TIMESTAMP
stringlengths 27
27
| ContextTokens
int64 3
7.44k
| GeneratedTokens
int64 6
1.9k
| text
stringlengths 9
41.5k
| time_delta
float64 0
3.44k
|
|---|---|---|---|---|
2023-11-16 18:27:16.5630490 | 321 | 111 | ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
THE WIDOW IN THE
BYE STREET
BY
JOHN MASEFIELD
LONDON
SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD.
3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI
MCMXII
_Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A._
_All rights reserved_
_Second Thousand_
TO
MY WIFE
I
Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town,
There lived a widow with her only son:
She had no wealth nor title to renown,
Nor any joyous hours, never one.
She rose from ragged mattress before sun
And stitched all day until her eyes were red,
And had to stitch, because her man was dead.
Sometimes she fell asleep, she stitched so hard,
Letting the linen fall upon the floor;
And hungry cats would steal in from the yard,
And mangy chickens pecked about the door
Craning their necks so ragged and so sore
To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse,
But they got nothing in the widow's house.
Mostly she made her bread by hemming shrouds
For one rich undertaker in the High Street,
Who used to pray that folks might die in crowds
And that their friends might pay to let them lie sweet;
And when one died the widow in the Bye Street
Stitched night and day to give the | 612.583089 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.5631800 | 304 | 11 |
Produced by Julia Miller and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections
is found at the end of the text. Inconsistencies in spelling and
hyphenation have been maintained. A list of inconsistently spelled
and hyphenated words is found at the end of the text.
[Illustration: MARKETING
BEEF.
_Hind Quarter._
1. Sirloin.
2. Rump.
3. Edgebone.
4. Buttock.
5. Mouse Buttock.
6. Veiny Piece.
7. Thick Flank.
8. Thin Flank.
9. Leg.
10. Fore Rib; Five Ribs.
_Fore Quarter._
11. Middle Rib; Four Ribs.
12. Chuck; Three Ribs.
13. Shoulder or Leg of Mutton Piece.
14. Brisket.
15. Clod.
16. Neck or Sticking Piece.
17. Shin.
18. Cheek.
VENISON.
1. Haunch.
2. Neck.
3. Shoulder | 612.58322 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.5651750 | 1,275 | 15 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Christian
Boissonnas, The Internet Archive for some images and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
BIRDS AND NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
VOL. VIII. DECEMBER, 1900. NO. 5.
CONTENTS.
Page
DECEMBER. 193
THE WESTERN HORNED OWL. 194
THE OWL. 198
THE LONG-CRESTED JAY. 201
THE SUNRISE SERENADE. 202
A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 203
THE FULVOUS TREE-DUCK. 204
HOW THE SWIFTS CAME TO BUILD IN AUNT DOROTHY'S CHIMNEY. 207
THE RED-BREASTED SAPSUCKER. 213
A WHITE TABLE IN THE WOODS. 214
THE MOON-BABY. 215
THE CECROPIA AND PROMETHEA MOTHS. 216
A PLEA FOR LEGISLATIVE PROTECTION. 221
THE DOG AND ITS ANCESTORS. 225
A FAVORITE HAUNT. 227
CARNIVOROUS PLANTS. 228
MAPLE LEAVES. 232
MAY-APPLE. 235
INDEX.
DECEMBER.
The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes
Of water 'neath the summer sunshine gleamed;
Far fairer than when placidly it streamed,
The brook its frozen architecture makes,
And under bridges white its swift way takes.
Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamed
Might linger on the road; or one who deemed
His message hostile, gently, for their sakes
Who listened, might reveal it by degrees.
We gird against the cold of winter wind
Our loins now with mighty bands of sleep,
In longest, darkest nights take rest and ease,
And every shortening day, as shadows creep
O'er the brief noontide, fresh surprises find.
--Helen Hunt Jackson
Best of all, old King December,
Laughs beside the burning ember,
With his children round his knees,
And a look of jovial ease.
