fact of
God's appearance in human nature the key-stone of the arch, the
mysterious knot which binds up all the things of earth, and attaches
them to heaven? There is a birth of God in the history of the world,
and shall God not be in history? Jesus Christ is the true God in the
history of men. The very meanness of his appearance proves it. When
man wishes to erect a shade or shelter on the earth, you may expect
preparations, materials, scaffolding, workmen, tools, trenches,
rubbish. But God, when he is pleased to do it, takes the smallest
seed, which a new-born babe could have clasped in its feeble hand,
deposits it in the bosom of the earth, and, from this grain, at first
imperceptible, produces the immense tree under which the families of
the earth recline. To do great things by imperceptible means is the
law of God.
In Jesus Christ this law receives its most magnificent fulfilment. Of
Christianity, which has now taken possession of the portals of
nations, which is, at this moment, reigning or wandering over all the
tribes of the earth from the rising to the setting sun, and which
incredulous philosophy herself is obliged to acknowledge as the
spiritual and social law of the world--of this Christianity, (the
greatest thing under the vault of heaven, nay, in the boundless
immensity of Creation,) what was the commencement? An infant born in
the smallest town of the most despised nation of the earth--an infant
whose mother had not what the poorest and most wretched female in any
one of our cities has, a room for birth--an infant born in a stable
and laid in a manger!... There, O God, I behold and I adore Thee!
The Reformation knew this law of God, and felt she had a call to
accomplish it. The idea that God is in history was often brought
forward by the Reformers. In particular, we find it on one occasion
expressed by Luther, under one of those grotesque and familiar, yet
not undignified figures which he was fond of employing in order to be
understood by the people. "The world," said he one day at table among
his friends; "the world is a vast and magnificent game at cards,
consisting of emperors, kings, and princes. For several ages the pope
has beaten the emperors, princes, and kings, who stooped and fell
under him. Then our Lord God came and dealt the cards, taking to
himself the smallest, [Luther,] and with it has beaten the pope, who
beat the kings of the earth.... God used it as his ace. 'He hath put
down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree,'
says Mary." (Luke, i, 52.)
The period whose history I am desirous to trace, is important with
reference to the present time. Man, on feeling his weakness, is
usually disposed to seek for aid in the institutions which he sees
existing around him, or in devices, the offspring of his own
imagination. The history of the Reformation shows that nothing new is
done with what is old, and that if, according to our Saviour's
expression, there must be new vessels for new wine, there must also be
new wine for new vessels. It directs man to God, the sole actor in
history--to that divine Word--always ancient, from the eternity of the
truths which it contains--always new, by the regenerating influence
which it exerts, which three centuries ago purified society, restoring
faith in God to those whom superstition had enfeebled; and which, at
all epochs in the world's history, is the source from which salvation
proceeds.
It is singular to see a great number of individuals under the
agitation produced by a vague longing for some fixed belief, actually
applying to old Catholicism. In one sense, the movement is natural.
Religion being so little known, they imagine the only place to find it
is where they see it painted, in large characters, on a banner, which
age makes respectable. We say not that every kind of Catholicism is
incapable of giving man what he wants. Our belief is, that a
distinction should be carefully drawn between Catholicism and the
Papacy. The Papacy we hold to be an erroneous and destructive system;
but we are far from confounding Catholicism with it. How many
respectable men, how many true Christians has not the Catholic Church
contained! What immense services did not Catholicism render to
| 606.923865 |
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Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Brian Foley and the Online
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H.M.S. ----
BY
KLAXON
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1918
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
_TO
D. V. B._
When Homer launched his epic on the literary sea,
The critics were as merciful as they can ever be:
"We take it that the author did the best that he can do,"
"And the book should be remembered for at least a year or two...."
But Homer let the critics go, and listened with a smile,
For he had heard a verdict that was better by a mile,
In a code that only Homer as a husband understood,--
"You _are_ a funny clever thing--I'd no _idea_ you could."
CONTENTS.
PAGE
"1923" 1
PRIVILEGED 18
ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS 22
A NAVAL DISCUSSION 32
THE GUNLAYER 42
A WAGE SLAVE 54
AN "ANNUAL" 61
"OUR ANNUAL" 68
MASCOTS 70
THE SPARROW 73
A WAR WEDDING 80
A HYMN OF DISGUST 94
THE "SPECIAL" 98
BETWEEN TIDES 106
LIGHT CAVALRY 116
A TRINITY 139
IN THE MORNING 144
AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS 147
1917 155
IN FORTY WEST 169
A RING AXIOM 171
CHANCES 173
THE QUARTERMASTER 185
A LANDFALL 188
NIGHT ROUNDS 195
IN THE BARRED ZONE 201
A MATTER OF ROUTINE 204
WHO CARES? 211
THE UNCHANGING SEX 213
TWO CHILDREN 216
AN URGENT COURTSHIP 234
LOOKING AFT 254
GRIT 258
A MAXIM 270
FROM A FAR COUNTRY 272
THE CRISIS 279
A SEA CHANTY 281
THE WAR OF ATTRITION 284
THROUGH AN ADMIRALTY WINDOW 303
A MOST UNTRUE STORY 318
H.M.S. ----.
"1923."
[The following is the description by Professor J. Scott, F.R.S.,
of his recent Airship Journey across the old Bed of the North
Sea. July 1, 1923.]
It is perhaps unnecessary for me to state the objects and purpose of
my journey of last week, as it would be false modesty in me not to
recognise the great interest taken by the geologic and antiquarian
worlds in my proposed enterprise. For the benefit, however, of those
for whose intelligence the so-called "Popular" geologic works are
compiled, I will recapitulate some points which are ancient history to
my instructed readers.
The winter of 1922 witnessed the greatest geologic change in the
earth's surface since the last of the Glacial epochs. Into the causes
and general results of this change I do not propose to enter, beyond
mentioning my opinion that the theory propounded by Professor
Middleton (a theory designed only for one purpose--that of attempting
to throw doubt on the data and reasoning of my first monograph on the
subject) is not only childish, but based on a fallacy.
I will confine myself to the results as they affected this country and
the continent of Europe, of which it is now a prolongation or
headland--not, as the Daily Press erroneously labels it, a peninsula.
The total change in elevation of the land is now calculated at 490
feet 7 inches, but more accurate measurements are still being taken.
This great change brings us back to a geologic age when man and
mammoth co-existed in the primeval forest of Cromer, and when the
Dogger Bank was a great plain where wild beasts roamed and palaeolithic
man left the traces of his industry in the bones and shaped flints
which we hope soon to collect in quantities from the mud and ooze with
which thousands of years of sea-action has covered them.
I had little difficulty in obtaining Admiralty permission to accompany
the Captain of a Naval Airship on one of his regular patrol trips
across the great expanse of mud which was once the North Sea.
Of course in the six months since the departure of the Ocean from the
new lands, the district has been regularly patrolled by the Navy, but
the air is as yet the only safe route by which to cross it. It will be
some time, perhaps years, before the surface becomes safe to walk on,
although the Government is plentifully sprinkling grass and other
seeds from all passing aircraft. In the large and powerful airship in
which I was privileged to travel, we had every modern device for
enabling a close inspection of the surface to be taken. A trail-rope
was used when it was desired to drift | 606.947079 |
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Produced by Marius Masi, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO
ATLANTA. SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
[Illustration: 1. LORD MINTO, VICEROY OF INDIA. _Frontispiece_]
TRANS-HIMALAYA
DISCOVERIES AND ADVENTURES IN TIBET
BY
SVEN HEDIN
WITH 388 ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS, WATER-COLOUR
SKETCHES, AND DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR
AND 10 MAPS
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1909
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1909,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
* * * * *
Set up and electrotyped. Published December, 1909.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
TO
HIS EXCELLENCY
THE EARL OF MINTO
VICEROY OF INDIA
WITH GRATITUDE AND ADMIRATION
FROM THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
In the first place I desire to pay homage to the memory of my patron,
King Oskar of Sweden, by a few words of gratitude. The late King showed
as warm and intelligent an interest in my plan for a new expedition as
he had on former occasions, and assisted in the fulfilment of my project
with much increased liberality.
I estimated the cost of the journey at 80,000 kronor (about L4400), and
this sum was subscribed within a week by my old friend Emmanuel Nobel,
and my patrons, Frederik Loewenadler, Oscar Ekman, Robert Dickson,
William Olsson, and Henry Ruffer, banker in London. I cannot adequately
express my thanks to these gentlemen. In consequence of the political
difficulties I encountered in India, which forced me to make wide
detours, the expenses were increased by about 50,000 kronor (L2800), but
this sum I was able to draw from my own resources.
As on former occasions, I have this time also to thank Dr. Nils Ekholm
for his great kindness in working out the absolute heights. The three
lithographic maps have been compiled from my original sheets with
painstaking care by Lieutenant C. J. Otto Kjellstroem, who devoted all
his furlough to this troublesome work. The astronomical points, nearly
one hundred, have been calculated by the Assistant Roth of the Stockholm
Observatory; a few points, which appeared doubtful, were omitted in
drawing the route on the map, which is based on points previously
determined. The map illustrating my narrative in the _Geographical
Journal_, April 1909, I drew roughly from memory without consulting the
original sheets, for I had no time to spare; the errors which naturally
crept in have been corrected on the new maps, but I wish to state here
the cause of the discrepancy. The final maps, which I hope to publish in
a voluminous scientific work, will be distinguished by still greater
accuracy and detail.
I claim not the slightest artistic merit for my drawings, and my
water-colours are extremely defective both in drawing and colouring. One
of the pictures, the lama opening the door of the mausoleum, I left
unfinished in my haste; it has been thrown in with the others, with the
wall-paintings and shading incomplete. To criticize these slight
attempts as works of art would be like wasting gunpowder on dead crows.
For the sake of variety several illustrations have been drawn by the
British artists De Haenen and T. Macfarlane, but it must not be assumed
that these are fanciful productions. Every one of them is based on
outline drawings by myself, a number of photographs, and a full
description of the scene. De Haenen's illustrations appeared in the
London _Graphic_, and were ordered when I was still in India.
Macfarlane's drawings were executed this summer, and I was able to
inspect his designs and approve of them before they were worked up.
As to the text, I have endeavoured to depict the events of the journey
as far as the limited space permitted, but I have also imprudently
allowed myself to touch on subjects with which I am not at all
familiar--I allude in particular to Lamaism. It has been unfortunate
that I had to write the whole book in 107 days, during which many hours
were taken up with work connected with the maps and illustrations and by
an extensive correspondence with foreign publishers, especially Albert
Brockhaus of Leipzig, who never wearied in giving me excellent advice.
The whole work has been hurried, and the book from beginning to end is
like a vessel which ventures out into the ocean of the world's tumult
and of criticism with many leaks and cracks.
My thanks are also due to my father, who made a clean copy from my
illegible manuscript; and to my mother, who has saved me from many
mistakes. Dr. Carl Forstrand has revised both the manuscript and the
proof-sheets, and has compiled the Swedish index.
* * * * *
The seven and thirty Asiatics who followed me faithfully through Tibet,
and contributed in no small degree to the successful issue and results
of the expedition, have had the honour of receiving from His Majesty the
King of Sweden gold and silver medals bearing the portrait of the King,
a crown, and an inscription. I humbly beg His Majesty to accept my
warmest and most sincere thanks for his great generosity.
The book is dedicated to Lord Minto, as a slight testimony of my
gratitude for all his kindness and hospitality. It had been Lord Minto's
intention to further my plans as Lord Curzon would have done if he had
still been Viceroy of India, but political considerations prevented him.
When, however, I was actually in Tibet, the Viceroy was free to use his
influence with the Tashi Lama, and the consequence was that many doors
in the forbidden land, formerly tightly closed, were opened to me.
Dear reminiscences of India hovered about my lonesome years in dreary
Tibet like the pleasant rustling of palm leaves. It will suffice to
mention men like Lord Kitchener, in whose house I spent a week never to
be forgotten; Colonel Dunlop Smith, who took charge of my notes and
maps and sent them home, and also forwarded a whole caravan of
necessaries to Gartok; Younghusband, Patterson, Ryder, Rawling, and many
others. And, lastly, Colonel Longe, Surveyor-General, and Colonel
Burrard, of the Survey of India, who, with the greatest kindness, had my
900 map-sheets of Tibet photographed, and stored the negatives among
their records in case the originals should be lost, and who, after I had
placed my 200 map-sheets of Persia at the disposal of the Indian
Government, had them worked up in the North-Western Frontier Drawing
Office and combined into a fine map of eleven printed sheets--a map
which is to be treated as "confidential" until my scientific works have
appeared.
It is with the greatest pleasure that I avail myself of this opportunity
of expressing my sincere gratitude for all the innumerable tokens of
sympathy and appreciation which I received in all parts of the United
Kingdom, and for all the honours conferred on me by Societies, and the
warm welcome I met with from the audiences I had | 607.045858 |
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Produced by David Clarke, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE | 607.067711 |
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Produced by Steffen Haugk
[Illustration: CAPTAIN THOMAS SAVERY, The inventor of the steam engine - see frontispiece.gif]
THE
MINER'S FRIEND;
OR,
~An Engine~
TO
RAISE WATER BY FIRE,
DESCRIBED.
AND OF THE MANNER OF FIXING IT IN MINES;
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE SEVERAL OTHER USES IT
IS APPLICABLE UNTO; AND AN
ANSWER TO THE OBJECTIONS MADE AGAINST IT.
BY
THOMAS SAVERY, Gent.
Pigri est ingenii contentum esse his, quae ab aliis inventa sunt.
SENECA.
LONDON: PRINETD FOR S. CROUCH, AT THE CORNER
OF POPE'S HEAD-ALLEY IN CORNHILL. 1702.
Reprinted, 1827.
LONDON:
Printed by W. Clowes.
Stanford-street
TO THE KING.
SIR,
Your Majesty having been graciously pleased to permit an experiment
before you at Hampton-court, of a small model of my engine described
in the following treatise, and at that time to show a seeming
satisfaction of the power and use of it; and having most graciously
enabled me, by your royal assent to a patent and act of parliament, to
pursue and perfect the same. By which your royal encouragement, it
being now fully completed, and put in practice in your dominions with
that repeated success and applause, that it is not to be doubted but
it will be of universal benefit and use to all your Majesty's
subjects. Of whom, your Majesty being the universal patron and father,
all arts and inventions that may promote their good and advantage,
seem to lay a just and natural claim to your | 607.209497 |
2023-11-16 18:27:11.2138810 | 965 | 31 |
Produced by Steven Gibbs, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE COMPLETE GOLFER
THE
COMPLETE GOLFER
BY
HARRY VARDON
OPEN CHAMPION, 1896, 1898, 1899, 1903
AMERICAN CHAMPION, 1900
WITH SIXTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS
SECOND EDITION
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published June 1905_
_Second Edition June 1905_
PREFACE
Many times I have been strongly advised to write a book on golf, and now
I offer a volume to the great and increasing public who are devoted to
the game. So far as the instructional part of the book is concerned, I
may say that, while I have had the needs of the novice constantly in
mind, and have endeavoured to the best of my ability to put him on the
right road to success, I have also presented the full fruits of my
experience in regard to the fine points of the game, so that what I have
written may be of advantage to improving golfers of all degrees of
skill. There are some things in golf which cannot be explained in
writing, or for the matter of that even by practical demonstration on
the links. They come to the golfer only through instinct and experience.
But I am far from believing that, as is so often said, a player can
learn next to nothing from a book. If he goes about his golf in the
proper manner he can learn very much indeed. The services of a competent
tutor will be as necessary to him as ever, and I must not be understood
to suggest that this work can to any extent take the place of that
compulsory and most invaluable tuition. On the other hand, it is next to
impossible for a tutor to tell a pupil on the links everything about any
particular stroke while he is playing it, and if he could it would not
be remembered. Therefore I hope and think that, in conjunction with
careful coaching by those who are qualified for the task, and by
immediate and constant practice of the methods which I set forth, this
book may be of service to all who aspire to play a really good game. If
any player of the first degree of skill should take exception to any of
these methods, I have only one answer to make, and that is that, just
as they are explained in the following pages, they are precisely those
which helped me to win my five championships. These and no others I
practise every day upon the links. I attach great importance to the
photographs and the accompanying diagrams, the objects of which are
simplicity and lucidity. When a golfer is in difficulty with any
particular stroke--and the best of us are constantly in trouble with
some stroke or other--I think that a careful examination of the pictures
relating to that stroke will frequently put him right, while a glance at
the companion in the "How not to do it" series may reveal to him at once
the error into which he has fallen and which has hitherto defied
detection. All the illustrations in this volume have been prepared from
photographs of myself in the act of playing the different strokes on the
Totteridge links last autumn. Each stroke was carefully studied at the
time for absolute exactness, and the pictures now reproduced were
finally selected by me from about two hundred which were taken. In order
to obtain complete satisfaction, I found it necessary to have a few of
the negatives repeated after the winter had set in, and there was a
slight fall of snow the night before the morning appointed for the
purpose. I owe so much--everything--to the great game of golf, which I
love very dearly, and which I believe is without a superior for deep
human and sporting interest, that I shall feel very delighted if my
"Complete Golfer" is found of any benefit to others who play or are
about to play. I give my good wishes to every golfer, and express the
hope to each that he may one day regard himself as complete. I fear
that, in the playing sense, this is an impossible ideal. However, he may
in time be nearly "dead" in his "approach" to it.
I have specially to thank Mr. Henry Leach for the invaluable services he
has rendered to me in the preparation of the | 607.233921 |
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Produced by James Rusk and David Widger
THE BLACK ROBE
by Wilkie Collins
BEFORE THE STORY.
FIRST SCENE.--BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.--THE DUEL.
I.
THE doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick.
When the medical advisers of a lady who has reached seventy years of age
recommend the mild climate of the South of France, they mean in plain
language that they have arrived at the end of their resources. Her
ladyship gave the mild climate a fair trial, and then decided (as
she herself expressed it) to "die at home." Traveling slowly, she had
reached Paris at the date when I last heard of her. It was then the
beginning of November. A week later, I met with her nephew, Lewis
Romayne, at the club.
"What brings you to London at this time of year?" I asked.
"The fatality that pursues me," he answered grimly. "I am one of the
unluckiest men living."
He was thirty years old; he was not married; he was the enviable
possessor of the fine old country seat, called Vange Abbey; he had no
poor relations; and he was one of the handsomest men in England. When I
add that I am, myself, a retired army officer, with a wretched income, a
disagreeable wife, four ugly children, and a burden of fifty years on
my back, no one will be surprised to hear that I answered Romayne, with
bitter sincerity, in these words:
"I wish to heaven I could change places with you!"
"I wish to heaven you could!" he burst out, with equal sincerity on his
side. "Read that."
He handed me a letter addressed to him by the traveling medical
attendant of Lady Berrick. After resting in Paris, the patient had
continued her homeward journey as far as Boulogne. In her suffering
condition, she was liable to sudden fits of caprice. An insurmountable
horror of the Channel passage had got possession of her; she positively
refused to be taken on board the steamboat. In this difficulty, the lady
who held the post of her "companion" had ventured on a suggestion. Would
Lady Berrick consent to make the Channel passage if her nephew came to
Boulogne expressly to accompany her on the voyage? The reply had been
so immediately favorable, that the doctor lost no time in communicating
with Mr. Lewis Romayne. This was the substance of the letter.
It was needless to ask any more questions--Romayne was plainly on his
way to Boulogne. I gave him some useful information. "Try the oysters,"
I said, "at the restaurant on the pier."
He never even thanked me. He was thinking entirely of himself.
"Just look at my position," he said. "I detest Boulogne; I cordially
share my aunt's horror of the Channel passage; I had looked forward to
some months of happy retirement in the country among my books--and what
happens to me? I am brought to London in this season of fogs, to travel
by the tidal train at seven to-morrow morning--and all for a woman with
whom I have no sympathies in common. If I am not an unlucky man--who
is?"
He spoke in a tone of vehement irritation which seemed to me, under the
circumstances, to be simply absurd. But _my_ nervous system is not the
irritable system--sorely tried by night study and strong tea--of my
friend Romayne. "It's only a matter of two days," I remarked, by way of
reconciling him to his situation.
"How do I know that?" he retorted. "In two days the weather may be
stormy. In two days she may be too ill to be moved. Unfortunately, I am
her heir; and I am told I must submit to any whim that seizes her. I'm
rich enough already; I don't want her money. Besides, I dislike all
traveling--and especially traveling alone. You are an idle man. If you
were a good friend, you would offer to go with me." He added, with the
delicacy which was one of the redeeming points in his wayward character.
"Of course as my guest."
I had known him long enough not to take offense at his reminding me,
in this considerate way, that I was a poor man. The proposed change
of scene tempted me. What did I care for the Channel passage? Besides,
there was the irresistible attraction of getting away from home. The end
of it was that I accepted Romayne's invitation.
II.
SHORTLY after noon, on the next day, we were established at
Boulogne--near Lady Berrick, but not at her hotel. "If we live in the
same house," Romayne reminded me, "we shall be bored by the companion
and the doctor. Meetings on the stairs, you know, and exchanging bows
and small talk." He hated those trivial conventionalities of society,
in which, other people delight. When somebody once asked him in what
company he felt most at ease? he made a shocking answer--he said, "In
the company of dogs."
I waited for him on the pier while he went to see her ladyship. He
joined me again with his bitterest smile. "What did I tell you? She
is not well enough to see me to-day. The doctor looks grave, and the
companion puts her handkerchief to her eyes. We may be kept in this
place for weeks to come."
The afternoon proved to be rainy. Our early dinner was a bad one. This
last circumstance tried his temper sorely. He was no gourmand; the
question of cookery was (with him) purely a matter of digestion. Those
late hours of study, and that abuse of tea to which I have already
alluded, had sadly injured his stomach. The doctors warned him of
serious consequences to his nervous system, unless he altered his
habits. He had little faith in medical science, and he greatly overrated
the restorative capacity of his constitution. So far as I know, he had
always neglected the doctors' advice.
The weather cleared toward evening, and we went out for a walk. We
passed a church--a Roman Catholic church, of course--the doors of which
were still open. Some poor women were kneeling at their prayers in the
dim light. "Wait a minute," said Romayne. "I am in a vile temper. Let me
try to put myself into a better frame of mind."
I followed him into the church. He knelt down in a dark corner by
himself. I confess I was surprised. He had been baptized in the Church
of England; but, so far as outward practice was concerned, he belonged
to no religious community. I had often heard him speak with sincere
reverence and admiration of the spirit of Christianity--but he never,
to my knowledge, attended any place of public worship. When we met
again outside the church, I asked if he had been converted to the Roman
Catholic faith.
"No," he said. "I hate the inveterate striving of that priesthood
after social influence and political power as cordially as the fiercest
Protestant living. But let us not forget that the Church of Rome has
great merits to set against great faults. Its system is administered
with an admirable knowledge of the higher needs of human nature. Take
as one example what you have just seen. The solemn tranquillity of that
church, the poor people praying near me, the few words of prayer by
which I silently united myself to my fellow-creatures, have calmed
me and done me good. In _our_ country I should have found the church
closed, out of service hours." He took my arm and abruptly changed the
subject. "How will you occupy yourself," he asked, "if my aunt receives
me to-morrow?"
I assured him that I should easily find ways and means of getting
through the time. The next morning a message came from Lady Berrick,
to say that she would see her nephew after breakfast. Left by myself,
I walked toward the pier, and met with a man who asked me to hire his
boat. He had lines and bait, at my service. Most unfortunately, as the
event proved, I decided on occupying an hour or two by sea fishing.
The wind shifted while we were out, and before we could get back to
the harbor, the tide had turned against us. It was six o'clock when I
arrived at the hotel. A little open carriage was waiting at the door.
I found Romayne impatiently expecting me, and no signs of dinner on the
table. He informed me that he had accepted an invitation, in which I was
included, and promised to explain everything in the carriage.
Our driver took the road that led toward the High Town. I subordinated
my curiosity to my sense of politeness, and asked for news of his aunt's
health.
"She is seriously ill, poor soul," he said. "I am sorry I spoke so
petulantly and so unfairly when we met at the club. The near prospect
of death has developed qualities in her nature which I ought to have
seen before this. No matter how it may be delayed, I will patiently wait
her time for the crossing to England."
So long as he believed himself to be in the right, he was, as to his
actions and opinions, one of the most obstinate men I ever met with.
But once let him be convinced that he was wrong, and he rushed into the
other extreme--became needlessly distrustful of himself, and needlessly
eager in seizing his opportunity of making atonement. In this latter
mood he was capable (with the best intentions) of committing acts of
the most childish imprudence. With some misgivings, I asked how he had
amused himself in my absence.
"I waited for you," he said, "till I lost all patience, and went out
for a walk. First, I thought of going to the beach, but the smell of the
harbor drove me back into the town; and there, oddly enough, I met with
a man, a certain Captain Peterkin, who had been a friend of mine at
college."
"A visitor to Boulogne?" I inquired.
"Not exactly."
"A resident?"
"Yes. The fact is, I lost sight of Peterkin when I left Oxford--and
since that time he seems to have drifted into difficulties. We had
a long talk. He is living here, he tells me, until his affairs are
settled."
I needed no further enlightenment--Captain Peterkin stood as plainly
revealed to me as if I had known him for years. "Isn't it a little
imprudent," I said, "to renew your acquaintance with a man of that sort?
Couldn't you have passed him, with a bow?"
Romayne smiled uneasily. "I daresay you're right," he answered. "But,
remember, I had left my aunt, feeling ashamed of the unjust way in
which I had thought and spoken of her. How did I know that I mightn't
be wronging an old friend next, if I kept Peterkin at a distance? His
present position may be as much his misfortune, poor fellow, as his
fault. I was half inclined to pass him, as you say--but I distrusted
my own judgment. He held out his hand, and he was so glad to see me. It
can't be helped now. I shall be anxious to hear your opinion of him."
"Are we going to dine with Captain Peterkin?"
"Yes. I happened to mention that wretched dinner yesterday at our hotel.
He said, 'Come to my boarding-house. Out of Paris, there isn't such a
table d'hote in France.' I tried to get off it--not caring, as you know,
to go among strangers--I said I had a friend with me. | 607.37214 |
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E-text prepared by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 41636-h.htm or 41636-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41636/41636-h/41636-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41636/41636-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/ravenshoe00kingiala
RAVENSHOE
[Illustration: CHARLES IN THE BALACLAVA CHARGE.
_Drawn by R. Caton Woodville._
_Ravenshoe._ _Page 355._]
RAVENSHOE
by
HENRY KINGSLEY
New Edition--Third Thousand
With a Frontispiece by R. Caton Woodville
London
Ward, Lock and Bowden, Limited
Warwick House, Salisbury Square, E.C.
New York and Melbourne
1894
[All rights reserved]
To
MY BROTHER,
CHARLES KINGSLEY,
I DEDICATE THIS TALE,
IN TOKEN OF A LOVE WHICH ONLY GROWS STRONGER
AS WE BOTH GET OLDER.
PREFACE.
The language used in telling the following story is not (as I hope the
reader will soon perceive) the Author's, but Mr. William Marston's.
The Author's intention was, while telling the story, to develop, in the
person of an imaginary narrator, the character of a thoroughly
good-hearted and tolerably clever man, who has his fingers (as he would
say himself) in every one's pie, and who, for the life of him, cannot
keep his own counsel--that is to say, the only person who, by any
possibility, could have collected the mass of family gossip which makes
up this tale.
Had the Author told it in his own person, it would have been told with
less familiarity, and, as he thinks, you would not have laughed quite so
often.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE 1
CHAPTER II.
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING 10
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH OUR HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN 14
CHAPTER IV.
FATHER MACKWORTH 20
CHAPTER V.
RANFORD 23
CHAPTER VI.
THE "WARREN HASTINGS" 34
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH CHARLES AND LORD WELTER DISTINGUISH
THEMSELVES AT THE UNIVERSITY 44
CHAPTER VIII.
JOHN MARSTON 50
CHAPTER IX.
ADELAIDE 57
CHAPTER X.
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP 63
CHAPTER XI.
GIVES US AN INSIGHT INTO CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS,
AND SHOWS HOW THE GREAT CONSPIRATOR
SOLILOQUISED TO THE GRAND CHANDELIER 69
CHAPTER XII.
CONTAINING A SONG BY CHARLES RAVENSHOE, AND ALSO
FATHER TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY 79
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BLACK HARE 86
CHAPTER XIV.
LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT, AND SOME OF HIS OPINIONS 92
CHAPTER XV.
CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT" 99
CHAPTER XVI.
MARSTON'S ARRIVAL 104
CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER SHIPWRECK 107
CHAPTER XVIII.
MARSTON'S DISAPPOINTMENT 114 | 607.445584 |
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VICTORIA & ALBERT MUSEUM CATALOGUES
TOOLS AND MATERIALS ILLUSTRATING THE JAPANESE METHOD OF COLOUR-PRINTING
A DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE OF A COLLECTION EXHIBITED IN THE MUSEUM
By Edward Strange
London
PUBLISHED BY HIS MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE
1913
[THE MAKING OF COLOUR-PRINTS--WOMEN AS ENGRAVERS.]
UTAMARO.--Yedo Meibutsu Nishikiye Kosaku. "The making of colour-prints, the
famous product of Yedo: after the engraver's rough engraving the design is
carefully carved." An illustration of the carving of wood-blocks
fancifully represented as being done by women. From a print in the
Victoria and Albert Museum. J. 5040.
CONTENTS
PREFATORY NOTE
HISTORICAL NOTE
THE DRAWING
CUTTING THE BLOCK
PRINTING
PAPER
BOOKS OF REFERENCE
PREFATORY NOTE
This pamphlet has been prepared by Mr. Edward F. Strange, of the
Department of Engraving, Illustration and Design, for use primarily in
connection with a collection of Tools, Materials and Examples, specially
brought together and now exhibited in the Museum, to illustrate the
technique of Japanese Colour-printing from wood-blocks. The descriptive
matter has been somewhat amplified, in | 607.573154 |
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Produced by Eve Sobol
HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND
By George Bernard Shaw
PREFACE
Like many other works of mine, this playlet is a piece d'occasion. In
1905 it happened that Mr Arnold Daly, who was then playing the part of
Napoleon in The Man of Destiny in New York, found that whilst the play
was too long to take a secondary place in the evening's performance, it
was too short to suffice by itself. I therefore took advantage of four
days continuous rain during a holiday in the north of Scotland to write
How He Lied To Her Husband for Mr Daly. In his hands, it served its turn
very effectively.
I | 607.575997 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
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NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION
FOR
LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES, GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
VOL. III.--NO. 83--SATURDAY, MAI 31. 1851.
Price Threepence. Stamped Edition 4_d._
CONTENTS.
Page
On the Proposed Record of Existing Monuments 417
NOTES:--
Illustrations of Chaucer, No. VII.: The star Min Al Auwa 419
Traditions from remote Periods through few Links, by Rev.
Thos. Corser 421
Dr. Young's Narcissa 422
Minor Notes:--Curious Epitaph--The Curse of Scotland--The
Female Captive--Pictorial Antiquities 422
QUERIES:--
English Poems by Constantine Huyghens, by S. W. Singer 423
The Rev. Mr. Gay, by Edward Tagart 424
Minor Queries:--Carved Ceiling in Dorsetshire--Publicans'
Signs--To a T.--Skeletons at Egyptian Banquet--Gloves--Knapp
Family in Norfolk and Suffolk--To learn by "Heart"--Knights--
Supposed Inscription in St. Peter's at Rome--Rag Sunday in
Sussex--Northege Family--A Kemble Pipe of Tobacco--Durham | 607.749023 |
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SKOOKUM CHUCK
FABLES
BITS OF HISTORY,
THROUGH THE MICROSCOPE
(Some of which appeared in the Ashcroft Journal)
BY
SKOOKUM CHUCK
Author of "Songs of a Sick Tum Tum,"
and some others
Copyright, Canada, 1915, by R.D. Cumming
Preface
It is more difficult to sell a good book by a new author than it is to
sell a poor one by a popular author, because the good book by the new
author must make its way against great odds. It must assert itself
personally, and succeed by its own efforts. The book by the popular
author flies without wings, as it were. The one by the well-known author
has a valuable asset in its creator; the one by the new author has no
asset but its own merits.
I am not contending by the above that this is a good book; far from it.
Some books, however, having very little literary recommendation, may be
interesting in other ways.
There are several things instrumental in making for the success of a
book: first, the fame of the author; second, the originality of the
theme or style; third, the extent of the advertising scheme, and fourth,
the proximity of the subject matter to the heart and home of the reader;
and this last is the reason for the "Skookum Chuck Fables."
If the following stories are not literature, they are spiced with
familiar local sounds and sights, and they come very close to every
family fireside in British Columbia. For this reason I hope to see a
copy in every home in the province.
THE AUTHOR.
Contents
SKOOKUM CHUCK FABLES: PAGE
OF THE ROLLING STONE 9
OF CULTUS JOHNNY 17
OF THE BOOBY MAN 24
OF HARD TIMES HANCE 35
OF THE TOO SURE MAN 55
OF THE UNLOVED MAN 60
OF THE CHIEF WHO WAS BIGGER THAN HE LOOKED 66
OF SIMPLE SIMON UP TO DATE 72
OF THE HIGH CLASS ESKIMO 79
OF THE SWEET YOUNG THINGS 89
OF THE TWO LADIES IN CONTRAST 97
OF THE RUSE THAT FAILED 100
OF THE REAL SANTA CLAUS 107
OF THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW 113
OF SICAMOUS 118
OF THE UBIQUITOUS CAT 122
BITS OF HISTORY:
OF THE FOOLHARDY EXPEDITION 127
OF THE LAWS OF LYCURGUS 133
OF JOAN OF ARC 138
OF VOICES LONG DEAD 144
OF THE WHITE WOMAN WHO BECAME AN INDIAN SQUAW 151
THROUGH THE MICROSCOPE 157
Of the Rolling Stone
Once upon a time in a small village in Bruce County, Province of
Ontario, Dominion of Canada, there lived a man who was destined to
establish a precedent. He was to prove to the world that a rolling stone
is capable at times of gathering as much moss as a stationary one, and
how it is possible for the rock with St. Vitus dance to become more
coated than the one that is confined to perpetual isolation. Like most
iconoclasts he was of humble birth, and had no foundation upon which to
rest the cornerstone of his castle, which was becoming too heavy for his
brain to support much longer.
His strong suit was his itinerate susceptibility; but his main anchorage
was his better five-fifths. One of his most monotonous arguments was to
the effect that the strenuousness of life could only be equalled by the
monotony of it, and that it was a pity we had to do so much in this
world to get so little out of it.
"Why should a man be anchored to one spot of the geographical
distribution like a barnacle to a ship during the whole of his mortal
belligerency?" he one day asked his wife. "We hear nothing, see nothing,
become nothing, and our system becomes fossilized, antediluvian. Why not
see everything, know everything? Life is hardly worth while, but since
we are here we may as well feed from the choicest fruits, and try for
the first prizes."
Now, his wife was one of those happy, contented, sweet,
make-the-best-of-it-cheerily persons who never complained even under the
most trying circumstances. It is much to the detriment of society that
the variety is not more numerous, but we are not here to criticise the
laws that govern the human nature of the ladies. This lady was as far
remote from her husband in temperament as Venus is from Neptune. He was
darkness, she was daylight; and the patience with which she tolerated
him in his dark moods was beautiful though tragic. It was plain that she
loved him, for what else in a woman could overlook such darkness in a
man?
"You see," he would say, "it is like this. Here I am slaving away for
about seventy-five dollars per month, year in and year out. All I get is
my food and clothing--and yours, of course, which is as much necessary,
but is more or less of a white man's burden. No sooner do I get a dollar
in my hand than it has to be passed along to the butcher, baker, grocer,
dressmaker, milliner. Are our efforts worth while when we have no
immediate prospects of improvement? And then the monotony of the game:
eat, sleep, work; eat, sleep, work. And the environs are as monotonous
as the occupations. I think man was made for something more, although a
very small percentage are ever so fortunate as to get it. Now, I can
make a mere living by roaming about from place to place as well as I can
by sitting down glued to this spot that I hate, and then I will have
the chance of falling into something that is a great deal better, and
have an opportunity to see something, hear something, learn something.
Here I am dying by inches, unwept, unhonoured and unsung."
To be "blue" was his normal condition. His sky was always cloudy, and
with this was mingled a disposition of weariness which turned him with
disgust from all familiar objects. With him "familiarity bred contempt."
One day when his psychological temperament was somewhat below normal the
pent up thunder in him exploded and the lightning was terrible:
"Here I am rooted to one spot," he said, "fossilized, stagnant, wasting
away, dead to the whole world except this one little acre. And what is
there here? Streets, buildings, trees, fences, hills, water. Nothing out
of the ordinary; and so familiar, they have become hateful. Why,
everything in the environment breeds weariness, monotony, a painfully
disgusting sameness. The same things morning, noon and night, year after
year. Why, the very names of the people here give me nervous
prostration. Just think--Cummings, Huston, Sanson, Austin, Ward, McAbee,
Hobson, Bailey, Smith, Black, Brown, White--Bah! the sound of them is
like rumors of a plague. I want to flee from them. I want to hear new
names ringing in my ears. And I hate the faces no less than I do the
names. I would rather live on a prairie where you expect nothing; and
get it--anything so long as it is new."
Now, that which is hereditary with the flesh cannot be a crime. The
victim is more to be pitied in his ancestral misfortune, and the monkey
from which our hero sprang must have been somewhat cosmopolitan.
Of course his wife had heard such outbreaks of insanity from him before,
so she only laughed, thinking to humor him back to earth again with her
love and smiles.
"Conditions are not so bad in Bruce county as you paint them," she said,
"and if you do not go about sniffing the air you will not find so many
obnoxious perfumes. Why, I _love_ the locality; and I like the people.
And I like you, and my home; and I am perfectly satisfied with
everything. Things might be a great deal worse. You should have no
complaint to make. You have a steady situation, a good master, a
beautiful home, plenty to eat--and then you have me," she exclaimed, as
though her presence should atone for all else in the world that he did
not have. And perhaps a treasure of this kind should have been a
valuable asset, and an antidote against all mere mundane cares.
"Look out through the parlor door," she continued. "Could anything be
more beautiful? The sun is just setting. The lake is asleep. See the
reflection of the trees beneath its surface. How peaceful, how restful!
My mind is just like the lake--perfectly at ease. Why do you not control
your storm and calm down like the lake? Look at the tall shadows of the
contented firs reaching away out across its bosom. How like a dream."
"Bah! Don't mention lake to me. I hate the sight of it. I have seen it
too long. It is too familiar. It is an eyesore to me. I am weary of it
all. I want a rest. Here comes Brown now. Let me hide in the cellar. It
would be hypocrisy to remain here and smile welcome to him when I hate
the sight of his physiognomy and detest the sound of his name. No, he
has gone by. He does not intend to call. Thank heaven. Five minutes of
his society would be equal to ten years in purgatory. New sights, new
scenes, new voices, new faces; all these are recreation to a mentally
weary constitution."
"I would consider it a crime to leave this beauty spot," said his wife,
"and it is a sin against heaven to decry it."
"Then I am a sinner and a criminal," said the hereditary crank, "because
I hate it and am going to leave. I will take fifty dollars and go, and
if I do not return with fifty thousand I will eat myself. I have said
all there is to say. Those dull, uninteresting faces give me the
nighthorse. I am going to-morrow. Of course you remain, because it is
more expensive to travel double than single," he snorted, "and I have
not the plunks."
He embarked into the big world a few days later with his wife's warm
kiss burning his lips--faithful even in his unfaithfulness. She was
cheerful for some time, thinking that he would return, but the magnetism
which attracted him to the woman whom he had picked from among the
swarming millions was of very inferior voltage.
He wandered about Canada and the United States for about two years. He
had many ups and downs. On the average he made enough to induce his soul
to remain in his body in anticipation of something better. To do him
justice he remitted all odd coin to his wife in Bruce county, and he
wrote saying he was perfectly happy in his new life. He awoke one
morning and found himself in the "Best" Hotel, Ashcroft, British
Columbia, Dominion of Canada, and the first thing he saw was the
sand-hill. He thought Ashcroft was the most desolate looking spot he had
ever seen. It looked like a town that had been located in a hurry and
had been planted by mistake on the wrong site.
He fell in with a Bruce county fellow there who was running a general
store, and they became very friendly. He secured employment from this
friend, who proved to be a philanthropist.
"I have a proposition to make to you," the friend said one day.
"What is it?" asked the iconoclast.
"Buy me out," said the philanthropist. "I have all the money I can
carry. When the rainy day comes I will be well in out of the drip, and
my tombstone will be 'next best' in the cemetery."
"But I have no bank balance," said the aspirant eagerly. "I have no
debentures of any kind; I have not even pin money."
"Bonds are unnecessary," said the friend. "Besides, when I sell you this
stock and building you will have an asset in the property. I will sell
outright, take a mortgage for the balance, which you will disburse at
the rate of five hundred dollars per year. You can do it and make money
at the same time. You will kill two birds with half a stone. Why, in
twenty years' time Rockefeller will be asking you to endorse his notes."
The sale was made and the hero jumped into a store on Railway Avenue
without a seed or cell, and in a short time the moss began to grow so
thick upon him that he had all the sharks in B.C. asking him for a
coating. And then he wrote for his wife, whom he missed for the first
time. The letter ran thus:
"Ultima Thule, B.C., March 1st. 1915.
"My Dear Wife:
"You will see by the heading of this letter that fortune has cast me off
at Ashcroft, and I must congratulate myself for initiating that rolling
stone'stunt.' I have stumbled upon the richest mine in B.C. The gold
is sticking out of it in chunks. The auto that you will play when you
arrive will be a 'hum dinger' and no mistake. I am enclosing my cheque
for $500. Buy out Tim Eaton and bring your dear self here, for I am
lonely without you.
"Your hitherto demented husband."
She read it fifty times, placed it next her heart and pranced about like
a five-year-old. "Now, just where is Ashcroft?" she soliloquized. None
of the Bruce county aborigines seemed to know, so she consulted a world
map, and she found it growing like a parasite to the Canadian Pacific
Railway away in among the mountains of British Columbia.
But this was nothing. She would have risked a journey over the Atlantic
in an aeroplane if it were a means of uniting her with the man who was
the only masculine human in existence so far as she was concerned--the
man whom she had singled out and adopted from among the millions of his
kind. When they met the union was pathetic, but it was lovely. To make a
woman happy, who loves you like this, should be the consummation of a
man's domestic ambitions.
It was pointed out to him afterwards that, after all, the moss did not
begin to grow until he had settled down in Ashcroft. So he lost his
knighthood as an iconoclast.
Of Cultus Johnny
Once upon a time at Spence's Bridge, County of Yale, Province of British
Columbia, on the Indian reserve, there lived two Indians named Cultus
(bad) Johnny and Hias (big) Peter. They were friends until Peter got
married, and then the trouble began, because they both wanted the same
klootchman. They had been fishing for some time for the same fish, in
the same pool in the Thompson river, and had each been favored with very
encouraging nibbles. One day, however, Peter felt the tugging at his
bait somewhat stronger than usual and with one jerk he pulled out his
fish. Peter had stolen a march on his rival. The priest married them
when Johnny was at the coast, fishing at New Westminster for the
canneries. When the intelligence reached him he sat | 607.904158 |
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Produced by Pat Pflieger
THE LIFE AND PERAMBULATIONS OF A MOUSE
(1783-1784)
by Dorothy Kilner
INTRODUCTION
During a remarkably severe winter, when a prodigious fall of snow
confined everybody to their habitations, who were happy enough to have
one to shelter them from the inclemency of the season, and were hot
obliged by business to expose themselves to its rigour, I was on a visit
to Meadow Hall; where had assembled likewise a large party of young
folk, who all seemed, by their harmony and good humour, to strive who
should the most contribute to render pleasant that confinement which we
were all equally obliged to share. Nor were those further | 607.947036 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
_A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS_
BY
MARTHA FINLEY
ELSIE DINSMORE
ELSIE’S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS
ELSIE’S GIRLHOOD
ELSIE’S WOMANHOOD
ELSIE’S MOTHERHOOD
ELSIE’S CHILDREN
ELSIE’S WIDOWHOOD
GRANDMOTHER ELSIE
ELSIE’S NEW RELATIONS
ELSIE AT NANTUCKET
THE TWO ELSIES
ELSIE’S KITH AND KIN
ELSIE’S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN
CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE
ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS
ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS
ELSIE’S VACATION
ELSIE AT VIAMEDE
ELSIE AT ION
ELSIE AT THE WORLD’S FAIR
ELSIE’S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS
ELSIE AT HOME
ELSIE ON THE HUDSON
ELSIE IN THE SOUTH
ELSIE’S YOUNG FOLKS
ELSIE’S WINTER TRIP
ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES
ELSIE AND HER NAMESAKES
ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES
BY
MARTHA FINLEY
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1903,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.
Published, November, 1903.
ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES
CHAPTER I
IT was a lovely spring day—very lovely at Viamede, where Mrs.
Travilla—or Grandma Elsie, as some of her young friends loved to call
her—was seated under the orange trees on the flower-bespangled lawn,
with her father and his wife, her cousins, Mr. Ronald Lilburn and
Annis, his wife, her children, and some of the more distant relatives
and friends gathered about her or wandering here and there at some
little distance on the same beautiful lawn.
“What a beautiful place this is!” exclaimed Zoe, breaking a pause in
the conversation.
“Yes,” said her husband, “but I am thinking it is about time we
returned to our more northern homes.”
“I think it is,” said his grandfather, Mr. Dinsmore.
“I also; I feel as if I had been neglecting my business shamefully,”
sighed Chester.
At that Dr. Harold shook his head smilingly. “Don’t let conscience
reproach you, Chester, for what has probably saved you from invalidism
and perhaps prolonged your life for years.”
“Well, cousin doctor, you will surely admit that I am well enough to go
back to work now?” laughed Chester.
“Perhaps; but wait a little till you hear a plan I have to propose.
Mother,” he went on, turning to her, “I met a gentleman yesterday who
has just returned from California, which he pronounces the loveliest,
most salubrious section of our country, and what he had to say of
its climate and scenery has aroused in me a strong desire to visit
it, taking you all with me—especially those of our party who are my
patients.”
“Hardly at this time of year; though, I suppose, Harold,” she replied,
giving him a look of loving appreciation, “it would seem wiser to move
in a northerly direction before the summer heats come on.”
“Well, mother, this gentleman says the summers there are really more
enjoyable than the winters, and the map shows us that Santa Barbara is
a few degrees farther north than we are here, and San Francisco some
few degrees north of that. It is not a tropical, but a semi-tropical
climate, and for every month in the year you need the same sort of
clothing that you wear in New York or Chicago in the winter. He tells
me that for two-thirds of the year the weather is superb—the heat rare
above 68 degrees and almost always tempered by a refreshing breeze
from the ocean or the mountains. Sometimes there are fogs, but they
don’t bring with them the raw, searching dampness of our eastern ones.
Indeed, from all I have heard and read of the climate I think it would
be most beneficial for these patients of mine,” Harold concluded,
glancing smilingly from one to another.
“And a most enjoyable trip for us all, I have no doubt,” said Captain
Raymond.
“How about the expense?” queried Chester.
“Never mind about that,” said the captain. “I claim the privilege of
bearing it for the party. How many will go?”
“The Dolphin could hardly be made to hold us all, papa,” laughed Grace.
“No; nor to cross the plains and mountains,” returned her father with
an amused smile. “We would go by rail and let those who prefer going
home at once do so in our yacht.”
At that Edward Travilla, standing near, looked greatly pleased. “That
is a most kind and generous offer, captain,” he said, “and I for one
shall be very glad to accept it.”
“We will consider that you have done so,” returned the captain, “and
you can begin engaging your passengers as soon as you like. But I am
forgetting that I should first learn how many will accept my invitation
for the land trip. Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore, you will do so, will
you not? And you, mother, Cousin Ronald and Cousin Annis?”
There was a slight demur, a little asking and answering of questions
back and forth, which presently ended in a pleased acceptance of the
captain’s generous invitation by all who had come with him in the
Dolphin—Violet, his wife, with their children, Elsie and Ned; his
older daughters, Lucilla and Grace, with Chester, Lucilla’s husband,
and Grace’s lover, Dr. Harold Travilla; Evelyn, Max’s wife, and last
but not least in importance, Grandma Elsie, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore—her
father and his wife—and the cousins—Mr. Ronald Lilburn and Annis, his
wife.
All had become greatly interested, and the talk was very cheery and
animated. Different routes to California were discussed, and it was
presently decided to go by the Southern Pacific, taking the cars at New
Orleans—and that they would make an early start, as would those who
were to return home in the Dolphin.
“May I take my Tiny along, papa?” asked Elsie, standing by his side
with the little monkey on her shoulder.
“I think not, daughter,” he replied; “she would be very apt to get lost
while we are wandering about in that strange part of the country.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to leave her here till we come back; and do
you think any of the servants can be trusted to take good care of her
and not let her get lost in the woods, papa?” asked the little girl in
tones quivering with emotion.
“If you will trust me to take care of her she can go home with us in
the yacht and live at Ion till you come for her,” said Zoe. Then,
turning to Ned, who was there with his pet: “And I make you the same
offer for your Tee-tee,” she added, “for, of course, if Elsie’s can’t
be trusted to go to California, neither can yours.”
“Thank you, Aunt Zoe,” both children answered, but in tones that told
of regret that even for a time they must resign the care of their pets
to another.
“And we’ll have Tiny and Tee-tee in the yacht with us. How nice that
will be!” exclaimed little Eric Leland. “They are fine, amusing little
fellows, and you may be sure, Elsie and Ned, that we will take good
care of them.”
“And be willing to give them back to us when we get home?” asked Elsie.
“ | 608.147845 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
BY THE SEA
AND OTHER VERSES
_By_
_H. Lavinia Baily_
[Illustration]
BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
The Gorham Press
1907
_Copyright 1907 by H. Lavinia Baily_
_All Rights Reserved_
_The Gorham Press, Boston_
CONTENTS
Myself and You 7
By the Sea 8
At the Close of the Year 14
Risen 16
Elizabeth Crowned 18
Who is Sufficient 19
Peace 21
Boys and Girls 22
A Smile 23
A Sparrow Alone on the Housetop 24
To Mother 24
Psalm CXXI 25
To R. T. B. 26
On New Year, 1897 27
To Anna 27
A Song of Tens 28
Jessica 29
Transition 29
To A. H. B. 30
To Winnie 31
A Life Work 32
Visions 32
Be Ye also Ready 39
Mimosa 40
At the Crisis 41
On the Death of Dr. James E. Rhoads 42
Eternal Youth 43
Building Time 44
Sunrise 45
Neal Dow 47
"Paradise will Pay for All" 48
Forgiveness 49
A Lost Song? 51
A New Earth 52
Recall 53
Philistia's Triumph 54
The White Ribbon Army 55
Christmas 57
"A Day in June" 57
To-day 59
Losing Victories 59
Not Mine 61
In the Desert 61
A Phantom in the "Circle" 62
A Valentine 66
A Convention Hymn 66
A Collection Song 67
The Ballad of the Boundary Line 68
Margaret Lee 71
Soaring Upward 74
The End of the Road 75
BY THE SEA
_AND OTHER VERSES_
MYSELF AND YOU
There are only myself and you in the world,
There are only myself | 608.270126 |
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Produced by David Widger
SI KLEGG
HIS TRANSFORMATION FROM A RAW RECRUIT TO A VETERAN.
By John McElroy.
Book One
[Illustration: Title page ]
[Illustration: Frontispiece ]
PUBLISHED BY
THE NATIONAL TRIBUNE CO.,
WASHINGTON, D. C
SECOND EDITION
COPYRIGHT 1910
Contents:
CHAPTER I. GOING TO WAR--SI KLEGG'S COMPLETE EQUIPMENT
CHAPTER II. THE DEADLY BAYONET
CHAPTER III. THE OLD CANTEEN
CHAPTER IV. THE AWFUL HARDTACK
CHAPTER V. FAT PORK--INDISPENSABLE BODY TIMBER FOR PATRIOTISM
CHAPTER VI. DETAILED AS COOK--SI FINDS RICE ANOTHER INNOCENT
CHAPTER VII. IN THE AWKWARD SQUAD
CHAPTER VIII. ON COMPANY DRILL
CHAPTER IX. SI GETS A LETTER
CHAPTER X. SI AND THE DOCTORS
CHAPTER XI. THE PLAGUE OF THE SOLDIER
CHAPTER XII. A WET NIGHT
CHAPTER XIII. SI "STRAGGLED"
CHAPTER XIV. SI AND THE MULES
CHAPTER XV. UNDER FIRE--SI HAS A FIGHT, CAPTURES A PRISONER
CHAPTER XVI. ONE OF THE "NON-COMMISH"
CHAPTER XVII. FORAGING ON THE WAY
CHAPTER XVIII. A SUNDAY OFF
CHAPTER XIX. A CLOSE CALL
CHAPTER XX. "THE SWEET SABBATH"
CHAPTER XXI. SI AND SHORTY WERE RAPIDLY LEARNING
CHAPTER XXII. A NIGHT OF SONG
PREFACE.
"Si Klegg, of the 200th Ind., and Shorty, his Partner," were born more
than 25 years ago in the brain of John McElroy, editor of The National
Tribune, who invented the names and characters, outlined the general | 608.379431 |
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Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE HEROES
OF THE SCHOOL
Or
The Darewell Chums
Through Thick and Thin
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF "BART STIRLING'S ROAD TO SUCCESS," "WORKING
HARD TO WIN," "BOUND TO SUCCEED," "THE YOUNG
STOREKEEPER," "NAT BORDEN'S FIND," ETC.
[Illustration:
_The_
GOLDSMITH
_Publishing Co._
CLEVELAND OHIO
MADE IN U.S.A.]
Copyright, 1908, by
Cupples & Leon Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Expelling a Pupil 1
II. The Wrong Slide 9
III. A Queer Character 15
IV. A Hut in the Woods 22
V. The Challenge 30
VI. A Great Game of Ball 38
VII. Alice has a Chance 47
VIII. The Strange Boatman 52
IX. A Plot Against Bart 59
X. A Cow in School 67
XI. Honoring the Seniors 73
XII. Frank's Queer Letter 82
XIII. Sandy on Guard 89
XIV. Peculiar Operations 96
XV. Ned Stops a Panic 104
XVI. A River Trip 111
XVII. The Tramp's Headquarters 116
XVIII. A Night Scare 123
XIX. The Farmer and the Bull 130
XX. Followed by Sandy 137
XXI. At the Fair 143
XXII. Up in a Balloon 149
XXIII. Above the Clouds 157
XXIV. Into the River 164
XXV. Captured 175
XXVI. Planning to Escape 183
XXVII. The Escape 192
XXVIII. The Pursuit 199
XXIX. An Unexpected Meeting 208
XXX. Striking Oil--Conclusion 215
THE HEROES OF THE SCHOOL
CHAPTER I
EXPELLING A PUPIL
"What are you looking so glum about this morning, Stumpy?" asked Ned
Wilding as he greeted his chum, Fenn Masterson, otherwise known as
"Stumpy" because of his short, stout figure. "Haven't you got your
lessons, or are you going to be expelled?"
"I'm not to be expelled but some one else is, Ned."
"What's that? Some one going to be expelled?" asked Bart Keene, coming
up in time to hear what Fenn said.
"John Newton is," replied Stumpy.
"What's that got to do with you?" asked Bart, for, as had Ned, he
noticed that Fenn looked worried.
"It might have something to do with me if John--"
Just then the bell of the Darewell High School began to ring, and, as it
was the final summons to classes the three boys and several other pupils
hurried into the building. On the way up the stairs Ned Wilding was
joined by a tall youth with dark hair and eyes.
"What's this I hear about John Newton?" asked the tall lad.
"Hello, Frank! Why Stumpy says John's got to leave the school, but it's
the first I heard about it."
"Are they going to expel him this morning?"
"Seems so. We'll soon know."
A little later several hundred boys and girls were gathered in the
auditorium of the school for the usual morning exercises. When they were
over the principal, Professor McCloud, came to the edge of the platform.
"I have a very unpleasant duty to perform," he began.
Most of the boys and girls knew what was coming. The principal never
prefaced his remarks that way unless he had to expel a pupil. Ned and
Bart looked over toward where Fenn sat. They wanted to see if there was
any reason for Stumpy's seeming apprehension.
"John Newton!" called Professor McCloud, and a tall youth, with | 608.446034 |
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Scientific and Religious Journal.
VOL. I. DECEMBER, 1880. NO. 12.
IS THE SINNER A MORAL AGENT IN HIS CONVERSION?
There are a great many questions asked upon the subject of conversion,
and as many answers given as there are theories of religion, and many
persons listening to men's theories upon this subject are left in doubt
and darkness in reference to what is and is not conversion. You ask the
Mormons, who fully believe their theory of conversion, and they will
refer you to their own experience and the experience of the loyal,
self-sacrificing devotees of their faith. Ask the Roman Catholic and he
will give you an answer corresponding with his theory of religion. All
Protestant parties give you their experience, and refer you to their
loyal and self-sacrificing brethren for the truthfulness of their
theories of conversion. In the midst of this conflict and medley of
contradictions what are we to do? Shall we accept their experience as
the infallible rule by which to determine the right from the wrong in
matters pertaining to our present and eternal salvation? A strange rule,
in view of the great contrariety of opinions and our liability to be
misled. It would justify Mother Eve, she being deceived. But "she was
found in the transgression." We may be deceived and found in
transgression. This strange rule would justify Saul; for he verily
thought he ought to do many things contrary to Jesus, which things he
did, and did them in all good conscience towards God and man, yet he was
a blasphemer and injurious. The Master, in view of our liability to be
deceived, gave us a rule of conduct in reference to our communications
in these words: "Let your communications be yea, yea, and nay, nay." It
requires heroism and manhood, which is the highest degree of moral
courage, to say nay where questions of personal interest are involved.
The rule in reference to God's word is different, being based upon his
immutability and perfections. He is not deceived, not misled, not
mistaken. Paul says in reference to the word of God, which was preached
by himself, Sylvanus and Timotheus: "Our word toward you was not yea and
nay, but in him was yea, for all the promises of God in Christ are yea,
and in him amen unto the glory of God by us." 2 Cor. 1, 18-20. "Let God
be true though every man be a liar," was in the times of the Apostles
and first Christians a rule which they had no hesitancy in affirming. A
moral agent is one who, with a knowledge of the right and wrong,
exercises the power of action. In conversion it is the exercise of the
power that begins conversion. If the sinner has not this power, then he
is not a moral agent in his conversion. All the differences among men
upon the subject of conversion grew out of their different notions of
God and of men. It is a matter of the greatest consequence to have
correct notions of God and of self. As conversion relates to both, wrong
notions of one will create wrong notions of the other. Those who have
been taught to debase themselves under the pretext of giving glory to
God, consider meanness and wrong as natural and inherent imperfections
of their being, and attributable to Father Adam and Mother Eve, and
neglect to exercise the powers at their command. Being taught that they
are unable to do anything to help themselves, they are left to throw the
work all back upon God or give it up in despair. If they throw it back
upon God, and regard themselves as passive recipients of the work of
conversion, then they must wrestle with God, for there is no use in
wrestling with the powerless one.
With this view of the subject the world's condition is incomprehensible,
and in direct conflict with the revealed character of God. We would
naturally suppose when we read that "God is not willing that any should
perish, but that all should come to repentance," that none would be
allowed to perish on account of any neglect upon the divine side. But
thousands do die in their sins. Do you say it is because of their great
wickedness? In what does wickedness consist? Is it the neglect of that
which is not in their power? Does not the system that God interposes in
the conversion of the sinner rest upon the idea that the sinner is
helpless in respect to his conversion? It certainly does. Then why
should the sinner he blamed? This view of the sinner's moral condition
necessitates a view of God utterly at variance with his character, viz:
that he is _now_ and _then_ on the giving hand, that he consents to pour
out his Spirit occasionally, and does this only where the good people
wrestle with him and give him no rest day nor night. One would think
that "he who spared not his own son, but gave him up for us all," would
send that Almighty Spirit everywhere, and at once bring about the
millennial glory. What is the trouble? "_God is love!_" "Tell them, as I
live, saith the Lord God, I have _no pleasure_ in the death of him who
dieth, but rather that he would repent and live." This theory of the
sinner's helplessness is the foundation of the entire system of mystical
conversion through mystical operations of the Spirit of God. And as for
plain and easy conditions of pardon and peace that we know all sinners
can comply with, this system of mystical conversion sets them all
_aside_. So you see that difficulties are multiplying on our hands, and
unless we can start off upon another foot, we must be lost in the
mystical and incomprehensible. As reformers, our greatest work is to
clear away mystical and false notions of men in reference to themselves
and their God; to make men sensible of their dignity and responsibility,
as beings endowed with God-like attributes.
We have succeeded, in most communities, in killing the _tap-root_ of the
mystical tree of conversion--_i.e._, the tenet of total hereditary
depravity, but the tree still stands erect, and men claim that a
wonderful outpouring of the Spirit of God has, in many days and nights,
resulted in 100 or 200 or 300 conversions. But what is conversion? It is
lexically defined "_to turn upon, to turn towards_." In a moral sense,
"_to turn upon or to, to convert unto, to convert from error, to turn to
the service and worship of the true God_." "And all who dwelt at Lydda
and Saron saw him and _turned_ to the Lord." Acts ix, 35. The word
_turned_, in the above text, is a translation of the Greek term that is
nine times rendered _convert_ in its forms and thirty-eight times _turn_
in its forms. They, the people of Lydda and Saron, _turned, converted to
the Lord_. Did they do it? Then they were active and not passive. It was
an act of their own. "Repent and turn yourselves."--Eze. xviii, 30. Here
the Lord commanded sinners to _convert themselves_. "Cast away from you
all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed, and make you a
new heart and a new spirit; for why will ye die, O house of Israel?"
Eze. xviii, 31. "If the wicked will turn, convert, from all his sins
that he hath committed, and keep all my statutes, and do that which is
lawful and right, he shall surely live, he shall not die." Eze. xviii,
31. Here we discover that the burden of conversion and the entire
responsibility of an unconverted state is thrown upon the sinner.
The Apostles taught men to convert themselves. See Acts xiv, 15. "We
also are men of like passions with you, and preach unto you, that ye
should turn, _convert_, from these vanities to the living God." Paul
says, "He showed first unto them of Damascus, and at Jerusalem and
throughout all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they
should turn, _convert_, to God, and do works meet for, worthy of,
repentance." Acts xxvi, 20. Speaking of the unbelieving Jews he said,
"But their minds were blinded; for until this day remaineth the same
vail untaken away in the reading of the Old Testament, which vail is
done away in Christ. But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the
vail is upon their heart. Nevertheless, when it shall _turn_, _convert_,
to the Lord, the vail shall be taken away." 2d Corinthians, iii, 14-16.
Here we find that the heart must do its own _turning_, _converting_.
_Poor Jews!_ Could they help themselves? Yes, it all depended upon their
own actions. The INFINITE ONE did as much for them as for any others.
They closed their eyes and stopped their ears, lest at _any time_ they
should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand
with their hearts, and be converted and healed. Why did the Master not
say, "And I should _convert_ and heal them?" _Ans._ Conversion is a
commandment of God, and sinners must obey it or perish.
The above quotation is made from Isaiah vi, 10, where it reads: "Lest
they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and
understand with their hearts, and _convert_, and I should heal them."
Paul, speaking of the disciples in Macedonia and Achaia, says: "They
themselves show of us what manner of entering in we had unto you, and
how ye turned, _converted_, to God from idols to serve the living and
true God." 1 Thess., i, 8, 9. "Repent ye therefore and be converted," is
passive in our translation, but imperative active in the original. In
the Geneva text it reads: "_Amend_ your lives and turn. So conversion is
a commandment of God. If there is anything necessary to conversion that
is not in the power of the sinner, why should he be commanded to
convert? If the trouble is in his corruption, through inborn depravity,
why are _some converted_ and _others not_? If there is anything in
conversion that is not in the power of the sinner, then he must of
necessity be saved without it, or remain unavoidably in sin--_doomed to
misery_."
Webster defines the term _convert_ "to change from one state to another,
as to convert a barren waste into a fruitful field; to convert a
wilderness into a garden; to convert rude savages into civilized men; to
change or turn from one party or sect to another--as to convert Pagans
to Christianity, to turn from a bad life to a good one, to change the
heart and moral character from enmity to God and from vicious habits to
the love of God and to a holy life." Hence the ancient commandment:
"Make you a new heart and a new spirit, for why will you die." Eze.
xviii, 32. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and
with all thy mind, and with all thy strength." Is this out of your
power? Then who is to blame? Does the blessed Father command you to do
what you can not? Are you thus lost without remedy? Does the Lord mock
you with commandments that you can not obey? The importance of
conversion is in the fact that it is the turning point or dividing line
between those who serve God and those who serve him not.
I. The Lord commands sinners to convert.
II. The Lord's commandments are duties that sinners owe to God.
Therefore, conversion is a duty that the sinner owes to God. It is the
sinner's duty; then he must perform it. We have seen that the Lord
commands it, and that sinners did perform it. Do you say it is a work
begun upon them and accomplished by them? Then sinners must be passive
in the beginning of this work, and the beginning is most essential, for
unless the thing is begun it will never be accomplished. Is this
beginning the work of God wrought upon the sinner by a special operation
of the Holy Spirit? If this be so it follows that the entire Christian
life is of necessity, and not of choice, for the root always bears the
tree, and not the tree the root. If the cause is the unconditioned power
of God, the effects growing out of that cause are the fruits of
necessity; and so the Christian is a necessitated creature, and entitled
to neither praise or reward, for it was not he that did it, _but God_.
And in this case the sinner is not a moral agent, for in moral agency
the sinner, with a knowledge of the right and the wrong, begins the work
_himself_ and does it himself. This does not exclude the instrumentality
of Christ, the Apostles, prophets and Christians, who, by the words of
the Holy Spirit, have placed before sinners all the knowledge necessary
to give them correct ideas of duty, and also the motives to be accepted.
An agent is one who has power to begin action, and moral agency in
conversion is the exercise of that power, with a knowledge of the right
and the wrong, and so it comes to pass that conversion to God always
makes a Christian, provided, however, that the man, knowing what to turn
from and what to turn to, honestly turned from the wrong to the right,
which is the same as to say that he was a moral agent in his conversion.
A man may _turn_ without a knowledge of the right and the wrong, but it
is turning _round_ and _round_ and remaining in the same place, _i.e._
in ignorance of God's will, and so remaining in disobedience. Such may
be and often is.
In all such cases the person has been the creature of passion, wrought
upon by excitement, and left in ignorance of duty in disobedience to the
gospel of Christ. A good rule by which to determine when such is the
case, and it is the Master's rule, is the unwillingness of the person to
do the commandments of God, and to receive for instruction upon the
subject of duty, his word, an unteachable disposition, which not only
refuses to obey when the commandments are presented, but absolutely
persists in opposing them. A man in this condition is worse than
ignorant, his heart is irreconciled to the government of God, and he may
turn around and around and die in sin and transgression. Do you object
that God controls in conversion, and, therefore, the man is illuminated
in a mysterious manner, and necessitated aright--that he is a
necessitated moral agent? Necessitated moral agency and free slavery are
identical. There is no such thing as necessitated moral agency. What I
am compelled to do is not mine, but his who compelled me. All that we
call moral or immoral, virtuous or vicious, praiseworthy or blameworthy,
in our conduct, depends wholly upon the will. It begins in us and is
done by us. It is ours and we will answer for it. No man is to be blamed
or praised for that which he neither had power to do or avoid. This, in
harmony with the words _agent_ and _action_, is saying no more than that
a man is to be praised or blamed for actions done by himself and not by
another. It is the gospel rule, "that every man shall receive according
to that which he bath done; that every man shall give account of
_himself_ to God."
If the sinner is | 608.475587 |
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: This e-text has been prepared in accordance with
the Introduction’s explanation that the papers are presented _verbatim
et literatim_, “word for word from copy”; all apparent errors are as
printed in the original.
CURIOSITIES OF STREET LITERATURE:
[Illustration]
LONG-SONG SELLER.
(_From a Daguerreotype by_ BEARD.)
“Three yards a penny! Three yards a penny! Beautiful songs!
Newest songs! Popular songs! Three yards a penny!
Songs, songs, songs!”
CURIOSITIES OF STREET LITERATURE:
COMPRISING
“COCKS,” OR “CATCHPENNIES,”
A LARGE AND CURIOUS ASSORTMENT OF STREET-DROLLERIES, SQUIBS,
HISTORIES, COMIC TALES IN PROSE AND VERSE,
BROADSIDES ON THE ROYAL FAMILY,
POLITICAL LITANIES, DIALOGUES, CATECHISMS, ACTS OF PARLIAMENT,
STREET POLITICAL PAPERS,
A VARIETY OF “BALLADS ON A SUBJECT,”
DYING SPEECHES AND CONFESSIONS.
TO WHICH IS ATTACHED THE ALL-IMPORTANT AND NECESSARY
AFFECTIONATE COPY OF VERSES,
AS
“Come, all you feeling-hearted Christians, wherever you may be,
Attention give to these few lines, and listen unto me;
It’s of this cruel murder, to you I will unfold,
The bare recital of the same will make your blood run cold.”
“What hast here? ballads? I love a ballad in print, or a life;
for then we are sure they are true.”--SHAKESPEARE.
“There’s nothing beats a stunning good murder, after
all.”--EXPERIENCE OF A RUNNING PATTERER.
LONDON:
REEVES AND TURNER,
196, STRAND.
1871.
NOTICE.
The “Execution Paper” of John Gregson, for the Murder of his Wife, at
Liverpool--page 235 of CONTENTS--is CANCELLED, and Eight Pages, “THE
HEROES OF THE GUILLOTINE,” supplied instead.
196, STRAND, _December 30th, 1870_.
CURIOSITIES
OF
STREET LITERATURE.
[Illustration: No. 126 _of the_
Fine TONED DEMY 4to EDITION.
ONLY
TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY
COPIES PRINTED.]
Purchased _by_ ______________________________________
_Of_ ____________________________________________
_On the_ __________ _day of_ ______________ 187
GUARANTEED ONLY FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX COPIES PRINTED,
NAMELY,--
£ s. d.
250 on Fine Toned Demy 4to Published at 1 1 0
100 on Large Post 4to, printed on one side of the paper only ” 1 5 0
100 on Fine French Linear Writing Paper, printed on one side
only, and in imitation of the Catnachian tea-like paper of old ” 1 11 6
6 on Yellow Demy 4to paper ” 2 2 0
----
456
[Illustration] EACH COPY OF EACH EDITION NUMBERED.
INTRODUCTION.
In selecting and arranging this collection of “Street Papers” for
publication, every care has been taken to print them _verbatim et
literatim_. They all bear the printer’s name and address were such is
used, and, in many cases, the wood-cuts have either been borrowed or
purchased for the purpose of presenting them in their original style.
The real object being to show, in the most genuine state, the character
and quality of the productions written expressly for the amusement
of the lower orders by street-authors. The general instruction given
to our printer has been to “set up word for word from copy, with the
exception of sɹǝʇʇǝʃ pǝuɹnʇ (_sic_) and those of a WRO_n_g _F_oNT
(?)”--it being thought quite unnecessary to repeat these _convenient_
and at that time _compulsory_ “Errors of the Press” and which were
very common in former days with the printers and publishers of street
and public-house literature; arising alike from a want of skill in the
art, a deficiency of capital, and the hurried manner in which they were
prepared and worked off to meet the momentary demand.
Old “Jemmy” Catnach--whose name is ever associated with the literature
of our streets--was a man who hated “innowations,” as he used to call
improvements, and had a great horror of buying type, because, as he
used to observe, he kept no standing formes, and when certain sorts run
short, he was not particular, and would tell the boys to use anything
which would make a good shift. For instance, he never considered a
compositor could be aground for a lowercase l while he had a figure
of 1 or a cap. I to fall back upon; by the same rule, the cap. O and
figure 0 were synonymous with “Jemmy;” the lower-case p, b, d, and
q, would all do duty for each other in _turn_, and if they could not
always find roman letters to finish a word with, why the compositor
knew very well that the “reader” would not mark out ita_lic_.
At the time Catnach commenced business. “Johnny” Pitts,[1] of the
Toy and Marble Warehouse, No. 6, Great St. Andrew Street, was the | 608.502974 |
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CONNECTICUT
WIDE-AWAKE
SONGSTER.
EDITED BY
JOHN W. HUTCHINSON,
OF THE HUTCHINSON FAMILY OF SINGERS;
ASSISTED BY
BENJAMIN JEPSON.
“Lincoln and Liberty.”
NEW YORK:
O. HUTCHINSON, PUBLISHER,
272 GREENWICH STREET.
1860.
PURCHASING AGENCY.
FOR the accommodation of my numerous friends in various parts of the
country who prefer not to be at the expense of frequent visits to New
York, I have made arrangements with some of the most reliable houses in
the city to supply those who may favor me with their orders for
BOOKS, STATIONERY,
Hats and Caps, Dry-Goods,
DRUGS, HARDWARE, FURNITURE,
CARPETS, WALL-PAPERS, GROCERIES,
ETC., ETC.,
on such terms as can not but be satisfactory to the purchasers.
The disposition on the part of many merchants to overreach their
customers when they have an opportunity of doing so, renders it almost
as necessary for merchants to give references to their customers as
for customers to give references of their standing to the merchants;
hence I have been careful to make arrangements only with honorable and
responsible houses who can be fully relied on.
As my trade with those houses will be large in the aggregate, they can
afford to allow me a trifling commission and still supply my customers
at their _lowest rates_, which I will engage shall be as low as any
regular houses will supply them.
My friends and others are requested to try the experiment by forwarding
me orders for anything they may chance to want, and if not satisfied, I
will not ask them to repeat the experiment.
Those visiting the city are invited to give me a call before making
their purchases, and test the prices of the houses to whom I can with
confidence introduce them.
Bills for small lots of goods, if sent by express, can be paid for on
delivery, or arrangements can be made for supplying responsible parties
on time.
Address,
=O. HUTCHINSON, New York=.
CONNECTICUT
WIDE-AWAKE
SONGSTER.
EDITED BY
JOHN W. HUTCHINSON,
OF THE HUTCHINSON FAMILY OF SINGERS;
ASSISTED BY
BENJAMIN JEPSON.
“Lincoln and Liberty.”
NEW YORK:
O. HUTCHINSON, PUBLISHER,
272 GREENWICH STREET.
1860.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
JOHN W. HUTCHINSON,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
DAVIES & KENT,
STEREOTYPERS AND ELECTROTYPERS,
_113 Nassau Street, N. Y._
Contents.
PAGE
The Republican Platform 5
Lincoln and Victory 9
Strike for the Right 10
Hurrah Chorus 11
Hurrah for Abe Lincoln 12
Lincoln and Liberty 14
The People’s Nominee 15
Flag of the Brave 17
Come On! 18
Abe of Illinois 19
Our Country’s Call 20
The Grand Rally 21
Lincoln Going to Washington 22
For Freedom and Reform 24
Lincoln and Hamlin 25
Campaign Song 26
Ridden by the Slave Power 27
“Vive La Honest Abe” 29
The Gathering of the Republican Army 30
Lincoln’s Nomination 31
Freedom’s Call 32
Hope for the Slave 33
Freemen Win when Lincoln Leads 34
Uncle Sam’s Farm 35
Song of Freedom 37
The “Neb-Rascality.” 38
Free Soil Chorus 40
The Bay State Hurrah 42
For Liberty 43
Voice of Freedom 44
The Cause of Liberty 45
Lincoln, the Pride of the Nation 46
Rallying Song 47
Abe Lincoln is the Man 48
The Fate of a Fowler 49
Rallying Song of Rocky Mountain Club 51
The Liberty Army 52
Have You Heard the Loud Alarm? 53
Hark! ye Freemen 55
From Bad to Worse 56
The March of the Free 57
Our Flag is There 58
Lincoln and Victory 59
“Wide Awake” 61
We’ll Send Buchanan Home 62
Rallying Song 64
Lincoln 65
Song 66
Campaign Song 68
Freemen, Banish All Your Fears 69
“Wide-Awake Club” Song 70
A Jolly Good Crew We’ll Have 71
THE
REPUBLICAN PLATFORM.
_Resolved_, That we, the delegated representatives of the Republican
electors of the United States, in convention assembled, in the
discharge of the duty we owe to our constituents and our country, unite
in the following declarations:
_First_—That the history of the nation, during the last four years, has
fully established the propriety and necessity of the organization and
perpetuation of the Republican party, and that the causes which called
it into existence are permanent in their nature, and now, more than
ever before, demand its peaceful and constitutional triumph.
_Second_—That the maintenance of the principles promulgated in the
Declaration of Independence, and embodied in our federal Constitution,
is essential to the preservation of our Republican institutions, and
that the federal Constitution, the rights of the States, and the Union
of the States must and shall be preserved.
_Third_—That to the Union of the States this nation owes its
unprecedented increase in population; its surprising development of
material resources; its rapid augmentation of wealth; its happiness
at home and its honor abroad, and we hold in abhorrence all schemes
for disunion, come from whatever source they may; and we congratulate
the country that no Republican member of Congress has uttered or
countenanced a threat of disunion, so often made by Democratic members
of Congress, without rebuke and with applause from their political
associates; and we denounce those threats of disunion, in case of a
popular overthrow of their ascendancy, as denying the vital principles
of a free government, and as an avowal of contemplated treason, which
it is the imperative duty of an indignant people strongly to rebuke and
forever silence.
_Fourth_—That the maintenance inviolate of the rights of the States,
and especially the right of each State to order and control its own
domestic institutions, according to its own judgment exclusively,
is essential to that balance of power on which the perfection and
endurance of our political faith depend, and we denounce the lawless
invasion by armed force of any state or territory, no matter under what
pretext, as among the gravest of crimes.
_Fifth_—That the present Democratic administration has | 608.529346 |
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BEN PEPPER
BY MARGARET SIDNEY
AUTHOR OF "FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND THEIR FRIENDS," "A LITTLE MAID
OF CONCORD TOWN," "OLD CONCORD," "HESTER, AND OTHER NEW ENGLAND
STORIES," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY
EUGENIE M. WIREMAN_
BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
PEPPER
TRADE MARK
Registered in U. S. Patent Office.
COPYRIGHT, 1905,
BY HARRIETT M. LOTHROP.
PUBLISHED, AUGUST, 1905.
_Twentieth Thousand_
Norwood Press:
Berwick & Smith Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
[Illustration: THEN SHE HOPPED AWAY FROM POLLY AND MADE A LITTLE CHEESE
RIGHT ON THE SIDEWALK.]
PREFACE
It was quite impossible that the detailed records presented through the
later Pepper books, of the doings and sayings of the "Little Brown
House" family, should omit Ben. He, the eldest-born of Mother Pepper's
brood, and her mainstay after the father died, the quiet,
"steady-as-a-rock boy," as the Badgertown people all called him, with
lots of fun in him too, because he could not help it, being a Pepper,
was worthy of a book to himself.
So the hosts of readers of the Pepper Series decided, and many of them
accordingly be-sought the author to give Ben a chance to be better
known. He was always so ready to efface himself, that it was Margaret
Sidney's responsibility, after all, to bring him more to the front, to
be understood by all who loved his life in the earlier records.
So Margaret Sidney, despite Ben's wishes, has written this latest
volume. To do it, Polly and Joel and David and Phronsie have told her
most lovingly the facts with which it is strewn. Most of all, Mother
Pepper-Fisher contributed to the new book, out of a heart full of
gratitude and love for her Ben.
MARGARET SIDNEY.
CONTENTS
I. THE CHRISTMAS SHOPPING EXPEDITION
II. BEN'S PLAN
III. HAPS AND MISHAPS
IV. "IT'S JOEL'S OLD LADY"
V. "THE PRESENTS ALL GO FROM SANTA CLAUS"
VI. BEN GOES SHOPPING WITH MADAM VAN RUYPEN
VII. "WHERE'S PIP?" AND JASPER TURNED BACK
VIII. "ANY ONE WHO WANTS TO PLEASE JASPER," SAID BEN, "HAD BETTER TAKE
UP THIS CHAP"
IX. WHAT A HOME-COMING
X. "I'LL LOVE HER JUST FOREVER!"
XI. AN AFTERNOON CALL
XII. VAN
XIII. THE BIG BOX
XIV. THE CHILDREN IN THE MOUNTAIN CABIN
XV. THE MINISTER LOOKS AFTER HIS PARISHIONERS
XVI. WHO WILL HELP?
XVII. "NOW WE CAN HAVE OUR CHRISTMAS!"
XVIII. TELLING ALL THE NEWS
XIX. JOCKO
XX. REPAIRING DAMAGES
XXI. THE POSTPONED CHRISTMAS MORNING
XXII. AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE
XXIII. THE SLEIGHING PARTY
XXIV. JASPER AND BEN
XXV. IT WAS POLLY WHO HEARD IT FIRST
XXVI. "COULD YOU TAKE HIM, BEN?"
XXVII. "MR. KING, WHO IS THAT PIP YOU HAVE HERE?"
XXVIII. | 608.573448 |
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CAPTAIN PAUL
By Alexandre Dumas, Pere
INTRODUCTION.
The admirers of "The Pilot," one of the most magnificent of Cooper's
novels, have evinced a general feeling of regret, in which we ourselves
have deeply participated, that the book, once finished, we altogether
lose sight of the mysterious being whom we had followed with such
intense interest, through the narrows of the Devil's Grip, and the
Cloisters of St, Ruth. There is in the physiognomy, in the language, and
in the actions of this person, introduced in the first place by the name
of John, and afterwards under that of Paul, a melancholy so profound, a
grief so bitter, a contempt of life of so intense a nature, that every
reader desires to become acquainted with the motives which influenced so
brave and generous a heart. For ourselves, we acknowledge that we have
more than once been tempted, however indiscreet, to say the least of
it, it might have been, to write to Cooper himself, and ask him for
information regarding the early career and closing years of this
adventurous seaman--information which we have vainly searched for in his
narrative. I thought that such a request would be readily forgiven by
him to whom it was addressed, for it would have been accompanied by the
expression of the most sincere and ardent admiration of his work; but I
was restrained by the reflection that the author himself, perhaps, knew
no more of that career, of which, he had given us but an episode, than
that portion of it which had been illuminated by the sun of American
Independence: for, in fact, this brilliant meteor had passed from the
clouds which environed his birth to the obscurity of his death in such
a manner, that it was quite possible the "poet historian," being far
distant from the place where his hero was born, and from the country in
which he died, knew no more of him than what he has transmitted to us.
The very mystery which surrounded him, may have been the cause of
his selecting Paul Jones to play a part in his annals. Urged by these
considerations, I resolved upon obtaining, by my own research, those
details which I had so often desired to receive from others. I searched
through the archives of the Navy; all I found there was a copy of the
letters of marque granted to him by Louis XVI. I examined the annals of
the Convention; I only found in them the Decree passed at the time of
his death. I questioned his contemporaries; they told me that he was
buried in the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. This was all the information I
could gather from my first attempts.
I then consulted our living library--Nodier, the learned--Nodier, the
philosopher--Nodier, the poet. After reflecting for a few moments, he
mentioned a small book written by Paul Jones himself, containing memoirs
of his life, bearing this motto, "Munera sunt Laudi." I started off
to hunt for this precious relic; but it was in vain I searched through
libraries, rummaged the old book-stalls--all that I could find was an
infamous libel, entitled, "_Paul Jones, ou Prophetie sur l'Amerique,
l'Angleterre, la France, l'Espagne et la Hollande_" which I threw from
me with disgust, before I had got through the fourth page, marvelling
that poisons should be so enduring, and be perfectly preserved, whilst
we search in vain for wholesome and nutritious food--I therefore
renounced all hope in this quarter.
Some time afterwards, while taking a voyage along our coast, having
started from Cherbourg, I visited St. Malo, Quimper, and l'Orient. Upon
my arrival at the latter place I recollected having read in a biography
of Paul Jones, that this celebrated seaman had been three times in that
port. This circumstance had struck me--I had noted down the dates, and
had only to open my pocket-book to ascertain them. I examined the naval
archives | 608.645621 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE COMPLETE WORKS
OF
JOHN RUSKIN
VOLUME XXIII
ARROWS OF THE CHACE
VOLUMES I-II
ARROWS OF THE CHACE
BEING
A COLLECTION OF
SCATTERED LETTERS
PUBLISHED CHIEFLY IN THE DAILY NEWSPAPERS
1840-1880
VOLUME II.
LETTERS ON POLITICS, ECONOMY, AND
MISCELLANEOUS MATTERS
"I NEVER WROTE A LETTER IN MY LIFE WHICH ALL THE WORLD ARE NOT WELCOME
TO READ IF THEY WILL."
_Fors Clavigera_, Letter 59, 1875.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
PAGE
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE LETTERS CONTAINED IN VOL. II. x
LETTERS ON POLITICS AND WAR:
The Italian Question. 1859.
Three letters: June 6 3
June 15 8
August 1 13
The Foreign Policy of England. 1863 15
The Position of Denmark. 1864 17
The Jamaica Insurrection. 1865 20
The Franco-Prussian War. 1870.
Two letters: October 6 22
October 7 25
Modern Warfare. 1876 29
LETTERS ON POLITICAL ECONOMY:
The Depreciation of Gold. 1863 37
The Law of Supply and Demand. 1864.
Three letters: October 26 | 608.845581 |
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The Distributed Proofreaders
EUROPE REVISED
By Irvin S. Cobb
To My Small Daughter
Who bade me shed a tear at the tomb of Napoleon, which I was very glad
to do, because when I got there my feet certainly were hurting me.
NOTE
The picture on page 81 purporting to show the undersigned leaping head
first into a German feather-bed does the undersigned a cruel injustice.
He has a prettier figure than that--oh, oh, much prettier!
The reader is earnestly entreated not to look at the picture on page 81.
It is the only blot on the McCutcheon of this book.
Respectfully,
The Author.
Chapter I
We Are Going Away From Here
Foreword.--It has always seemed to me that the principal drawback
about the average guidebook is that it is over-freighted with facts.
Guidebooks heretofore have made a specialty of facts--have abounded in
them; facts to be found on every page and in every paragraph. Reading
such a work, you imagine that the besotted author said to himself, "I
will just naturally fill this thing chock-full of facts"--and then went
and did so to the extent of a prolonged debauch.