He is crowned Lord of Misrule--
Here's his Queen, and there's his fool.
He is wreathed with frosty green,
And ever the gay song between
"Wassail!" shouts he, "health to all!"
And re-echoes the old hall.--
Kind December!
--Walter Thornbury, "The Twelve Brothers."
Copyright, 1900, by A. W. Mumford.
THE WESTERN HORNED OWL.
(_Bubo virginianus subarcticus._)
"Bird of the silent wing and expansive eye, grimalkin in feathers,
feline, mousing, haunting ruins and towers, and mocking the midnight
stillness with thy uncanny cry."--_John Burroughs, Birds and Poets._
Among the birds of prey (Raptores) none are better known, more written
about or more cosmopolitan than that nocturnal division (Family
Strigidae), which includes the two hundred or more species of Owls.
From the Arctic regions of the north to the Antarctic regions of the
south they are known. Most of the genera are represented in both
hemispheres, though eight are peculiar to the Old World and three to
the New. The majority of the species finds a home in the forests,
though a few live in marshes and on the plains. Some invade the
buildings of civilization and may be found in the unfrequented towers
of churches and in outbuildings.
Disliked by all birds its appearance during the day is the signal for a
storm of protests and, knowing that there is little need of fear of his
power at this time, they flock about him, pecking and teasing him till
he is obliged to retreat to his obscure roosting place.
The Owls in most countries of both the New World as well as the Old are
regarded as birds of ill omen and messengers of woe, and are protected
from harm by some uncivilized and superstitious peoples, some believing
that spirits of the wicked reside in their bodies. By others they have
been called "Devil's Birds." The belief of some unlearned people in the
close relationship of the Owl with death and the grave dates back at
least to the time of Shakespeare, who speaks of the Owl's hoot as "A
song of death." Among the ancient races only the Athenians seem not to
have possessed this popular fear and superstition. They venerated the
Owl and regarded it as the favorite bird of Minerva. On the other hand
the Romans looked upon the Owl with fear and detestation, dreading its
appearance as the embodiment of all evil and the omen of unfortunate
events to come. By them the Owl was consecrated to Proserpine, the wife
of Hades and queen of the underworld. Pliny tells us that the city of
Rome underwent a solemn cleansing because of the visit of one of these
birds. When the unearthly character of their cries and their quiet,
spirit-like motion, as they fly through the night hours, are taken
into consideration, it is not surprising that they have been and are
held in awe and dread by many people. The characteristics of the two
sexes are practically the same, except that the female is somewhat the
larger. The young resemble the adults, but are usually darker in color.
Excepting those species that are whitish in color, the Owls are usually | 612.585215 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.6585950 | 2,786 | 49 |
Produced by David Widger
ALONZO FITZ
AND OTHER STORIES
by Mark Twain
Contents:
THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON
ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING
ABOUT MAGNANIMOUS-INCIDENT LITERATURE
PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH
THE GREAT REVOLUTION IN PITCAIRN
THE CANVASSER'S TALE
AN ENCOUNTER WITH AN INTERVIEWER
PARIS NOTES
LEGEND OF SAGENFELD, IN GERMANY
SPEECH ON THE BABIES
SPEECH ON THE WEATHER
CONCERNING THE AMERICAN LANGUAGE
ROGERS
THE LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ CLARENCE AND ROSANNAH ETHELTON
It was well along in the forenoon of a bitter winter's day. The town of
Eastport, in the state of Maine, lay buried under a deep snow that was
newly fallen. The customary bustle in the streets was wanting. One
could look long distances down them and see nothing but a dead-white
emptiness, with silence to match. Of course I do not mean that you could
see the silence--no, you could only hear it. The sidewalks were merely
long, deep ditches, with steep snow walls on either side. Here and there
you might hear the faint, far scrape of a wooden shovel, and if you
were quick enough you might catch a glimpse of a distant black figure
stooping and disappearing in one of those ditches, and reappearing the
next moment with a motion which you would know meant the heaving out of
a shovelful of snow. But you needed to be quick, for that black figure
would not linger, but would soon drop that shovel and scud for the
house, thrashing itself with its arms to warm them. Yes, it was too
venomously cold for snow-shovelers or anybody else to stay out long.