Now personally I would be the last one in the world to decry facts as
such. In the abstract I have the highest opinion of them. But facts,
as someone has said, are stubborn things; and stubborn things, like
stubborn people, are frequently tiresome. So it occurred to me that
possibly there might be room for a guidebook on foreign travel which
would not have a single indubitable fact concealed anywhere about its
person. I have even dared to hope there might be an actual demand on
the part of the general public for such a guidebook. I shall endeavor to
meet that desire--if it exists.
While we are on the subject I wish to say there is probably not
a statement made by me here or hereafter which cannot readily be
controverted. Communications from parties desiring to controvert this or
that assertion will be considered in the order received. The line
forms on the left and parties will kindly avoid crowding. Triflers and
professional controverters save stamps.
With these few introductory remarks we now proceed to the first subject,
which is The Sea: Its Habits and Peculiarities, and the Quaint Creatures
Found upon Its Bosom.
From the very start of this expedition to Europe I labored under a
misapprehension. Everybody told me that as soon as I had got my sea
legs I would begin to love the sea with a vast and passionate love. As a
matter of fact I experienced no trouble whatever in getting my sea legs.
They were my regular legs, the same ones I use on land. It was my sea
stomach that caused all the bother. First I was afraid I should not
get it, and that worried me no little. Then I got it and was regretful.
However, that detail will come up later in a more suitable place. I am
concerned now with the departure.
Somewhere forward a bugle blares; somewhere rearward a bell jangles. On
the deck overhead is a scurry of feet. In the mysterious bowels of the
ship a mighty mechanism opens its metal mouth and speaks out briskly.
Later it will talk on steadily, with a measured and a regular voice;
but now it is heard frequently, yet intermittently, like the click of
a blind man's cane. Beneath your feet the ship, which has seemed until
this moment as solid as a rock, stirs the least little bit, as though it
had waked up. And now a shiver runs all through it and you are reminded
of that passage from Pygmalion and Galatea where Pygmalion says with
such feeling:
She starts; she moves; she seems to feel the thrill of life along her
keel.
You are under way. You are finally committed to the great adventure. The
necessary good-bys have already been said. Those who in the goodness of
their hearts came to see you off have departed for shore, leaving sundry
suitable and unsuitable gifts behind. You have examined your stateroom,
with its hot and cold decorations, its running stewardess, its all-night
throb service, and its windows overlooking the Hudson--a stateroom
that seemed so large and commodious until you put one small submissive
steamer trunk and two scared valises in it. You are tired, and yon white
bed, with the high mudguards on it, looks mighty good to you; but you
feel that you must go on deck to wave a fond farewell to the land you
love and the friends you are leaving behind.
You fight your way to the open through companionways full of frenzied
persons who are apparently trying to travel in every direction at once.
On the deck the illusion persists that it is the dock that is moving and
the ship that is standing still. All about you your fellow passengers
crowd the rails, waving and shouting messages to the people on the dock;
the people on the dock wave back and shout answers. About every other
person is begging somebody to tell auntie to be sure to write. You
gather that auntie will be expected to write weekly, if not oftener.
As the slice of dark water between boat and dock widens, those who are
left behind begin running toward the pierhead in such numbers that each
wide, bright-lit door-opening in turn suggests a flittering section of
a moving-picture film. The only perfectly calm person in sight is a
gorgeous, gold-laced creature standing on the outermost gunwale of the
dock, wearing the kind of uniform that a rear admiral of the Swiss navy
would wear--if the Swiss had any navy--and holding a speaking trumpet
in his hand. This person is not excited, for he sends
thirty-odd-thousand-ton ships off to Europe at frequent intervals, and
so he is impressively and importantly blase about it; but everybody else
is excited. You find yourself rather that way. You wave at persons you
know and then at persons you do not know.
You continue to wave until the man alongside you, who has spent years
of his life learning to imitate a siren whistle with his face, suddenly
twines his hands about his mouth and lets go a terrific blast right in
your ear. Something seems to warn you that you are not going to care for
this man.
The pier, ceasing to be a long, outstretched finger, seems to fold back
into itself, knuckle-fashion, and presently is but a part of the oddly
foreshortened shoreline, distinguishable only by the black dot of
watchers clustered under a battery of lights, like a swarm of hiving
bees. Out in midstream the tugs, which have been convoying the ship, let
go of her and scuttle off, one in this direction and one in that, like a
brace of teal ducks getting out of a walrus' way.
Almost imperceptibly her nose straightens down the river and soon on
the starboard quarter--how quickly one picks up these nautical
terms!--looming through the harbor mists, you behold the statue of Miss
Liberty, in her popular specialty of enlightening the world. So you go
below and turn in. Anyway, that is what I did; for certain of the larger
| 608.873186 |
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THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:
DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.
Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents.
_Crebillon's Electre_.
As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.
RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1834-5.
SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
VOL. I.] RICHMOND, AUGUST, 1834. [NO. 1.
T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.
PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.
In issuing the first number of the "SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER," the
publisher hopes to be excused for inserting a few passages from the
letters of several eminent literary men which he has had the pleasure
to receive, approving in very flattering terms, his proposed
publication. Whilst the sentiments contained in these extracts
illustrate the generous and enlightened spirit of their authors, they
ought to stimulate the pride and genius of the south, and awaken from
its long slumber the literary exertion of this portion of our country.
The publisher confidently believes that such will be the effect. From
the smiles of encouragement, and the liberal promises of support
received from various quarters--which he takes this opportunity of
acknowledging,--he is strongly imboldened to persevere, and devote his
own humble labors to so good a cause. He is authorised to expect a
speedy arrangement either with a competent editor or with regular
contributors to his work,--but, in the mean time, respectfully solicits
public patronage, as the only effectual means of ensuring complete
success.
FROM WASHINGTON IRVING.
"Your literary enterprise has my highest approbation and warmest good
wishes. Strongly disposed as I always have been in favor of 'the
south,' and especially attached to Virginia by early friendships and
cherished recollections, I cannot but feel interested in the success of
a work which is calculated to concentrate the talent and illustrate the
high and generous character which pervade that part of the Union."
FROM J. K. PAULDING.
"It gives me great pleasure to find that you are about establishing a
literary paper at Richmond,--and I earnestly hope the attempt will be
successful. You have abundance of talent among you; and the situation
of so many well educated men, placed above the necessity of laboring
either manually or professionally, affords ample leisure for the
cultivation of literature. Hitherto your writings have been principally
political; and in that class you have had few rivals. The same talent,
directed to other pursuits in literature, will, unquestionably, produce
similar results,--and Virginia, in addition to her other high claims to
the consideration of the world, may then easily aspire to the same
distinction in other branches that she has attained in politics.
* * * * *
"Besides, the muses must certainly abide somewhere in the beautiful
vallies, and on the banks of the clear streams of the mountains of
Virginia. Solitude is the nurse of the imagination; and if there be any
Virginia lass or lad that ever seeks, they will assuredly find
inspiration, | 608.873369 |
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Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive.)
The Slaveholding Indians
(1) As Slaveholder and Secessionist
(2) As Participants in the Civil War
(3) Under Reconstruction
Vol. I
[Illustration: INDIAN TERRITORY, 1861 [_From General Land Office_]]
The American Indian as
Slaveholder and Secessionist
AN OMITTED CHAPTER IN
THE DIPLOMATIC HISTORY OF THE
SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY
BY ANNIE HELOISE ABEL, PH.D.
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
CLEVELAND: 1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
ANNIE HELOISE ABEL
TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER
CONTENTS
PREFACE 13
I GENERAL SITUATION IN THE INDIAN COUNTRY, 1830-1860 17
II INDIAN TERRITORY IN ITS RELATIONS WITH TEXAS AND ARKANSAS 63
III THE CONFEDERACY IN NEGOTIATION WITH THE INDIAN TRIBES 127
IV THE INDIAN NATIONS IN ALLIANCE WITH THE CONFEDERACY 207
APPENDIX A--FORT SMITH PAPERS 285
APPENDIX B--THE LEEPER OR WICHITA AGENCY PAPERS 329
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 359
INDEX 369
ILLUSTRATIONS
INDIAN TERRITORY, 1861 _Frontispiece_
MAP SHOWING FREE <DW64> SETTLEMENTS IN THE CREEK COUNTRY 25
PORTRAIT OF COLONEL DOWNING, CHEROKEE 65
PORTRAIT OF JOHN ROSS, PRINCIPAL CHIEF OF THE CHEROKEES 112
PORTRAIT OF COLONEL ADAIR, CHEROKEE 221
MAP SHOWING THE RETREAT OF THE LOYAL INDIANS 263
FORT MCCULLOCH 281
PREFACE
This volume is the first of a series of three dealing with the
slaveholding Indians as secessionists, as participants in the Civil War,
and as victims under reconstruction. The series deals with a phase of
American Civil War history which has heretofore been almost entirely
neglected or, where dealt with, either misunderstood or misinterpreted.
Perhaps the third and last volume will to many people be the most
interesting because it will show, in great detail, the enormous price that
the unfortunate Indian had to pay for having allowed himself to become a
secessionist and a soldier. Yet the suggestiveness of this first volume is
considerably larger than would appear at first glance. It has been
purposely given a sub-title, in order that the peculiar position of the
Indian, in 1861, may be brought out in strong relief. He was enough inside
the American Union to have something to say about secession and enough
outside of it to be approached diplomatically. It is well to note, indeed,
that Albert Pike negotiated the several Indian treaties that bound the
Indian nations in an alliance with the seceded states, under the authority
of the Confederate State Department, which was a decided | 608.880542 |
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[IMAGE: img000.jpg The Tsar Nicholas II]
THE ROMANCE
_of the_
ROMANOFFS
BY
JOSEPH McCABE
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1917
Copyright, 1917,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY. Inc.
PREFACE
THE history of Russia has attracted many writers and inspired many
volumes during the last twenty years, yet its most romantic and most
interesting feature has not been fully appreciated.
Thirteen years ago, when the long struggle of the Russian democrats
culminated in a bloody revolution, I had occasion to translate into
English an essay written by a learned professor who belonged to what was
called “the Russophile School.” It was a silken apology for murder. The
Russian soul, the writer said, was oriental, not western. The true line
of separation of east and west was, not the great ridge of mountains
which raised its inert barrier from the Caspian Sea to the frozen ocean,
but the western limit of the land of the Slavs. In their character the
Slavs were an eastern race, fitted only for autocratic rule, indifferent
to those ideas of democracy and progress which stirred to its muddy
depths the life of western Europe. They loved the “Little Father.” They
clung, with all the fervour of their mild and peaceful souls, to their
old-world Church. They had the placid wisdom of the east, the health
that came of living close to mother-earth, the tranquillity of
ignorance. Was not the Tsar justified in protecting his people from the
feverish illusions which agitated western Europe and America?
Thus, in very graceful and impressive language, wrote the “sound”
professors, the clients of the aristocracy, the more learned of the
silk-draped priests. The Russia which they interpreted to us, the Russia
of the boundless horizon, could not read their works. It was almost
wholly illiterate. It could not belie them. Indeed, if one could have
interrogated some earth-bound peasant among those hundred and twenty
millions, he would have heard with dull astonishment that he had _any_
philosophy of life. His cattle lived by instinct: _his_ path was traced by
the priest and the official.
But the American onlooker found one fatal defect in the Russophile
theory. These agents of the autocracy contended that the soul of Russia
rejected western ideas; yet they were spending millions of roubles every
year, they were destroying hundreds of fine-minded men and women every
year, they were packing the large jails of Russia until they reeked with
typhus and other deadly maladies, in an effort to keep those ideas away
from the Russian soul. While Russophile professors were penning their
plausible theories of the Russian character, the autocracy which they
defended was being shaken by as brave and grim a revolution as
any that has upset thrones in modern Europe. Moscow, the shrine of this
supposed beautiful docility, was red with the blood of its children. In
the jails and police-cells of Russia about 200,000 men and women, boys
and girls, quivered under the lash or sank upon fever-beds, and almost
as many more dragged out a living death in the melancholy wastes of
Siberia. They wanted democracy and progress; and their introduction of
those ideas to the peasantry had awakened so ready and fervent a
response that it had been necessary to seal their lips with blood.
We looked back along the history of Russia, and we found that the
struggle was nearly a century old. The ghastly route to Siberia had been
opened eighty years before. Russia had felt the revolutionary | 608.884598 |
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Produced by Sigal Alon, Janet Blenkinship 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)
[Illustration: _Frontispiece_
ALTON TOWERS.]
ENGLAND,
PICTURESQUE AND DESCRIPTIVE.
A
REMINISCENCE OF FOREIGN TRAVEL.
By JOEL COOK,
AUTHOR OF "A HOLIDAY TOUR IN EUROPE," "BRIEF SUMMER RAMBLES," ETC.
[Illustration: OLD MILL AT SELBORNE.]
WITH NEARLY FIVE HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS.
PHILADELPHIA;
PORTER AND COATES.
Copyright
By PORTER & COATES,
1882.
PRESS OF HENRY B. ASHMEAD, PHILADA.
ELECTROTYPED BY WESTCOTT & THOMSON, PHILADA.
TO
JOHN WALTER, Esq.,
MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR BERKSHIRE,
AND
PROPRIETOR OF THE LONDON TIMES,
WHO HAS DONE SO MUCH TO WELCOME AMERICANS
WITH TRUE ENGLISH HOSPITALITY,
AND TO
GIVE ENGLISHMEN A MORE ACCURATE KNOWLEDGE OF,
AND MORE INTIMATE RELATIONS WITH,
THE UNITED STATES,
This Work on England,
BY AN AMERICAN,
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
INTRODUCTION.
No land possesses greater attractions for the American tourist than
England. It was the home of his forefathers; its history is to a great
extent the history of his own country; and he is bound to it by the
powerful ties of consanguinity, language, laws, and customs. When the
American treads the busy London streets, threads the intricacies of the
Liverpool docks and shipping, wanders along the green lanes of
Devonshire, climbs Alnwick's castellated walls, or floats upon the
placid bosom of the picturesque Wye, he seems almost as much at home as
in his native land. But, apart from these considerations of common
Anglo-Saxon paternity, no country in the world is more interesting to
the intelligent traveller than England. The British system of entail,
whatever may be our opinion of its political and economic merits, has
built up vast estates and preserved the stately homes, renowned castles,
and ivy-clad ruins of ancient and celebrated structures, to an extent
and variety that no other land can show. The remains of the abbeys,
castles, churches, and ancient fortresses in England and Wales that war
and time together have crumbled and scarred tell the history of
centuries, while countless legends of the olden time are revived as the
tourist passes them in review. England, too, has other charms than
these. British scenery, though not always equal in sublimity and
grandeur to that displayed in many parts of our own country, is
exceedingly beautiful, and has always been a fruitful theme of song and
story.
"The splendor falls on castle-walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes.
And the wild cataract leaps in glory."
Yet there are few satisfactory and comprehensive books about this land
that is so full of renowned memorials of the past and so generously
gifted by Nature. Such books as there are either cover a few counties or
are devoted only to local description, or else are merely guide-books.
The present work is believed to be the first attempt to give in
attractive form a book which will serve not only as a guide to those
about visiting England and Wales, but also as an agreeable reminiscence
to others, who will find that its pages treat of familiar scenes. It
would be impossible to describe everything within the brief compass of a
single book, but it is believed that nearly all the more prominent
places in England and Wales are included, with enough of their history
and legend to make the description interesting. The artist's pencil has
also been called into requisition, and the four hundred and eighty-seven
illustrations will give an idea, such as no words can convey, of the
attractions England presents to the tourist.
The work has been arranged in eight tours, with Liverpool and London as
the two starting-points, and each route following the lines upon which
the sightseer generally advances in the respective directions taken.
Such is probably the most convenient form for the travelling reader, as
the author has found from experience, while a comprehensive index will
make reference easy to different localities and persons. Without further
introduction it is presented to the public, in the confident belief that
the interest developed in its subject will excuse any shortcomings that
may be found in its pages.
PHILADELPHIA, July, 1882.
CONTENTS.
I.
_LIVERPOOL, WESTWARD TO THE WELSH COAST._
PAGE
Liverpool--Birkenhead--Knowsley Hall--Chester--Cheshire--Eaton
Hall--Hawarden Castle--Bidston--Congleton--Beeston Castle--The river
Dee--Llangollen--Valle-Crucis Abbey--Dinas Bran--Wynnstay--Pont
Cysylltau--Chirk Castle--Bangor-ys-Coed--Holt--Wrexham--The Sands o'
Dee--North Wales--Flint Castle--Rhuddlan Castle--Mold--Denbigh--St.
Asaph--Holywell--Powys Castle--The Menai Strait--Anglesea--Beaumaris
Castle--Bangor--Penrhyn Castle--Plas Newydd--Caernarvon
Castle--Ancient Segontium--Conway Castle--Bettws-y-Coed--Mount
Snowdon--Port Madoc--Coast of Merioneth--Barmouth--St. Patrick's
Causeway--Mawddach Vale--Cader Idris--D | 608.94569 |
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Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, David
Garcia and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: Alex H. Rice.]
THE BAY STATE MONTHLY.
A Massachusetts Magazine.
VOL. I. FEBRUARY, 1884. NO. II.
* * * * *
Hon. ALEXANDER HAMILTON RICE, LL.D.
By Daniel B. Hagar, Ph.D.
[Principal of the State Normal School, Salem.]
Massachusetts merchants have been among the most prominent men in
the nation through all periods of its history. From the days of John
Hancock down to the present time they have often been called by their
fellow-citizens to discharge the duties of the highest public offices.
Hancock was the first governor of the State. In the list of his
successors, the merchants who have distinguished themselves by honorable
and successful administrations occupy prominent places. Conspicuous
among them stands the subject of this sketch.
Alexander Hamilton Rice, a son of Thomas Rice, Esq., a well-known
manufacturer of paper, was born in Newton Lower Falls, Massachusetts,
August 30, 1818. He received his early education in the public schools
of his native town and in the academies of the Reverend Daniel Kimball,
of Needham, and Mr. Seth Davis, of Newton, a famous teacher in his
day, who is still living, in vigorous health, at the venerable age of
ninety-seven years. As a boy, young Rice was cheery, affectionate, and
thoughtful, and a favorite among his companions. His earliest ambition
was to become a Boston merchant. After leaving school he entered a
dry-goods store in the city. He there performed his duties with such
laborious zeal and energy that his health gave way, and he was compelled
to return to his home in Newton, where he suffered many months' illness
from a malignant fever, which nearly proved fatal. About two years later
| 608.973259 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD
By Frank L. Packard
McClelland & Goodchild Limited
Prospect Press, Printers New York, U.S.A.
1911
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0006]
[Illustration: 0007]
TO
MY FATHER
_LUCIUS HENRY PACKARD_
ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD
I--RAFFERTY’S RULE
The General Manager of the Transcontinental System glared at the young
man who stood facing him across the office desk. “Why, you wouldn’t last
three months!” he snapped.
“I’d like to try, uncle.”
“Humph!”
“I’m qualified for the position,” young Holman went on. “I’ve done
my stint with the construction gangs and I’ve spent four years in the
Eastern shops. You promised me that if I’d stick I’d have my chance.”
“Well, if I did, I didn’t promise to put you in the way of making a
fool of yourself and a laughing-stock of me, did I? You may be qualified
technically, I don’t say you’re not. In fact, I’ve been rather pleased
with you; that’s one reason why you’re not going out there to tackle
something you can’t handle. If men like Rawson and Williams can’t hold
down the job, what do you expect to do?”
“No worse than they, at least,” Holman answered, quietly. “Look here,
uncle, that’s just the point. There aren’t any of the men want the
position, so I’m not jumping anybody to take it. I’ll not make any
laughing-stock of you, either. I’m not going out as the Old Man’s
nephew; just plain Dick Holman. If I don’t make good you can wash your
hands of my railroad career.”
“Young man,” said the General Manager, severely, “don’t make rash
statements.”
He pushed the papers on his desk irritably to one side. Then he frowned.
Two years ago, when the road had dug, blasted, burrowed, and trestled
its right of way through the mountains, they had built the repair shops
for the maintenance of the rolling stock, and from the moment the first
brass time-check had been issued the locomotive-foremanship of the Hill
Division was no subject to be introduced with temerity anywhere within
the precincts of the executive offices. One man after another had
gone out there, and one after another they had resigned. “Hard lot
to handle,” Carleton, the division superintendent, had replied to the
numerous requests for explanation that had been fired at him. And now
| 609.177865 |
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "He tried to shoot once more, into the very face of the
oncoming brute."--FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 245._]
THE HEART OF THUNDER MOUNTAIN
By EDFRID A. BINGHAM
With Frontispiece in Colors
By ANTON OTTO FISHER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangements with Little, Brown & Company
Copyright, 1916,
By Edfrid A. Bingham.
All rights reserved
Published, March, 1916
Reprinted, March, 1916 (twice)
July, 1916; August, 1916
| 609.276249 |
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Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
A DOUBLE STORY
BY GEORGE MACDONALD.
NEW YORK:
A DOUBLE STORY
I.
There was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. For
instance, you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or
whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. It was impossible to
say whether the next baby would be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he
was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross.
In strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of
uncertainties, it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower
of rain that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it
fell, turned all its drops into molten topazes, and every drop was good
for a grain of golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a buttercup, or a
dandelion at least;--while this splendid rain was falling, I say, with
a musical patter upon the great leaves of the horse-chestnuts, which
hung like Vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy, red-spotted
blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they had
blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some
stood up and boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while
others cowered down, laughing, under the soft patting blows of the
heavy warm drops;--while this lovely rain was washing all the air clean
from the motes, and the bad odors, and the poison-seeds that had
escaped from their prisons during the long drought;--while it fell,
splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush, and a soft
clashing--but stop! I am stealing, I find, and not that only, but with
clumsy hands spoiling what I steal:--
"O Rain! with your dull twofold sound,
The clash hard by, and the murmur all round:"
--there! take it, Mr. Coleridge;--while, as I was saying, the lovely
little rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own
channels through the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their
banks as they hurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up
on a sudden, with a musical plash, in the very heart of an odorous
flower, that first gasps and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on the
bald head of a stone that never says, Thank you;--while the very sheep
felt it blessing them, though it could never reach their skins through
the depth of their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog--I mean the one
with the longest spikes--came and spiked himself out to impale as many
of the drops as he could;--while the rain was thus falling, and the
leaves, and the flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and the
hedgehog, were all busily receiving the golden rain, something
happened. It was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a
coronation, but something more important than all those put together. A
BABY-GIRL WAS BORN; and her father was a king; and her mother was a
queen; and her uncles and aunts were princes and princesses; and her
first-cousins were dukes and duchesses; and not one of her
second-cousins was less than a marquis or marchioness, or of their
third-cousins less than an earl or countess: and below a countess they
did not care to count. So the little girl was Somebody; and yet for all
that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry. I told you it
was a strange country.
As she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that
she was Somebody; and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it
that she quite forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it
for a fundamental, innate, primary, first-born, self-evident,
necessary, and incontrovertible idea and principle that SHE WAS
SOMEBODY. And far be it from me to deny it. I will even go so far as to
assert that in this odd country there was a huge number of Somebodies.
Indeed, it was one of its oddities that every boy and girl in it, was
rather too ready to think he or she was Somebody; and the worst of it
was that the princess never thought of there being more than one
Somebody--and that was herself.
Far away to the north in the same country, on the side of a bleak hill,
where a horse-chestnut or a sycamore was never seen, where were no
meadows rich with buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy <DW72>s, covered
with dry prickly furze and its flowers of red gold, or moister, softer
broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and great sweeps of purple
heather, mixed with bilberries, and crowberries, and cranberries--no, I
am all wrong: there was nothing out yet but a few furze-blossoms; the
rest were all waiting behind their doors till they were called; and no
full, slow-gliding river with meadow-sweet along its oozy banks, only a
little brook here and there, that dashed past without a moment to say,
"How do you do?"--there (would you believe it?) while the same cloud
that was dropping down golden rain all about the queen's new baby was
dashing huge fierce handfuls of hail upon the hills, with such force
that they flew spinning off the rocks and stones, went burrowing in the
sheep's wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the shepherd with their
sharp spiteful little blows, and made his dog wink and whine as they
bounded off his hard wise head, and long sagacious nose; only, when
they dropped plump down the chimney, and fell hissing in the little
fire, they caught it then, for the clever little fire soon sent them up
the chimney again, a good deal swollen, and harmless enough for a
while, there (what do you think?) among the hailstones, and the
heather, and the cold mountain air, another little girl was born, whom
the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess her mother, and a good
many of her kindred too, thought Somebody. She had not an uncle or an
aunt that was less than a shepherd or dairymaid, not a cousin, that was
less than a farm-laborer, not a second-cousin that was less than a
grocer, and they did not count farther. And yet (would you believe it?)
she too cried the very first thing. It WAS an odd country! And, what is
still more surprising, the shepherd and shepherdess and the dairymaids
and the laborers were not a bit wiser than the king and the queen and
the dukes and the marquises and the earls; for they too, one and all,
so constantly taught the little woman that she was Somebody, that she
also forgot that there were a great many more Somebodies besides
herself in the world.
It was, indeed, a peculiar country, very different from ours--so
different, that my reader must not be too much surprised when I add the
amazing fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying the
things they had, were always wanting the things they had not, often
even the things it was least likely they ever could have. The grown men
and women being like this, there is no reason to be further astonished
that the Princess Rosamond--the name her parents gave her because it
means Rose of the World--should grow up like them, wanting every thing
she could and every thing she couldn't have. The things she could have
were a great many too many, for her foolish parents always gave her
what they could; but still there remained a few things they couldn't
give her, for they were only a common king and queen. They could and
did give her a lighted candle when she cried for it, and managed by
much care that she should not burn her fingers or set her frock on
fire; but when she cried for the moon, that they could not give her.
They did the worst thing possible, instead, however; for they pretended
to do what they could not. They got her a thin disc of brilliantly
polished silver, as near the size of the moon as they could agree upon;
and, for a time she was delighted.
But, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon
was a little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark. Her
nurse happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with it; and
instantly came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished. Presently,
through the opening of the curtains, she caught sight of the real moon,
far away in the sky, and shining quite calmly, as if she had been there
all the time; and her rage increased to such a degree that if it had
not passed off in a fit, I do not know what might have come of it.
As she grew up it was still the same, with this difference, that not
only must she have every thing, but she got tired of every thing almost
as soon as she had it. There was an accumulation of things in her
nursery and schoolroom and bedroom that was perfectly appalling. Her
mother's wardrobes were almost useless to her, so packed were they with
| 609.367374 |
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Produced by Julie Barkley, Susan Woodring and PG Distributed Proofreaders
[Transcriber's Note: Descriptions of illustrations which have no
captions and of page references are found in {curly brackets}.]
[Illustration: That's where Daddy is!
(From the painting by J. Snowman.)]
THE ROYAL SCHOOL SERIES
Highroads of Geography
_Illustrated by Masterpieces of the following artists:--J.M.W. Turner,
F. Goodall, E.A. Hornel, Talbot Kelly, W. Simpson, Edgar H. Fisher, J.F.
Lewis, T.H. Liddell, Cyrus Cuneo, &c._
Introductory Book--Round the World with Father
1916
CONTENTS.
1. Good-bye to Father,
2. A Letter from France,
3. In Paris,
4. On the Way to Egypt,
5. A Letter from Egypt,
6. Children of Egypt,
7. Through the Canal,
8. Amongst the Arabs.--I.,
9. Amongst the Arabs.--II.,
10. A Letter from India,
11. In the Streets,
12. Our Indian Cousin,
13. In the Garden,
14. Indian Boys and Girls,
15. Elephants and Tigers,
16. A Letter from Burma.--I.,
17. A Letter from Burma.--II.,
18. A Letter from Ceylon,
19. A Letter from China,
20. Chinese Boys and Girls,
21. Hair, Fingers, and Toes,
22. A Letter from Japan,
23. <DW61> Children,
24. A Letter from Canada,
25. Children of Canada,
26. The Red Men,
27. The Eskimos.
28. Father's Last Letter,
29. Home Again,
EXERCISES,
INTRODUCTORY BOOK.
I. GOOD-BYE TO FATHER.
1. Father kissed us and said, "Good-bye, dears. Be good children, and
help mother as much as you can. The year will soon pass away. What a
merry time we will have when I come back again!"
2. Father kissed mother, and then stepped into the train. The guard blew
his whistle, and the train began to move. We waved good-bye until it was
out of sight.
[Illustration: {Children waving good-bye to their father as the train
pulls away}]
3. Then we all began to cry--even Tom, who thinks himself such a man. It
was _so_ lonely without father.
4. Tom was the first to dry his eyes. He turned to me and said | 609.745574 |
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My Lady Caprice
by
Jeffery Farnol
CONTENTS
I. TREASURE TROVE
II. THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM
III. THE DESPERADOES
IV. MOON MAGIC
V. THE EPISODE OF THE INDIAN'S AUNT
VI. THE OUTLAW
VII. THE BLASTED OAK
VIII. THE LAND OF HEART'S DELIGHT
I
TREASURE TROVE
I sat fishing. I had not caught anything, of course--I rarely do, nor
am I fond of fishing in the very smallest degree, but I fished
assiduously all the same, because circumstances demanded it.
It had all come about through Lady Warburton, Lisbeth's maternal aunt.
Who Lisbeth is you will learn if you trouble to read these veracious
narratives--suffice it for the present that she has been an orphan from
her youth up, with no living relative save her married sister Julia and
her Aunt (with a capital A)--the Lady Warburton aforesaid.
Lady Warburton is small and somewhat bony, with a sharp chin and a
sharper nose, and invariably uses lorgnette; also, she is possessed of
much worldly goods.
Precisely a week ago Lady Warburton had requested me to call upon
her--had regarded me with a curious exactitude through her lorgnette,
and gently though firmly (Lady Warburton is always firm) had suggested
that Elizabeth, though a dear child, was young and inclined to be a
little self-willed. That she (Lady Warburton) was of opinion that
Elizabeth had mistaken the friendship which had existed between us so
long for something stronger. That although she (Lady Warburton) quite
appreciated the fact that one who wrote books, and occasionally a play,
was not necessarily immoral-- Still I was, of course, a terrible
Bohemian, and the air of Bohemia was not calculated to conduce to that
degree of matrimonial harmony which she (Lady Warburton) as Elizabeth's
Aunt, standing to her in place of a mother, could wish for. That,
therefore, under these circumstances my attentions were--etc., etc.
Here I would say in justice to myself that despite the torrent of her
eloquence I had at first made some attempt at resistance; but who could
hope to contend successfully against a woman possessed of such an
indomitable nose and chin, and one, moreover, who could level a pair of
lorgnette with such deadly precision? Still, had Lisbeth been beside
me things might have been different even then; but she had gone away
into the country--so Lady Warburton had informed me. Thus alone and at
her mercy, she had succeeded in wringing from me a half promise that I
would cease my attentions for the space of six months, "just to give
dear Elizabeth time to learn her own heart in regard to the matter."
This was last Monday. On the Wednesday following, as I wandered
aimlessly along Piccadilly, at odds with Fortune and myself, but
especially with myself, my eye encountered the Duchess of Chelsea.
The Duchess is familiarly known as the "Conversational Brook" from the
fact that when once she begins she goes on forever. Hence, being in my
then frame of mind, it was with a feeling of rebellion that I obeyed
the summons of her parasol and crossed over to the brougham.
"So she's gone away?" was her greeting as I raised my hat--"Lisbeth,"
she nodded, "I happened to hear something about her, you know."
It is strange, perhaps, but the Duchess generally does "happen to hear"
something about everything. "And you actually allowed yourself to be
bullied into making that promise--Dick! Dick! I'm ashamed of you."
"How was I to help myself?" I began. "You see--"
"Poor boy!" said the Duchess, patting me affectionately with the handle
of her parasol, "it wasn't to be expected, of course. You see, I know
her--many, many years ago I was at school with Agatha Warburton."
"But she probably didn't use lorgnettes then, and--"
"Her nose was just as sharp though--'peaky' I used to call it," nodded
the Duchess. "And she has actually sent Lisbeth away--dear child--and
to such a horrid, quiet little place, too, where she'll have nobody to
talk to but that young Selwyn.
"I beg pardon, Duchess, but--"
"Horace Selwyn, of Selwyn Park--cousin to Lord Selwyn, of Brankesmere.
Agatha has been scheming for it a long time, under the rose, you know.
Of course, it would be a good match, in a way--wealthy, and all
that--but I must say he bores me horribly--so very serious and precise!"
"Really!" I exclaimed, "do you mean to say--"
"I expect she will have them married before they know it--Agatha's
dreadfully determined. Her character lies in her nose and chin."
"But Lisbeth is not a child--she has a will of her own, and--"
"True," nodded the Duchess, "but is it a match for Agatha's chin? And
then, too, it is rather more than possible that you are become the
object of her bitterest scorn by now.
"But, my dear Duchess--"
"Oh, Agatha is a born diplomat. Of course she has written before this,
and without actually saying it has managed to convey the fact that you
are a monster of perfidy; and Lisbeth, poor child, is probably crying
her eyes out, or imagining she hates you, is ready to accept the first
proposal she receives out of pure pique."
"Great heavens!" I exclaimed, "what on earth can I do?"
"You might go fishing," the Duchess suggested thoughtfully.
"Fishing!" I repeated, "--er, to be sure, but--"
"Riverdale is a very pretty place they tell me," pursued the Duchess in
the same thoughtful tone; "there is a house there | 609.858444 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 42140-h.htm or 42140-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
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Masterpieces in Colour
Edited by--T. Leman Hare
GREUZE | 609.875101 |
2023-11-16 18:27:13.9257200 | 2,129 | 13 |
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Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Library of Early
Journals.)
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCLVI. JUNE, 1845. VOL. LVII.
Transcriber's note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved
to the end of the article. The index for Volume 57 is included at the
end of this issue.
CONTENTS.
PUSHKIN, THE RUSSIAN POET. No. I., 657
THE NOVEL AND THE DRAMA, 679
MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN. PART XVII., 688
LEBRUN'S LAWSUIT, 705
CENNINO CENNINI ON PAINTING, 717
AESTHETICS OF DRESS. NO. IV., 731
SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS: BEING A SEQUEL TO THE CONFESSIONS
OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, 739
HANNIBAL, 752
STANZAS WRITTEN AFTER THE FUNERAL OF ADMIRAL SIR DAVID
MILNE, C.G.B., 766
STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD, 768
NORTH'S SPECIMENS OF THE BRITISH CRITICS. NO. V.--DRYDEN
ON CHAUCER--CONCLUDED, 771
INDEX, 794
EDINBURGH: WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET; AND 22,
PALL-MALL, LONDON.
_To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCLVI. JUNE, 1845. VOL. LVII.
PUSHKIN, THE RUSSIAN POET.
NO. I.
SKETCH OF PUSHKIN'S LIFE AND WORKS, BY THOMAS B. SHAW, B.A. OF
CAMBRIDGE, ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE IMPERIAL
ALEXANDER LYCEUM, TRANSLATOR OF "THE HERETIC," &C. &C.
Among the many striking analogies which exist between the physical and
intellectual creations, and exhibit the uniform method adopted by
Supreme Wisdom in the production of what is most immortal and most
precious in the world of thought, as well as of what is most useful and
beautiful in the world of matter, there is one which cannot fail to
arise before the most actual and commonplace imagination. This is, the
great apparent care exhibited by nature in the preparation of the
_nidus_--or matrix, if we may so style it--in which the genius of the
great man is to be perfected and elaborated. Nature creates nothing in
sport; and as much foresight--possibly even more--is displayed in the
often complicated and intricate machinery of concurrent causes which
prepare the development of great literary genius, as in the elaborate
in-foldings which protect from injury the germ of the future oak, or the
deep-laid and mysterious bed, and the unimaginable ages of growth and
hardening, necessary to the water of the diamond, or to the purity of
the gold.
Pushkin is undoubtedly one of that small number of names, which have
become incorporated and identified with the literature of their country;
at once the type and the expression of that country's nationality--one
of that small but illustrious bard, whose writings have become part of
the very household language of their native land--whose lightest words
may be incessantly heard from the lips of all classes; and whose
expressions may be said, like those of Shakspeare, of Moliere, and of
Cervantes, to have become the natural forms embodying the ideas which
they have expressed, and in expressing, consecrated. In a word, Pushkin
is undeniably and essentially the great national poet of Russia.
In tracing, therefore, this author's double existence, and in essaying
to give some account of his external as well as his interior life--in
sketching the poet and the man--we cannot fail to remark a striking
exemplification of the principle to which we have alluded; and as we
accompany, in respectful admiration, his short but brilliant career, we
shall have incessant occasion to remember the laws which regulated its
march--laws ever-acting and eternal, and no less apparent to the eye of
enlightened criticism, than are the mighty physical influences which
guide the planets in their course, to the abstract reason of the
astronomer.
Alexander Pushkin was born (as if destiny had intended, in assigning
his birth-place--the ancient capital of Russia, and still the
dwelling-place of all that is most intense in Russian nationality--to
predict all the stuff and groundwork of his character) at Moscow, on the
26th of May 1799. His family, by the paternal side, was one of the most
ancient and distinguished in the empire, and was descended from Ratcha,
a German--probably a Teutonic knight--who settled in Muscovy in the
thirteenth century, and took service under Alexander Nevskii,
(1252-1262,) and who is the parent root from which spring many of the
most illustrious houses in Russia--those of Pushkin, of Buturlin, of
Kamenskii, and of Meteloff. Nor was the paternal line of Pushkin's house
undistinguished for other triumphs than those recorded in the annals of
war; his grandfather, Vassilii Lvovitch Pushkin, was a poet of
considerable reputation, and was honoured, no less than Alexander's
father, with the intimacy of the most illustrious literary men of his
age--of Dmitrieff, Karamzin, and Jukovskii.
But perhaps the most remarkable circumstance connected with Pushkin's
origin--a circumstance of peculiar significance to those who, like
ourselves, are believers in the influence, on human character, of
_race_, or _blood_, is the fact of his having been the grandson, by the
mother's side, of an African. The cold blood of the north, transmitted
to his veins from the rude warrior of Germany, was thus mingled with
that liquid lightning which circles through the fervid bosom of the
children of the desert; and this crossing of the race (to use the
language of the course) produced an undeniable modification in our
poet's character. His maternal grandfather was a <DW64>, brought to
Russia when a child by Peter the Great, and whose subsequent career was
one of the most romantic that can be imagined. The wonderful Tsar gave
his sable protege, whose name was Annibal, a good education, and
admitted him into the marine service of the empire--a service in which
he reached (in the reign of Catharine) the rank of admiral. He took part
in the attack upon Navarin under Orloff, and died after a long and
distinguished career of service, having founded, in his new country, the
family of Annibaloff, of which Pushkin was the most distinguished
ornament, and of whose African origin the poet, both in personal
appearance and in mental physiognomy, bore the most unequivocal marks.
To the memory of this singular progenitor, Pushkin has consecrated more
than one of his smaller works, and has frequently alluded to the African
blood which he inherited from the admiral.
In 1811, Pushkin obtained (through the interest of Turgenieff, to whom
Russia is thus, in some sort, indebted for her great poet) admission
into the Imperial Lyceum of Tsarskoe Selo, where he was to receive the
education, and to form the friendships, which so strongly, not
only the literary productions of his whole career, but undoubtedly
modified, to a considerable extent, the personal character of the poet.
This institution, then recently established by the Emperor Alexander,
and always honoured by the peculiar favour and protection of its
illustrious founder, was modelled on the plan of those _lycees_ which
France owed to the genius of Napoleon; and was intended to confer upon
its pupils the advantage of a complete encyclopedic education, and, not
only embracing the preparatory or school course, but also the academic
_curriculum_ of a university, was calculated to dismiss the students, at
the end of their course of training, immediately into active life. The
Lyceum must be undoubtedly considered as having nursed in its bosom a
greater number of distinguished men than any other educational
institution in the country; and our readers may judge of the peculiar
privileges enjoyed by this establishment, (the primary object of whose
foundation was, that of furnishing to the higher civil departments in
the government, and to the ministry of foreign affairs in particular, a
supply of able and accomplished _employes_,) from the fact of its having
been located by the emperor in a wing of the palace of Tsarskoe
Selo--the favourite summer residence of the Tsars of Russia since the
time of Catharine II. It is to the last-named sovereign, as is well
known to travellers, that this celebrated spot is indebted for its
splendid palace and magnificent gardens, forming, perhaps, the most
striking object which gratifies the stranger's curiosity in the env | 609.94576 |
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Produced by Richard J. Shiffer and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this
text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant
spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to
correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook.
Also, many occurrences of mismatched single and double quotes
remain as they were in the original.]
[Illustration: Phoebe W. Couzins.]
HISTORY
of
WOMAN SUFFRAGE.
EDITED BY
ELIZABETH CADY STANTON,
SUSAN B. ANTHONY, AND
MATILDA JOSLYN GAGE.
ILLUSTRATED WITH STEEL ENGRAVINGS.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. III.
1876-1885.
"WOMEN ARE CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES, ENTITLED TO ALL
THE RIGHTS, PRIVILEGES AND IMMUNITIES GUARANTEED
TO CITIZENS BY THE NATIONAL CONSTITUTION."
SUSAN B. ANTHONY,
17 MADISON ST., ROCHESTER, N. Y.
Copyright, 1886, by SUSAN B. ANTHONY.
PREFACE.
The labors of those who have edited these volumes are not only
finished as far as this work extends, but if three-score years and
ten be the usual limit of human life, all our earthly endeavors
must end in the near future. After faithfully collecting material
for several years, and making the best selections our judgment has
dictated, we are painfully conscious of many imperfections the
critical reader will perceive. But since stereotype plates will not
reflect our growing sense of perfection, the lavish praise of
friends as to the merits of these pages will have its antidote in
the defects we ourselves discover. We may however without egotism
express the belief that this volume will prove specially
interesting in having a large number of contributors from England,
France, Canada and the United States, giving personal experiences
and the progress of legislation in their respective localities.
Into younger hands we must soon resign our work; but as long as
health and vigor remain, we hope to publish a pamphlet report at
the close of each congressional term, containing whatever may be
accomplished by State and National legislation, which can be
readily bound in volumes similar to these, thus keeping a full
record of the prolonged battle until the final victory shall be
achieved. To what extent these publications may be multiplied
depends on when the day of woman's emancipation shall dawn.
For the completion of this work we are indebted to Eliza Jackson
Eddy, the worthy daughter of that noble philanthropist, Francis
Jackson. He and Charles F. Hovey are the only men who have ever
left a generous bequest to the woman suffrage movement. To Mrs.
Eddy, who bequeathed to our cause two-thirds of her large fortune,
belong all honor and praise as the first woman who has given alike
her sympathy and her wealth to this momentous and far-reaching
reform. This heralds a turn in the tide of benevolence, when,
instead of building churches and monuments to great men, and
endowing colleges for boys, women will make the education and
enfranchisement of their own sex the chief object of their lives.
The three volumes now completed we leave as a precious heritage
to coming generations; precious, because they so clearly
illustrate--in her ability to reason, her deeds of heroism and her
sublime self-sacrifice--that woman preeminently possesses the three
essential elements of sovereignty as defined by Blackstone:
"wisdom, goodness and power." This has been to us a work of love,
written without recompense and given without price to a large
circle of friends. A thousand copies have thus far been distributed
among our coadjutors in the old world and the new. Another thousand
have found an honored place in the leading libraries, colleges and
universities of Europe and America, from which we have received
numerous testimonies of their value as a standard work of reference
for those who are investigating this question. Extracts from these
pages | 609.950052 |
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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 “SURROUNDS” MATT’S CAMP, 314
XV. ON THE RIGHT TRACK AT LAST, 338
XVI. AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIVER, 363
XVII. THE EXPERT COLUMBIA, 381
XVIII. CONCLUSION, 398
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SNAGGED AND SUNK;
OR,
THE ADVENTURES OF A CANVAS CANOE.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH I BEGIN MY STORY.
“Beneath a hemlock grim and dark,
Where shrub and vine are intertwining,
Our shanty stands, well roofed with bark,
On which the cheerful blaze is shining.
The smoke ascends in spiral wreath;
With upward curve the sparks are trending;
The coffee kettle sings beneath
Where sparks and smoke with leaves are blending.”
Joe Wayring’s voice rang out loud and clear, and the words of his song
were repeated by the echoes from a dozen different points among the
hills by which the camp was surrounded on every side. Joe was putting
the finishing touches to the roof of a bark shanty; Roy Sheldon, with
the aid of a double-bladed camp ax, was cutting a supply of hard wood
to cook the trout he had just cleaned; and Arthur Hastings was sitting
close by picking browse for the beds. The scene of their camp was a
spring-hole, located deep in the forest twelve miles from Indian Lake.
Although it was a noted place for trout, it was seldom visited by the
guests of the hotels for the simple reason that they did not know that
there was such a spring-hole in existence, and the guides were much
too sharp to tell them of it.
Hotel guides, as a class, are not fond of work, and neither will they
take a guest very far beyond the sound of their employer’s dinner
horn. The landlords hire them by the month and the guides get just so
much money, no matter whether their services are called into
requisition or not. If business is dull and the guests few in number,
the guides loaf around the hotel in idleness, and of course the less
they do the less they are inclined to do. If they are sent out with a
guest, they take him over grounds that have been hunted and fished
until there is neither fur, fin, nor feather left, cling closely to
the water-ways, avoiding even the shortest “carries,” their sole
object being to earn their wages with the least possible exertion.
They don’t care whether the guest catches any fish or not. But our
three friends, Joe Wayring, Roy Sheldon, and Arthur Hastings, were not
dependent upon the hotel guides for sport during their summer outings.
Being perfectly familiar with the country for miles around Indian
Lake, they went wherever their fancy led them, and with no fear of
getting lost.
“And on the stream a light canoe
Floats like a freshly fallen feather—
A fairy thing that will not do
For broader seas and stormy weather.
Her sides no thicker than the shell
Of Ole Bull’s Cremona fiddle;
The man who rides her will do well
To part his scalp-lock in the middle,”
sang Joe, backing off and looking approvingly at his work. “There,
fellows, that roof is tight, and now it can rain as soon as it
pleases. With two acres of trout right in front of the door, and a
camp located so far from the lake that we are not likely to be
disturbed by any interlopers—what more could three boys who want to be
lazy ask for?”
“There’s one thing I would like to ask for,” replied Roy, “and that is
the assurance that Tom Bigden and his cousins will go back to Mount
Airy without trying to come any tricks on us. I wonder what brought
them up here any way?”
“Why, they came after their rods, of course,” answered Arthur. “You
know I sent them a despatch stating that their rods were in Mr.
Hanson’s possession, and that they could get them by refunding the
money that Hanson had paid Jake Coyle for them.”
“But they have been loafing around the lake for a whole week, doing
nothing but holding stolen interviews with Matt Coyle and his boys,”
said Roy. “I tell you I don’t like the way those worthies put their
heads together. I believe they are in ca-hoots. If they are not, how
does it come that Tom and his cousins can see Matt as often as they
want to, while the guides and landlords, who are so very anxious to
have him arrested, can not find him or obtain any satisfactory news of
him?”
“That’s the very reason they can’t find him—because they want to have
him arrested, and Matt knows it,” observed Joe. “But why Tom doesn’t
reveal Matt’s hiding-place to the constable is more than I can
understand. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Matt has some sort
of a hold on those boys, and that they are afraid to go against him?”
“I have thought of it,” replied Arthur. “I have never been able to get
it out of my head that Tom acted suspiciously on the day your canvas
canoe was stolen. He played his part pretty well, but I believed then,
and I believe now, that he knew that canoe was gone before he came
back to the beach.”
“I know Tom didn’t show much enthusiasm when we started after that
bear, and that he did not go very far from the pond,” assented Joe.
“It is possible that he saw Matt steal my canoe, and that he made no
effort to stop him; but I think you are mistaken when you say that
they are in ca-hoots. I don’t believe they have any thing in common.
Tom is much too high-toned for that. I know that he has been seen in
Matt’s company a time or two, but I am of the opinion that they met by
accident and not by appointment.”
“But Tom knew the officers were looking for Matt, and what was the
reason he didn’t tell them that he had seen him?” demanded Arthur.
“He probably would if he hadn’t thought that we were the ones that
wanted him arrested,” replied Joe. “Tom and his cousins do not like
us, and Matt Coyle might steal us poor, and they would never lift a
hand or say a word to prevent it. But we are safe from them now. Even
if they knew where to find us, Matt and his boys are much too lazy to
walk twelve miles through the thick woods just to get into a fight
with us.”
Perhaps they were, and perhaps they were not. Time will show.
If you have read the first volume of the “Forest and Stream Series,”
you will recollect that the story it contained was told by “Old
Durability,” Joe Wayring’s Fly-rod. In concluding his interesting
narrative, Fly-rod said that he would step aside and give place to his
“accommodating friend,” the Canvas Canoe, who, in the second volume of
the series, would describe some of the incidents that came under his
notice while he was a prisoner in the bands of the Indian Lake
vagabonds, Matt Coyle and his two worthless boys, Jake and Sam. I am
the Canvas Canoe, at your service, and I am now ready to redeem that
promise.
You will remember that the last duty I performed for my master, Joe
Wayring, was to take him and Fly-rod up to the “little perch hole,”
leaving Arthur Hastings and Roy Sheldon in the pond to angle for black
bass. Joe preferred to fish for perch, because he was afraid to trust
his light tackle in a struggle with so gamey a foe as a bass; but, as
luck would have it, he struck one the very first cast he made, and got
into a fight that was enough to make any angler’s nerves thrill with
excitement.
The battle lasted half an hour; and when it was over and the fish
safely landed, Joe discovered that it was growing dark. While he was
putting Fly-rod away in his case I happened to look up the creek, and
what should I see there but the most disreputable looking scow I ever
laid my eyes on? I had never seen him before, but I knew the crew he
carried, for I had had considerable experience with them. They were
the squatter and his boys, who, as you know, had sworn vengeance
against Joe Wayring and his friends, because Joe’s father would not
permit them to live on his land.
Matt and his young allies discovered Joe before the latter saw them,
and made an effort to steal alongside and capture him before he knew
that there was any danger near; but one of the impatient boys
carelessly allowed his paddle to rub against the side of the scow, and
the sound alarmed Joe, who at once took to the water and struck out
for shore, leaving me to my fate. But I never blamed Joe for that,
because I knew he could not have done any thing else. He had paid out
a good deal of rope in order to place himself in the best position for
casting, and he could not haul it in and raise the anchor before his
enemies would be upon him.
“So that’s your game, is it?” shouted the squatter, when he saw Joe
pulling for the shore with long lusty strokes. “Wal, it suits us I
reckon. Never mind the boat, Jakey. She’s fast anchored and will stay
there till we want her. Take after the ’ristocrat whose dad won’t let
honest folks live onto his land less’n they’ve got a pocketful of
money to pay him for it. Jest let me get a good whack at him with my
paddle, an’ he’ll stop, I bet you.”
Now we know that Matt didn’t tell the truth when he said that Joe
Wayring’s father would not let any one live on his land except those
who had money to pay for the privilege. Mr. Wayring was one of the
most liberal citizens in Mount Airy. Nearly all the men who were
employed as guides and boatmen by the summer visitors lived in neat
little cottages that he had built on purpose for them, and for which
he never charged them a cent of rent; and when Matt Coyle and his
family came into the lake with a punt load of goods, and took
possession of one of his lots, and proceeded to erect a shanty upon it
without asking his permission, Mr. Wayring did not utter one word of
protest. It is true that he was not very favorably impressed with the
appearance of the new-comers, but he thought he would give them an
opportunity to show what they were before he ordered them off his
grounds. If they proved to be honest, hard-working people they might
stay and welcome, and he would treat them as well as he treated the
other inhabitants of “Stumptown.”
But it turned out that Matt Coyle was neither honest nor hard-working.
He had once been a hanger-on about the hotels at Indian Lake. He
called himself an independent guide (neither of the hotels would have
any thing to do with him), but, truth to tell, he did not do much
guiding. He gained a precarious subsistence by hunting, trapping,
fishing, and stealing. It was easier to steal a living than it was to
earn it by | 609.950133 |
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http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
The History of Chivalry
or
Knighthood and its times.
By CHARLES MILLS, Esqr.
Author of the History of the Crusades
IN TWO VOLUMES.
Vol: I.
[Illustration: Engraved by A. Le Petit
from a sketch by R. W. Sievier.]
London.
Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green
MDCCCXXV.
PREFACE.
The propriety of my writing a History of Chivalry, as a companion to my
History of the Crusades, was suggested to me by a friend whose
acquaintance with middle-age lore forms but a small portion of his
literary attainments, and whose History of Italy shows his ability of
treating, as well as his skill in discovering, subjects not hitherto
discussed with the fulness which their importance merits.[1]
The works of Menestrier and Colombiere sleep in the dust of a few ancient
libraries; and there are only two other books whose express and entire
object is a delineation of the Institutions of chivalry. The first and
best known is the French work called "Memoires sur l'ancienne Chevalerie;
consideree comme un Etablissement Politique et Militaire. Par M. de la
Curne de Sainte Palaye, de l'Academie Francoise," &c. 2 tom. 12mo. Paris,
1759. The last half, however, of the second volume does not relate to
chivalry, and therefore the learned Frenchman cannot be charged with
treating his subject at very great length.[2] It was his purpose to
describe the education which accomplished the youth for the distinction of
knighthood, and this part of his work he has performed with considerable
success. But he failed in his next endeavour, that of painting the martial
games of chivalry, for nothing can be more unsatisfactory than his account
of jousts and tournaments. As he wished to inform his readers of the use
which was made in the battle field of the valour, skill, and experience of
knights, a description of some of the extraordinary and interesting
battles of the middle ages might have been expected. Here also
disappointment is experienced; neither can any pleasure be derived from
perusing his examination of the causes which produced the decline and
extinction of chivalry, and his account of the inconveniences which
counterbalanced the advantages of the establishment.
Sainte Palaye was a very excellent French antiquarian; but the limited
scope of his studies disqualified him from the office of a general
historian of chivalry. The habits of his mind led him to treat of
knighthood as if it had been the ornament merely of his own country. He
very rarely illustrates his principles by the literature of any other
nation, much less did he attempt to trace their history through the
various states of Europe. He has altogether kept out of sight many
characteristic features of his subject. Scarcely any thing is advanced
about ancient armour; not a word on the religious and military orders; and
but a few pages, and those neither pleasing nor correct, on woman and
lady-love. The best executed part of his subject regards, as I have
already observed, the education of knights; and he has scattered up and
down his little volume and a half many curious notices of ancient manners.
The other work is written in the German language, and for that reason it
is but very little known in this country. It is called Ritterzeit und
Ritterwesen, (two volumes octavo, Leipzig, 1823,) and is the substance of
a course of lectures on chivalry delivered by the author, Mr. Buesching, to
his pupils of the High School at Breslau. The style of the work is the
garrulous, slovenly, ungrammatical style which lecturers, in all
countries, and upon all subjects, think themselves privileged to use. A
large portion of the book is borrowed from Sainte Palaye; much of the
remainder relates to feudalism and other matters distinct from chivalry:
but when the writer treats of the state of knighthood in Germany I have
found his facts and observations of very great value.
Attention to the subjects of the middle ages of Europe has for many years
been growing among us. It was first excited by Warton's history of our
national verse, and Percy's edition of the Relics of ancient English
Poetry. The romances of chivalry, both in prose and metre, and the
numberless works on the Troubadour, and every other description of
literature during the middle ages which have been published within the
last few years, have sustained the interest. The poems of Scott convinced
the world that the chivalric times of Europe can strike the moral
imagination as powerfully and pleasingly in respect of character, passion,
and picturesqueness of effect, as the heroic ages of Greece; and even very
recently the glories of chivalry have been sung by a poetess whom Ariosto
himself would have been delighted to honour.[3] Still, however, no attempt
has been hitherto made to describe at large the institutions of
knighthood, the foundation of all that elegant superstructure of poetry
and romance which we admire, and to mark the history of chivalry in the
various countries of Europe. Those institutions have, indeed, been allowed
a few pages in our Encyclopaedias; and some of the sketches of them are
drawn with such boldness and precision of outline that we may regret the
authors did not present us with finished pictures. Our popular historians
have but hastily alluded to the subject; for they were so much busied with
feudalism and politics, that they could afford but a small space for the
play of the lighter graces of chivalry.
For a description, indeed, of antique manners, our materials are not so
ample as for that of their public lives. But still the subject is not
without its witnesses. The monkish chroniclers sometimes give us a glimpse
of the castles of our ancestors. Many of the knights in days of yore had
their biographers; and, for the most interesting time of chivalry, we
possess an historian, who, for vividness of delineation, kindliness of
feeling, and naivete of language, is the Herodotus of the middle ages.
"Did you ever read Froissart?"
"No," answered Henry Morton.
"I have half a mind," rejoined Claverhouse, "to contrive that you should
have six months' imprisonment, in order to procure you that pleasure. His
chapters inspire me with more enthusiasm than even poetry itself."
Froissart's[4] history extends from the year 1316 to 1400. It was begun by
him when he was twenty years old, at the command of his dear lord and
master, Sir Robert of Namur, Lord of Beaufort. The annals from 1326 to
1356 are founded on the Chronicles compiled by him whom he calls "The
Right Reverend, discreet, and sage Master John la Bele, sometime canon in
St. Lambertis of Liege, who with good heart and due diligence did his true
devoir in writing his book; and heard of many fair and noble adventures
from his being well beloved, and of the secret counsel of the Lord Sir
John of Hainault." Froiss | 609.950752 |
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FROMONT AND RISLER
By ALPHONSE DAUDET
With a Preface by LECONTE DE LISLE, of the French Academy
ALPHONSE DAUDET
Nominally Daudet, with the Goncourts and Zola, formed a trio
representing Naturalism in fiction. He adopted the watchwords of that
school, and by private friendship, no less than by a common profession
of faith, was one of them. But the students of the future, while
recognizing an obvious affinity between the other two, may be puzzled to
find Daudet's name conjoined with theirs.
Decidedly, Daudet belonged to the Realistic School. But, above all, he
was an impressionist. All that can be observed--the individual picture,
scene, character--Daudet will render with wonderful accuracy, and all
his novels, especially those written after 1870, show an increasing
firmness of touch, limpidity of style, and wise simplicity in the use of
the sources of pathetic emotion, such as befit the cautious Naturalist.
Daudet wrote stories, but he had to be listened to. Feverish as his
method of writing was--true to his Southern character he took endless
pains to write well, revising every manuscript three times over from
beginning to end. He wrote from the very midst of the human comedy; and
it is from this that he seems at times to have caught the bodily warmth
and the taste of the tears and the very ring of the laughter of men and
women. In the earlier novels, perhaps, the transitions from episode to
episode or from scene to scene are often abrupt, suggesting the manner
of the Goncourts. But to Zola he forms an instructive contrast, of the
same school, but not of the same family. Zola is methodical, Daudet
spontaneous. Zola works with documents, Daudet from the living fact.
Zola is objective, Daudet with equal scope and fearlessness shows more
personal feeling and hence more delicacy. And in style also Zola is
vast, architectural; Daudet slight, rapid, subtle, lively, suggestive.
And finally, in their philosophy of life, Zola may inspire a hate of
vice and wrong, but Daudet wins a love for what is good and true.
Alphonse Daudet was born in Nimes, Provence, May 13, 1840. His father
had been a well-to-do silk manufacturer, but, while Alphonse was still a
child, lost his property. Poverty compelled the son to seek the wretched
post of usher (pion) in a school at Alais. In November, 1857, he settled
in Paris and joined his almost equally penniless brother Ernest. The
autobiography, 'Le Petit Chose' (1868), gives graphic details about this
period. His first years of literary life were those of an industrious
Bohemian, with poetry for consolation and newspaper work for bread.
He had secured a secretaryship with the Duc de Morny, President of the
Corps Legislatif, and had won recognition for his short stories in the
'Figaro', when failing health compelled him to go to Algiers. Returning,
he married toward that period a lady (Julia Allard, born 1847), whose
literary talent comprehended, supplemented, and aided his own. After
the death of the Duc de Morny (1865) he consecrated himself entirely to
literature and published 'Lettres de mon Moulin' (1868), which also made
his name favorably known. He now turned from fiction to the drama,
and it was not until after 1870 that he became fully conscious of his
vocation as a novelist, perhaps through the trials of the siege of Paris
and the humiliation of his country, which deepened his nature without
souring it. Daudet's genial satire, 'Tartarin de Tarascon', appeared
in 1872; but with the Parisian romance 'Fromont jeune et Risler aine',
crowned by the Academy (1874), he suddenly advanced into the foremost
rank of French novelists; it was his first great success, or, as he puts
it, "the dawn of his popularity."
How numberless editions of this book were printed, and rights of
translations sought from other countries, Daudet has told us with
natural pride. The book must be read to be appreciated. "Risler, a
self-made, honest man, raises himself socially into a society against
the corruptness of which he has no defence and from which he escapes
only by suicide. Sidonie Chebe is a peculiarly French type, a vain and
heartless woman; Delobelle, the actor, a delectable figure; the domestic
simplicity of Desiree Delobelle and her mother quite refreshing."
Success followed now after success. 'Jack (1876); Le Nabab (1877); Les
Rois en exil (1879); Numa Roumestan (1882); L'Evangeliste (1883); Sapho
(1884); Tartarin sur des Alces (1886); L'Immortel (1888); Port Tarascon
(1890); Rose et Ninette (1892); La petite Parvisse (1895); and Soutien
de Famille (1899)'; such is the long list of the great life-artist.
In Le Nabab we find obvious traces of Daudet's visits to Algiers and
Corsica-Mora is the Duc de Morny. Sapho is the most concentrated of his
novels, with never a divergence, never a break, in its development. And
of the theme--legitimate marriage contra common-law--what need be said
except that he handled it in a manner most acceptable to the aesthetic
and least offensive to the moral sense?
L'Immortel is a satire springing from personal reasons; L'Evangeliste
and Rose et Ninette--the latter on the divorce problem--may be classed
as clever novels; but had Daudet never written more than 'Fromont et
Risler', 'Tartarin sur les Alces', and 'Port Tarascon', these would keep
him in lasting remembrance.
We must not omit to mention also many 'contes' and his 'Trente ans de
Paris (A travers ma vie et mes livres), Souvenirs d'un Homme de lettres
(1888), and Notes sur la Vie (1899)'.
Alphonse Daudet died in Paris, December 16, 1897
| 609.977297 |
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Produced by Andrea Ball and Marc D'Hooghe at
http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made
available by the Internet Archive)
POEMS
by
RANIER MARIA RILKE
Translated by Jessie Lamont
With an Introduction by H.T.
New York
Tobias A. Wright
1918
TO THE MEMORY OF
AUGUSTE RODIN
THROUGH WHOM I CAME TO KNOW
RAINER MARIA RILKE
POEMS OF RAINER MARIA RILKE
INTRODUCTION
Acknowledgment
To the Editors of Poetry--A magazine of Verse, and Poet Lore, the
translator is indebted for permission to reprint certain poems in this
book--also to the compilers of the following | 609.978721 |
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Produced by Richard Tonsing, Jana Srna, Bryan Ness and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
RUSSIAN EXPLORATIONS, 1725-1743.
VITUS BERING:
THE DISCOVERER OF BERING STRAIT.
BY
PETER LAURIDSEN,
MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF THE ROYAL DANISH GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY,
EDITOR OF JENS MUNK'S "NAVIGATIO SEPTENTRIONALIS."
REVISED BY THE AUTHOR, AND TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY
JULIUS E. OLSON,
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF SCANDINAVIAN LANGUAGES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF
WISCONSIN.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN EDITION BY
FREDERICK SCHWATKA,
MEDALLIST OF THE PARIS GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY, AND OF THE IMPERIAL
GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY OF RUSSIA: HONORARY MEMBER OF THE BREMEN
GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY, AND THE SWISS GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY OF GENEVA;
CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE ITALIAN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY, ETC.,
ETC.; AUTHOR OF "ALONG ALASKA'S GREAT RIVER," ETC., ETC.
CHICAGO:
S. C. GRIGGS & COMPANY,
1889.
COPYRIGHT, 1889,
BY S. C. GRIGGS AND COMPANY.
PRESS OF
KNIGHT & LEONARD CO.
CHICAGO.
CONTENTS.
LIEUT. SCHWATKA'S INTRODUCTION vii
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE xii
AUTHOR'S PREFACE xv
PART I.
BERING'S FIRST EXPEDITION.
CHAPTER I.
Russia and England in the work of Arctic exploration.--Vitus
Bering's rank as an explorer 3
CHAPTER II.
B | 610.073276 |
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Produced by Jill Diffendal. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE LANCES OF LYNWOOD
by
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE
PREFACE
For an explanation of the allusions in the present Tale, scarcely any
Notes are necessary, save a reference to the bewitching Chronicle of
Froissart; and we cannot but hope that our sketch may serve as an
inducement to some young readers to make acquaintance with the
delectable old Canon for themselves, undeterred by the size of his
tomes.
The story of Orthon is almost verbally copied from him, and bears a
curious resemblance to various German legends--such as that of
"Heinzelman," to be found in Keightley's "Fairy Mythology," and to
"Teague of the Lea," as related in Croker's "Irish Fairy Legends."
The old French "Vie de Bertrand du Guesclin" has likewise been drawn
upon for materials, and would have supplied much more of great
interest, such as Enrique of Trastamare's arrival in the disguise of a
palmer, to consult with him during his captivity at Bordeaux, and many
most curious anecdotes of his early childhood and youth.
To Breton tradition, his excellent wife Epiphanie Raguenel owes her
title of Tiphaine la fee, meaning that she was endowed with magic
power, which enabled her to predict what would be lucky or unlucky days
for her husband. His disregard of them was thought to have twice cost
him the loss of a battle.
We must apologize for having made Henry of Lancaster a year or two
older than is warranted by the date of his birth.
THE LANCES OF LYNWOOD
CHAPTER I
Seldom had the interior of this island presented a more peaceful and
prosperous aspect than in the reign of Edward III., when the more
turbulent spirits among his subjects had found occupation in his
foreign wars, and his wise government had established at home a degree
of plenty, tranquility, and security, such as had probably never before
been experienced in England.
Castle and cottage, church and convent, alike showed the prosperity and
safety of the inhabitants, at once by the profuseness of embellishment
in those newly erected, and by the neglect of the jealous precautions
required in former days of confusion and misrule. Thus it was with the
village of Lynwood, where, among the cottages and farm-houses occupying
a fertile valley in Somersetshire, arose the ancient Keep, built of
gray stone, and strongly fortified; but the defences were kept up
rather as appendages of the owner's rank, than as requisite for his
protection; though the moat was clear of weeds, and full of water, the
drawbridge was so well covered with hard-trodden earth, overgrown at
the edges with grass, that, in spite of the massive chains connecting
it with the gateway, it seemed permanently fixed on the ground. The
spikes of the portcullis frowned above in threatening array, but a
wreath of ivy was twining up the groove by which it had once descended,
and the archway, which by day stood hospitably open, was at night only
guarded by two large oaken doors, yielding to a slight push. Beneath
the southern wall of the castle court were various flower-beds, the
pride and delight of the old seneschal, Ralph Penrose, in his own
estimation the most important personage of Lynwood Keep, manager of the
servants, adviser of the Lady, and instructor of the young gentleman in
the exercises of chivalry.
One fine evening, old Ralph stood before the door, his bald forehead
and thin iron-gray locks unbonneted, and his dark ruddy-brown face
(marked at Halidon Hill with a deep scar) raised with an air of
deference, and yet of self-satisfaction, towards the Lady who stood on
the steps of the porch. She was small and fragile in figure; her face,
though very lovely, was pale and thin, and her smile had in it
something pensive and almost melancholy, as she listened to his
narration of his dealings with a refractory tenant, and at the same
time watched a noble-looking child of seven or eight years old, who,
mounted on an old war-horse, was led round the court by a youth, his
elder by some ten or eleven years.
"See mother!" cried the child, "I am holding the reins myself. Uncle
Eustace lays not a finger on them!"
"As I was saying, madam," continued Ralph, disregarding the
interruption, "I told him that I should not have thought of one
exempted from feudal service in the camp, by our noble Knight, being
deficient in his dues in his absence. I told him we should see how he
liked to be sent packing to Bordeaux with a sheaf of arrows on his
back, instead of the sheaf of wheat which ought to be in our granary by
this time. But you are too gentle with them, my Lady, and they grow
insolent in Sir Reginald's long absence."
"All goes ill in his absence," said the Lady. "It is a weary while
since the wounded archer brought tidings of his speedy return."
"Therefore," said the youth, turning round, "it must be the nearer at
hand. Come sweet sister Eleanor, cheer up, for he cannot but come
soon."
"So many _soons_ have passed away, that my heart is well-nigh too sick
for hope," said Eleanor. "And when he comes it will be but a bright
dream to last for a moment. He cannot long be spared from the Prince's
side."
"You must go with him, then, sister, and see how I begin my days of
chivalry--that is, if he will but believe me fit to bear shield and
lance."
"Ah! Master Eustace, if you were but such as I have seen others of your
race," said Ralph, shaking his head. "There was Sir Henry--at your age
he had made the Scottish thieves look about them, I promise you. And
to go no further back than Sir Reginald himself--he stood by the
Prince's side at Crecy ere he was yet fifteen!"
"It is not my fault that I have not done as much, Ralph," said Eustace.
"It is not for want of the will, as you know full well."
"No. Thanks to me, I trust you have the will and the teaching, at
least, to make a good Knight," said Ralph. "And yet, while I think of
the goodly height and broad shoulders of those that have gone before
you--"
"But hark! hark!" cried Eustace, cutting short a comparison which did
not seem likely to be complimentary. "Dost not hear, Ralph? A horn!"
"The Lynwood note! My husband's note! O thanks, thanks to the
Saints!" cried the Lady, clasping her hands, whilst Eustace, vaulting
into the saddle behind his little nephew, rode across the drawbridge as
fast as the stiffened joints of old Blanc Etoile could be prevailed on
to move. Gaining the summit of a rising ground, both at once shouted,
"Our own pennon! It is himself!" as they beheld the dark blue crosslet
on an argent field floating above a troop of horsemen, whose armour
glanced in the setting sun.
"There are the Lances of Lynwood, Arthur," said Eustace, leaping to the
ground. "Keep your seat, and meet your father like a brave Knight's
son."
He then settled the reins in the child's hand, and walked beside him to
meet the new-comers. They were about twenty in number, armed alike
with corselets marked with the blue cross, steel headpieces, and long
lances. In front rode two of higher rank. The first was a man of
noble mien and lofty stature, his short dark curled hair and beard, and
handsome though sunburnt countenance, displayed beneath his small blue
velvet cap, his helmet being carried behind him by a man-at-arms, and
his attire consisting of a close-fitting dress of chamois leather, a
white mantle embroidered with the blue cross thrown over one shoulder,
and his sword hanging by his side. His companion, who carried at his
saddle-bow a shield blazoned with heraldic devices in scarlet and gold,
was of still greater height, and very slight; his large keen eyes, hair
and moustache, black as jet; and his complexion dark brown, with a
well-formed aquiline nose, and a perfect and very white set of teeth.
The instant the first-mentioned horseman perceived Eustace and Arthur,
he sprang to the ground and hurried to meet them with rapid
affectionate greetings and inquiries. In another moment Dame Eleanor
appeared on the drawbridge, and, weeping with joy, was clasped in her
husband's arms. Behind her stood the venerable chaplain, Father Cyril,
and a step or two further off, Ralph Penrose, both of whom in turn
received the kindly greetings of Sir Reginald Lynwood, as, with his
wife hanging on his arm and his boy holding his hand, he passed under
the gateway of his ancestral castle. Turning the next moment, he
addressed his tall companion: "Friend Gaston, I bid you welcome! Dame
Eleanor, and you, brother Eustace, I present to you my trusty Esquire,
Master Gaston d'Aubricour."
Due courtesies passed between the Lady and the Squire, who, after a few
words with the Knight, remained to see the disposal of the men, while
Sir Reginald himself entered the hall with his wife, son and brother.
Eustace did not long remain there: he found that Reginald and Eleanor
had much to say to each other, and his curiosity and interest were,
besides, greatly excited by the novelty of the scene presented by the
castle court, so different from its usual peaceful monotony. The men
were unsaddling their horses, rubbing them down, walking them about, or
removing the stains of dust and mud from their own armour, while others
were exchanging greetings with the villagers, who were gathering in
joyous parties round such of the newly arrived as were natives of the
place.
In the midst stood the strange Squire, superintending a horse-boy who
was rubbing down the Knight's tall war-horse, and at the same time
ordering, giving directions, answering inquiries, or granting
permission to the men to return home with their relations. Ralph
Penrose was near, his countenance, as Eustace could plainly perceive,
expressing little satisfaction at finding another authority in the
court of Lynwood Keep; the references to himself short, brief, and
rapid, and only made when ignorance of the locality compelled the
stranger to apply for information. The French accent and occasional
French phrases with which the Squire spoke, made him contract his brow
more and more, and at last, just as Eustace came up, he walked slowly
away, grumbling to himself, "Well, have it e'en your own way, I am too
old for your gay French fashions. It was not so in Humfrey Harwood's
time, when-- But the world has gone after the French now! Sir Reginald
has brought home as many Gascon thieves as kindly Englishmen!"
Eustace listened for a moment to his mutterings, but without answering
them, and coming within a few steps of the stranger, stood waiting to
offer him any courtesy in his power, though at the same time he felt
abashed by the consciousness of his inferiority in accomplishments and
experience.
It was the Squire who was the first to speak. "So this is Sir
Reginald's old Keep! A fine old fortalice--would stand at least a
fortnight's siege. Ha! Is not yonder a weak point? I would undertake
to scale that tower, so the battering-rams made a diversion on the
other side."
"I trust it will never be tried," said Eustace.
"It would be as fair a feat of arms as ever you beheld! But I crave
your pardon," added he, displaying his white teeth with a merry laugh;
"the state of my own land has taught me to look on every castle with
eyes for attack and defence, and your brother tells me I am not behind
my countrymen in what you English call gasconades."
"You have seen many sie | 610.175111 |
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Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email [email protected]
THE CHÂTEAU OF PRINCE POLIGNAC.
FEW Englishmen or Englishwomen are intimately acquainted with the little
town of Le Puy. It is the capital of the old province of Le Velay, which
also is now but little known, even to French ears, for it is in these
days called by the imperial name of the Department of the Haute Loire.
It is to the south-east of Auvergne, and is nearly in the centre of the
southern half of France.
But few towns, merely as towns, can be better worth visiting. In the
first place, the volcanic formation of the ground on which it stands is
not only singular in the extreme, so as to be interesting to the
geologist, but it is so picturesque as to be equally gratifying to the
general tourist. Within a narrow valley there stand several rocks,
rising up from the ground with absolute abruptness. Round two of these
the town clusters, and a third stands but a mile distant, forming the
centre of a faubourg, or suburb. These rocks appear to be, and I believe
are, the harder particles of volcanic matter, which have not been carried
away through successive ages by the joint agency of water and air.
When the tide of lava ran down between the hills the surface left was no
doubt on a level with the heads of these rocks; but here and there the
deposit became harder than elsewhere, and these harder points have
remained, lifting up their steep heads in a line through the valley.
The highest of these is called the Rocher de Corneille. Round this and
up its steep sides the town stands. On its highest summit there was an
old castle; and there now is, or will be before these pages are printed,
a colossal figure in bronze of the Virgin Mary, made from the cannon
taken at Sebastopol. Half-way down the hill the cathedral is built, a
singularly gloomy edifice,—Romanesque, as it is called, in its style, but
extremely similar in its mode of architecture to what we know of
Byzantine structures. But there has been no surface on the rock side
large enough to form a resting-place for the church, which has therefore
been built out on huge supporting piles, which form a porch below the
west front; so that the approach is by numerous steps laid along the side
of the wall below the church, forming a wondrous flight of stairs. Let
all men who may find themselves stopping at Le Puy visit the top of these
stairs at the time of the setting sun, and look down from thence through
the framework of the porch on the town beneath, and at the hill-side
beyond.
Behind the church is the seminary of the priests, with its beautiful
walks stretching round the Rocher de Corneille, and overlooking the town
and valley below.
Next to this rock, and within a quarter of a mile of it, is the second
peak, called the Rock of the Needle. It rises narrow, sharp, and abrupt
from the valley, allowing of no buildings on its sides. But on its very
point has been erected a church sacred to St. Michael, that lover of rock
summits, accessible by stairs cut from the stone. This, perhaps—this
rock, I mean—is the most wonderful of the wonders which Nature has formed
at La Puy.
Above this, at a mile’s distance, is the rock of Espailly, formed in the
same way, and almost equally precipitous. On its summit is a castle,
having its own legend, and professing to have been the residence of
Charles VII., when little of France belonged to its kings but the
provinces of Berry, Auvergne, and Le Velay. Some three miles farther up
there is another volcanic rock, larger, indeed, but equally sudden in its
spring,—equally remarkable as rising abruptly from the valley,—on which
stands the castle and old family residence of the house of Polignac. It
was lost by them at the Revolution, but was repurchased by the minister
of Charles X., and is still the property of the head of the race.
Le Puy itself is a small, moderate, pleasant French town, in which the
language of the people has not the pure Parisian aroma, nor is the glory
of the boulevards of the capital emulated in its streets. These are
crooked, narrow, steep, and intricate, forming here and there excellent
sketches for a lover of street picturesque beauty; but hurtful to the
feet with their small, round-topped paving stones, and not always as
clean as pedestrian ladies might desire.
And now I would ask my readers to join me at the morning table d’hôte at
the Hotel des Ambassadeurs. It will of course be understood that this
does not mean a breakfast in the ordinary fashion of England, consisting
of tea or coffee, bread and butter, and perhaps a boiled egg. It
comprises all the requisites for a composite dinner, excepting soup; and
as one gets farther south in France, this meal is called dinner. It is,
however, eaten without any prejudice to another similar and somewhat
longer meal at six or seven o’clock, which, when the above name is taken
up by the earlier enterprise, is styled supper.
The déjeûner, or dinner, at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, on the morning in
question, though very elaborate, was not a very gay affair. There were
some fourteen persons present, of whom half were residents in the town,
men employed in some official capacity, who found this to be the
cheapest, the most luxurious, and to them the most comfortable mode of
living. They clustered together at the head of the table, and as they
were customary guests at the house, they talked their little talk
together—it was very little—and made the most of the good things before
them. Then there were two or three commis-voyageurs, a chance traveller
or two, and an English lady with a young daughter. The English lady sat
next to one of the accustomed guests; but he, unlike the others, held
converse with her rather than with them. Our story at present has
reference only to that lady and to that gentleman.
Place aux dames. We will speak first of the lady, whose name was Mrs.
Thompson. She was, shall I say, a young woman of about thirty-six. In
so saying, I am perhaps creating a prejudice against her in the minds of
some readers, as they will, not unnaturally, suppose her, after such an
announcement, to be in truth over forty. Any such prejudice will be
unjust. I would have it believed that thirty-six was the outside, not
the inside of her age. She was good-looking, lady-like, and considering
that she was an Englishwoman, fairly well dressed. She was inclined to
be rather full in her person, but perhaps not more so than is becoming to
ladies at her time of life. She had rings on her fingers and a brooch on
her bosom which were of some value, and on the back of her head she wore
a jaunty small lace cap, which seemed to tell, in conjunction with her
other appointments, that her circumstances were comfortable.
The little girl who sat next to her was the youngest of her two
daughters, and might be about thirteen years of age. Her name was
Matilda, but infantine circumstances had invested her with the nickname
of Mimmy, by which her mother always called her. A nice, pretty, playful
little girl was Mimmy Thompson, wearing two long tails of plaited hair
hanging, behind her head, and inclined occasionally to be rather loud in
her sport.
Mrs. Thompson had another and an elder daughter, now some fifteen years
old, who was at school in Le Puy; and it was with reference to her
tuition that Mrs. Thompson had taken up a temporary residence at the
Hôtel des Ambassadeurs in that town. Lilian Thompson was occasionally
invited down to dine or breakfast at the inn, and was visited daily at
her school by her mother.
“When I’m sure that she’ll do, I shall leave her there, and go back to
England,” Mrs. Thompson had said, not in the purest French, to the
neighbour who always sat next to her at the table d’hôte, the gentleman,
namely, to whom we have above alluded. But still she had remained at Le
Puy a month, and did not go; a circumstance which was considered
singular, but by no means unpleasant, both by the innkeeper and by the
gentleman in question.
The facts, as regarded Mrs. Thompson, were as follows:—She was the widow
of a gentleman who had served for many years in the civil service of the
East Indies, and who, on dying, had left her a comfortable income of—it
matters not how many pounds, but constituting quite a sufficiency to
enable her to live at her ease and educate her daughters.
Her children had been sent home to England before her husband’s death,
and after that event she had followed them; but there, though she was
possessed of moderate wealth, she had no friends and few acquaintances,
and after a little while she had found life to be rather dull. Her
customs were not those of England, nor were her propensities English;
therefore she had gone abroad, and having received some recommendation of
this school at Le Puy, had made her way thither. As it appeared to her
that she really enjoyed more consideration at Le Puy than had been
accorded to her either at Torquay or Leamington, there she remained from
day to day. The total payment required at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs was
but six francs daily for herself and three and a half for her little
girl; and where else could she live with a better junction of economy and
comfort? And then the gentleman who always sat next to her was so
exceedingly civil!
The gentleman’s name was M. Lacordaire. So much she knew, and had
learned to call him by his name very frequently. Mimmy, too, was quite
intimate with M. Lacordaire; but nothing more than his name was known of
him. But M. Lacordaire carried a general letter of recommendation in his
face, manner, gait, dress, and tone of voice. In all these respects
there was nothing left to be desired; and, in addition to this, he was
decorated, and wore the little red ribbon of the Legion of Honour,
ingeniously twisted into the shape of a small flower.
M. Lacordaire might be senior in age to Mrs. Thompson by about ten years,
nor had he about him any of the airs or graces of a would-be young man.
His hair, which he wore very short, was grizzled, as was also the small
pretence of a whisker which came down about as far as the middle of his
ear; but the tuft on his chin was still brown, without a gray hair. His
eyes were bright and tender, his voice was low and soft, his hands were
very white, his clothes were always new and well fitting, and a
better-brushed hat could not be seen out of Paris, nor perhaps in it.
Now, during the weeks which Mrs. Thompson had passed at La Puy, the
acquaintance which she had formed with M. Lacordaire had progressed
beyond the prolonged meals in the salle à manger. He had occasionally
sat beside her evening table as she took her English cup of tea in her
own room, her bed being duly screened off in its distant niche by
becoming curtains; and then he had occasionally walked beside her, as he
civilly escorted her to the lions of the place; and he had once
accompanied her, sitting on the back seat of a French voiture, when she
had gone forth to see something of the surrounding country.
On all such occasions she had been accompanied by one of her daughters,
and the world of Le Puy had had nothing material to say against her. But
still the world of Le Puy had whispered a little, suggesting that M.
Lacordaire knew very well what he was about. But might not Mrs. Thompson
also know as well what she was about? At any rate, everything had gone
on very pleasantly since the acquaintance had been made. And now, so
much having been explained, we will go back to the elaborate breakfast at
the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.
Mrs. Thompson, holding Mimmy by the hand, walked into the room some few
minutes after the last bell had been rung, and took the place which was
now hers by custom. The gentlemen who constantly frequented the house
all bowed to her, but M. Lacordaire rose from his seat and offered her
his hand.
“And how is Mees Meemy this morning?” said he; for ’twas thus he always
pronounced her name.
Miss Mimmy, answering for herself, declared that she was very well, and
suggested that M. Lacordaire should give her a fig from off a dish that
was placed immediately before him on the table. This M. Lacordaire did,
presenting it very elegantly between his two fingers, and making a little
bow to the little lady as he did so.
“Fie, Mimmy!” said her mother; “why do you ask for the things before the
waiter brings them round?”
“But, mamma,” said Mimmy, speaking English, “M. Lacordaire always gives
me a fig every morning.”
“M. Lacordaire always spoils you, I think,” answered Mrs. Thompson, in
French. And then they went thoroughly to work at their breakfast.
During the whole meal M. Lacordaire attended assiduously to his
neighbour; and did so without any evil result, except that one Frenchman
with a black moustache, at the head of the table, trod on the toe of
another Frenchman with another black moustache—winking as he made the
sign—just as M. Lacordaire, having selected a bunch of grapes, put it on
Mrs. Thompson’s plate with infinite grace. But who among us all is free
from such impertinences as these?
“But madame really must see the château of Prince Polignac before she
leaves Le Puy,” said M. Lacordaire.
“The château of who?” asked Mimmy, to whose young ears the French words
were already becoming familiar.
“Prince Polignac, my dear. Well, I really don’t know, M. Lacordaire;—I
have seen a great deal of the place already, and I shall be going now
very soon; probably in a day or two,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“But madame must positively see the château,” said M. Lacordaire, very
impressively; and then after a pause he added, “If madame will have the
complaisance to commission me to procure a carriage for this afternoon,
and will allow me the honour to be her guide, I shall consider myself one
of the most fortunate of men.”
“Oh, yes, mamma, do go,” said Mimmy, clapping her hands. “And it is
Thursday, and Lilian can go with us.”
“Be quiet, Mimmy, do. Thank you, no, M. Lacordaire. I could not go
to-day; but I am extremely obliged by your politeness.”
M. Lacordaire still pressed the matter, and Mrs. Thompson still declined
till it was time to rise from the table. She then declared that she did
not think it possible that she should visit the château before she left
Le Puy; but that she would give him an answer at dinner.
The most tedious time in the day to Mrs. Thompson were the two hours
after breakfast. At one o’clock she daily went to the school, taking
Mimmy, who for an hour or two shared her sister’s lessons. This and her
| 610.273287 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Stephen Hutcheson, 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.)
[Illustration: "The Toad Woman stopped fanning and looked at her." Page
125.]
ADVENTURES
IN
Shadow-Land.
CONTAINING
Eva's Adventures in Shadow-Land.
By MARY D. NAUMAN.
AND
The Merman and The Figure-Head.
By CLARA F. GUERNSEY.
TWO VOLUMES IN ONE.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1874.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Lippincott's Press,
Philadelphia.
EVA'S ADVENTURES
IN
SHADOW-LAND.
TO
MY FRIEND
E. W.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
What Eva saw in the Pond 9
CHAPTER II.
Eva's First Adventure 15
CHAPTER III.
The Gift of the Fountain 23
CHAPTER IV.
The First Moonrise 30
CHAPTER V.
What Aster was 36
CHAPTER VI.
The Beginning of the Search 45
CHAPTER VII.
Aster's Misfortunes 52
CHAPTER VIII.
What Aster did 63
CHAPTER IX.