Presently the sky darkened; then the wind rose and began to blow in
fitful, vigorous gusts, which sent clouds of powdery snow aloft, and
straight ahead, and everywhere. Under the impulse of one of these gusts,
great white drifts banked themselves like graves across the streets; a
moment later another gust shifted them around the other way, driving a
fine spray of snow from their sharp crests, as the gale drives the spume
flakes from wave-crests at sea; a third gust swept that place as clean
as your hand, if it saw fit. This was fooling, this was play; but each
and all of the gusts dumped some snow into the sidewalk ditches, for
that was business.
Alonzo Fitz Clarence was sitting in his snug and elegant little parlor,
in a lovely blue silk dressing-gown, with cuffs and facings of crimson
satin, elaborately quilted. The remains of his breakfast were before
him, and the dainty and costly little table service added a harmonious
charm to the grace, beauty, and richness of the fixed appointments of
the room. A cheery fire was blazing on the hearth.
A furious gust of wind shook the windows, and a great wave of snow
washed against them with a drenching sound, so to speak. The handsome
young bachelor murmured:
"That means, no going out to-day. Well, I am content. But what to do for
company? Mother is well enough, Aunt Susan is well enough; but these,
like the poor, I have with me always. On so grim a day as this,
one needs a new interest, a fresh element, to whet the dull edge of
captivity. That was very neatly said, but it doesn't mean anything. One
doesn't want the edge of captivity sharpened up, you know, but just the
reverse."
He glanced at his pretty French mantel-clock.
"That clock's wrong again. That clock hardly ever knows what time it
is; and when it does know, it lies about it--which amounts to the same
thing. Alfred!"
There was no answer.
"Alfred!... Good servant, but as uncertain as the clock."
Alonzo touched an electric bell button in the wall. He waited a moment,
then touched it again; waited a few moments more, and said:
"Battery out of order, no doubt. But now that I have started, I will
find out what time it is." He stepped to a speaking-tube in the wall,
blew its whistle, and called, "Mother!" and repeated it twice.
"Well, that's no use. Mother's battery is out of order, too. Can't raise
anybody down-stairs--that is plain."
He sat down at a rosewood desk, leaned his chin on the left-hand edge of
it and spoke, as if to the floor: "Aunt Susan!"
A low, pleasant voice answered, "Is that you, Alonzo?'
"Yes. I'm too lazy and comfortable to go downstairs; I am in extremity,
and I can't seem to scare up any help."
"Dear me, what is the matter?"
"Matter enough, I can tell you!"
"Oh, don't keep me in suspense, dear! What is it?"
"I want to know what time it is."
"You abominable boy, what a turn you did give me! Is that all?"
"All--on my honor. Calm yourself. Tell me the time, and receive my
blessing."
"Just five minutes after nine. No charge--keep your blessing."
"Thanks. It wouldn't have impoverished me, aunty, nor so enriched you
that you could live without other means."
He got up, murmuring, "Just five minutes after nine," and faced his
clock. "Ah," said he, "you are doing better than usual. You are only
thirty-four minutes wrong. Let me see... let me see.... Thirty-three
and twenty-one are fifty-four; four times fifty-four are two hundred and
thirty-six. One off, leaves two hundred and thirty-five. That's right."
He turned the hands of his clock forward till they marked twenty-five
minutes to one, and said, "Now see if you can't keep right for a
while--else I'll raffle you!"
He sat down at the desk again, and said, "Aunt Susan!"
"Yes, dear."
"Had breakfast?"