The Door in the Wall 73
CHAPTER X.
The Valley of Rest 80
CHAPTER XI.
The Magic Boat 92
CHAPTER XII.
Down the Brook 104
CHAPTER XIII.
The Enchanted River 119
CHAPTER XIV.
The Green Frog 130
CHAPTER XV.
In the Grotto 145
CHAPTER XVI.
Aster's Story 151
CHAPTER XVII.
The Last of Shadow-Land 162
EVA'S ADVENTURES
IN SHADOW-LAND.
CHAPTER I.
_WHAT EVA SAW IN THE POND._
She had been reading fairy-tales, after her lessons were done, all the
morning; and now that dinner was over, her father gone to his office,
the baby asleep, and her mother sitting quietly sewing in the cool
parlor, Eva thought that she would | 610.27593 |
2023-11-16 18:27:14.3523680 | 925 | 9 | ***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
****************The first Part of Henry the Sixt****************
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The first Part of Henry the Sixt
by William Shakespeare
July, 2000 [Etext #2254]
***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
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Eminent Women Series
Edited by John H. Ingram
EMILY BRONTE
All Rights Reserved.
EMILY BRONTE
by
A. MARY F. ROBINSON
Second Edition.
London:
W. H. Allen and Co.
13, Waterloo Place
1883.
[All Rights Reserved]
London:
Printed by W. H. Allen and Co., 13 Waterloo Place. S.W.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Introduction 1
CHAPTER I.
Parentage 8
CHAPTER II.
Babyhood 18
CHAPTER III.
Cowan's Bridge 28
CHAPTER IV.
Childhood 40
CHAPTER V.
Going to School 53
CHAPTER VI.
Girlhood at Haworth 61
CHAPTER VII.
In the Rue d'Isabelle 77
CHAPTER VIII.
A Retrospect 92
CHAPTER IX.
The Recall 103
CHAPTER X.
The Prospectuses 111
CHAPTER XI.
Branwell's Fall 116
CHAPTER XII.
Writing Poetry 128
CHAPTER XIII.
Troubles 144
CHAPTER XIV.
Wuthering Heights: its Origin 154
CHAPTER XV.
Wuthering Heights: the Story 168
CHAPTER XVI.
'Shirley' 209
CHAPTER XVII.
Branwell's End 217
CHAPTER XVIII.
Emily's Death 223
FINIS! 233
* * * * *
LIST OF AUTHORITIES.
1846-56. The Works of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.
1857. Life of Charlotte Bronte. _Mrs. Gaskell. 1st and 2nd Editions._
1877. Charlotte Bronte. _T. Wemyss Reid._
1877. Note on Charlotte Bronte. _A. C. Swinburne._
1881. Three Great Englishwomen. _P. Bayne._
MS. Lecture on Emily Bronte. _T. Wemyss Reid._
MS. Notes on Emily and Charlotte Bronte. _Miss Ellen Nussey._
MS. Letters of Charlotte and Branwell Bronte.
1879. Reminiscences of the Brontes. _Miss E. Nussey._
1870. Unpublished Letters of Charlotte, Emily,
and Anne Bronte. _Hours at Home._
1846. Emily Bronte's Annotated Copy of her Poems.
1872. Branwell Bronte: in the "Mirror." _G. S. Phillips._
1879. Pictures of the Past. _F. H. Grundy._
1830. Prospectus of the Clergymen's Daughters' School
at Cowan's Bridge.
1850. Preface to Wuthering Heights. _Charlotte Bronte._
1850. Biographical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell. _Charlotte Bronte._
1850. Wuthering Heights: in the "Palladium." _Sydney Dobell._
Personal Reminiscences of Mrs. Wood, Mrs. Ratcliffe, Mrs. Brown,
and Mr. William Wood, of Haworth.
1811-18. Poems of Patrick Bronte, B.A., Incumbent of Haworth.
1879. Haworth: Past and Present. _J. Horsfall Turner._
* * * * *
EMILY BRONTE.
INTRODUCTION.
There are, perhaps, few tests of excellence so sure as the popular
verdict on a work of art a hundred years after its accomplishment. So
much time must be allowed for the swing and rebound of taste, for the
despoiling of tawdry splendours and to permit the work of art itself to
form a public capable of appreciating it. Such marvellous fragments
reach us of Elizabethan praises; and we cannot help recalling the number
of copies of 'Prometheus Unbound' sold in the lifetime of the poet. We
know too well "what porridge had John Keats," and remember with
misgiving the turtle to which we treated Hobbs and Nobbs at dinner, and
how complacently we watched them put on their laurels afterwards.
Let us, then, by all means distrust our own and the public estimation of
all heroes dead within a hundred years. Let us, in laying claim to an
infallible verdict, remember how oddly our decisions sound at the other
side of Time's whispering gallery. Shall we therefore pronounce only on
Chaucer and Shakespeare, on Gower and our learned Ben? Alas! we are too
sure of their relative merits; we stake our reputations with no qualms,
no battle-ardours. These we reserve to them for whom the future is not
yet secure, for whom a timely word may still be spoken, for whom we yet
may feel that lancing out of enthusiasm only possible when the cast of
fate is still unknown, and, as we fight, we fancy that the glory of our
hero is in our hands.
But very gradually the victory is gained. A taste is unconsciously
formed for the qualities necessary to the next development of
art--qualities which Blake in his garret, Millet without the sou, set
down in immortal work. At last, when the time is ripe, some connoisseur
sees the picture, blows the dust from the book, and straightway blazons
his discovery. Mr. Swinburne, so to speak, blew the dust from 'Wuthering
Heights'; and now it keeps its proper rank in the shelf where Coleridge
and Webster, Hofmann and Leopardi have their place. Until then, a few
brave lines of welcome from Sydney Dobell, one fine verse of Mr.
Arnold's, one notice from Mr. Reid, was all the praise that had been
given to the book by those in authority. Here and there a mill-girl in
the West Riding factories read and re-read the tattered copy from the
lending library; here | 610.445675 |
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Produced by Judy Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.
Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text, e.g., "did
n't" becoming "didn't" for example; I have also added the missing
period after "caress" in line 11 of page 61, and have changed "ever" to
"over" in line 16 of page 121.
OLDPORT DAYS.
BY
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1888.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
CONTENTS.
OLDPORT IN WINTER
OLDPORT WHARVES
THE HAUNTED WINDOW
A DRIFT-WOOD FIRE
AN ARTIST'S CREATION
IN A WHERRY
MADAM DELIA'S EXPECTATIONS
SUNSHINE AND PETRARCH
A SHADOW
FOOTPATHS
OLDPORT DAYS.
OLDPORT IN WINTER.
Our August life rushes by, in Oldport, as if we were all shot from the
mouth of a cannon, and were endeavoring to exchange visiting-cards on
the way. But in September, when the great hotels are closed, and the
bronze dogs that guarded the portals of the Ocean House are collected
sadly in the music pavilion, nose to nose; when the last four-in-hand
has departed, and a man may drive a solitary horse on the avenue
without a pang,--then we know that "the season" is over. Winter is yet
several months away,--months of the most delicious autumn weather that
the American climate holds. But to the human bird of passage all that
is not summer is winter; and those who seek Oldport most eagerly for
two months are often those who regard it as uninhabitable for the other
ten.
The Persian poet Saadi says that in a certain region of Armenia, where
he travelled, people never died the natural death. But once a year they
met on a certain plain, and occupied themselves with recreation, in the
midst of which individuals of every rank and age would suddenly stop,
make a reverence to the west, and, setting out at full speed toward
that part of the desert, be seen no more. It is quite in this fashion
that guests disappear from Oldport when the season ends. They also are
apt to go toward the west, but by steamboat. It is pathetic, on
occasion of each annual bereavement, to observe the wonted looks and
language of despair among those who linger behind; and it needs some
fortitude to think of spending the winter near such a Wharf of Sighs.
But we console ourselves. Each season brings its own attractions. In
summer one may relish what is new in Oldport, as the liveries, the
incomes, the manners. There is often a delicious freshness about these
exhibitions; it is a pleasure to see some opulent citizen in his first
kid gloves. His new-born splendor stands in such brilliant relief
against the confirmed respectability of the "Old Stone Mill," the only
thing on the Atlantic shore which has had time to forget its birthday!
But in winter the Old Mill gives the tone to the society around it; we
then bethink ourselves of the crown upon our Trinity Church steeple,
and resolve that the courtesies of a bygone age shall yet linger here.
Is there any other place in America where gentlemen still take off
their hats to one another on the public promenade? The hat is here what
it still is in Southern Europe,--the lineal successor of the sword as
the mark of a gentleman. It is noticed that, in going from Oldport to
New York or Boston, one is liable to be betrayed by an over-flourish of
the hat, as is an Arkansas man by a display of the bowie-knife.
Winter also imparts to these spacious estates a dignity that is
sometimes wanting in summer. I like to stroll over them during this
epoch of desertion, just as once, when I happened to hold the keys of a
church, it seemed pleasant to sit, on a week-day, among its empty pews.
The silent walls appeared to hold the pure essence of the prayers of a
generation, while the routine and the ennui had vanished all away. One
may here do the same with fashion as there with devotion, extracting
its finer flavors, if such there be, unalloyed by vulgarity or sin. In
the winter I can fancy these fine houses tenanted by a true nobility;
all the sons are brave, and all the daughters virtuous. These balconies
have heard the sighs of passion without selfishness; those cedarn
alleys have admitted only vows that were never broken. If the occupant
of the house be unknown, even by name, so much the better. And from
homes more familiar, what lovely childish faces seem still to gaze from
the doorways, what graceful Absences (to borrow a certain poet's
phrase) are haunting those windows!
There is a sense of winter quiet that makes a stranger soon feel at
home in Oldport, while the prospective stir of next summer precludes
all feeling of stagnation. Commonly, in quiet places, one suffers from
the knowledge that everybody would prefer to be unquiet; but nobody has
any such longing here. Doubtless there are aged persons who deplore the
good old times when the Oldport mail-bags were larger than those
arriving at New York. But if it were so now, what memories would there
be to talk about? If you wish for "Syrian peace, immortal leisure,"--a
place where no grown person ever walks rapidly along the street, and
where few care enough for rain to open an umbrella or walk
faster,--come here.
My abode is on a broad, sunny street, with a few great elms overhead,
and with large old houses and grass-banks opposite. There is so little
snow that the outlook in the depth of winter is often merely that of a
paler and leafless summer, and a soft, springlike sky almost always
spreads above. Past the window streams an endless sunny panorama (for
the house fronts the chief thoroughfare between country and
town),--relics of summer equipages in faded grandeur; great, fragrant
hay-carts; vast moving mounds of golden straw; loads of crimson onions;
heaps of pale green cabbages; piles of gray tree-prunings, looking as
if the patrician trees were sending their superfluous wealth of
branches to enrich the impoverished orchards of the Poor Farm; wagons
of sea-weed just from the beach, with bright, moist hues, and dripping
with sea-water and sea-memories, each weed an argosy, bearing its own
wild histories. At this season, the very houses move, and roll slowly
by, looking round for more lucrative quarters next season. Never have I
seen real estate made so transportable as in Oldport. The purchaser,
after finishing and furnishing to his fancy, puts his name on the door,
and on the fence a large white placard inscribed "For sale". Then his
household arrangements are complete, and he can sit down to enjoy
himself.
By a side-glance from our window, one may look down an ancient street,
which in some early epoch of the world's freshness received the name of
Spring Street. A certain lively lady, addicted to daring Scriptural
interpretations, thinks that there is some mistake in the current
versions of Genesis, and that it was Spring Street which was created in
the beginning, and the heavens and earth at some subsequent period.
There are houses in Spring Street, and there is a confectioner's shop;
but it is not often that a sound comes across its rugged pavements,
save perchance (in summer) the drone of an ancient hand-organ, such as
might have been devised by Adam to console his Eve when Paradise was
lost. Yet of late the desecrating hammer and the ear-piercing saw have
entered that haunt of ancient peace. May it be long ere any such
invasion reaches those strange little wharves in the lower town, full
of small, black, gambrel-roofed houses, with projecting eaves that
might almost serve for piazzas. It is possible for an unpainted wooden
building to assume, in this climate, a more time-worn aspect than that
of any stone; and on these wharves everything is so old, and yet so
stunted, you might fancy that the houses had been sent down there to
play during their childhood, and that nobody had ever remembered to
fetch them back.
The ancient aspect of things around us, joined with the softening
influences of the Gulf Stream, imparts an air of chronic languor to the
special types of society which here prevail in winter,--as, for
instance, people of leisure, trades-people living on their summer's
gains, and, finally, fishermen. Those who pursue this last laborious
calling are always lazy to the eye, for they are on shore only in lazy
moments. They work by night or at early dawn, and by day they perhaps
lie about on the rocks, or sit upon one heel beside a fish-house door.
I knew a missionary who resigned his post at the Isles of Shoals
because it was impossible to keep the Sunday worshippers from lying at
full length on the seats. Our boatmen have the same habit, and there is
a certain dreaminess about them, in whatever posture. Indeed, they
remind one quite closely of the German boatman in Uhland, who carried
his reveries so far as to accept three fees from one passenger.
But the truth is, that in Oldport we all incline to the attitude of
repose. Now and then a man comes here, from farther east, with the New
England fever in his blood, and with a pestilent desire to do
something. You hear of him, presently, proposing that the Town Hall
should be repainted. Opposition would require too much effort, and the
thing is done. But the Gulf Stream soon takes its revenge on the
intruder, and gradually repaints him also, with its own soft and mellow
tints. In a few years he would no more bestir himself to fight for a
change than to fight against it.
It makes us smile a little, therefore, to observe that universal
delusion among the summer visitors, that we spend all winter in active
preparations for next season. Not so; we all devote it solely to
meditations on the season past. I observe that nobody in Oldport ever
believes in any coming summer. Perhaps the tide is turned, we think,
and people will go somewhere else. You do not find us altering our
houses in December, or building out new piazzas even in March. We wait
till the people have actually come to occupy them. The preparation for
visitors is made after the visitors have arrived. This may not be the
way in which things are done in what are called "smart business
places." But it is our way in Oldport.
It is another delusion to suppose that we are bored by this long epoch
of inactivity. Not at all; we enjoy it. If you enter a shop in winter,
you will find everybody rejoiced to see you--as a friend; but if it
turns out that you have come as a customer, people will look a little
disappointed. It is rather inconsiderate of you to make such demands
out of season. Winter is not exactly the time for that sort of thing.
It seems rather to violate the conditions of the truce. Could you not
postpone the affair till next July? Every country has its customs; I
observe that in some places, New York for instance, the shopkeepers
seem rather to enjoy a "field-day" when the sun and the customers are
out. In Oldport, on the contrary, men's spirits droop at such times,
and they go through their business sadly. They force themselves to it
during the summer, perhaps,--for one must make some sacrifices,--but in
winter it is inappropriate as strawberries and cream.
The same spirit of repose pervades the streets. Nobody ever looks in a
hurry, or as if an hour's delay would affect the thing in hand. The
nearest approach to a mob is when some stranger, thinking himself late
for the train (as if the thing were possible), is tempted to run a few
steps along the sidewalk. On such an occasion I have seen doors open,
and heads thrust out. But ordinarily even the physicians drive slowly,
as if they wished to disguise their profession, or to soothe the nerves
of some patient who may be gazing from a window.
Yet they are not to be censured, since Death, their antagonist, here
drives slowly too. The number of the aged among us is surprising, and
explains some phenomena otherwise strange. You will notice, for
instance, that there are no posts before the houses in Oldport to which
horses may be tied. Fashionable visitors might infer that every horse
is supposed to be attended by a groom. Yet the tradition is, that there
were once as many posts here as elsewhere, but that they were removed
to get rid of the multitude of old men who leaned all day against them.
It obstructed the passing. And these aged citizens, while permitted to
linger at their posts, were gossiping about men still older, in earthly
or heavenly habitations, and the sensation of longevity went on
accumulating indefinitely in their talk. Their very disputes had a
flavor of antiquity, and involved the reputation of female relatives to
the third or fourth generation. An old fisherman testified in our
Police Court, the other day, in narrating the progress of a street
quarrel; "Then I called him 'Polly Garter,'--that's his grandmother;
and he called me 'Susy Reynolds,'--that's my aunt that's dead and gone."
In towns like this, from which the young men mostly migrate, the work
of life devolves upon the venerable and the very young. When I first
came to Oldport, it appeared to me that every institution was conducted
by a boy and his grandfather. This seemed the case, for instance, with
the bank that consented to assume the slender responsibility of my
deposits. It was further to be observed, that, if the elder official
was absent for a day, the boy carried on the proceedings unaided; while
if the boy also wished to amuse himself elsewhere, a worthy neighbor
from across the way came in to fill the places of both. Seeing this, I
retained my small hold upon the concern with fresh tenacity; for who
knew but some day, when the directors also had gone on a picnic, the
senior depositor might take his turn at the helm? It may savor of
self-confidence, but it has always seemed to me, that, with one day's
control of a bank, even in these degenerate times, something might be
done which would quite astonish the stockholders.
Longer acquaintance has, however, revealed the fact, that these Oldport
institutions stand out as models of strict discipline beside their
suburban compeers. A friend of mine declares that he went lately into a
country bank, nearby, and found no one on duty. Being of opinion that
there should always be someone behind the counter of a bank, he went
there himself. Wishing to be informed as to the resources of his
establishment, he explored desks and vaults, found a good deal of paper
of different kinds, and some rich veins of copper, but no cashier.
Going to the door again in some anxiety, he encountered a casual
school-boy, who kindly told him that he did not know where the
financial officer might be at the precise moment of inquiry, but that
half an hour before he was on the wharf, fishing.
Death comes to the aged at last, however, even in Oldport. We have
lately lost, for instance, that patient old postman, serenest among our
human antiquities, whose deliberate tread might have imparted a tone of
repose to Broadway, could any imagination have transferred him thither.
Through him the correspondence of other days came softened of all
immediate solicitude. Ere it reached you, friends had died or
recovered, debtors had repented, creditors grown kind, or your children
had paid your debts. Perils had passed, hopes were chastened, and the
most eager expectant took calmly the missive from that tranquillizing
hand. Meeting his friends and clients with a step so slow that it did
| 610.473339 |
2023-11-16 18:27:14.5255890 | 908 | 11 |
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RAVENSHOE
[Illustration: CHARLES IN THE BALACLAVA CHARGE.
_Drawn by R. Caton Woodville._
_Ravenshoe._ _Page 355._]
RAVENSHOE
by
HENRY KINGSLEY
New Edition--Third Thousand
With a Frontispiece by R. Caton Woodville
London
Ward, Lock and Bowden, Limited
Warwick House, Salisbury Square, E.C.
New York and Melbourne
1894
[All rights reserved]
To
MY BROTHER,
CHARLES KINGSLEY,
I DEDICATE THIS TALE,
IN TOKEN OF A LOVE WHICH ONLY GROWS STRONGER
AS WE BOTH GET OLDER.
PREFACE.
The language used in telling the following story is not (as I hope the
reader will soon perceive) the Author's, but Mr. William Marston's.
The Author's intention was, while telling the story, to develop, in the
person of an imaginary narrator, the character of a thoroughly
good-hearted and tolerably clever man, who has his fingers (as he would
say himself) in every one's pie, and who, for the life of him, cannot
keep his own counsel--that is to say, the only person who, by any
possibility, could have collected the mass of family gossip which makes
up this tale.
Had the Author told it in his own person, it would have been told with
less familiarity, and, as he thinks, you would not have laughed quite so
often.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE 1
CHAPTER II.
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING 10
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH OUR HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN 14
CHAPTER IV.
FATHER MACKWORTH 20
CHAPTER V.
RANFORD 23
CHAPTER VI.
THE "WARREN HASTINGS" 34
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH CHARLES AND LORD WELTER DISTINGUISH
THEMSELVES AT THE UNIVERSITY 44
CHAPTER VIII.
JOHN MARSTON 50
CHAPTER IX.
ADELAIDE 57
CHAPTER X.
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP 63
CHAPTER XI.
GIVES US AN INSIGHT INTO CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS,
AND SHOWS HOW THE GREAT CONSPIRATOR
SOLILOQUISED TO THE GRAND CHANDELIER 69
CHAPTER XII.
CONTAINING A SONG BY CHARLES RAVENSHOE, AND ALSO
FATHER TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY 79
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BLACK HARE 86
CHAPTER XIV.
LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT, AND SOME OF HIS OPINIONS 92
CHAPTER XV.
CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT" 99
CHAPTER XVI.
MARSTON'S ARRIVAL 104
CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER SHIPWRECK 107
CHAPTER XVIII.
MARSTON'S DISAPPOINTMENT 114
CHAPTER XIX.
ELLEN'S FLIGHT 121
CHAPTER XX.
RANFORD AGAIN 124
CHAPTER XXI.
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPOS 131
CHAPTER XXII.
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD 139
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD 142
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FIRST | 610.545629 |
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E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Christian Boissonnas, and the Online
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 46261-h.htm or 46261-h.zip:
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Characters enclosed by curly brackets is superscript
(examples: N{o} or 15{eme}).
[Illustration: _La France Guerriere_]
[Illustration]
FRIENDS OF FRANCE
The Field Service of the American Ambulance described by its members.
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company,
The Riverside Press--Cambridge
Copyright, 1916, by Houghton Mifflin Company
All Rights Reserved
[Illustration]
TO
M{R} & M{RS}. ROBERT BACON
In appreciation
of all that their effort
in America
has accomplished for this
Service in France
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION _A. Piatt Andrew_ xvii
LETTER FROM SECTION LEADERS xix
I. THE ORGANIZATION OF THE SERVICE _Stephen Galatti_ 1
II. AT THE BACK OF THE FRONT: DUNKIRK AND YPRES
_Henry Sydnor Harrison_ 6
III. THE SECTION IN ALSACE RECONQUISE _Preston Lockwood_ 21
IV. LAST DAYS IN ALSACE _Everett Jackson_ 51
V. THE SECTION IN LORRAINE _James R. McConnell_ 61
With an introduction by Theodore Roosevelt
VI. AN AMERICAN AMBULANCE IN THE VERDUN ATTACK
_Frank Hoyt Gailor_ 89
VII. ONE OF THE SECTIONS AT VERDUN _Henry Sheahan_ 109
VIII. THE SECTION IN FLANDERS _Joshua G. B. Campbell_ 117
IX. THE BEGINNINGS OF A NEW SECTION _George Rockwell_ 131
X. UN BLESSE A MONTAUVILLE _Emery Pottle_ 136
XI. CHRISTMAS EVE, 1915 _Waldo Peirce_ 139
XII. THE INSPECTOR'S LETTER BOX 148
Our ambulances--How the cars reach Paris--_En route_ for the
front--First impressions--The daily programme--Handling the
wounded--The wounded--Night duty--Fitting into the
life--_Paysages de guerre_--Soldier life--July 22 at
Pont-a-Mousson--Incidents of a driver's life--_Three Croix de
Guerre_--From day to day--From another diary--Further
pages--A night trip--An attack--_Poilu_ hardships--Winter in
Alsace--Weeks of quiet--Night--Morning--Stray thoughts--A
gallant _blesse_--Perils of a blizzard--Poignant
impressions--In the hospital--New quarters--The poetry of war.
Champagne, 1914-1915 227
XIII. FOUR LETTERS FROM VERDUN 232
TRIBUTES AND CITATIONS 252
MEMBERS OF THE FIELD SERVICE 337
THE MEMBERS OF THE FIELD SERVICE
DESIRE TO EXPRESS SINCERE GRATITUDE
TO
M. CHARLES HUARD
AND TO
M. BERNARD NAUDIN
FOR
THE INTEREST WHICH
THEIR DISTINGUISHED TALENT
HAS ADDED TO THIS BOOK
ILLUSTRATIONS
_La France Guerriere_ Frontispiece
_Dunkirk, May, 1915_ 6
_An American Ambulance in Flanders_ 10
_An American Ambulance in Ypres_ 12
_Soldiers marching by American Ambulances in a Flemish Town_ 14
_Americans in their Gas-Masks_ 16
_The Col de Bussang--the Gate to Alsace Reconquise_ 22
_Supplies for the Soldiers being carried on Mules over the Vosges
Mountains_ 24
_At a Valley "Poste" (Mittlach)_ 24
_American Drivers in Alsace_ 28
_A "Poste de Secours" in the Valley of the Fecht_ 30
_Sharing Meals at a "Poste"_ 30
_La Terre Promise_ 36
_The Harvard Club of Alsace Reconquise_ 42
_Winter Days in Alsace_ 54
_Effect of German Shells in Alsace_ (_Thann_) 58
_On the Road to Hartmannsweilerkopf, December, 1915_ 58
_Shells breaking on the Cote-de-Mousson_ 70
_Watching an Aeroplane Duel in Pont-a-Mousson_ 70
_In Front of a "Poste de Secours"_ 74
_An American Ambulance Driver_ 74
_On the Road to Bois-le-Pretre_ 78
_Fontaine du Pere Hilarion, Bois-le-Pretre_ 78
_Loading the Ambulance_ 94
_At a "Poste" at the Very Front_ 104
_Soldiers of France_ 110
_Americans in their Gas-Masks in front of the Bomb-proof
Shelter outside of the Headquarters_ 118
_A "Poste de Secours" in Flanders_ 122
_Waiting at a "Poste de Secours"_ 122
_A Winter Day in Flanders_ 124
_A Group of American Drivers in Northern France_ 128
_The Cathedral in Nieuport, July, 1915_ 128
_Some of the Members of Section IV_ 132
_Approaching the High-Water Mark_ 134
_"Poilus" and Americans sharing their Lunch_ 134
_Richard Hall_ 144
_Richard Hall's Grave_ 146
_An Inspection Trip in Alsace_ 152
_Within Sight of the German Trenches_ 153
_Stretchers slung between Two Wheels on their Way from the
Trenches_ 156
_Evacuating a Hospital_ 158
_Transferring the Wounded to the Train_ 158
_The End of an Ambulance_ 166
_Decoration of Carey and Hale_ 178
_A Winter Morning_ 182
_Alsatian Woods in Winter_ 182
_The "Poste de Secours" near Hartmannsweilerkopf_ 186
_Winter in Alsace_ 194
_What Night Trips without Lights sometimes mean_ 210
_The Dangers of the Road_ 210
_Mule Convoy in Alsace_ 214
_The "Poste" near Hartmannsweilerkopf after a Bombardment_ 214
_One of our Cars in Trouble_ 216
_Coffins in Courtyard of Base Hospital in Alsace_ 216
_Richard Hall's Car after Shell landed under it_ 218
_A "Poste de Secours" at Montauville_ 222
_Saucisse above Verdun_ 232
_At a Dressing-Station near Verdun_ 236
_American Ambulance in Verdun_ 241
_American Ambulance at a Dressing-Station near Verdun_ 246
_A Corner of Verdun, July, 1916_ 250
_Headquarters of the American Ambulance Field Service, 21 Rue
Raynouard, Paris_ 276
_Some of the Men of the American Ambulance Field Service at
their Headquarters, 21 Rue Raynouard, Paris_ 278
_The "Croix de Guerre"_ 278
_The "Medaille Militaire"_ 330
_"Vive la France!"_ 346
PORTRAITS OF MEN "CITED"
_Roger M. L. Balbiani_ 281
_Edward Bartlett_ 281
_William Barber_ 330
_Leslie Buswell_ 283
_Joshua Campbell_ 283
_Graham Carey_ 285
_John Clark_ 285
_Edmund J. Curley_ 287
_Benjamin Dawson_ 287
_David B. Douglass_ 289
_Luke C. Doyle_ 289
_Brooke Leonard Edwards_ 291
_Powel Fenton_ 291
_Stephen Galatti_ 293
_Halcott Glover_ 293
_Richard Hall_ 295
_Dudley Hale_ 297
_Sigurd Hansen_ 297
_Lovering Hill_ 299
_Lawrence Hitt_ 301
_George Hollister_ 301
_Everett Jackson_ 303
_Philip Lewis_ 303
_Walter Lovell_ 305
_James R. McConnell_ 305
_Douglas MacMonagle_ 307
_William T. Martin_ 307
_Joseph Mellen_ 309
_Francis Dashwood Ogilvie_ 309
_Waldo Peirce_ 311
_Thomas Potter_ 311
_Tracy J. Putnam_ 313
_Beverly Rantoul_ 313
_Durant Rice_ 315
_George Roeder_ 315
_Edward Salisbury_ 317
_Roswell Sanders_ 330
_Bernard Schroder_ 317
_James Milton Sponagle_ 319
_Henry Suckley_ 319
_John Taylor_ 321
_Edward Tinkham_ 321
_Donald M. Walden_ 323
_J. Marquand Walker_ 323
_Victor White_ 325
_Walter Wheeler_ 327
_Harold Willis_ 327
_William H. Woolverton_ 329
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
Les Etats-Unis d'Amerique n'ont pas oublies que la premiere page
de l'histoire de leur independance a ete ecrite avec un peu de
sang francais. (_General Joffre._)
THE following pages, written and edited in the course of active service
in France, tell, however imperfectly, something of the experiences of a
small group of young Americans who have not been inert onlookers during
the Great War.
Few in number and limited in their activities, this little band of
American ambulance drivers in France is of course insignificant when
compared with the tens of thousands of young Frenchmen who crossed the
ocean as soldiers and sailors to help America in 1777. To the valor and
devotion of these Frenchmen we owe our very existence as an independent
nation, and nothing that Americans have done for France during these
last hard years of trial can be thought of--without embarrassment--in
relation with what Frenchmen did for us in those unforgettable years of
our peril from 1777 to 1781.
The little group of Americans told of in this book who, during the past
two years, have dedicated valiant effort and, not unfrequently, risked
their lives in the service of France, can best be thought of as only
a symbol of millions of other Americans, men and women, who would
gladly have welcomed an opportunity to do what these men have done--or
more. For, notwithstanding official silence and the injunctions
of presidential prudence, the majority of Americans have come to
appreciate the meaning, not only to France, but to all the world, of
the issues that are to-day so desperately at stake, and their hearts
and hopes are all with France in her gigantic struggle. They share with
the world at large a feeling towards the French people of sympathy,
of admiration, and, indeed, of reverence, such as exists towards the
people of no other country; and millions of them, like these volunteers
of the American Ambulance, have been tortured by a longing to have some
share with the people of France in defending the ideals for which, as
they feel, America has always stood, and for which France is now making
such vast, such gallant, and such unflinching sacrifice.
The service to France of Americans, whether ambulance drivers,
surgeons, nurses, donors and distributors of relief, aviators, or
foreign _legionnaires_, when measured by the prodigious tasks with
which France has had to cope during the past two years, has indeed
been infinitesimally small; but their service to America itself has
been important. They have rendered this inestimable benefit to their
country. They have helped to keep alive in France the old feeling
of friendship and respect for us which has existed there since our
earliest days and which, otherwise, would probably have ceased to
exist. They have helped to demonstrate to the chivalrous people of
France that Americans, without hesitating to balance the personal
profit and loss, still respond to the great ideals that inspired the
founders of our Republic. They have helped France to penetrate official
reticence and re-discover America's surviving soul.
When all is said and done, however, the _ambulanciers_ themselves
have gained the most from the work in which they have taken part. It
is a privilege even in ordinary times to live in this "_doux pays de
France_," to move about among its gentle and finished landscapes, in
the presence of its beautiful architectural heritages and in daily
contact with its generous, sensitive, gifted, and highly intelligent
people. Life in France, even in ordinary times, means to those of
almost any other country daily suggestions of courtesy, refinement, and
thoughtful consideration for others. It means continual suggestions of
an intelligent perspective in the art of living and in the things that
give life dignity and worth.
The opportunity of living in France, as these Americans have lived
during the past two years of war, has meant all this and more. It has
meant memories of human nature exalted by love of country, shorn of
self, singing amidst hardships, smiling at pain, unmindful of death.
It has meant contact with the most gentle and the most intelligent
of modern peoples facing mortal peril--facing it with silent and
unshakable resolve, victoriously resisting it with modesty and with
never a vaunting word. It has meant imperishable visions of intrepidity
and of heroism as fine as any in the records of knight-errantry or in
the annals of Homeric days.
Nothing else, surely, can ever offer so much of noble inspiration as
these glimpses of the moral grandeur of unconquerable France.
A. PIATT ANDREW
_Inspector General of the Field Service_
[Illustration]
[Illustration: A la Francoise et Carrement]
THE publication of this book presents an opportunity of showing our
appreciation of the extraordinarily successful work of A. PIATT ANDREW
in reorganizing and furthering the work of the Field Service of the
American Ambulance.
Those of us who were in the service before his arrival and have
continued to work under him have been able to judge the effects of
his efforts, and to realize the amount of activity, patience | 610.647215 |
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IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES
(2 ed.)
by Henry Lawson
[Australian house-painter, author and poet -- 1867-1922.]
[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces.
Italicized stanzas that are ALREADY indented will be indented 10 spaces.
Italicized words and phrases have been capitalized.
Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre,
and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also,
some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources,
have been corrected. This etext was prepared from a 1913 printing.]
[Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for
the Sydney 'Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a 'duel' of poetry
to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper.
It was apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports
that Lawson was bitter about it later. 'Up the Country'
and 'The City Bushman', included in this selection,
were two of Lawson's contributions to the debate. Please note
that this is the revised edition of 1900. Therefore, even though this book
was originally published in 1896, it includes two poems not published
until 1899 ('The Sliprails and the Spur' and 'Past Carin'').]
First Edition printed February 1896,
Reprinted August 1896, October 1896, March 1898, and November 1898;
Revised Edition, January 1900;
Reprinted May 1903, February 1910, June 1912, and July 1913.
PREFACE
Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published in the
Sydney 'Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane 'Boomerang', Sydney 'Freeman's
Journal', 'Town and Country Journal', 'Worker', and 'New Zealand Mail',
whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank for past kindnesses and
for present courtesy in granting me the right of reproduction in book
form.
'In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland and some
of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia.
The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents.
Those undated are now printed for the first time.
HENRY LAWSON.
To J. F. Archibald
To an Old Mate
Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true --
I have gathered these verses together
For the sake of our friendship and you.
You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I've left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you'll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends -- and forget.
I remember, Old Man, I remember --
The tracks that we followed are clear --
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine --
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine.
Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought --
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt --
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.
You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight --
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.
CONTENTS WITH FIRST LINES:
To an Old Mate
Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
In the Days When the World was Wide
The | 611.045581 |
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THE HEARTS OF MEN
BY H. FIELDING
AUTHOR OF "THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE," ETC.
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1901
PRINTED BY KELLY'S DIRECTORIES LIMITED,
LONDON AND KINGSTON.
DEDICATION.
To F. W. FOSTER.
As my first book, "The Soul of a People," would probably never have been
completed or published without your encouragement and assistance, so the
latter part of this book would not have been written without your
suggestion. This dedication is a slight acknowledgment of my
indebtedness to you, but I hope that you will accept it, not as any
equivalent for your unvarying kindness, but as a token that I have not
forgotten.
CONTENTS.
DEFINITIONS OF RELIGION 1
INTRODUCTION 4
PART I.
I. OF WHAT USE IS RELIGION? 13
II. EARLY BELIEFS 21
III. IDEAL AND PRACTICE 28
IV. SCIENTIFIC THEOLOGY--I 37
V. SCIENTIFIC THEOLOGY--II 45
VI. WHENCE FAITHS COME 55
VII. THE WISDOM OF BOOKS 64
VIII. GOD 72
IX. LAW 84
X. THE WAY OF LIFE 92
XI. HEAVEN 101
PART II.
XII. THEORIES AND FACTS 113
XIII. CREED AND INSTINCT 124
XIV. RELIGIOUS PEOPLE 136
XV. ENTHUSIASM 145
XVI. STRENGTH AND WEAKNESS 155
XVII. MIND AND BODY 165
XVIII. PERSONALITY 173
XIX. GOD THE SACRIFICE 185
XX. GOD THE MOTHER 196
XXI. CONDUCT 202
XXII. MEN'S FAITH AND WOMEN'S FAITH 212
XXIII. PRAYER AND CONFESSION 221
XXIV. SUNDAY AND SABBATH 233
XXV. MIRACLE 242
XXVI. RELIGION AND ART 254
XXVII. WHAT IS EVIDENCE? 266
XXVIII. THE AFTER DEATH 277
XXIX. OPTIMISM AND PESSIMISM 287
XXX. WAS IT REASON? 298
XXXI. WHAT RELIGION IS 308
XXXII. THE USE OF RELIGION 316
THE HEARTS OF MEN.
RELIGION.
"The difficulty of framing a correct definition of religion is very
great. Such a definition should apply to nothing but religion, and
should differentiate religion from anything else--as, for example,
from imaginative idealisation, art, morality, philosophy. It should
apply to everything which is naturally and commonly called religion: to
religion as a subjective spiritual state, and to all religions, high or
low, true or false, which have obtained objective historical
realisation."--_Anon._
"The principle of morality is the root of religion."--_Peochal._
"It is the perception of the infinite."--_Max Mueller._
"A religious creed is definable as a theory of original
causation."--_Herbert Spencer._
"Virtue, as founded on a reverence for God and expectation of future
rewards and punishment."--_Johnson._
"The worship of a Deity."--_Bailey._
"It has its origin in fear."--_Lucretius and others._
"A desire to secure life and its goods amidst the uncertainty and evils
of earth."--_Retsche._
"A feeling of absolute dependence, of pure and entire
passiveness."--_Schleiermacher._
"Religious feeling is either a distinct primary feeling or a peculiar
compound feeling."--_Neuman Smyth._
"A sanction for duty."--_Kant._
"A morality tinged by emotion."--_Matthew Arnold._
"By religion I mean that general habit of reverence towards the divine
nature whereby we are enabled to worship and serve God."--_Wilkins._
"A propitiation or conciliation of powers superior to man, which are
supposed to control the course of nature and of human life."--_J. G.
Frazer._
"The modes of divine worship proper to different tribes."--_Anon._
"The performance of duty to God and man."
It is to be noted that all the above are of Europeans acquainted
practically with only Christianity.
* * * * *
The following are some that have been given me by Orientals:
"The worship of Allah."--_Mahommedan._
"A knowledge of the laws of life that lead to happiness."--_Buddhist._
"Doing right."
"Other-worldliness."
INTRODUCTION.
Some time ago I wrote "The Soul of a People." It was an attempt to
understand a people, the Burmese; to understand a religion, that of
Buddha. It was not an attempt to find abstract truth, to discuss what
may be true or not in the tenets of that faith, to discover the secret
of all religions. It was only intended to show what Buddhism in Burma is
to the people who believe in it, and how it comes into their lives.
Yet it was impossible always to confine the view to one point. It is
natural--nay, it is inevitable--that when a man studies one faith,
comparison with other faiths should intrude themselves. The world, even
the East and West, is so bound together that you cannot treat of part
and quite ignore the rest. And so thoughts arose and questions came
forward that lay outside the scope of that book. I could not write of
them there fully. Whatever question arose I was content then to give
only the Buddhist answer, I had to leave on one side all the many
answers different faiths may have propounded. I could not discuss even
where truth was likely to be found. I was bound by my subject. But in
this book I have gone further. This is a book, not of one religion nor
of several religions, but of religion. Mainly, it is true, it treats of
Christianity and Buddhism, because these are the two great
representative faiths, but it is not confined to them. Man asks, and has
always asked, certain questions. Religions have given many answers. Are
these answers true? Which is true? Are any of them true? It is in a way
a continuation of "The Soul of a People," but wider. It is of "The
Hearts of Men."
* * * * *
Before beginning this book I have a word to say on the meanings that I
attach to the word "Christianity" and a few other words, so that I may
be more clearly understood.
There was a man who wrote to me once explaining why he was a Christian,
and wondering how anyone could fail to be so.
"I look about me," he said, "at Christian nations, and I see that they
are the leaders of the world. Pagan nations are far behind them in
wealth, in happiness, in social order. I look at our Courts and I find
justice administered to all alike, pure and without prejudice. Our
crime decreases, our education increases, and our wealth increases even
faster; the artisan now is where the middle class was a hundred years
ago, the middle class now lives better than the rich did. Our science
advances from marvel to marvel. Our country is a network of railroads,
our ships cover the seas, our prosperity is unbounded, and in a greater
or less degree all Christian nations share it. But when we turn to Pagan
nations, what do we see? Anarchy and injustice, wars and rebellions,
ignorance and poverty. To me no greater proof of the truth of
Christianity can be than this difference. In fact, it is Christianity."
I am not concerned here to follow the writer into his arguments. He is
probably one of those who thinks that all our civilisation is due to a
peculiar form of Christianity. There are others who hold that all our
advance has been made in spite of Christianity. I am only concerned now
with the meaning of the word. The way I use the word is to denote the
cult of Christ. A Christian to me means a man who follows, or who
professes to follow, the example of Christ and to accept all His
teaching; to be a member of a Church that calls itself Christian. I use
it irrespective of sects to apply to Catholic and Greek Church, Quaker
and Skopek alike. I am aware that in Christianity, as in all religions,
there has been a strong tendency of the greater emotions to attract the
lesser, and of the professors of any religion to assume to themselves
all that is good and repudiate all that is evil in the national life. I
have no quarrel here with them on the subject. Nor do I wish to use the
word in any unnecessarily narrow sense. Are there not also St. Paul and
the Apostles, the Early Fathers? So be it. But surely the essence of
Christianity must be the teaching and example of Christ? I do not gather
that any subsequent teacher has had authority to abrogate or modify
either that teaching or example. As to addition, is it maintained
anywhere that the teaching and example are inadequate? I do not think
so. And therefore I have defined my meaning as above. Let us be sure of
our words, that we may know what we are talking about.
In the word "religion" I have more difficulty. It does not carry any
meaning on its face as Christianity does. It is an almost impossible
word to define, or to discover the meaning of. It is so difficult that
practically all the book is an attempt to discover what "religion" does
mean. I nearly called the book, "What is the Meaning of Religion?"
In the beginning I have given a few of the numerous meanings that have
been applied to the word. It will be seen how vague they are. And at
the end I have a definition of my own to give which differs from all.
But as I have frequently to use the word from the beginning of the book,
I will try to define how I use it.
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Transcriber Notes
Obvious printer errors, typos and missing punctuation fixed.
Misspellings in the pupil’s speech in the Stephen and his Adult Pupil
story have been retained, as have archaic spellings and inconsistent
hyphenation.
The table of contents has been created and added by the transcriber.
A description of an illustration with no caption has been added.
Italics are represented by underscores surrounding the _italic text_.
Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Early Boyhood and its Merry 1
Pastimes.
The Alligator Lives for Another 2
Week.
Stephen and his Adult Pupil. 3
Stephen H. Branch, in his Cell at 3
Blackwell’s Island—A Mournful
Scene.
Advertisements 4
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.]
----------------------------------------------------------------
Volume I.—No. 23. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1858. Price 2 Cents.
Early Boyhood and its Merry Pastimes.
I remember the woman’s school at four years old, and the merited
chastisement of the school marm; my desperate descent on the sugar bowl;
the military company of which I was commander; my annual cries in the
trundle bed at 12 o’clock and one second, A. M.: “I wish you merry
Christmas, Ma,—I wish you happy New Year, Pa,—now gim me cent;” with my
father’s: “Go to sleep, you young rascal, or I’ll come and spank you;”
the two cents I always got on the 4th of July, if I had been a good boy,
and the solitary penny if I hadn’t; the death of my mother of twins; the
copious tears of my father and Aunt Lucy; my grief at her sudden demise;
the country boarding school, and the blast of lightning that felled me
to the earth, while whittling on the summer green; my eyes soon open on
the glories of the lurid universe, and I scamper into the pretty
cottage, and bound into the arms of my aunt, who nearly smothers me with
affectionate embraces; the storm passes; a bow appears, with crimson
arrows, and lingers on the concave’s rosy verge, till Venus gleams
through the twilight leaves, when its gorgeous hues are vailed by the
revolving spheres, and it descends the dazzling west.
Whose Archer follows the resplendent sun,
Before whose darts the stormy Furies run;
the moon ascends the east in matchless splendor, and roams in tranquil
beauty through infinitude, spreading its snowy light on vale and mead,
that vie with lakes of liquid silver; my aunt lingers at my bed, while I
say my evening prayer, and invests my heart with sacred feelings; myself
and brother William, on our way to school, through a dreary wood, espy a
boy in a wagon, when I exclaim: “Why, Bill, there’s our brother Albert;”
Bill stares and says: “Steve, your perceptions are very foggy, and I
begin to think you aint got good sense;” I closely scan the boy, and
smile, but elicit no response, the little rogue riveting his bright blue
eyes on the vacant air; Bill passes on to school, with: “Steve, you are
raving mad, and I’m going to tell Aunt Freeman so;” when I address the
stranger thus: “Little boy, you look like my brother Albert, and this
horse and wagon resemble ours, and won’t you please to tell me if you
aint my brother Al, who lives far away from here, in a place called
Providence? I always dearly loved him, and I havn’t seen him for a long
time now, and I would like to see him very much; come, now, little boy,
aint you Ally Branch, and if you are, won’t you please to tell me so?”
Tears roll down his pale cheeks, followed by the sweetest smiles, (like
simultaneous rain and sunshine,) extending his arms, with: “How do you
do, dear brother Stevy;” I scream; dart into the wagon, and, placing my
arms around his neck, fondly kiss him. And then I made the woods ring
with my cries for Bill to return, and behold our dear brother, found so
mysteriously alone in the forest wild. Bill slowly returns; and I hear
the echo of a laugh, and see a man emerge from the monarch oaks, whom I
discern as father, whose playful stratagem blares brightly before my
enraptured vision. And with the velocity of light, I spring from the
wagon, and at a bound, am in the embraces of my adored father. The vail
slowly passes from the eyes of Bill, who stands like a statue in the dim
perspective, crying lustily over my triumphant conquest. We all shout
and wave our hands, and Willie bounds into Albert’s and father’s arms,
whose fervent kisses soon dispel his tears; when his crescent and
revolving eyes gently threaten to eclipse the sun and moon with
hilarious splendor; three happy brothers then rock the forest solitude
with merry vociferations, and run like deer, and sing like infant
Jubals, with sweet responses from congenial birds, prancing on the oaks’
majestic branches. And with hearts of gladness, we spring like hounds
into the wagon, and return to Aunt Freeman’s, and that I regard as one
of the happiest days of my early boyhood. On the following morn, we
leave for Providence, which I scarcely reach, ere our yard is a camp of
boys, eager to embrace their favorite commander, after his long
captivity in the desert wilds of Woodstock; myself and Albert soon go to
another country school; we board with a minister who has a large family,
and a small salary, which was tardily and scantily paid with very poor
provisions; myself and Al don’t like the fare; has fried pork too often
for breakfast, and pork and beans for dinner, with a cold cut of pork
and beans at nightfall; and we enter our solemn protest against so much
fried hog, and so many baked beans; we protest, too, against his not
fastening the doors and windows nights, as father does at home; we hear
strange noises nights, while abed; and respectfully implore him to put
locks on the doors, and nails in the windows, who refuses, and says,
that good boys are never afraid of robbers or assassins; we still hear
dreadful sounds at midnight; and bury ourselves, head and all, in the
bed clothes; sweat terribly, and nearly smother; grow pale; lose flesh;
get very weak; have cold night sweats; finally despair, and threaten to
leave for home; write long letters to father, full of bad writing and
spelling, who doesn’t answer them, because he can’t read them; we start
for Providence; our sacred host pursues us on a cadaverous horse, whose
ribs rattle, and captures us in the haunted woods, where, in old | 611.145761 |
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Produced by Taavi Kalju, Woodie4, Joseph Cooper and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's notes:
Captions have been added to the illustration markers
for the convenience of some readers. These have been
indicated by an asterisk.
A list of some of the author's other books has been moved from the front
papers to the end of the book.
[Illustration: Front cover]*
[Illustration: Title page:
RAGGED DICK SERIES BY HORATIO ALGER JR.
BEN THE LUGGAGE BOY]
BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;
OR,
AMONG THE WHARVES.
BY
HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK," "FAME AND FORTUNE," "MARK, THE MATCH
BOY," "ROUGH AND READY," "CAMPAIGN SERIES,"
"LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," ETC.
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,
PHILADELPHIA,
CHICAGO, TORONTO.
TO
ANNIE,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED
In Tender Remembrance,
BY HER
_AFFECTIONATE BROTHER_
PREFACE.
In presenting "Ben, the Luggage Boy," to the public, as the fifth of the
Ragged Dick Series, the author desires to say that it is in all
essential points a true history; the particulars of the story having
been communicated to him, by Ben himself, nearly two years since. In
particular, the circumstances attending the boy's running away from
home, and adopting the life of a street boy, are in strict accordance
with Ben's own statement. While some of the street incidents are
borrowed from the writer's own observation, those who are really
familiar with the different phases which street life assumes in New
York, will readily recognize their fidelity. The chapter entitled "The
Room under the Wharf" will recall to many readers of the daily journals
a paragraph which made its appearance within two years. The writer
cannot close without expressing anew his thanks for the large share of
favor which has been accorded to the volumes of the present series, and
takes this opportunity of saying that, in their preparation, invention
has played but a subordinate part. For his delineations of character and
choice of incidents, he has been mainly indebted to his own observation,
aided by valuable communications and suggestions from those who have
been brought into familiar acquaintance with the class whose mode of
life he has sought to describe.
NEW YORK, April 5, 1876.
BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;
OR,
AMONG THE WHARVES.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCES BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY.
"How much yer made this mornin', Ben?"
"Nary red," answered Ben, composedly.
"Had yer breakfast?"
"Only an apple. That's all I've eaten since yesterday. It's most time
for the train to be in from Philadelphy. I'm layin' round for a job."
The first speaker was a short, freckled-faced boy, whose box strapped to
his back identified him at once as a street boot-black. His hair was
red, his fingers defaced by stains of blacking, and his clothing
constructed on the most approved system of ventilation. He appeared to
be about twelve years old.
The boy whom he addressed as Ben was taller, and looked older. He was
probably not far from sixteen. His face and hands, though browned by
exposure to wind and weather, were several shades cleaner than those of
his companion. His face, too, was of a less common type. It was easy to
see that, if he had been well dressed, he might readily have been taken
for a gentleman's son. But in his present attire there was little chance
of this mistake being made. His pants, marked by a green stripe, small
around the waist and very broad at the hips, had evidently once belonged
to a Bow | 611.351278 |
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Produced by Henry Flower and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note
Endnotes have been moved to the end of the scene to which they apply.
The following note preceded the printed endnotes:
"In the Quartos there are no divisions of acts and scenes.
A, B, C = 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Quartos."
Italic text is marked by _underscores_, and bold text by ~swung dashes~.
[Illustration]
_THE TEMPLE DRAMATISTS_
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
[Illustration]
The text of this edition is nearly that of the first Quarto, the copy
of which in the Dyce Library at South Kensington has been carefully
collated. I have not noted minute variations. The German editors,
Warnke and Proescholt, give the various readings of the three Quartos
and of later editions.
[Illustration: _Feversham Abbey._]
ARDEN OF
FEVERSHAM
_Edited with a Preface, Notes
and Glossary by_
REV. RONALD BAYNE
M.A.
J. M. DENT AND CO.
ALDINE HOUSE : LONDON
1897
'Considering the various and marvellous gifts displayed for the first
time on our stage by the great poet, the great dramatist, | 611.374008 |
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Produced by Giovanni Fini, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
_A BRIDE FROM THE BUSH_
_THE ROGUE'S MARCH_
_IRRALIE'S BUSHRANGER_
_MY LORD DUKE_
_YOUNG BLOOD_
SOME PERSONS UNKNOWN
SOME PERSONS UNKNOWN
BY E. W. HORNUNG
NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1898
COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
In Memoriam Matris
CONTENTS
PAGE
KENYON'S INNINGS 1
A LITERARY COINCIDENCE 40
"AUTHOR! AUTHOR!" 71
THE WIDOW OF PIPER'S POINT 87
AFTER THE FACT 104
THE VOICE OF GUNBAR 151
THE MAGIC CIGAR 168
THE GOVERNESS AT GREENBUSH 186
A FAREWELL PERFORMANCE 234
A SPIN OF THE COIN 244
THE STAR OF THE _GRASMERE_ 256
KENYON'S INNINGS
I
Kenyon had been more unmanageable than usual. Unsettled and excitable
from the moment he awoke and remembered who was coming in the evening,
he had remained in an unsafe state all day. That evening found him with
unbroken bones was a miracle to Ethel his sister, and to his great
friend John, the under-gardener. Poor Ethel was in charge; and sole
charge of Kenyon, who was eleven, was no light matter for a girl with
her hair still down. Her brother was a handful at most times; to-day he
would have filled some pairs of stronger hands than Ethel's. They had
begun the morning together, with snob-cricket, as the small boy called
it; but Kenyon had been rather rude over it, and Ethel had retired.
She soon regretted this step; it had made him reckless; he had spent
the most dangerous day. Kenyon delighted in danger. He had a mania for
walking round the entire premises on the garden wall, which was high
enough to kill him if he fell, and for clambering over the greenhouses,
which offered a still more fascinating risk. Not only had he done both
this morning, he had gone so far as to straddle a gable of the house
itself, shrieking good-tempered insults at Ethel, who appealed to him
with tears and entreaties from the lawn below. Ethel had been quite
disabled from sitting at meat with him; and in the afternoon he had
bothered the gardeners, in the potting-shed, to such an extent that his
friend John had subsequently refused to bowl to him. In John's words
Master Kenyon had been a public nuisance all day--though a lovable
one--at his very worst he was that. He had lovable looks, for one
thing. It was not the only thing. The boy had run wild since his young
mother's death. There were reasons why he should not go to school at
present. There were reasons why he should spend the long summer days
in the sunshine, and open only the books he cared about, despite the
oddity of his taste in books. He had dark, laughing eyes, and a face
of astonishing brightness and health: astonishing because (as he said)
his legs and arms were as thin as pipe-stems, and certainly looked as
brittle. Kenyon was indeed a delicate boy. He was small and delicate
and weak in everything but spirit. "He has the spirit," said John, his
friend, "of the deuce and all!"
Ethel forgave easily, perhaps too easily, but then she was Kenyon's
devoted | 611.376021 |
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Produced by Andrew Sly
DARKNESS AND DAWN
BY
GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND
To
Robert H. Davis
Unique inspirer of plots
Do I dedicate
This my trilogy
G.A.E.
CONTENTS
BOOK I
The Vacant World
I. The Awakening
II. Realization
III. On the Tower Platform
IV. The City of Death
V. Exploration
VI. Treasure-Trove
VII. The Outer World
VIII. A Sign of Peril
IX. Headway Against Odds
X. Terror
XI. A Thousand Years!
XII. Drawing Together
XIII. The Great Experiment
XIV. The Moving Lights
XV. Portents of War
XVI. The Gathering of the Hordes
XVII. Stern's Resolve
XVIII. The Supreme Question
XIX. The Unknown Race
XX. The Curiosity of Eve
XXI. Eve Becomes an Amazon
XXII. Gods!
XXIII. The Obeah
XXIV. The Fight in the Forest
XXV. The Goal, and Through It
XXVI. Beatrice Dares
XXVII. To Work!
XXVIII. The Pulverite
XXIX. The Battle on the Stairs
XXX. Consummation
BOOK II
Beyond The Great Oblivion
I. Beginnings
II. Settling Down
III. The Maskalonge
IV. The Golden Age
V. Deadly Peril
VI. Trapped!
VII. A Night of Toil
VIII. The Rebirth of Civilization
IX. Planning the Great Migration
X. Toward the Great Cataract
XI. The Plunge!
XII. Trapped on the Ledge
XIII. On the Crest of the Maelstrom
XIV. A Fresh Start
XV. Labor and Comradeship
XVI. Finding the Biplane
XVII. All Aboard for Boston!
XVIII. The Hurricane
XIX. Westward Ho!
XX. On the Lip of the Chasm
XXI. Lost in the Great Abyss
XXII. Lights!
XXIII. The White Barbarians
XXIV. The Land of the Merucaans
XXV. The Dungeon of the Skeletons
XXVI. "You Speak English!"
XXVII. Doomed!
XXVIII. The Battle in the Dark
XXIX. Shadows of War
XXX. Exploration
XXXI. Escape?
XXXII. Preparations
XXXIII. The Patriarch's Tale
XXXIV. The Coming of Kamrou
XXXV. Face to Face with Death
XXXVI. Gage of Battle
XXXVII. The Final Struggle
XXXVIII. The Sun of Spring
BOOK III
The Afterglow
I. Death, Life, and Love
II. Eastward Ho!
III. Catastrophe!
IV. "To-Morrow is Our Wedding-Day"
V. The Search for the Records
VI. Trapped!
VII. The Leaden Chest
VIII. "Till Death Us Do Part"
IX. At Settlement Cliffs
X. Separation
XI. "Hail to the Master!"
XII. Challenged!
XIII. The Ravished Nest
XIV. On the Trail of the Monster
XV. In the Grip of Terror
XVI. A Respite from Toil
XVII. The Distant Menace
XVIII. The Annunciation
XIX. The Master of His Race
XX. Disaster!
XXI. Allan Returns Not
XXII. The Treason of H'yemba
XXIII. The Return of the Master
XXIV. "The Boy Is Gone!"
XXV. The Fall of H'yemba
XXVI. The Coming of the Horde
XXVII. War!
XXVIII. The Besom of Flame
XXIX. Allan's Narrative
XXX. Into the Fire-Swept Wilderness
XXXI. A Strange Apparition
XXXII. The Meeting of the Bands
XXXIII. Five Years Later
XXXIV. History and Roses
XXXV. The Afterglow
BOOK I
THE VACANT WORLD
CHAPTER I
THE AWAKENING
Dimly, like the daybreak glimmer of a sky long wrapped in fogs,
a sign of consciousness began to dawn in the face of the tranced girl.
Once more the breath of life began to stir in that full bosom, to
which again a vital warmth had on this day of days crept slowly back.
And as she lay there, prone upon the dusty floor, her beautiful face
buried and shielded in the hollow of her arm, a sigh welled from her
lips.
Life--life was flowing back again! The miracle of miracles was growing
to reality.
Faintly now she breathed; vaguely her heart began to throb once more.
She stirred. She moaned, still for the moment powerless to cast off
wholly the enshrouding incubus of that tremendous, dreamless sleep.
Then her hands closed. The finely tapered fingers tangled themselves
in the masses of thick, luxuriant hair which lay outspread all over
and about her. The eyelids trembled.
And, a moment later, Beatrice Kendrick was sitting up, dazed and
utterly uncomprehending, peering about her at the strangest vision
which since the world began had ever been the lot of any human
creature to behold--the vision of a place transformed beyond all power
of the intellect to understand.
For of the room which she remembered, which had been her last sight
when (so long, so very long, ago) her eyes had closed with that sudden
and unconquerable drowsiness, of that room, I say, remained only
walls, ceiling, floor of rust-red steel and crumbling cement.
Quite gone was all the plaster, as by magic. Here or there a heap of
whitish dust betrayed where some of its detritus still lay.
Gone was every picture, chart, and map--which--but an hour since, it
seemed to her--had decked this office of Allan Stern, consulting
engineer, this aerie up in the forty-eighth story of the Metropolitan
Tower.
Furniture, there now was none. Over the still-intact glass of the
windows cobwebs were draped so thickly as almost to exclude the light
of day--a strange, fly-infested curtain where once neat green
shade-rollers had hung.
Even as the bewildered girl sat there, lips parted, eyes wide with
amaze, a spider seized his buzzing prey and scampered back into a hole
in the wall.
A huge, leathery bat, suspended upside down in the far corner, cheeped
with dry, crepitant sounds of irritation.
Beatrice rubbed her eyes.
"What?" she said, quite slowly. "Dreaming? How singular! I only wish I
could remember this when I wake up. Of all the dreams I've ever had,
this one's certainly the strangest. So real, so vivid! Why, I could
swear I was awake--and yet--"
All at once a sudden doubt flashed into her mind. An uneasy expression
dawned across her face. Her eyes grew wild with a great fear; the fear
of utter and absolute incomprehension.
Something about this room, this weird awakening, bore upon her
consciousness the dread tidings this was not a dream.
Something drove home to her the fact that it was real, objective,
positive! And with a gasp of fright she struggled up amid the litter
and the rubbish of that uncanny room.
"Oh!" she cried in terror, as a huge scorpion, malevolent, and with
its tail raised to strike, scuttled away and vanished through a gaping
void where once the corridor-door had swung. "Oh, oh! Where _am_ I?
What--_what has--happened?_"
Horrified beyond all words, pale and staring, both hands clutched to
her breast, whereon her very clothing now had torn and crumbled, she
faced about.
To her it seemed as though some monstrous, evil thing were lurking in
the dim corner at her back. She tried to scream, but could utter no
sound, save a choked gasp.
Then she started toward the doorway. Even as she took the first few
steps her gown--a mere tattered mockery of garment--fell away from
her.
And, confronted by a new problem, she stopped short. About her she
peered in vain for something to protect her disarray. There was
nothing.
"Why--where's--where's my chair? My desk?" she exclaimed thickly,
starting toward the place by the window where they should have been,
and were not. Her shapely feet fell soundlessly in that strange and
impalpable dust which thickly coated everything.
"My typewriter? Is--can _that_ be my typewriter? Great Heavens! What's
the matter here, with everything? Am I mad?"
There before her lay a somewhat larger pile of dust mixed with soft
and punky splinters of rotten wood. Amid all this decay she saw some
bits of rust, a corroded type-bar or two--even a few rubber key-caps,
still recognizable, though with the letters quite obliterated.
All about her, veiling her completely in a mantle of wondrous gloss
and beauty, her lustrous hair fell, as she stooped to see this
strange, incomprehensible phenomenon. She tried to pick up one of the
rubber caps. At her merest touch it crumbled to an impalpable white
powder.
Back with a shuddering cry the girl sprang, terrified.
"Merciful Heavens!" she supplicated. "What--what does all this mean?"
For a moment she stood there, her every power of thought, of motion,
numbed. Breathing not, she only stared in a wild kind of cringing
amazement, as perhaps you might do if you should see a dead man move.
Then to the door she ran. Out into the hall she peered, this way and
that, down the dismantled corridor, up the wreckage of the stairs all
cumbered, like the office itself, with dust and webs and vermin.
Aloud she hailed: "Oh! Help, help, _help!_" No answer. Even the echoes
flung back only dull, vacuous sounds that deepened her sense of awful
and incredible isolation.
What? No noise of human life anywhere to be heard? None! No familiar
hum of the metropolis now rose from what, when she had fallen asleep,
had been swarming streets and miles on miles of habitations.
Instead, a blank, unbroken leaden silence, that seemed part of the
musty, choking atmosphere--a silence that weighed down on Beatrice
like funeral-palls.
Dumfounded by all this, and by the universal crumbling of every
perishable thing, the girl ran, shuddering, back into the office.
There in the dust her foot struck something hard.
She stooped; she caught it up and stared at it.
"My glass ink-well! What? Only such things remain?"
No dream, then, but reality! She knew at length that some catastrophe,
incredibly vast, some disaster cosmic in the tragedy of its sweep, had
desolated the world.
"Oh, my mother!" cried she. "My mother--_dead?_ Dead, now, how long?"
She did not weep, but just stood cowering, a chill of anguished horror
racking her. All at once her teeth began to chatter, her body to shake
as with an ague.
Thus for a moment dazed and stunned she remained there, knowing not
which way to turn nor what to do. Then her terror-stricken gaze fell
on the doorway leading from her outer office to the inner one, the one
where Stern had had his laboratory and his consultation-room.
This door now hung, a few worm-eaten planks and splintered bits of
wood, barely supported by the rusty hinges.
Toward it she staggered. About her she drew the sheltering masses of
her hair, like a Godiva of another age; and to her eyes, womanlike,
the hot tears mounted. As she went, she cried in a voice of horror.
"Mr. Stern! Oh--Mr. Stern! Are--are _you_ dead, too? You _can't_
be--it's too frightful!"
She reached the door. The mere touch of her outstretched hand
disintegrated it. Down in a crumbling mass it fell. Thick dust bellied
up in a cloud, through which a single sun-ray that entered the
cobwebbed pane shot a radiant arrow.
Peering, hesitant, fearful of even greater terrors in that other room,
Beatrice peered through this dust-haze. A sick foreboding of evil
possessed her at thought of what she might find there--yet more afraid
was she of what she knew lay behind her.
An instant she stood within the ruined doorway, her left hand resting
on the moldy jam. Then, with a cry, she started forward--a cry in
which terror had given place to joy, despair to hope.
Forgotten now the fact that, save for the shrouding of her messy hair,
she stood naked. Forgotten the wreck, the desolation everywhere.
"Oh--thank Heaven!" gasped she.
There, in that inner office, half-rising from the wrack of many things
that had been and were now no more, her startled eyes beheld the
figure of a man--of Allan Stern!
He lived!
At her he peered with eyes that saw not, yet; toward her he groped a
vague, unsteady hand.
He lived!
Not quite alone in this world-ruin, not all alone was she!
CHAPTER II
REALIZATION
The joy in Beatrice's eyes gave way to poignant wonder as she
gazed on him. Could this be _he?_
Yes, well she knew it was. She recognized him even through the
grotesquery of his clinging rags, even behind the mask of a long, red,
dusty beard and formidable mustache, even despite the wild and staring
incoherence of his whole expression.
Yet how incredible the metamorphosis! To her flashed a memory of this
man, her other-time employer--keen and smooth-shaven, alert,
well-dressed, self-centered, dominant, the master of a hundred complex
problems, the directing mind of engineering works innumerable.
Faltering and uncertain now he stood there. Then, at the sound of the
girl's voice, he staggered toward her with outflung hands. He stopped,
and for a moment stared at her.
For he had had no time as yet to correlate his thoughts, to pull
himself together.
And while one's heart might throb ten times, Beatrice saw terror in
his blinking, bloodshot eyes.
But almost at once the engineer mastered himself. Even as Beatrice
watched him, breathlessly, from the door, she saw his fear die out,
she saw his courage well up fresh and strong.
It was almost as though something tangible were limning the man's soul
upon his face. She thrilled at sight of him.
And though for a long moment no word was spoken, while the man and
woman stood looking at each other like two children in some dread and
unfamiliar attic, an understanding leaped between them.
Then, womanlike, instinctively as she breathed, the girl ran to him.
Forgetful of every convention and of her disarray, she seized his
hand. And in a voice that trembled till it broke she cried:
"What is it? What does all this mean? Tell | 611.376211 |
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Produced by Chuck Greif (This file was produced from images
available at The Internet Archive)
THE ELEVENTH HOUR
JULIA WARD HOWE
From a Drawing by John Elliott
The Eleventh Hour
in the Life of
Julia Ward Howe
BY
MAUD HOWE
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1911
Copyright, 1911,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
All rights reserved
Published, October, 1911
Printers
S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S.
AD MATREM
The acorns are again ripe on your oaks, the leaves of your nut tree
begin to turn gold, the fruit trees you planted a lustre since, droop
with their weight of crimson fruit, the little grey squirrels leap
nimbly from bough to bough busily preparing for winter’s siege. The
air is fragrant with the perfume of wild grape, joyous with the voices
of children passing to the white school house on the hill. The earth
laughs with the joy of the harvest. What thank offering can I bring for
this year that has not yet taught me how to live without you? Only this
sheaf of gleanings from your fields!
OAK GLEN, September, 1911.
FOREWORD
This slight and hasty account of some of my mother’s later activities
was written to read to a small group of friends with whom I wished
to share the lesson of the Eleventh Hour of a life filled to the end
with the joy of toil. More than one of my hearers asked me to print
what I had read them, in the belief that it would be of value to that
larger circle of her friends, the public. Such a request could not be
refused.
THE ELEVENTH HOUR
IN THE LIFE OF
JULIA WARD HOWE
My mother’s diary for 1906, her eighty-seventh year, opens with this
entry:
“I pray for many things this year. For myself, I ask continued
health of mind and body, work, useful, honorable and as remunerative
as it shall please God to send. For my dear family, work of the
same description with comfortable wages, faith in God, and love to
each other. For my country, that she may keep her high promise to
mankind, for Christendom, that it may become more Christlike, for the
struggling nationalities, that they may attain to justice and peace.”
Not vain the prayer! Health of mind and body was granted, work, useful,
honorable, if not very remunerative, was hers that year and nearly five
years more, for she lived to be ninety-one and a half years old. When
Death came and took her, he found her still at work. Hers the fate of
the happy warrior who falls in thick of battle, his harness on his back.
How did she do it?
Hardly a day passes that I am not asked the question!
Shortly before her death, she spoke of the time when she would no
longer be with us--an almost unheard-of thing for her to do. We turned
the subject, begged her not to dwell on it.
“Yes!” she laughed with the old flash that has kindled a thousand
audiences, “it’s not my business to think about dying, it’s my business
to think about living!”
This thinking about living, this tremendous vitality had much to do
with her long service, for the important thing of course was not
that she lived ninety-one years, but that she worked for more than
ninety-one years, never became a cumberer of the earth, paid her scot
till the last. She never knew the pathos of doing old-age work, such
as is provided in every class for those inveterate workers to whom
labor is as necessary as bread or breath. The old ploughman sits by the
wayside breaking stones to mend the road others shall travel over;
the old prima donna listens to her pupils’ triumphs; the old statesman
gives after-dinner speeches, or makes himself a nuisance by speaking or
writing, _ex cathedra_, on any question that needs airing, whether it
is his subject or not; she did good, vigorous work till the end, in her
own chosen callings of poet and orator. What she produced in her last
year was as good in quality as any other year’s output. The artist in
her never stopped growing; indeed, her latest work has a lucidity, a
robust simplicity, that some of the earlier writings lack.
In the summer of 1909 she was asked to write a poem on Fulton for the
Fulton-Hudson celebration. Ever better than her word, she not only
wrote the poem, but recited it in the New York Metropolitan Opera House
on the evening of September 9th. Those who saw her, the only woman amid
that great gathering of representative men from all over the world,
will not forget the breathless silence of that vast audience as she
came forward, leaning on her son’s arm, and read the opening lines:
A river flashing like a gem,
Crowned with a mountain diadem,--
or the thunders of applause that followed the last lines:
While pledge of Love’s assured control,
The Flag of Freedom crowns the pole.
The poem had given her a good deal of trouble, the last couplet in
especial. The morning of the celebration, when I went into Mrs. Seth
Low’s spare bedroom to wake her, she cried out:
“I have got my last verse!”
She was much distressed that the poem appeared in Collier’s without
the amended closing lines. The fault was mine; I had arranged with the
editor Mr. Hapgood for its publication. She had done so much “free
gratis” work all her life that it seemed fitting this poem should at
least earn her, her travelling expenses.
“Let this be a lesson,” she said, “never print a poem or a speech till
it has been delivered; always give the eleventh hour its chance!”
It may be interesting here to recall that the Atlantic Monthly paid her
five dollars for the Battle Hymn of the Republic, the only money she
ever | 611.445522 |
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Standard Library Edition
AMERICAN STATESMEN
EDITED BY
JOHN T. MORSE, JR.
IN THIRTY-TWO VOLUMES
VOL. XVIII.
DOMESTIC POLITICS: THE TARIFF
AND SLAVERY
MARTIN VAN BUREN
[Illustration: M. Van Buren]
American Statesmen
STANDARD LIBRARY EDITION
[Illustration: The Home of Martin Van Buren]
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
American Statesmen
MARTIN VAN BUREN
BY
EDWARD M. SHEPARD
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1899
Copyright, 1888 and 1899,
BY EDWARD M. SHEPARD.
Copyright, 1899,
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
_All rights reserved._
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION
Since 1888, when this Life was originally published, the history of
American Politics has been greatly enriched. The painstaking and candid
labors of Mr. Fiske, Mr. Adams, Mr. Rhodes, and others have gone far to
render unnecessary the _caveat_ I then entered against the unfairness,
or at least the narrowness, of the temper with which Van Buren, or the
school to which he belonged, had thus far been treated in American
literature, and which had prejudicially misled me before I began my
work. Such a _caveat_ is no longer necessary. Even now, when the
political creed of which Jefferson, Van Buren, and Tilden have been
chief apostles in our land, seems to suffer some degree of
eclipse,--only temporary, it may well be believed, but nevertheless
real,--those who, like myself, have undertaken to present the careers of
great Americans who held this faith need not fear injustice or prejudice
in the field of American literature.
In this revised edition I have made a few corrections and added a few
notes; but the generous treatment which has been given to the book has
confirmed my belief that historic truth requires no material change.
A passage from the diary of Charles Jared Ingersoll (Life by William M.
Meigs, 1897) tempts me, in this most conspicuous place of the book, to
emphasize my observation upon one injustice often done to Van Buren.
Referring, on May 6, 1844, to his letter, then just published, against
the annexation of Texas, Mr. Ingersoll declared that, in view of the
fact that nearly all of Van Buren's admirers and most of the Democratic
press were committed to the annexation, Van Buren had committed a great
blunder and become _felo de se_. The assumption here is that Van Buren
was a politician of the type so painfully familiar to us, whose sole and
conscienceless effort is to find out what is to be popular for the time,
in order, for their own profit, to take that side. That Van Buren was
politic there can be no doubt. But he was politic after the fashion of a
statesman and not of a demagogue. He disliked to commit himself upon
issues which had not been fully discussed, which were not ripe for
practical solution by popular vote, and which did not yet need to be
decided. Mr. Ingersoll should have known that the direct and simple
explanation was the true one,--that Van Buren knew the risk and meant to
take it. His letter against the annexation of Texas, written when he
knew that it would probably defeat him for the presidency, was but one
of several acts performed by him at critical periods, wherein he
deliberately took what seemed the unpopular side in order to be true to
his sense of political and patriotic duty. The crucial tests of this
kind through which he successfully passed must, beyond any doubt, put
him in the very first rank of those American statesmen who have had the
rare union of political foresight and moral courage.
EDWARD M. SHEPARD.
January, 1899.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. AMERICAN POLITICS WHEN VAN BUREN'S CAREER BEGAN.--
JEFFERSON'S INFLUENCE 1
II. EARLY YEARS.--PROFESSIONAL LIFE 14
III. STATE SENATOR: ATTORNEY-GENERAL: MEMBER OF THE
CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION 38
IV. UNITED STATES SENATOR.--REESTABLISHMENT OF
PARTIES.--PARTY LEADERSHIP 88
V. DEMOCRATIC VICTORY IN 1828.--GOVERNOR 153
VI. SECRETARY OF STATE.--DEFINITE FORMATION OF THE
DEMOCRATIC CREED 177
VII. MINISTER TO ENGLAND.--VICE-PRESIDENT.--ELECTION
TO THE PRESIDENCY 223
VIII. CRISIS OF 1837 282
IX. PRESIDENT.--SUB-TREASURY BILL 325
X. PRESIDENT.--CANADIAN INSURRECTION.--TEXAS.--SEMINOLE
WAR.--DEFEAT FOR REELECTION 350
XI. EX-PRESIDENT.--SLAVERY.--TEXAS ANNEXATION.--DEFEAT
BY THE SOUTH.--FREE SOIL CAMPAIGN.--LAST YEARS 398
XII. VAN BUREN'S CHARACTER AND PLACE IN HISTORY 449
INDEX 469
ILLUSTRATIONS
MARTIN VAN BUREN _Frontispiece_
From a photograph by Brady in the Library of the State
Department at Washington.
Autograph from a MS. in the Library of the Boston Athenaeum.
The vignette of "Lindenwald," Mr. Van Buren's home, near
Kinderhook, N. Y., is from a photograph.
Page
DE WITT CLINTON _facing_ 110
From a painting by Inman in the New York State Library, Albany,
N. Y.
Autograph from a MS. in the Library of the Boston Athenaeum.
EDWARD LIVINGSTON _facing_ 248
From a bust by Ball Hughes in the possession of Miss Julia Barton
Hunt, Barrytown on Hudson, N. Y.
Autograph from the Chamberlain Collection, Boston Public Library.
SILAS WRIGHT _facing_ 416
From a portrait painted by Whitehorne, 1844-1846, in the New York
City Hall.
Autograph from the Chamberlain Collection, Boston Public Library.
MARTIN VAN BUREN
CHAPTER I
AMERICAN POLITICS WHEN VAN BUREN'S CAREER BEGAN.--JEFFERSON'S INFLUENCE
It sometimes happened during the anxious years when the terrors of civil
war, though still smouldering, were nearly aflame, that on Wall Street
or Nassau Street, busy men of New York saw Martin Van Buren and his son
walking arm in arm. "Prince John," tall, striking in appearance, his
hair divided at the middle in a fashion then novel for Americans, was in
the prime of life, resolute and aggressive in bearing. His father was a
white-haired, bright-eyed old man, erect but short in figure, of precise
though easy and kindly politeness, and with a touch of deference in his
manner. His presence did not peremptorily command the attention of
strangers; but to those who looked attentively there was plain
distinction in the refined and venerable face. Passers-by might well
turn back to see more of the two men thus affectionately and
picturesquely together. For they were famous characters,--the one in
the newer, the other in the older politics of America. John Van Buren,
fresh from his Free Soil battle and the tussles of the Hards and Softs,
was striving, as a Democrat, to serve the cause of the Union, though
conscious that he rested under the suspicion of the party to whose
service, its divisions in New York now seemingly ended, he had
reluctantly returned. But he still faced the slave power with an
independence only partially abated before the exigencies of party
loyalty. The ex-President, definitely withdrawn from the same Free Soil
battle, a struggle into which he had entered when the years were already
heavy upon him, had survived to be once more a worthy in the Democratic
party, again to receive its formal veneration, but never again its old
affection. In their timid manoeuvres with slavery it was perhaps with
the least possible awkwardness that the northern Democrats sought to
treat him as a great Democratic leader; but they did not let it be
forgotten that the leader was forever retired from leadership. While the
younger man was in the thick of political encounters which the party
carried on in blind futility, the older man was hardly more than an
historical personage. He was no longer, his friends strove to think, the
schismatic candidate of 1848, but rather the ally and friend of Jackson,
or, better still and further away, the disciple of Jefferson.
For, more than any other American, Martin Van Buren had succeeded to the
preaching of Jefferson's political doctrines, and to his political
power as well, that curious and potent mingling of philosophy,
statesmanship, and electioneering. The Whigs' distrust towards Van Buren
was still bitter; the hot anger of his own party over the blow he had
dealt in 1848 was still far from subsided; the gratitude of most Free
Soil men had completely disappeared with his apparent acquiescence in
the politics of Pierce and Buchanan. Save in a narrow circle of
anti-slavery Democrats, Van Buren, in these last days of his, was judged
at best with coldness, and most commonly with dislike or even contempt.
Not much of any other temper has yet gone into political history; its
writers have frequently been content to accept the harshness of partisan
opinion, or even the scurrility and mendacity visited upon him during
his many political campaigns, and to ignore the positive records of his
career and public service. The present writer confesses to have begun
this Life, not indeed sharing any of the hatred or contempt so commonly
felt towards Van Buren, but still given to many serious depreciations of
him, which a better examination has shown to have had their ultimate
source in the mere dislike of personal or political enemies,--a dislike
to whose expression, often powerful and vivid, many writers have
extended a welcome seriously inconsistent with the fairness of history.
When Abraham Lincoln was chosen president in 1860, this predecessor of
his by a quarter century was a true historical figure. The bright,
genial old man connected, visibly and really, those stirring and
dangerous modern days with the first political struggles under the
American Constitution, struggles then long passed into the quiet of
history, to leave him almost their only living reminiscence. Martin Van
Buren was a man fully grown and already a politician when in 1801 the
triumph of Thomas Jefferson completed the political foundation of the
United States. Its profound inspiration still remained with him on this
eve of Lincoln's election. Under its influence his political career had
begun and had ended.
At Jefferson's election the aspiration and fervor which attended the
first, the new-born sense of American national life, had largely worn
away. The ideal visions of human liberty had long before grown dim
during seven years of revolutionary war, with its practical hardships,
its vicissitudes of meanness and glory, and during the four years of
languor and political incompetence which followed. In the agitation for
better union, political theories filled the minds of our forefathers.
Lessons were learned from the Achaean League, as well as from the Swiss
Confederation, the German Empire, and the British Constitution. Both
history and speculation, however, were firmly subordinated to an
extraordinary common sense, in part flowing from, as it was most finely
exhibited in, the luminous and powerful, if unexalted, genius of
Franklin. From the open beginning of constitution-making at Annapolis in
1786 until the inauguration of John Adams, the American people, under
the masterful governing of Washington, were concerned with the framework
upon which the fabric of their political life was to be wrought. The
framework was doubtless in itself of a vast and enduring importance. If
the consolidating and aristocratic schemes of Hamilton had not met
defeat in the federal convention, or if the separatist jealousies of
Patrick Henry and George Clinton had not met defeat in Virginia and New
York after the work of the convention was done, there would to-day be a
different American people. Nor would our history be the amazing story of
the hundred years past. But upon the governmental framework thus set up
could be woven political fabrics widely and essentially different in
their material, their use, and their enduring virtue. For quite apart
from the framework of government were the temper and traditions of
popular politics out of which comes, and must always come, the essential
and dominant nature of public institutions. In this creative and deeper
work Jefferson was engaged during his struggle for political power after
returning from France in 1789, during his presidential career from 1801
to 1809, and during the more extraordinary, and in American history the
unparalleled, supremacy of his political genius after he had left
office. In the circumstances of our colonial life, in our race
extractions, in our race fusion upon the Atlantic seaboard, and in the
moral effect of forcible and embittered separation from the parent
country, arose indeed, to go no further back, the political instincts of
American men. It is, however, fatal to adequate conception of our
political development to ignore the enormous formative influence which
the twenty years of Jefferson's rule had upon American political
character. But so partial and sometimes so partisan have been the
historians of our early national politics in their treatment of that
great man, that a just appreciation of the political atmosphere in which
Van Buren began his career is exceedingly difficult.
There was an American government, an American nation, when Washington
gladly escaped to Mt. Vernon from the bitterly factional quarrels of the
politicians at Philadelphia. The government was well ordered; the nation
was respectable and dignified. But most of the people were either still
colonial and provincial, or were rushing, in turbulence and bad temper,
to crude speculations and theories. Twenty-five years later, Jefferson
had become the political idol of the American people, a people
completely and forever saturated with democratic aspirations, democratic
ideals, what John Marshall called "political metaphysics," a people with
strong and lasting characteristics, no longer either colonial or
provincial, but profoundly national. The skill, the industry, the arts
of the politician, had been used by a man gifted with the genius and not
free from the faults of a philosopher, to plant in American usages,
prejudices, and traditions,--in the very fibre of American political
life, a cardinal and fruitful idea. The work was done for all time. For
Americans, government was thenceforth to be a mere instrument. No longer
a symbol, or an ornament or crown of national life, however noble and
august, it was a simple means to a plain end; to be always, and if need
be rudely, tested and measured by its practical working, by its service
to popular rights and needs. In those earlier days, too, there had been
"classes and masses," the former of whom held public service and public
policy as matters of dignity and order and high assertion of national
right and power, requiring in their ministers peculiar and esoteric
light, and an equipment of which common men ought not to judge, because
they could not judge aright. Afterward, in Monroe's era of good feeling,
the personal rivalries of presidential candidates were in bad temper
enough; but Americans were at last all democrats. Whether for better or
worse, the nation had ceased to be either British or colonial, or
provincial, in its character. In the delightful Rip Van Winkle of a
later Jefferson, during the twenty years' sleep, the old Dutch house has
gone, the peasant's dress, the quaint inn with its village tapster, all
the old scene of loyal provincial life. Rip returns to a noisy,
boastful, self-assertive town full of American "push" and "drive," and
profane disregard of superiors and everything ancient. It was hardly a
less change which spread through the United States in the twenty years
of Jefferson's unrivaled and fruitful leadership. Superstitious regard
for the "well-born," for institutions of government as images of
veneration apart from their immediate and practical use; the faith in
government as essentially a financial establishment which ought to be on
peculiarly friendly relations with banks and bankers; the treatment and
consideration of our democratic organization as an experiment to be
administered with deprecatory deference to European opinion; the idea
that upon the great, simple elements of political belief and practice,
the mass of men could not judge as wisely and safely as the opulent, the
cultivated, the educated; the idea that it was a capital feature of
political art to thwart the rashness and incompetence of the lower
people,--all these theories and traditions, which had firmly held most
of the disciplined thought of Europe and America, and to which the lurid
horrors of the French Revolution had brought apparent consecration,--all
these had now gone; all had been fatally wounded, or were sullenly and
apologetically cherished in the aging bitterness of the Federalists.
There was an American people with as distinct, as powerful, as
characteristic a polity as belonged to the British islanders. In 1776 a
youthful genius had seized upon a colonial revolt against taxation as
the occasion to make solemn declaration of a seeming abstraction about
human rights. He had submitted, however, to subordinate his theory
during the organization of national defense and the strengthening of
the framework of government. Nor did he shine in either of those works.
But with the nation established, with a union secured so that its people
could safely attend to the simpler elements of human rights, Jefferson
and his disciples were able to lead Americans to the temper, the
aspirations, and the very prejudices of essential democracy. The
Declaration of Independence, the ten amendments to the Constitution
theoretically formulating the rights of men or of the States, sank deep
into the sources of American political life. So completely indeed was
the work done, that in 1820 there was but one political party in
America; all were Jeffersonian Republicans; and when the Republican
party was broken up in 1824, the only dispute was whether Adams or
Jackson or Crawford or Clay or Calhoun best represented the political
beliefs now almost universal. It seemed to Americans as if they had
never known any other beliefs, as if these doctrines of their democracy
were truisms to which the rest of the world was marvelously blind.
Nothing in American public life has, in prolonged anger and even savage
desperation, equaled the attacks upon Jefferson during the steady growth
of his stupendous influence. The hatred of him personally, and the
belief in the wickedness of his private and public life, survive in our
time. Nine tenths of the Americans who then read books sincerely thought
him an enemy of mankind and of all that was sacred. Nine tenths of the
authors of American books on history or politics have to this day
written under the influence which ninety years ago controlled their
predecessors. And for this there is no little reason. As the American
people grew conscious of their own peculiar and intensely active
political force, there came to them a period of national and popular
life in which much was unlovely, much was crude, much was disagreeably
vulgar. Books upon America written by foreign travelers, from the days
of Jefferson down to our civil war, superficial and offensive as they
often were, told a great deal of truth. We do not now need to wince at
criticisms upon a rawness, an insolent condescension towards the
political ignorance of foreigners and the unhappy subjects of kings, a
harshness in the assertion of the equality of Caucasian men, and a
restless, boastful manner. The criticisms were in great measure just.
But the critics were stupid and blind not to see the vast and vital work
and change going on before their eyes, to chiefly regard the trifling
and incidental things which disgusted them. Their eyes were open to all
our faults of taste and manner, but closed | 611.583229 |
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Produced by Ron Swanson
[Frontispiece: Midshipman Dewey.]
THE HERO OF MANILA
DEWEY ON THE MISSISSIPPI AND THE PACIFIC
BY ROSSITER JOHNSON
AUTHOR OF PHAETON ROGERS, A HISTORY OF THE WAR OF SECESSION, ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY B. WEST CLINEDINST AND OTHERS
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1899
COPYRIGHT, 1899,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
PREFACE.
If this little book does not show for itself why it was written, how it
was written, and for whom it was written, not only a preface but the
entire text would be useless. The author believes that in every life
that is greatly useful to mankind there is a plan and a purpose from
the beginning, whether the immediate owner of that life is aware of it
or not; and that the art of the biographer--whether he is dealing with
facts exclusively or is mingling fact and fiction--should make it
discernible by the reader.
The authorities that have been consulted include the Life of David
Glasgow Farragut, by his son; Admiral Ammen's Atlantic Coast; Greene's
The Mississippi; Battles and Leaders of the Civil War; The Rebellion
Record; Marshall's History of the Naval Academy, and especially
Adelbert M. Dewey's Life and Letters of Admiral Dewey.
R. J.
AMAGANSETT, _September 8, 1899_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I.--THE PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING
II.--ON THE RIVER BANK
III.--BATTLE ROYAL
IV.--EDUCATION AT NORWICH
V.--LIFE AT ANNAPOLIS | 611.646523 |
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Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
A Captain of Industry
BEING
_The Story of a Civilized Man_
BY
UPTON SINCLAIR
AUTHOR OF "THE JUNGLE," ETC.
GIRARD, KANSAS
THE APPEAL TO REASON
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1906,
BY J. A. WAYLAND.
_All rights reserved._
A CAPTAIN OF INDUSTRY
PREFACE
This little story was written nearly five years ago. The verdict upon it
was that it was "unpublishable," and so I put it away until I should be
in position to publish it myself.
Recently I read it over, and got an interesting vision of how the times
have changed in five years. I put it away a revolutionary document; I
took it out a quiet and rather obvious statement of generally accepted
views. In reading the story, one should bear in mind that it was written
before any of the "literature of exposure" had appeared; that its writer
drew nothing from Mr. Steffens' probing of political corruption, nor
from Miss Tarbell's analysis of the railroad rebate, nor from Mr.
Lawson's expose of the inner life of "Frenzied Finance."
U.S.
A CAPTAIN OF INDUSTRY
I
I purpose in this chronicle to tell the story of A CIVILIZED MAN:
casting aside all Dreams and Airy Imaginations, and dealing with that
humble Reality which lies at our doorsteps.
II
Every proverb, every slang phrase and colloquialism, is what one might
call a petrified inspiration. Once upon a time it was a living thing, a
lightning flash in some man's soul; and now it glides off our tongue
without our ever thinking of its meaning. So, when the event transpired
which marks the beginning of my story, the newspapers one and all
remarked that Robert van Rensselaer was born with a silver spoon in his
mouth.
Into the particular circumstances of the event it is not necessary to
go, furthermore than to say that the arrival occasioned considerable
discomfort, to the annoyance of my hero's mother, who had never
experienced any discomfort before. His father, Mr. Chauncey van
Rensselaer, was a respected member of our metropolitan high society,
combining the major and minor _desiderata_ of wealth and good-breeding,
and residing in a twentieth-century palace at number four thousand
eleven hundred and forty-four Fifth Avenue. At the time of the opening
of our story van Rensselaer _pere_ had fled from the scene of the
trouble and was passing the time playing billiards with some sympathetic
friends, and when the telephone-bell rang they opened some champagne and
drank to the health of van Rensselaer _fils_. Later on, when the father
stood in the darkened apartment and gazed upon the red and purple mite
of life, proud emotions swelled high in his heart, and he vowed that he
would make a gentleman of Robert van Rensselaer,--a gentleman after the
pattern of his father.
At the outset of the career of my hero I have to note the amount of
attention which he received from the press, and from an anxious public.
Mr. Chauncey van Rensselaer was wealthy, according to New York and Fifth
Avenue standards, and Baby van Rensselaer was provided with an
introductory outfit of costumes at an estimated cost of seventeen
thousand dollars. I have a file of van Rensselaer clippings, and would
quote the elaborate descriptions, and preserve them to a grateful
posterity; but in the meantime Master Robert van Rensselaer would be
grown up. I pass on to the time when he was a growing boy, with two
governesses, and several tutors, and a groom, and such other attendants
as every boy has to have.
III
Many lads would have been spoiled by so much attention; and so it is
only fair to say at the outset that "Robbie" was never spoiled; that to
the end of his days he was what is known as "a good fellow," and that it
was only when he could not have what he wanted that anger ever appeared
in his eyes.
Before many more years he went away to a great rich school, followed by
the prayers of a family, and by the valet and the groom. There he had a
suite of rooms, and two horses, and a pair of dogs with pedigrees longer
than his own; and there he learned to smoke a brand of choice
cigarettes, and to play poker, and to take a proper interest in
race-track doings. There also, just when he was ready to come away and
to take a great college by storm, Robbie met with an exciting
adventure. This is a work of realism, and works of realism always go
into detail as to such matters; and so it must be explained that Robbie
fell desperately in love with a pretty girl who lived in the country
near the school; and that Robbie was young and handsome and wealthy and
witty, and by no means disposed to put up with not having his own way;
and that he had it; and that when he came to leave school, the girl fled
from home and followed him; and that there were some blissful months in
the city, and then some complications; and that when the crisis came
Robbie was just on the point of getting married when the curiosity of
his father was excited by his heavy financial demands; and, finally,
that Mr. Chauncey van Rensselaer and Mr. Robert van Rensselaer held an
interview in the former's study.
"Now, Robbie," said he, "how long has this been going on?"
"About a year, sir," said Robbie, gazing at the floor.
"A year? Humph! And why didn't you tell me about it when you first got
into trouble?"
"I--I didn't like to," said Robbie.
"To be sure," said the father, "boys have no business in such scrapes;
but still, when you get in them, it is your duty to tell me. And so you
want to get married?"
"I--I love her," said the other, turning various shades of red as he
found the words sounding queer.
"But, Robbie," protested van Rensselaer _pere_, "one doesn't marry all
the women one loves."
Then, after a little pause, the father continued gravely, "Now, my boy,
tell me where she is, and I'll arrange it for you."
Robbie started. "You won't be cross to her?" he pleaded.
"Of course not," said the father. "I am never cross with any one. It
will all be settled happily, I promise you."
And so a day or two later it was announced that Robbie was going abroad
for a year's tour; and when he sought Daisy to bid her good-by, it was
reported that Daisy had left for the West--a circumstance which caused
Robbie several days' anxiety.
IV
My hero had gone abroad with a congenial friend a little older than
himself, and the two stayed considerably over their time and enjoyed
themselves immensely. They were plentifully provided with money, and
Robbie had been told that he might do anything he liked, except get
married. Therefore they wandered through all the cities of Europe, and
saw all the beautiful things of the past, and all the gay things of the
present. They stopped at the best hotels, and everywhere they went men
bowed before them, and fled to do their bidding. Also | 611.78041 |
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Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Mary Meehan and the
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THE RECLAIMERS
BY MARGARET HILL McCARTER
_Author of_ "VANGUARDS OF THE PLAINS"
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Reclaimers
Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published October, 1918
TO
MAY BELLEVILLE BROWN
CRITIC, COUNSELLOR, COMFORTER
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PART I
JERRY
I. THE HEIR APPARENT
II. UNCLE CORNIE'S THROW
III. HITCHING THE WAGON TO A STAR
IV. BETWEEN EDENS
V. NEW EDEN'S PROBLEM
VI. PARADISE LOST
PART II
JERRY AND JOE
VII. UNHITCHING THE WAGON FROM A STAR
VIII. IF A MAN WENT RIGHT WITH HIMSELF
IX. IF A WOMAN WENT RIGHT WITH HERSELF
X. THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER
XI. AN INTERLUDE IN "EDEN"
XII. THIS SIDE OF THE RUBICON
PART III
JERRY AND EUGENE--AND JOE
XIII. HOW A GOOD MOTHER LIVES ON
XIV. JIM SWAIM'S WISH
XV. DRAWING OUT LEVIATHAN WITH A HOOK
XVI. A POSTLUDE IN "EDEN"
XVII. THE FLESH-POTS OF THE WINNWOC
XVIII. THE LORD HATH HIS WAY IN THE STORM
XIX. RECLAIMED
THE RECLAIMERS
I
JERRY
I
THE HEIR APPARENT
Only the good little snakes were permitted to enter the "Eden" that
belonged to Aunt Jerry and Uncle Cornie Darby. "Eden," it should be
explained, was the country estate of Mrs. Jerusha Darby--a wealthy
Philadelphian--and her husband, Cornelius Darby, a relative by marriage,
so to speak, whose sole business on earth was to guard his wife's wealth
for six hours of the day in the city, and to practise discus-throwing
out at "Eden" for two hours every evening.
Of course these two were never familiarly "Aunt" and "Uncle" to this
country neighborhood, nor to any other community. Far, oh, far from
that! They were Aunt and Uncle only to Jerry Swaim, the orphaned and
only child of Mrs. Darby's brother Jim, whose charming girlish presence
made the whole community, wherever she might chance to be. They were
cousin, however, to Eugene Wellington, a young artist of more than
ordinary merit, also orphaned and alone, except for a sort of cousinship
with Uncle Cornelius.
"Eden" was a beautifully located and handsomely appointed estate of two
hundred acres, offering large facilities to any photographer seeking
magazine illustrations of country life in America. Indeed, the place
was, as Aunt Jerry Darby declared, "summer and winter, all shot up by
camera-toters and dabbed over with canvas-stretchers' paints," much to
the owner's disgust, to whom all camera-toters and artists, except
Cousin Eugene Wellington, were useless idlers. The rustic little railway
station, hidden by maple-trees, was only three or four good
discus-throws from the house. But the railroad itself very properly
dropped from view into a wooded valley on either side of the station.
There was nothing of cindery ugliness to mar the spot where the dwellers
in "Eden" could take the early morning train for the city, or drop off
in the cool of the afternoon into a delightful pastoral retreat. Beyond
the lawns and buildings, gardens and orchards, the land billowed away
into meadow and pasture and grain-field, with an insert of leafy grove
where song-birds builded an Eden all their own. The entire freehold of
Aunt Jerry Darby and Uncle Cornie, set down in the middle of a Western
ranch, would have been a day's journey from its borders. And yet in it
country life was done into poetry, combining city luxuries and
conveniences with the dehorned, dethorned comfort and freedom of idyllic
nature. What more need be said for this "Eden" into which only the good
little snakes were permitted to enter?
In the late afternoon Aunt Jerry sat in the rose-arbor with her Japanese
work-basket beside her, and a pearl tatting-shuttle between her thumb
and fingers. One could read in a thoughtful glance all there was to know
of Mrs. Darby. Her alert air and busy hands bespoke the habit of
everlasting industry fastened down upon her, no doubt, in a far-off
childhood. She was luxurious in her tastes. The satin gown, the diamond
fastening the little cap to her gray hair, the elegant lace at her
throat and wrists, the flashing jewels on her thin fingers, all
proclaimed a desire for display and the means wherewith to pamper it.
The rest of her story was written on her wrinkled face, where the strong
traits of a self-willed youth were deeply graven. Something in the
narrow, restless eyes suggested the discontented lover of wealth. The
lines of the mouth hinted at selfishness and prejudice. The square chin
told of a stubborn will, and the stern cast of features indicated no
sense of humor whereby the hardest face is softened. That Jerusha Darby
was rich, intolerant, determined, unimaginative, self-centered,
unforgiving, and unhappy the student of character might gather at a
glance. Where these traits abide a second glance is unnecessary.
Outside, the arbor was aglow with early June roses; within, the
cushioned willow seats invite to restful enjoyment. But Jerusha Darby
was not there for pleasure. While her pearl shuttle darted in and out
among her fingers like a tiny, iridescent bird, her mind and tongue were
busy with important matters.
Opposite to her was her husband, Cornelius. It was only important
matters that called him away from his business in the city at so early
an hour in the afternoon. And it was only on business matters that he
and his wife ever really conferred, either in the rose-arbor or
elsewhere. The appealing beauty of the place indirectly meant nothing to
these two owners of all this beauty.
The most to be said of Cornelius Darby was that he was born the son of a
rich man and he died the husband of a rich woman. His life, like his
face, was colorless. He fitted into the landscape and his presence was
never detected. He had no opinions of his own. His father had given him
all that he needed to think about until he was married. "Was married" is
well said. He never courted nor married anybody. He was never courted,
but he was married by Jerusha Swaim. But that is all dried stuff now.
Let it be said, however, that not all the mummies are in Egyptian tombs
and Smithsonian Institutions. Some of them sit in banking-houses all day
long, and go discus-throwing in lovely "Edens" on soft June evenings.
And one of them once, just once, broke the ancient linen wrappings from
his glazed jaws and spoke. For half an hour his voice was heard; and
then the bandages slipped back, and the mummy was all mummy again. It
was Jerry Swaim who wrought that miracle. But then there is little in
the earth, or the waters under the earth, that a pretty girl cannot work
upon.
"You say you have the report on the Swaim estate that the Macpherson
Mortgage Company of New Eden, Kansas, is taking care of for us?" Mrs.
Darby asked.
"The complete report. York Macpherson hasn't left out a detail. Shall I
read you his description?" her husband replied.
"No, no; don't tell me a thing about it, not a thing. I don't want to
know any more about Kansas than I know already. I hate the very name of
Kansas. You can understand why, when you remember my brother. I've known
York Macpherson all his life, him and his sister Laura, too. And I never
could understand why he went so far West, nor why he dragged that lame
sister of his out with him to that Sage Brush country."
"That's because you won't let me tell you anything about the West. But
as a matter of business you ought to understand the conditions
connected with this estate."
"I tell you again I won't listen to it, not one word. He is employed to
look after the property, not to write about it. None of my family ever
expects to see it. When we get ready to study its value we will give due
notice. Now let the matter of description, location, big puffing up of
its value--I know all that Kansas talk--let all that drop here." Jerusha
Darby unconsciously stamped her foot on the cement floor of the arbor
and struck her thin palm flat upon the broad arm of her chair.
"Very well, Jerusha. If Jerry ever wants to know anything about its
extent, agricultural value, water-supply, crop returns, etc., she will
find them on file in my office. The document says that the land in the
Sage Brush Valley in Kansas is now, with title clear, the property of
the estate of the late Jeremiah Swaim and his heirs and assigns forever;
that York Macpherson will, for a very small consideration, be the Kansas
representative of the Swaim heirs. That is all I have to say about it."
"Then listen to me," Mrs. Darby commanded. And her listener--listened.
"Jerry Swaim is Brother Jim and Sister Lesa's only child. She's been
brought up in luxury; never wanted a thing she didn't get, and never
earned a penny in her life. She couldn't do it to save her life. If I
outlive you she will be my heir if I choose to make my will in her
favor. She can be taken care of without that Kansas property of hers.
That's enough about the matter. We will drop it right here for other
things. There's your cousin Eugene Wellington coming home again. He's a
real artist and hasn't any property at all."
A ghost of a smile flitted across Mr. Darby's blank face, but Mrs. Darby
never saw ghosts.
"Of course Jerry and Gene, who have been playmates in the same game all
their lives, will--will--" Mrs. Darby hesitated.
"Will keep on playing the same game," Cornelius suggested. "If that's
all about this business, I'll go and look after the lily-ponds over
yonder, and then take a little exercise before dinner. I'm sorry I
missed Jerry in the city. She doesn't know I am out here."
"What difference if you did? She and Eugene will be coming out on the
train pretty soon," Mrs. Darby declared.
"She doesn't know he's there, maybe. They may miss each other," her
husband replied.
Then he left the arbor and effaced himself, as was his custom, from his
wife's presence, and busied himself with matters concerning the
lily-ponds on the far side of the grounds where pink lotuses were
blooming.
Meantime Jerusha Darby's fingers fairly writhed about her tatting-work,
as she waited impatiently for the sound of the afternoon train from the
city.
"It's time the four-forty was whistling round the curve," she murmured.
"My girl will soon be here, unless the train is delayed by that bridge
down yonder. Plague on these June rains!"
Mrs. Darby said "my girl" exactly as she would have said "my bank
stock," or "my farm." Hers was the tone of complete possession.
"She could have come out in the auto in half the time, the four-forty
creeps so, but the roads are dreadfully skiddy after these abominable
rains," Mrs. Darby continued.
The habit of speaking her thoughts aloud had grown on her, as it often
does on those advanced in years who live much alone. The little vista of
rain-washed meadows and growing grain that lay between tall lilac-trees
was lost to her eyes in the impatience of the moment's delay. What
Jerusha Darby wanted for Jerusha Darby was vastly more important to her
at any moment than the abstract value of a general good or a common
charm.
As she leaned forward, listening intently for the rumble of the train
down in the valley, a great automobile swung through the open gateway of
"Eden" and rounded the curves of the maple-guarded avenue, bearing down
with a birdlike sweep upon the rose-arbor.
"Here I am, Aunt Jerry," the driver's girlish voice called. "Uncle
Cornie is coming out on the train. I beat him to it. I saw the old
engine huffing and puffing at the hill beyond the third crossing of the
Winnowoc. It is bank-full now from the rains. I stopped on that high
fill and watched the train down below me creeping out on the trestle
above the creek. When it got across and went crawling into the cut on
this side I came on, too. I had my hands full then making this big gun
of a car climb that muddy, slippery hill that the railroad cuts through.
But I'd rather climb than creep any old day."
"Jerry Swaim," Mrs. Darby cried, staring up at her niece in amazement,
"do you mean to say you drove out alone over that sideling, slippery
bluff road? But you wouldn't be Lesa Swaim's daughter if you weren't
taking chances. You are your mother's own child, if there ever was one."
"Well, I should hope I am, since I've got to be classified somewhere. I
came because I wanted to," Jerry declared, with the finality of complete
excuse in her tone. All her life what Jerry Swaim had wanted was
abundant reason for her having. "It was dreadfully hot and sticky in the
city, and I knew it would be the bottom deep of mugginess on that
crowded Winnowoc train. The last time I came out here on it I had to sit
beside a dreadful big Dutchman who had an old hen and chickens in a
basket under his feet. He had had Limburger cheese for his dinner and
had used his whiskers for a napkin to catch the crumbs. Ugh!" Jerry gave
a shiver of disgust at the recollection. "An old lady behind us had
'_sky_-atick rheumatiz' and wouldn't let the windows be opened. I'd
rather have any kind of 'rheumatiz' than Limburger for the same length
of time. The Winnowoc special ought to carry a parlor coach from the
city and set it off at 'Eden' like it used to do. The agent let me play
in it whenever I wanted to when I was a youngster. I'm never going to
ride on any train again unless I go in a Pullman."
The girl struck her small gloved fist, like a spoiled child, against the
steering-wheel of her luxuriously appointed car, but her winsome smile
was all-redeeming as she looked down at her aunt standing in the doorway
of the rose-arbor.
"Come in here, Geraldine Swaim. I want to talk to you." Mrs. Darby's
affectionate tones carried also a note of command.
"Means business when she 'Geraldine Swaims' me," Jerry commented,
mentally, as she gave the car to the "Eden" man-of-all-work and followed
her aunt to a seat inside the blossom-covered retreat, where the pearl
shuttle began to grow tatting again beneath the thin, busy fingers.
It always pleased Jerusha Darby to be told that there was a resemblance
between these two. But, although the older woman's countenance was an
open book holding the story of inherited ideas, limited and intensified,
and the young face unmistakably perpetuated the family likeness, yet
Jerry Swaim was a type of her own, not easy to forejudge. In the shadows
of the rose-arbor her hair rippled back from her forehead in dull-gold
waves. One could picture what the sunshine would do for it. Her big,
dark-blue eyes were sometimes dreamy under their long lashes, and
sometimes full of sparkling light. Her whole atmosphere was that of
easeful, dependent, city life; yet there was something contrastingly
definite in her low voice, her firm mouth and square-cut chin. And
beyond appearances and manner, there was something which nobody ever
quite defined, that made it her way to walk straight into the hearts of
those who knew her.
"Where were you in the city to-day?" Mrs. Darby asked, abruptly, looking
keenly at the fair-faced girl much as she would have looked at any other
of her goodly possessions.
"Let me see," Jerry Swaim began, meditatively. "I was shopping quite a
while. The stores are gorgeous this June."
"Yes, and what else?" queried the older woman.
"Oh, some more shopping. Then I lunched at _La Senorita_, that beautiful
new tea-house. Every room represents some nationality in its decoration.
I was in the Delft room--Holland Dutch--whiskers and Limburger"--there
was a gleam of fun in the dark-blue eyes--"but it is restful and
charming. And the service is perfect. Then I strolled off to the Art
Gallery and lost myself in the latest exhibit. Cousin Gene would like
that, I'm sure. It was so cool and quiet there that I stayed a long
time. The exhibit is mostly of landscapes, all of them as beautiful as
'Eden' except one."
There was just a shade of something different in the girl's tone when
she spoke her cousin's name.
"And that one?" Mrs. Darby inquired. She did not object to shopping and
more shopping, but art was getting outside of her dominion.
"It was a desert-like scene; just yellow-gray plains, with no trees at
all. And in the farther distance the richest purples and reds of a
sunset sky into which the land sort of diffused. No landscape on this
earth was ever so yellow-gray, or any sunset ever so like the Book of
Revelation, nor any horizon-line so wide and far away. It was the
hyperbole of a freakish imagination. And yet, Aunt Jerry, there was a
romantic lure in the thing, somehow."
Jerry Swaim's face was grave as she gazed with wide, unseeing eyes at
the vista of fresh June meadows from which the odor of red clover,
pulsing in on the cool west breeze of the late afternoon, mingled with
the odor of white honeysuckle that twined among the climbing rose-vines
above her.
"Humph! What else?" Aunt Jerry sniffed a disapproval of unpleasant
landscapes in general and alluring romances in particular. Love of
romance was not in her mental make-up, any more than love of art.
"I went over to Uncle Cornie's bank to tell him to take care of my
shopping-bills. He wasn't in just then and I didn't wait for him. By
the way"--Jerry Swaim was not dreamy now--"since all the legal
litigations and things are over, oughtn't I begin to manage my own
affairs and live on my own income?"
Sitting there in the shelter of blossoming vines, the girl seemed far
too dainty a creature, too lacking in experience, initiative, or
ability, to manage anything more trying than a big allowance of
pin-money. And yet, something in her small, firm hands, something in the
lines of her well-formed chin, put the doubt into any forecast of what
Geraldine Swaim might do when she chose to act.
Aunt Jerry wrapped the lacy tatting stuff she had been making around the
pearl shuttle and, putting both away in the Japanese work-basket,
carefully snapped down the lid.
"When Jerusha Darby quits work to talk it's time for me to put on my
skid-chains," Jerry said to herself as she watched the procedure.
"Jerry, do you know why I called you your mother's own child just now?"
Mrs. Darby asked, gravely.
"From habit, maybe, you have said it so often." Jerry's smile took away
any suggestion of pertness. "I know I am like her in some ways."
"Yes, but not altogether," the older woman continued. "Lesa Swaim was a
strange combination. She was made to spend money, with no idea of how to
get money. And she brought you up the same way. And now you are grown,
boarding-school finished, and of age, you can't alter your bringing up
any more than you can change your big eyes that are just like Lesa's,
nor your chin that you inherited from Brother Jim. I might as well try
to give you little black eyes and a receding chin as to try to reshape
your ways now. You are as the Lord made you, and Providence molded you,
and your mother spoiled you."
"Well, I don't want to be anything different. I'm happy as I am."
"You won't need to be, unless you choose. But being twenty-one doesn't
make you too old to listen to me--and your uncle Cornie."
In all her life Jerry had never before heard her uncle's name brought in
as co-partner of Jerusha Darby's in any opinion, authority, or advice.
It was an unfortunate slip of the tongue for Uncle Cornie's wife, one of
those simple phrases that, dropped at the right spot, take root and grow
and bear big fruit, whether of sweet or bitter taste.
"Your mother was a dreamer, a lover of romance, and all sorts of
adventures, although she never had a chance to get into any of them.
That's why you went skidding on that sideling bluff road to-day; that
and the fact that she brought you up to have your own way about
everything. But, as I say, we can't change that now, and there's no need
to if we could. Lesa was a pretty woman, but you look like the Swaims,
except right across here."
Aunt Jerry drew her bony finger across the girl's brows, unwilling to
concede any of the family likeness that could possibly be retained. She
could not see the gleam of mischief lurking under the downcast eyelashes
of Lesa Swaim's own child.
"Your father was a good business man, level-headed, shrewd, and
honest"--Mrs. Darby spoke rapidly now--"but things happened in the last
years of his life. Your mother took pneumonia and died, and you went
away to boarding-school. Jim's business was considerably involved. I
needn't bother to tell you about that. It doesn't matter now, anyhow.
And then one night he didn't come home, and the next morning your uncle
found him sitting in his office, just as he had left him the evening
before. He had been dead several hours. Heart failure was what the
doctor said, but I reckon everybody goes of heart failure sooner or
later."
A bright, hard glow came into Jerry Swaim's eyes and the red lips were
grimly pressed together. In the two years since the loss of her parents
the girl had never tried to pray. As time went on the light spirit of
youth had come back, but something went out of her life on the day of
her father's death, leaving a loss against which she stubbornly
rebelled.
"To be plain, Jerry," Mrs. Darby hurried on, "you have your inheritance
all cleared up at last, after two whole years of legal trouble."
"Oh, it hasn't really bothered me," Jerry declared, with seeming
flippancy. "Just signing my name where somebody pointed to a blank line,
and holding up my right hand to be sworn--that's all. I've written my
full name and promised that the writing was mine,'s'welp me Gawd,' as
the court-house man used to say, till I could do either one under the
influence of ether. Nothing really bothersome about it, but I'm glad
it's over. Business is so tiresome."
"It's not so large a fortune, by a good deal, as it would have been if
your father had listened to me." Mrs. Darby spoke vaguely. "But you will
be amply provided for, anyhow, unless you yourself choose to trifle with
your best interest. You and I are the only Swaims living now. Some day,
if I choose, I can will all my property to you."
The square-cut chin and the deep lines around the stern mouth told
plainly that obedience to this woman's wishes alone could make a
beneficiary to that will.
"You may be a dreamer, and love to go romancing around into new scrapes
like your mother would have done if she could. But she was as
soft-hearted as could be, with all that. That's why she never denied you
anything you wanted. She couldn't do a thing with money, though, as I
said, except spend it. You are a good deal like your father, too, Jerry,
and you'll value property some day as the only thing on earth that can
make life anything but a hard grind. If you don't want to be like that
bunch of everlasting grubs that ride on the Winnowoc train every
afternoon, or the poor country folks around here that never ride in
anything but a rickety old farm-wagon, you'll appreciate what I--and
Uncle Cornie--can do for you."
Uncle Cornie again, and he never had shared in any equal consideration
before. It was a mistake.
"There's the four-forty whistling for the curve at last. It's time it
was coming. I must go in and see that dinner is just right. You run down
and meet it. Cousin Eugene is coming out on it. Your uncle Cornie is
here on the place somewhere. He came out after lunch on some business we
had to fix up. No wonder you missed him. But, Jerry"--the stern-faced
woman put a hand on the girl's shoulder with more of command than caress
in the gesture--"Eugene is a real artist with genius, you know."
"Yes, I know," Jerry replied, a sudden change coming into her tone.
"What of that?"
"You've always known him. You like him very much?" Jerusha Darby was as
awkward in sentiment as she was shrewd in a bargain.
The bloom on the girl's cheek deepened as she looked away toward the
brilliantly green meadows across which the low sun was sending rays of
golden light.
"Oh, I like him as much as he likes me, no doubt. I'll go down to the
station and look him over, if you say so."
Beneath the words lay something deeper than speech--something new even
to the girl herself.
As Jerry left the arbor Mrs. Darby said, with something half playful,
half final, in her tone: "You won't forget what I've said about
property, you little spendthrift. You will be sensible, like my sensible
brother's child, even if you are as idealizing as your sentimental
mother."
"I'll not forget. I couldn't and be Jerry Darby's niece," the last added
after the girl was safely out of her aunt's hearing. "My father and
mother both had lots of good traits, it seems, and a few poor ones. I
seem to be really heir to all the faulty bents of theirs, and to have
lost out on all the good ones. But I can't help that now. Not till after
the train gets in, anyhow."
Her aunt watched her till the shrubbery hid her at a turn in the walk.
Young, full of life, dainty as the June blossoms that showered her
pathway with petals, a spoiled, luxury-loving child, with an adventurous
spirit and a blunted and undeveloped notion of human service and divine
heritage, but with a latent capacity and an untrained power for doing
things, that was Jerry Swaim--whom the winds of heaven must not visit
too roughly without being accountable to Mrs. Jerusha Darby, owner and
manager of the universe for her niece.
II
UNCLE CORNIE'S THROW
Jerry was waiting at the cool end of the rustic station when the train
came in. How hot and stuffy it seemed to her as it puffed out of the
valley, and how tired and cross all the bunch of grubs who stared out of
the window at her. It made them ten times more tired and cross and hot
to see that girl looking so cool and rested and exquisitely gowned and
crowned and shod. The blue linen with white embroidered cuffs, the
rippling, glinting masses of hair, the small shoes, immaculately white
against the green sod--little wonder that, while the heir apparent to
the Darby wealth felt comfortably indifferent toward this uninteresting
line of nobodies in particular, the bunch of grubs should feel only envy
and resentment of their own sweaty, muscle-worn lot in life.
Jerry and Eugene Wellington were far up the shrubbery walk by the time
the Winnowoc train was on its way again, unconscious that the passengers
were looking after them, or that the talk, as the train slowly got under
way, was all of "that rich old codger of a Darby and his selfish old
wife"; of "that young dude artist, old Wellington's kid, too lazy to
work"; of "that pretty, frivolous girl who didn't know how to comb her
own hair, Jim Swaim's girl--poor Jim!" "Old Corn Darby was looking
yellow and thin, too. He would dry up and blow away some day if his
money wasn't weighting him down so he couldn't."
At the bend in the walk, the two young people saw Uncle Cornie crossing
the lawn.
"Going to get his discus. He'll have no appetite for dinner unless he
gets in a few dozen slings," the young man declared. "Let's turn in here
at the sign of the roses, Jerry. I'm too lazy to take another step."
"You should have come out with me in the car," Jerry replied as they sat
down in the cool arbor made for youth and June-time. "I didn't know you
were in the city."
"Well, little cousin girl, I'll confess I didn't dare," the young man
declared, boldly. "I've been studying awfully hard this year, and, now
I'm needed to paint The Great American Canvas, I can't end my useful
career under a big touring-car at the bottom of an embankment out on the
Winnowoc bluff road. So when I saw you coming into Uncle Cornie's office
in the bank I slipped away."
"And as to my own risk?" Jerry asked.
"Oh, Jerry Swaim, you would never have an accident in a hundred years.
There's nobody like you, little cousin mine, nobody at all."
Eugene Wellington put one well-formed hand lightly on the small white
hand lying on the wicker chair-arm, and, leaning forward, he looked down
into the face of the girl beside him. A handsome, well-set up, artistic
young fellow he was, fitted to adorn life's ornamental places. And if a
faint line of possible indecision of character might have suggested
itself to the keen-eyed reader of faces, other traits outweighed its
possibility. For his was a fine face, with a sort of gracious gentleness
in it that grows with the artist's growth. A hint of deeper
spirituality, too, that marks nobility of character, added to a winning
personality, put Eugene Wellington above the common class. He fitted the
rose-arbor, in "Eden" and the comradeship of good breeding. When a man
finds his element, all the rest of the world moves more smoothly
therefor.
"Nobody like me," Jerry repeated. "It's a good thing I'm the only one of
the kind. You'd say so if you knew what Aunt Jerry thinks of me. She has
been analyzing me and filing me away in sections this afternoon."
"What's on her mind now?" Eugene Wellington asked, as he leaned
easefully back in his chair.
"She says I am heir--" Jerry always wondered what made her pause there.
Years afterward, when this June evening came back in memory, she could
not account for it.
"Heir to what?" the young artist inquired, a faint, shadowy something
sweeping his countenance fleetly.
"To all the sphere,
To the seven stars and the solar year;
also to my father's entire estate that's left after some two years of
litigation. I hate litigations."
"So do I, Jerry. Let's forget them. Isn't 'Eden' beautiful? I'm so glad
to be back here again." Eugene Wellington looked out at the idyllic
loveliness of the place which the rose-arbor was built especially to
command. "Nobody could sin here, for there are no serpents busy-bodying
around in such a dream of a landscape as this. I'm glad I'm an artist,
if I never become famous. There's such a joy in being | 611.78057 |
2023-11-16 18:27:15.7612850 | 4,343 | 21 |
E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
AT PLATTSBURG
by
ALLEN FRENCH
* * * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE HIDING-PLACES.. net $1.35
* * * * * *
AT PLATTSBURG
by
ALLEN FRENCH
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1917
Copyright, 1917, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Published April, 1917
TO
SQUAD EIGHT
MY BOOK THE SQUAD ISN'T AS IT REALLY WAS.
SOME OF YOU ARE NOT THERE, AND THE REST
ARE ALTERED. BUT WHILE, ON ACCOUNT OF THE
STORY THAT I NEEDED AND THE FACTS I WANTED
TO DISPLAY, I COULD NOT DRAW YOUR PORTRAITS,
I HOPE I HAVE SUCCEEDED IN SHOWING THAT
THING IN PLATTSBURG WHICH MEANT MOST TO
ME PERSONALLY, THE SPIRIT OF OUR SQUAD
PREFACE
To describe military scenes is always to rouse the keenest scrutiny from
military men. I write this foreword not to deprecate criticism, but to
remind the professional reader that, while the scenes I have described
are all from experience, the aim in writing them was not for technical
exactness, often confusing to the lay reader, but rather for the purpose
of giving a general picture of the fun and work at a training camp.
Nowadays we are making history so fast that readers may have to be
reminded that last summer occurred the mobilization on the Mexican border
of most of the regular army and many regiments of the National Guard, a
fact which considerably affected conditions at Plattsburg.
The "Buzzard Song," which my company used with such satisfaction on the
hike, was written by a camp-mate, John A. Straley, who has kindly allowed
me to use it, with a few minor changes.
Allen French.
Concord, Massachusetts,
April 3, 1917.
AT PLATTSBURG
RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
On the train, nearing Plattsburg.
Friday morning, Sep. 8, 1916.
DEAR MOTHER:--
Though you kissed me good-by with affection, you know there was amusement
in the little smile with which you watched me go. I, a modest citizen,
accustomed to shrink from publicity, was exposed in broad day in a badly
fitting uniform, in color inconspicuous, to be sure, but in pattern
evidently military and aggressive. What a guy I felt myself, and how
every smile or laugh upon the street seemed to mean Me! The way to the
railroad station had never seemed so long, nor so thronged with curious
folk. I felt myself very silly.
Thus it was a relief when I met our good pastor, for I knew at the first
glance of his eye that my errand and my uniform meant to him, as they did
to me, something important. So strong was this comforting sense that I
even forgot what importance he might attach to them.
But fixing me with his eye as I stopped and greeted him (being within
easy hurrying distance of the station) he said in pained surprise: "And
so you are going to Plattsburg?"
Then I remembered that he was an irreconcilable pacifist. Needing no
answer, he went on: "I am sorry to see that the militarist spirit has
seized you too."
Now if anything vexes me, it is to be told that I am a militarist. "Not
that, sir," said I. "War is the last thing that I want."
"Train a man to wield a weapon," he rejoined, "and he will itch to use
it." I think we were both a little sententious because of the approach of
the train. "Your argument is, I suppose, that the country is in danger?"
"Exactly," I replied.
He raised both hands. "Madness! No one will attack us."
I refrained from telling him that with so much at stake I was unwilling
to accept even treaty assurances on that point. He went on. "The whole
world is mad with desire to slay. But I would rather have my son killed
than killing others."
He is proud of his son, but he is prouder of his daughter. Said I, "If
war comes, and we are unprepared for it, you might have not only your son
killed, but your daughter too."
Horrified, he had not yet begun to express himself on the impossibility
of invasion, when the train came. So we parted. To tell the truth, I am
not sorry that he feels so: it is very ideal. And I regret no longer
having my own fine feeling of security. It is only a year or so ago that
I was just such a pacifist as he.
If I in my new uniform was at home a curiosity, when I reached Boston I
found myself merely one among many, for the North Station was full of
Plattsburgers. There is great comfort in being like other folk. A thick
crowd it was at our special train, raw recruits with their admiring
women-folk or fun-poking friends. The departure was not like the leaving
of soldiers for the front, such as we saw in July when the boys went to
Texas. We should come back not with wounds, but with a healthy tan and
much useful experience. So every one was jolly, except for a young couple
that were walking up and down in silent communion, and sometimes
furtively touching hands--a young married pair, I thought, before their
first separation.
We were off without much delay, a train-load wholly of men, and all
greenhorns. For all of us had nice fresh crinkly blouses, and olive-drab
(properly o. d.) knees not yet worn white (as I have seen on returning
Plattsburgers) while our canvas leggings were still unshaped to our manly
calves. Our hats were new and stiff, and their gaudy cords were bright.
And we were inquisitive of the life that was ahead of us, readily making
acquaintance in order to compare our scraps of information. Dismay ran
here and there with the knowledge that the typhoid inoculation required
three weekly doses. Thank goodness, that is over with for me. We tried to
be very soldierly in bearing, evidently an effort in other cases than
mine. One fellow had his own gun along; he wanted, he said, to make a
good score on the range. So I had my first chance to handle an army
rifle.
You know that when I left, you had been worrying as to how I should stand
the strain of the coming month's work. I will admit that I have been
wondering about it myself. I have worked very hard for the last few
years, practically without vacation, in order to marry as suited Vera's
ideas. And then, two years after she had said Yes, and when my earnings
ought to satisfy any woman, began the complex strain of the breaking of
the engagement--the heart burnings, the self-searching, the difficult
coming to an understanding. And now that she and I have parted friends,
with both of us quite satisfied, I have been realizing how much run down
I am, so that it has seemed quite possible that Plattsburg life might be
too strenuous for me. But a good look at my companions has made it clear
that I can stand up with the average of them. A fair number of them, to
be sure, are brown and seasoned by the summer. But quite as many are pale
and stooped from desk work, or pasty from good living. If I fall out, I
shall have plenty of company.
I write this letter while the train is approaching Plattsburg. When I
woke this morning we were at a standstill in some railway yard, and
beside us was standing another train, labelled like ours, doubtless
carrying the New York men. It drew out ahead of us, and I suppose its
inmates are now debarked, and gawking about them as presently my
companions and I shall gawk. Tonight I shall write again. Affectionately
DICK.
DAVID RIDGWAY FARNHAM, 3D, TO HIS MOTHER
On the Train to Plattsburg.
Friday morning, Sept. 8th.
DEAR MAMA:--
It is unlucky that both of our cars were out of order just when I was
starting for Plattsburg. For the train has been very hot and stufy, and
so crowded. I tried once more to get myself a statroom, but when the
agent said I should have to be with three other men, then I just gave up,
and got the porter to make up my upper birth early, and climbed into it
though I wasn't sleepy at all. But it was something to get by myself and
be a little privat.
I spoke to a few of the fellows, but I couldn't make much out of them.
One had never been to college, and another knew nothing of automobiles,
and another began talking about the drill regulations, but you know I
never even bought the book. The whole train was one big smoking car, and
some fellows near me were very noisy over a game of poker.
I suppose I shall mannage to get along with these fellows, because I know
I must if I want what father promised me, and if the fellows at the
Casino aren't to laugh at me. But so far as I can see, everyone on the
train isn't at all my kind. Father doesn't understand how I feel about
fellows who are not in our set. I don't look down on them, you know, for
I'm sure most of them are very nice fellows of their sort. But I never
knew anyone of their kind before, and what am I to talk to them about?
Its all very well for father to say that I can get something worth while
from every man I meet; but he's a business man, and so he's used to them.
You mustn't think I'm unhappy if I say I shall miss you and shall hate to
be confined by the camp regulations. I'm not going to back out for father
and cousin Walt have put it up to me to see the thing through and though
I'm kind of used to disapointing father I don't intend that Walt shall
think I'm sandless.
But when the camp breaks up you must be sure to be here, with the
Rolls-Royce, to take me home. I don't think I could stand another trip
like this. Love from,
DAVID.
PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER
Plattsburg Camp.
Friday evening, Sept. 8.
DEAR MOTHER:--
I had scarcely finished my letter of this morning when the train began to
slow down, and then drew up alongside a wide and gently sloping field,
while on the other side was the lake. With our luggage we poured out into
the field, evidently our training ground, since beyond it were tented
streets, with some big open-sided buildings that doubtless had some
military use, since we saw rookies going in and out. In haste to get our
share of what was to be had, we consulted the printed slips handed to us
in the train.
"On arriving at camp: First, Carry your hand baggage to the Y. M. C. A."
Where was the Y. M. C. A.? There was no building standing near of even
so much as two stories. There were tents and there were shacks, but even
when we came to a street busy with electrics, automobiles, motor trucks,
and foot passers, nothing of any size was to be seen. But as I followed
along with the rest, noting that almost everybody we met, from the riders
in the autos to the drivers of the trucks, was military, I saw a skeleton
structure, tar-paper-roofed, and bearing the magic letters for which we
were looking. There regulars--artillerymen with red-corded hats--received
our bags through the open frontage and stored them alphabetically.
"Second. Go to the mess-shacks for breakfast."
We went. We breakfasted. The mess shacks were those other open-sided
buildings on the drill-field which I had already seen; their
construction, being merely tarred roofs on posts and walled with mosquito
netting, promised no elegance of fare. Nor was the fare elegant: milk,
coffee, cereal, hard boiled eggs, bread, butter, a bruised apple. The
milk was of two kinds, real and canned. Used in the coffee, or with sugar
on the cereal, the canned milk was good enough as poured from a hole
punched in the container; but a wise man near me prophesied that I should
not like to drink it when diluted. Flat, he said. Tasted like chalk.
Doubtless it was chemically correct, but (you see how scientific he was)
the metabolism of the body despises chemical synthesis, and for real
nourishment the palate must be satisfied.
"Third. At once after breakfast go to the Adjutant's Office and enroll."
So we stood in line, and when on nearing the window of the office I heard
the Adjutant say to a predecessor, "Where's your thirty dollars?" I got
out my greenbacks and presently paid them in, twenty-five for our
maintenance at camp, five to be returned if during our stay we had not
damaged any of Uncle Sam's property. And since the adjutant assigned me
to a company, I began to feel that I was getting somewhere.
"Fourth. Exchange your baggage checks for camp claim checks."
None of that for me. I had known enough to bring but a large suit-case,
leaving behind everything that I could persuade myself was unnecessary.
There was a memorandum on the printed slip to the effect that trunks and
other large pieces of baggage would be stored at the post barracks, where
owners could visit them on Sunday mornings. A sad weekly ceremony for one
who had to choose from an excess of luxuries!
"Fifth. Report to the officer commanding your Company."
I did not find him. Though again I stood in line, this time with men with
whom I was to associate, those to whom I reported in the Orderly Tent at
the head of H company street were but sergeants and volunteers like
myself, though men of more experience, as I could tell by their weathered
uniforms and faded hat-cords. They filled out a card concerning me, led
me to the tent pole, and measuring my height with a crude but effective
instrument, announced "Tent Eight."
"Sixth. Bring your hand baggage to your tent."
So I brought it from the Y. M. C. A. Now the topography of the camp is
thus. Just within the enclosure, and parallel with the street outside,
runs the officers' street, their tents along one side of it, each with
its little sign bearing the occupant's name. From the other side, toward
the drill ground and the lake, lead away the company streets with double
rows of khaki tents facing each other. All were on a thin and barren
soil, where between the tents some few weeds straggled, while everywhere
else men's feet had killed all growth. No! For in front of one of the
tents, under the protection of its ropes, grew a half-dozen thrifty <DW29>
plants, all in bright bloom. But elsewhere all was brown sand that looked
as if it might blow dust in clouds, but which also, I was glad to see,
looked as if it might absorb all ordinary rains. The street, about midway
of its length, rose a little, then dropped, and straddling this ridge I
found Tent 8, in the best possible position should the weather turn wet.
As I entered, stooping, I peered about the shadowed interior.
The dry floor was ploughed into holes and ridges by the feet of the last
occupants. One man, bearded and grizzled, was sitting on a cot in one
corner, exploring the interior of a big blue canvas bag; a professor or
doctor person, who gave me one keen glance, briefly said "Good day," and
went on with his occupation. A second bed, already neatly set up and
equipped, stood in another corner. Its owner, lithe and keen, a fellow of
about twenty-five, was watching a third, man-sized but boy-faced, who was
struggling with a cot in its chrysalis stage, being apparently quite
unable to unfold it. I knew the lad at a glance, young David Ridgway
Farnham 3d, whose cousin Walter was in my class, to whom I was best man,
as you remember, some five years ago. Now young David has been the
laughing stock of the family, spoiled with riches and an indulgent mamma.
Walter told me that many tutors, on princely salaries, just managed to
get him through Harvard this year. And here he was at Plattsburg!
However, he couldn't know me, so I disposed my things in a corner.
The lithe and keen person seemed lither and keener at second glance. He
was of a splendid blond type, with flashing blue eyes; everything about
him was perfectly straight, his backbone, his nose, his close-cropped
fair hair, the thin-lipped mouth, the drop of his chin, and even the
precipitous fall of his high cheek-bones. He had not noticed me at all,
so intent was he on the struggles of young Farnham. A very efficient
person he seemed, and immediately proved it. For Farnham, with that
appealing helplessness which I remember in him as a charming child (you
know that with his brown eyes, curly hair, and rosy skin he's as handsome
as a girl) looked up at his watcher. He immediately said: "Bend the leg
the other way. Now the next one. Now spread the whole thing out. Now
spring those two cross-pieces into place." But even then, though the cot
had gained a recognizable shape, Farnham was still baffled. His hands
were soft, and so were his muscles. "This way," said the other after a
moment. And sitting on the cot, with his feet he forced the cross-bar at
one end into position, then swung about and put the other one into place,
and the thing was done.
"Thanks," said young David, politely but not warmly, in a way that showed
how used he is to being waited on. "Have a cigarette? I suppose we
shall--er--room together. My name is Farnham."
"Mine is Knudsen," said the other. And then I appreciated the cause of
his blondness.
"I'm from Harvard, class of'sixteen," said young David. Well-grown as he
is, I couldn't help thinking of him as young.
"I'm from Buffalo," said Knudsen shortly. "I run a foundry there." His
blue eyes were unwavering and quite expressionless as he looked Farnham
over.
"Farnham? Farnham?" said the man with the short pointed beard. The others
turned and looked at him. "I remember now. You were in my section in
English A, your Freshman year."
"Oh," said young David. "Professor Corder. Of course. How de do? I
remember that you flunked me."
"But you got through English D after two tries," said Corder. "Such is
college life."
As none followed up the subject, I asked where they got their equipment.
On their direction I went to the store-tent at the head of the street,
| 611.781325 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.2639910 | 1,345 | 22 | Project Gutenberg The Complete Writings of Charles Dudley Warner
Volume 4
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[Illustration: "Say" Cried Frank, "That's a child's face up there!"]
The Boy Scout Camera Club
or
The Confession of a Photograph
By
Scout Master G. Harvey Ralphson
CHAPTER
I LOST: A FOREIGN PRINCE!
II THE HOLE IN THE ATTIC FLOOR
III WHAT THE BOX CONTAINED
IV A CAMP IN THE MOUNTAIN
V JIMMIE AND TEDDY MISS A MEAL
VI SIGNALS IN THE CANYON
VII A MINT IN THE MOUNTAINS
VIII UNCLE IKE PRESENTS HIMSELF
IX A LANK MULE AS A DECOY
X "PACKED AWAY LIKE SARDINES"
XI JACK'S ELEGANT CHICKEN PIE
XII THE BLACK HAND GAME
XIII THREE DAYS TO MOVE IN
XIV POINTING OUT THE TRAIL
XV A NIGHT ON THE SUMMIT
XVI THE CALL OF THE PACK
XVII JUST A LITTLE DARK WASH
XVIII BRADLEY BECOMES INDIGNANT
XIX NED PLAYS THE MIND-READER
XX SHOOTING ON THE MOUNTAINSIDE
XXI TOLD BY THE PICTURES
XXII A RECRUIT FROM THE ENEMY
XXIII RACING MOTORS ON THE WAY
XXIV THE MAN-TRAP IS SET
XXV THE CONFESSION OF A PHOTOGRAPH
The Boy Scout Camera Club
or
The Confession of a Photograph
CHAPTER I
LOST: A FOREIGN PRINCE!
"Two Black Bears!"
"Two Wolves!"
"Three Eagles!"
"Five Moose!"
"Quite a mixture of wild creatures to be found in a splendid clubroom
in the city of New York!" exclaimed Ned Nestor, a handsome, muscular
boy of seventeen. "How many of these denizens of the forests are
ready to join the Boy Scout Camera Club?"
"You may put my name down twice--in red ink!" shouted Jimmie McGraw,
of the Wolf Patrol. "I wouldn't miss it to be president of the United
States!"
"One Wolf," Ned said, writing the name down.
"Two Wolves!" cried Jimmie, red-headed, freckled of face and as
active as a red squirrel, "two wolves! You're a Wolf yourself, Ned
Nestor!"
"Two Wolves, then!" laughed Ned. "Of course Jimmie and I can form a
club all by ourselves, and he can be the officers and I can be the
members, but we'd rather have a menagerie of large size, as we are
going into the mountains of Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina,
Kentucky and Tennessee."
The boys who had not yet spoken were on their feet in an instant, all
clamoring for membership in the Boy Scout Camera Club. Ned lifted a
hand for silence.
"Why this present rush?" he asked. "I've been thinking that Jimmie
and I would have to go to the mountains alone! Why this impetuosity?"
"The mountains!" shouted Frank Shaw, of the Black Bear Patrol. "It is
the mountains that get us! We've been thinking that the club you were
organizing wouldn't get outside of little old New York, but would
loaf around taking snap-shots of the slums and the trees in the
parks. But when you mention mountains, why--"
"I'm going right down stairs and pack my camera!" Jack Bosworth, of
the Black Bear Patrol, declared. "When it comes to mountains!"
The clubroom of the Black Bear Patrol was on the top floor of the
handsome residence of Jack's father, who was a famous corporation
lawyer, and the boys persuaded Jack to wait until they had completed
the organization of the Camera Club before he started in packing for
the journey to the mountains!
"You'll want an Eagle, if you're going to the mountains!" shouted
Teddy Green, of the Eagle Patrol. "I'll fly home and get my wardrobe
right now!"
Teddy Green was the son of a Harvard professor, and was inclined to
follow in the footsteps of his father in the matter of learning--after
he had first climbed to all the high spots of the world and
descended into all the low ones! He insisted on exploring the earth
before he learned by rote what others had written about it!
"All right!" Ned grinned. "We'll need an Eagle!"
"And a Bull Moose!" yelled Oliver Yentsch, of the Moose Patrol.
"You've got to have a Moose along with you!"
Oliver was the son of a ship builder, and had a launch and a yacht of
his own. He was liked by all his associates in spite of his tendency
to grumble at trifles. However, if he complained at small things, he
met large troubles with a smile on his bright face. He now seized
Teddy about the waist and waltzed around the room with him.
"And that's all!" Ned decided, closing the book. "We can't take more
than six."
A wail went up from the others, but they were promised a chance at
the next "hike" into the hills, and soon departed, leaving the six
members of the Camera Club to perfect arrangements for their
departure. It was a warm May night, still Ned closed the door leading
out into the wide corridor which ran through the house on that floor.
"We can't afford to take others into our plans," he said, "for this
is to be another Secret Service expedition."
"For the Government?" demanded Frank Shaw. "Then," he added, without
waiting for a reply, "I'll call up dad's editorial rooms and have a
reporter sent up here. Top of column, first page, illustrated! That's
our Camera Club in the morning newspaper!"
Frank's father was owner and editor of one of the big New York
dailies, and the boy always took along, on his trips, plenty of blank
paper for "copy," but never sent in a line! His letters to his
father's newspaper were usually addressed to the financial
department, upon which he had permission to draw at will!
"Huh!" Jimmie commented, wrinkling his freckled nose, "if you should
ever furnish an item for your daddy's newspaper he'd never live it
down! You've been on all our trips with Ned, and never wired in a
word!"
The Boy Scouts of the Black Bear and Wolf Patrols had been through
many exciting experiences with Ned Nestor, who, young as he was, was
often in the employ of the Secret Service department of the United
States government. Frank, as Jimmie said, had been with Ned from the
start, and had never sent in a line of "copy" for the paper.
"I'm going to furnish a column a day this trip!" Frank declared,
making a motion to seize Jimmie. "We're going to take pictures,
aren't we? We'll take 'em by the acre, and dad's newspaper is going
to catch every one of them."
"Huh!" Jimmie declared, with a freckled nose in the air. "I'm a
newspaper man, too. You needn't think you're the only cherry in the
pie! I used to sell newspapers before I got into the Secret Service
with Ned!"
From his earliest years Jimmie had indeed been a newsboy on the
Bowery. He had never had a home except that provided by himself, and
this, in the early days of his life, had as often been a box or
barrel in an alley as anything else.
"Why the mountains?" asked Frank Shaw, presently. "Do you have to go
to the hills on this trip? I'm glad if you do, of course, but I'd
like to know something about it before we start. Dad will have to be
shown this time, I reckon! He | 612.284797 |
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E-text prepared by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
THE MINUTE BOYS OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY
by JAMES OTIS
Author of "The Boys of Fort Schuyler," "The Boys of '98,"
"Teddy and Carrots," "Captain Tom, the Privateersman,"
"The Boys of 1745," "The Signal Boys of '75,"
"Under the Liberty Tree," "When Israel Putnam Served the King,"
"The Minute Boys of the Green Mountains," Etc., Etc.
Illustrated by A. Burnham Shute
[Illustration: "An Indian strode gravely into the encampment"]
1911
Contents
I. Young Soldiers
II. The Powwow
III. Disappointment
IV. On the Oriskany
V. Divided Duty
VI. Between the Lines
VII. Insubordination
VIII. The Ambush
IX. The Indian Camp
X. Prisoners
XI. The Escape
XII. In the Fort
XIII. The Assault
XIV. Mutiny
XV. The Torture
XVI. Short Allowance
XVII. Perplexing Scenes
XVIII. Close Quarters
XIX. The Pursuit
XX. Enlisted Men
Foreword
It seems not only proper, but necessary, that I should explain how the
material for this story was obtained, and why it happens that I can thus
set down exactly what Noel Campbell thought and did, during certain times
while he was serving the patriot cause in the Mohawk Valley as few other
boys could have done.
At some time in Noel's life--most likely after he was grown to be a man
with children, and, perhaps, grandchildren of his own--he wrote many
letters to relatives of his in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, wherein he told
with considerable of detail that which he did during the War of the
Revolution, and more particularly while he and his friends were fighting
against that wily Indian sachem, Thayendanega. These letters, together
with many others concerning the struggles of our people for independence,
came into my keeping a long while ago, and from the lines written by Noel
Campbell I have put together the following story after much the same
fashion as he himself set it down.
When the work was begun I doubted if Thayendanega could have been
frightened by a party of boys who were playing at being soldiers, and
refused to make such statement until, quite by chance, I found the
following in Lossing's "Field-Book of the Revolution":
"It was a sunny morning toward the close of May, when Brant and his
warriors cautiously moved up to the brow of the lofty hill on the east
side of the town (Cherry Valley) to reconnoitre the settlement at their
feet. He was astonished and chagrined on seeing a fortification where he
supposed all was weak and defenceless, and greater was his disappointment
when quite a large and well-armed garrison appeared upon the esplanade in
front of Colonel Campbell's house.
"These soldiers were not as formidable as the sachem supposed, for they
were only half-grown boys, who, full of the martial spirit of the times,
had formed themselves into companies, and, armed with wooden guns and
swords, held regular drills each day.... He mistook the boys for
full-grown soldiers, and, considering an attack dangerous, moved his party
to a hiding-place in a deep ravine north of the village."
Then again I questioned if General Herkimer would have sent two boys as
messengers, even though an old and experienced soldier went with them,
when he must have had under his command many men grown who were thoroughly
familiar with Indian warfare. As if to combat this doubt, I found the
following statement by one who has written much concerning the struggles
of the colonists for freedom:
"As soon as St. Leger's approach up Oneida Lake was known to General
Herkimer, he summoned the militia of Tryon County to the succor of the
garrison at Fort Schuyler. They rendezvoused at Fort Dayton, on the German
Flats, and, on the day when the Indians encircled the fort, Herkimer was
near Oriskany with more than eight hundred men, eager to face the enemy.
He sent as messengers to Gansevoort two boys and a man, informing him of
his approach, and requesting him to apprise him of the arrival of the
couriers by discharging three guns in rapid succession, which he knew
would be heard at Oriskany."
Having thus proven, at least to my own satisfaction, that so much of
Noel's story was true, I set about verifying the other portions, and in no
single instance did I find that he had drawn upon his imagination,
therefore I resolved to write it down as the lad himself would have
spoken, being able, because of the letters, to put myself very nearly in
his place.
I would it had been possible to say more concerning Thayendanega and Sir
John Johnson, for they played important parts in the making of Mohawk
Valley history; but Noel's own account was of such length that I did not
feel warranted in adding to it.
To the best of my knowledge and belief, the tale of the "Minute Boys of
the Mohawk Valley" is no more than a narration of facts, as can be
verified by reference to any of our standard histories of the beginnings
of this nation.
If the reader can find in the reading one-half the pleasure I have had in
interpreting Noel Campbell's odd speech, and smoothing down his too
vigorous language, then will he be richly repaid for the perusal.
James Otis.
List of Illustrations
"An Indian strode gravely into the encampment"
"'You have done well to get back alive'"
"Sergeant Corney waved the bit of fringe slowly to and fro"
"'Tire 'em out, lads!' the General shouted"
"Three or four hundred Indians were dancing wildly around a huge fire"
"With upraised hands, stepped out from amid the screen of foliage"
"The painted villain sank down upon the ground"
"Keep a-movin' unless you're achin' to have a bullet through the back'"
Chapter I.
Young Soldiers
It sounds like an unreasonable tale, or something after the style of a
fairy-story, to say that a party of lads, drilling with wooden guns, were
able, without being conscious of the fact, to frighten from his bloody
work such a murderous, powerful sachem as Thayendanega, or Joseph Brant,
to use his English name, but such is the undisputed fact.
It was the month of May in the year of our Lord 1777, when we of Cherry
Valley, in the Province of New York, learned that this same Thayendanega,
a pure-blooded Mohawk Indian, whose father was chief of the Onondaga
nation, had come into the Mohawk Valley from Canada with a large force of
Indians, who, under the wicked tutoring of Sir John Johnson, were ripe for
mischief.
Col. Samuel Campbell, my uncle, was one of the leading patriots in that
section of the province, and it was well known that the Johnsons,--Sir
John and Guy,--the Butlers, Daniel Claus, and, in fact, all the Tories
nearabout, would direct that the first blow be struck at Cherry Valley, in
order that my uncle might be killed or made prisoner; therefore, at the
time when we lads frightened Joseph Brant without our own knowledge, we
were in daily fear of being set upon by our enemies.
Among the boys of the settlement I, Noel Campbell, was looked upon as a
leader simply because my uncle was the most influential Whig in the
vicinity, and my particular friend and comrade was Jacob Sitz, son of
Peter, a lad who could easily best us all in trials of strength or of
woodcraft.
We had heard of the Minute Men of Lexington and of the Green Mountains,
and when the day came that all the able-bodied men of our valley banded
themselves together for the protection of their homes against our
neighbors, the Tories, who thirsted for patriot blood, we lads decided
that we were old enough to do our share in whatsoever might be afoot.
Therefore it was that two score of us formed a league to help defend the
settlements, and gave ourselves the name of "Minute Boys of the Mohawk
Valley."
There was then living in Cherry Valley an old Prussian soldier by name
Cornelius Braun, who, in his native land, had won the rank of sergeant;
but, having grown too old for very active military duty, came to this
country with the idea of making a home for himself. Sergeant Corney, as
nearly every one called him, was not so old, however, but that he could
strike a blow, and a heavy one, in his own defence, and when he learned
what we lads proposed to do, he offered to drill us in the manual of arms.
We were not overly well equipped in the way of weapons, although it is
safe to say that each of us had a firearm of some sort; but it seemed to
give Sergeant Corney the fidgets to see us carrying such a motley
collection of guns, and he insisted on making a quantity of wooden muskets
to be used in the drill, to the end that we might present a more soldierly
appearance when lined up before him.
Therefore it was that, when we came each day on the green in front of my
uncle's house to go through such manoeuvres as our instructor thought
necessary, we had in our hands only those harmless wooden guns.
I was the captain of the company; Jacob Sitz acted as lieutenant, and all
the others were privates. Sergeant Corney, as a matter of course, was the
commander-in-chief.
On a certain day during the last week in May--the exact date I have
forgotten--we were drilling as usual, with Sergeant Corney finding more
fault than ever, when we frightened the famous Thayendanega away from an
attack on the settlement, although, as I have said, we knew nothing about
it until many months afterward.
It seems, as we learned later, that the villainous Brant had made all his
plans for an attack upon Cherry Valley, and had secretly gained a position
on the hill to the eastward of the place, counting on waiting there until
nightfall, when he might surprise us; but, much to his astonishment, he
saw what appeared from the distance to be a large body of well-equipped
soldiers evidently making ready for serious work.
The scoundrelly redskin was not so brave that he was willing to make an
attack where it seemed that the Whigs were prepared to receive him, and,
like the cur that he was, he marched his force to a hiding-place in a deep
ravine north of the settlement, near the road leading to the Mohawk River,
about a mile and a half from where we were drilling.
Now hardly more than an hour before it is probable that the Indians got
their first glimpse of us Minute Boys, Lieutenant Wormwood had arrived
from Fort Plain with information to my uncle that a force of patriot
soldiers was on the way to check Sir John's plans for killing all who did
not quite agree with him in politics, and to request that arrangements be
made to care for the men during such time as they might remain in that
vicinity.
When, late in the afternoon, the lieutenant was ready to return to Fort
Plain, Jacob's father, Peter Sitz, was ordered to accompany him as bearer
of a message from my uncle to the leader of the patriot force, and the two
men set off on horseback, we lads envying them because it seemed a fine
thing to ride to and fro over the country summoning this man or that to
his duty.
It was the last time Jacob saw his father until after many days had
passed, and what happened to the two horsemen we could only guess when the
lieutenant's lifeless body was found next day; but we learned the
particulars later.
It seems that when the messengers arrived near Brant's hiding-place, being
forced to pass by where the Indians were concealed in order to get to Fort
Plain, they were hailed by some one in the thicket; but instead of
replying, the men put spurs to their horses.
The savages in ambush fired a volley; Lieutenant Wormwood was killed
instantly, while Jacob's father was so seriously wounded that he fell from
his horse, and, a few seconds later, found himself a prisoner among
Brant's wolves.
When the tidings of this tragedy was brought into the settlement, Jacob
was overwhelmed with grief, as might have been expected, and even my uncle
had great difficulty in preventing the distressed lad from rushing into
the wilderness with the poor hope that he might be able, single-handed, to
effect his father's rescue.
He was only sixteen years of age--two months older than I; but within an
hour after we knew beyond a peradventure that Peter Sitz was a prisoner,
it seemed as if the lad had grown to be a man.
It was this first blow against the settlement of Cherry Valley by the
murderous Brant, which brought us Minute Boys of the Mohawk Valley into
active service, for from that day we saw as much of warfare as did our
elders, and I am proud to be able to set down the fact that we performed
good work, although we failed, as did the men of the settlement, in
preventing it from being destroyed a year and a half later, while the
fighting force of the population was absent.
The murder of Lieutenant Wormwood was sufficient evidence that the Tories
and their savage allies were prepared to harry us, and within a very few
minutes after the body of the officer had been brought in, the men made
ready to defend their homes.
A council of war was immediately called, and while it was in session
Sergeant Corney made a proposition which was like to take away the breath
from those who looked upon us of the Minute Boys as mere children, for he
said in the tone of one who knows whereof he speaks:
"I've been drillin' a force that can do good work in what's before us, if
they're given a show, an' I'll answer for half a dozen of 'em,
guaranteein' they'll show themselves to be men."
"Are you speaking of the lads?" my uncle asked in surprise, and the old
man replied promptly;
"Ay, that I am, sir, an', unless all signs fail, there's never one of 'em
who'll bring reproach upon the settlement."
"What is your plan, Sergeant Braun?" Master Dunlap, the preacher, asked,
for so great did all believe the danger which threatened, that every man,
whether able-bodied or crippled, had been summoned to the council.
"It ain't what you might rightly call a plan, sir," Sergeant Corney
replied. "It's only an idee, brought out by the fact that from this time
we've got to keep a close watch on what's happenin' in this 'ere valley,
unless we're willin' to be murdered in our beds. There are boys enough in
the settlement to do the scoutin', leavin' the elders to stand by for
defence, an' I see no good reason why they shouldn't perform full share of
military duty."
"Think you a lad like my nephew Noel could render any valuable assistance
at such a time as this?" my uncle asked, with a smile, as if believing he
had put an end to the old man's proposition, and my cheeks reddened with
excitement and fear lest Sergeant Corney should allow himself to be backed
down, as I listened intently for the answer.
It was not long in coming, and I could have kissed the old soldier for
speaking as he did.
"Give me him an' Jacob Sitz, sir, an' I'll guarantee to follow
Thayendanega an' his precious scoundrels till we know what deviltry
they've got in mind."
"You shall have full charge of all the boys in the settlement, and we will
see if you can make good your boast," my uncle, who held command of | 612.285099 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.3586570 | 1,454 | 83 |
E-text prepared by Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 56536-h.htm or 56536-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
A LIFE OF WALT WHITMAN
BY THE SAME WRITER
MOODS AND OUTDOOR VERSES
("RICHARD ASKHAM")
FOR THE FELLOWSHIP
[Illustration: _Walt Whitman at thirty-five_]
A LIFE OF WALT WHITMAN
by
HENRY BRYAN BINNS
With Thirty-three Illustrations
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published in 1905
TO
MY MOTHER
AND
HER MOTHER
THE REPUBLIC
PREFACE
To the reader, and especially to the critical reader, it would seem
but courteous to give at the beginning of my book some indication
of its purpose. It makes no attempt to fill the place either of a
critical study or a definitive biography. Though Whitman died thirteen
years ago, the time has not yet come for a final and complete life
to be written; and when the hour shall arrive we must, I think, look
to some American interpreter for the volume. For Whitman's life is
of a strongly American flavour. Instead of such a book I offer a
biographical study from the point of view of an Englishman, yet of
an Englishman who loves the Republic. I have not attempted, except
parenthetically here and there, to make literary decisions on the value
of Whitman's work, partly because he still remains an innovator upon
whose case the jury of the years must decide--a jury which is not yet
complete; and partly because I am not myself a literary critic. It is
as a man that I see and have sought to describe Whitman. But as a man
of special and exceptional character, a new type of mystic or seer.
And the conviction that he belongs to the order of initiates has
dragged me on to confessedly difficult ground.
Again, while seeking to avoid excursions into literary criticism, it
has seemed to me to be impossible to draw a real portrait of the man
without attempting some interpretation of his books and the quotation
from them of characteristic passages, for they are the record of his
personal attitude towards the problems most intimately affecting his
life. I trust that this part of my work may at any rate offer some
suggestions to the serious student of Whitman. Since he touched life at
many points, it has been full of pitfalls; and if among them I should
prove but a blind leader, I can only hope that those who follow will
keep open eyes.
Whitman has made his biography the more difficult to write by demanding
that he should be studied in relation to his time; to fulfil this
requirement was beyond my scope, but I have here and there suggested
the more notable outlines, within which the reader will supply
details from his own memory. As I have written especially for my own
countrymen, I have ventured to remind the reader of some of those
elementary facts of American history of which we English are too easily
forgetful.
The most important chapters of Whitman's life have been written by
himself, and will be found scattered over his complete works. To
these the following pages are intended as a modest supplement and
commentary. Already the Whitman literature has become extensive, but,
save in brief sketches, no picture of his whole life in which one may
trace with any detail the process of its development seems as yet to
exist. In this country the only competent studies which have appeared
are that of the late Mr. Symonds, which devotes some twenty pages to
biographical matters, and the admirable and suggestive little manual of
the late Mr. William Clarke. Both books are some twelve years old, and
in those years not a little new material has become available, notably
that which is collected in the ten-volume edition of Whitman's works,
and in the book known as _In re Walt Whitman_. On these and on essays
printed in the _Conservator_ and in the _Whitman Fellowship Papers_ I
have freely drawn for the following pages.
Of American studies the late Dr. Bucke's still, after twenty years,
easily holds the first place. Beside it stand those of Mr. John
Burroughs, and Mr. W. S. Kennedy. To these, and to the kind offices of
the authors of the two last named, my book owes much of any value it
may possess. I have also been assisted by the published reminiscences
of Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, Mr. Moncure Conway, and Mr. Thomas Donaldson,
and by the recently published _Diary in Canada_ (edited by Mr.
Kennedy), and Dr. I. H. Platt's Beacon Biography of the poet.
Since I never met Walt Whitman I am especially indebted to his friends
for the personal details with which they have so generously furnished
me: beside those already named, to Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Johnston, Mr.
J. Hubley Ashton, Mrs. W. S. Kennedy, Mrs. E. M. Calder, Mr. and Mrs.
(Stafford) Browning of Haddonfield (Glendale), Mr. John Fleet of
Huntington, Captain Lindell of the Camden Ferry, and to Mr. Peter G.
Doyle; but especially to Whitman's surviving executors and my kind
friends, Mr. T. B. Harned and Mr. Horace Traubel. To these last, and
to Mr. Laurens Maynard, of the firm of Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co.,
the publishers of the final edition of Whitman's works, I am indebted
for generous permission to use and reproduce photographs in their
possession. I also beg to make my acknowledgments to Mr. David McKay
and Mr. Gutekunst, both of Philadelphia.
Helpful suggestions and information have been most kindly given by my | 612.378697 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.4556470 | 2,786 | 37 |
Produced by Barbara Tozier and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in |
| this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of |
| this document. |
+------------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration: THOMAS W. LAWSON AFTER TWELVE MONTHS OF "FRENZIED
FINANCE"]
FRENZIED FINANCE
BY
THOMAS W. LAWSON
OF BOSTON
VOLUME I
THE CRIME OF AMALGAMATED
NEW YORK
THE RIDGWAY-THAYER COMPANY
1905
_Copyright, 1905, by_
THE RIDGWAY-THAYER COMPANY
_These articles are reprinted from "Everybody's Magazine"_
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY THE RIDGWAY-THAYER COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY THE RIDGWAY-THAYER COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK
TO
PENITENCE AND PUNISHMENT
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
TO PENITENCE: that those whose deviltry is exposed within its pages may
see in a true light the wrongs they have wrought--and repent.
TO PUNISHMENT: that the unpenalized crimes of which it is the chronicle
may appear in such hideousness to the world as forever to disgrace their
perpetrators.
TO PENITENCE: that the transgressors, learning the error of their ways,
may reform.
TO PUNISHMENT: that the sins of the century crying to heaven for
vengeance may on earth be visited with condemnation stern enough to halt
greed at the kill.
TO PUNISHMENT: that public indignation may be so aroused against the
practices of high finance that it shall come to be as culpable to graft
and cozen within the law as it is lawless to-day to counterfeit and
steal.
TO PENITENCE: that in the minds of all who read this eventful history
there may grow up a knowledge and a conviction that the gaining of vast
wealth is not worth the sacrifice of manhood, and that poverty and
abstinence with honor are better worth having than millions and luxury
at the cost of candor and rectitude.
TO MY AUDIENCE
SAINTS, SINNERS, AND IN-BETWEENS
Before you enter the confines of "Frenzied Finance," here spread
out--for your inspection, at least; enlightenment, perhaps--halt one
brief moment. If the men and things to be encountered within are
real--did live or live now--you must deal with them one way. If these
embodiments are but figments of my mind and pen, you must regard them
from a different view-point. Therefore, before turning the page, it
behooves you to find for yourself an answer to the grave question:
Is it the truth that is dealt with here? In weighing the evidence
remember:
My profession is business. My writing is an incident. "Frenzied Finance"
was set down during the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth hours of busy
days. I pass it up as the history of affairs of which I was a part. The
men who move within the book's pages are still on the turf. A period of
twelve years is covered. So far, eighteen instalments, in all some
400,000 words, have been published. The spigot is still running. I have
written from memory, necessarily. While it is true that fiction is
expressed in the same forms and phrases as truth, no man ever lived who
could shape 400,000 words into the kinds of pictures I have painted and
pass them off for aught but what they were. The character of my palette
made it mechanically impossible to shade or temper the pigments, for the
story was written in instalments, and circumstances were such that often
one month's issue was out to the public before the next instalment was
on paper. Considering all this, the consistency of the chronicle as it
stands is the best evidence of its truth. In submitting it to my readers
I desire to reiterate:
It _is_ truth--of the kind that carries its own bell and candle. Within
the narrative itself are the reagents required to test and prove its
genuineness. Were man endowed with the propensity of a Muenchhausen, the
cunning of a Machiavelli, the imagination of Scheherezade, the ability
of a Shakespeare, and the hellishness of his Satanic Majesty, he could
not play upon 400,000 words, or one-quarter that number, and make the
play peal truth for a single hour to the audience who will read this
book, or to one-thousandth part the audience that has already read it in
_Everybody's Magazine_.
Such as the story is, it is before you. If in its perusal you fathom my
intentions, my hopes, my desires, I shall have been repaid for the pain
its writing has brought me. At least you will find the history of a
colossal business affair involving millions of dollars and manned by the
financial leaders of the moment. It is a fair representation of
financial methods and commercial morals as they exist in America at the
beginning of the twentieth century. As a contemporary document the
narrative should have value; as history it is not, I believe, without
interest. As a message it has had its influence. Indeed, it is not an
exaggeration to say that no man in his own generation has seen such a
crop come forth from seed of his own sowing since the long bygone days
when the wandering king planted dragons' teeth on the Phoenician plain
and raised up an army of warriors.
Yours very truly
Thomas W. Lawson
FOREWORD
There will be set down in this book, in as simple and direct a fashion
as I can write it, the story of Amalgamated Copper and of the "System"
of which it is the most flagrant example. This "System" is a process or
a device for the incubation of wealth from the people's savings in the
banks, trust, and insurance companies, and the public funds. Through its
workings during the last twenty years there has grown up in this country
a set of colossal corporations in which unmeasured success and continued
immunity from punishment have bred an insolent disregard of law, of
common morality, and of public and private right, together with a grim
determination to hold on to, at all hazards, the great possessions they
have gulped or captured. It is the same "System" which has taken from
the millions of our people billions of dollars, and given them over to a
score or two of men with power to use and enjoy them as absolutely as
though these billions had been earned dollar by dollar by the labor of
their bodies and minds. Yet in telling the story of Amalgamated, the
most brazen and voracious maw of this "System," I desire it understood
that I take no issue with men; it is with a principle I am concerned.
With the men I have had close and intimate intercourse, and from my
knowledge of the means they have used, and the manner in which they have
used them, and the causes and effects of their performances, I have no
hesitation in stating that the good they have done, the evils they have
created, and the indelible imprints they have made on mankind are the
products of a condition and not of their individualities, and that if
not one of them had ever been born the same good and evil would to-day
exist. Others would have done what they did, and would have to answer
for what has been done, as they must. So I say the men are merely
individuals; the "System" is the thing at fault, and it is the "System"
that must be rectified. Better far for me not to tell the story I am
going to tell; better far for the victims of Amalgamated not to know who
plundered them and how, than to have them know it only to wreak
vengeance on individuals and overlook the "System," which, if allowed to
continue, surely will in time, a short time, destroy the nation by
precipitating fratricidal war.
The enormous losses, millions upon millions--to my personal knowledge
over a hundred millions of dollars--which were made because of
Amalgamated; the large number of suicides--to my personal knowledge over
thirty--which were directly caused by Amalgamated; the large number of
previously reputable citizens who were made prison convicts--to my
personal knowledge over twenty--directly because of Amalgamated, were
caused by acts of this "System" of which Henry H. Rogers and his
immediate associates were the direct administrators; and yet Mr. Rogers
and his immediate associates, while these great wrongs were occurring,
led social lives which, measured by the most rigid yardstick of mental
or moral rectitude, were as near perfect as it is possible for human
lives to be. As husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, friends, they were
ideal, cleanly of body and of mind, with heads filled with sentiment and
hearts filled with sympathies; their personal lives were like their
homes and their gardens--revealing only the brightest things of this
world, the singing, humming, sweet-smelling things which so strongly
speak to us of the other world we are yet to know. As workers in the
world's vineyards, they labored six days and rested upon the Sabbath,
and gave thanks to Him from whom all blessings flow that He allowed
them, His humble creatures, to have their earthly being. And yet these
men, to whose eyes I have seen come the tears for others' sufferings,
and whose voices I have heard grow husky in recounting the woes of their
less fortunate brothers--these men under the spell of the brutal code of
modern dollar-making are converted into beasts of prey, and put to shame
the denizens of the deep which devour their kind that they may live.
In the harness of the "System" these men knew no Sabbath, no Him; they
had no time to offer thanks, no care for earthly or celestial being;
from their eyes no human power could squeeze a tear, no suffering wring
a pang from their hearts. They were immune to every feeling known to God
or man. They knew only dollars. Their relatives of a moment since, their
friends of yesterday and long, long ago, they regarded only as lumps of
matter with which to feed the whirring, grinding, gnashing mill which
poured forth into their bins--dollars.
In telling the story of Amalgamated I hope to have profited by my long
and intimate study of this cruel, tigerishly cruel "System," so as to be
able to deaden myself to all those human sympathies which I have heard
its votaries so many times subordinate to "It's business." I shall try
only to keep before me how the Indians of the forest, as our forefathers
drove them farther and farther into the unknown West, got bitter
consolation out of the oft-chanted precept of their white brethren of
civilization, "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," reminding myself
that whatever of misery or unhappiness my story may bring to the few, it
will be as nothing to that which they have brought to the many.
In asking for the serious, earnest consideration of the public, I shall
be honest in giving to it my qualifications, my motives, and my desires
for writing this narrative. For thirty-four years I have been actively
connected with matters financial. As banker, broker, and corporation
man, I have, from the vantage-point of one who actually handled the
things he studied, studied the causes which created the conditions which
made possible the "System" which produced the Amalgamated affair. In my
thirty-four years of business experience I have seen the great fortunes,
which are the motive power of the "System" referred to, come out of the
far West as specks upon the financial horizon and grow and grow as they
travelled Eastward, until in their length, breadth, and thickness they
obscured the rising sun. At short range I have seen the giant money
machine put together; I have touched elbows with the men who made it, as
they fitted this wheel and adjusted that gear, while at the same time I
broke bread and slept with the every-day people who, with the industry
of the ant and the patience of the spider, toiled to pile in the
pennies, the nickels, and the d | 612.475687 |
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Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| 612.574522 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
THE GATES BETWEEN.
BY
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS,
_AUTHOR OF_
"THE GATES AJAR," "GYPSY BREYNTON," Etc
Write the things which thou hast seen,
and the things which are,
and the things which shall be hereafter.
REVELATION.
WARD, LOCK AND Co.,
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE.
[_All rights reserved_].
1887
THE GATES BETWEEN.
CHAPTER I.
If the narrative which I am about to recount perplex the reader, it can
hardly do so more than it has perplexed the narrator. Explanations,
let me say at the start, I have none to offer. That which took place I
relate. I have had no special education or experience as a writer;
both my nature and my avocation have led me in other directions. I can
claim nothing more in the construction of these pages than the
qualities of a faithful reporter. Such, I have tried to be.
It was on the twenty-fifth of November of the year 187-, that I,
Esmerald Thorne, fell upon the event whose history and consequences I
am about to describe.
Autobiographies I do not like. I should have been positive at any time
during my life of forty-nine years, that no temptation could drag me
over that precipice of presumption and illusion which awaits the man
who confides himself to the world. As it is the unexpected which
happens, so it is the unwelcome which we choose. I do not tell this
story for my own gratification. I tell it to fulfil the heaviest
responsibility of my life. However I may present myself upon these
pages is the least of my concern; whether well or ill, that is of the
smallest possible consequence. Touching the manner of my telling the
story, I have heavy thoughts; for I know that upon the manner of the
telling will depend effects too far beyond the scope of any one human
personality for me to regard them indifferently. I wish I could. I
have reason to believe myself the bearer of a message to many men.
This belief is in itself enough, one would say, to deplete a man of
paltry purpose. I wish to be considered only as the messenger, who
comes and departs, and is thought of no more. The message remains, and
should remain, the only material of interest.
Owing to some peculiarities in the situation, I am unable to delegate,
and do not see my | 612.582091 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration]
The Blue Rose Fairy Book
Maurice Baring
[Illustration: THE HOOFS OF HIS STEED LEFT BEHIND THEM A TRAIL OF
TWINKLING ANEMONES]
THE BLUE ROSE
FAIRY BOOK
BY
MAURICE BARING
[Decoration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1911
DEDICATED
TO
_MARY and AUBREY_
NOTE
One of these stories, "The Glass Mender," appeared first in _The
English Review_, and six of the shorter stories in _The Morning
Post_. I wish to thank the editors and proprietors concerned for
their kindness in letting me republish them. The rest of the
stories are new.
M. B.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE GLASS MENDER 1
THE BLUE ROSE 31
THE STORY OF VOX ANGELICA AND LIEBLICH GEDACHT 45
THE VAGABOND 97
THE MINSTREL 137
THE HUNCHBACK, THE POOL, AND THE MAGIC RING 151
THE SILVER MOUNTAIN 165
THE RING 179
THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER 193
THE CUNNING APPRENTICE 219
ORESTES AND THE DRAGON 233
THE WISE PRINCESS 247
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
And as he galloped through the wood, the hoofs
of his steed left behind them a trail of
twinkling anemones _Frontispiece_
One evening he was playing his one-stringed
instrument outside a dark wall _To face p._ 41
As he said this he climbed on to the manuals
and disappeared into the heart of the organ " 95
And there stood before the throng a wonderful
shining figure with wings " 133
And turning round she saw an old woman, bent
and worn, who was muttering a supplication " 139
The sun was shining on the sea and a fresh
breeze was blowing " 160
And towards the evening he emerged from the
forest and saw the hill before him shining
in the sunset " 176
Her mother, when she was walking in the
garden of the palace, found a silver horseshoe
lying on one of the paths " 181
A garment on which the month of May, and all
its flowers, was painted " 210
He changed himself into a hawk " 223
The dragon appeared, and seizing the little
Princess with its tail, flew away " 235
She went out on to the step and called out in a
loud voice, "Oh, you boisterous winds, bring
hither that same carpet on which I used to
sit in the house of my father" " 252
THE GLASS MENDER
Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen who had one daughter
called Rainbow. When she was christened, the people of the city were
gathered together outside the cathedral, and amongst them was an old
gipsy woman. The gipsy wanted to go inside the cathedral, but the Beadle
would not let her, because he said there was no room. When the ceremony
was over, and the King and Queen walked out, followed by the Head Nurse
who carried the baby, the gipsy called out to them:
"Your daughter will be very beautiful, and as happy as the day is long,
until she sees the Spring!" And then she disappeared in the crowd.
The King and the Queen took counsel together and the King said: "That
gipsy was evidently a fairy, and what she said bodes no good."
"Yes," said the Queen, "there is only one thing to be done: Rainbow must
never see the Spring, nor even hear that there is such a thing."
So an order was issued to the whole city, that if any one should say the
word "Spring" in the presence of Princess Rainbow he would have his head
cut off. Moreover, it was settled that the Princess should never be
allowed to go outside the palace, and during the springtime she should
be kept entirely indoors.
The King and the Queen lived in a city which was on the top of a hill,
and had a wall round it, and the King's palace was in the middle of it.
In the springtime Rainbow was taken to a high tower which looked on to
the little round city, and from her window you could see the spires of
the churches, the ramparts, and the broad green plain beyond. But a
curtain made of canvas was fastened outside Rainbow's window, so that
she could see nothing, and she was not allowed to go outside her tower
until the springtime was over.
Rainbow grew up into a most beautiful Princess, with grey eyes and fair
hair, and until she was sixteen all went well, and nothing happened to
interfere with her happiness.
It was on her sixteenth birthday, which was in April, and she was
sitting alone in her room, looking at her birthday presents, when she
began to wonder for the first time why she was shut up in her tower
during three months of the year, and why a curtain was placed outside
her window, so that she could see nothing outside. Her mother and her
nurse had told her that this was done so that she might not fall ill,
and she had always believed it; but on that day, for the first time, she
began to wonder whether there might be any other reason as well. It was
a lovely Spring day, and the sun shone through the canvas curtain which
was stretched outside Rainbow's open window; a breeze came into her room
from the outside world, and Rainbow felt a great longing to tear aside
the curtain and to see what was happening out of doors.
At that very moment, a sound came into her room from the city: it was
the sound of two or three notes played on some small reed or pipe,
unlike those of any of the musical instruments she had heard in the
palace, more tuneful and more artless and more gay. As she heard the few
reedy notes of this little tune, she felt something which she had never
known before. The whole room seemed to be full of a new sunshine, and
she smelt the fragrance of the grass; she heard the blackbird whistling,
and the lark singing; she saw the apple orchards in blossom, the violets
peeping from under the leaves, the hedges covered with primroses, the
daffodils fluttering in the wind, the fern uncrumpling her new leaves,
the green <DW72>s starred with crocuses; fields of buttercups and
marigolds; forests paved with bluebells; lilac bushes; the trailing gold
of the laburnums; and the sharp green of the awakening beech-trees; and
she heard the cuckoo's note, and a thousand other unknown sounds of
meadow, wood, and stream; and before her passed the whole pageant of the
Spring, with its joyous music and its thousand and one sights.
The vision disappeared and she cried out: "Let me go into the world and
let me taste and see this wonderful new thing!"
Rainbow said nothing about her vision, either to her parents or to her
nurses, but | 612.58217 |
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