"Yes, indeed, an hour ago."
"Busy?"
"No--except sewing. Why?"
"Got any company?"
"No, but I expect some at half past nine."
"I wish I did. I'm lonesome. I want to talk to somebody."
"Very well, talk to me."
"But this is very private."
"Don't be afraid--talk right along, there's nobody here but me."
"I hardly know whether to venture or not, but--"
"But what? Oh, don't stop there! You know you can trust me, Alonzo--you
know, you can."
"I feel it, aunt, but this is very serious. It affects me deeply--me,
and all the family---even the whole community."
"Oh, Alonzo, tell me! I will never breathe a word of it. What is it?"
"Aunt, if I might dare--"
"Oh, please go on! I love you, and feel for you. Tell me all. Confide in
me. What is it?"
"The weather!"
"Plague take the weather! I don't see how you can have the heart to
serve me so, Lon."
"There, there, aunty dear, I'm sorry; I am, on my honor. I won't do it
again. Do you forgive me?"
"Yes, since you seem so sincere about it, though I know I oughtn't to.
You will fool me again as soon as I have forgotten this time."
"No, I won't, honor bright. But such weather, oh, such weather! You've
got to keep your spirits up artificially. It is snowy, and blowy, and
gusty, and bitter cold! How is the weather with you?"
"Warm and rainy and melancholy. The mourners go about the streets with
their umbrellas running streams from the end of every whalebone. There's
an elevated double pavement of umbrellas, stretching down the sides of
the streets as far as I can see. I've got a fire for cheerfulness, and
the windows open to keep cool. But it is vain, it is useless: nothing
comes in but the balmy breath of December, with its burden of mocking
odors from the flowers that possess the realm outside, and rejoice in
their lawless profusion whilst the spirit of man is low, and flaunt
their gaudy splendors in his face while his soul is clothed in sackcloth
and ashes and his heart breaketh."
Alonzo opened his lips to say, "You ought to print that, and get it
framed," but checked himself, for he heard his aunt speaking to some
one else. He went and stood at the window and looked out upon the wintry
prospect. The storm was driving the snow before it more furiously than
ever; window-shutters were slamming and banging; a forlorn dog, with
bowed head and tail withdrawn from service, was pressing his quaking
body against a windward wall for shelter and protection; a young girl
was plowing knee-deep through the drifts, with her face turned from the
blast, and the cape of her waterproof blowing straight rearward over her
head. Alonzo shuddered, and said with a sigh, "Better the slop, and the
sultry rain, and even the insolent flowers, than this!"
He turned from the window, moved a step, and stopped in a listening
attitude. The faint, sweet notes of a familiar song caught his ear. He
remained there, with his head unconsciously bent forward, drinking in
the melody, stirring neither hand nor foot, hardly breathing. There was
a blemish in the execution of the song, but to Alonzo it seemed an added
charm instead of a defect. This blemish consisted of a marked flatting
of the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh notes of the refrain or
chorus of the piece. When the music ended, Alonzo drew a deep breath,
and said, "Ah, I never have heard 'In the Sweet By-and-by' sung like
that before!"
He stepped quickly to the desk, listened a moment, and said in a
guarded, confidential voice, "Aunty, who is this divine singer?"
"She is the company I was expecting. Stays with me a month or two. I
will introduce you. Miss--"
"For goodness' sake, wait a moment, Aunt Susan! You never stop to think
what you are about!"
He flew to his bedchamber, and returned in a moment perceptibly changed
in his outward appearance, and remarking, snappishly:
"Hang it, she would have introduced me to this angel in that sky-blue
dressing-gown with red-hot lapels! Women never think, when they get
a-going."
He hastened and stood by the desk, and said eagerly, "Now, Aunty, I am
ready," and fell to smiling and bowing with all the persuasiveness and
elegance that were in him.
"Very well. Miss Rosannah Ethelton, let me introduce to you my favorite
nephew, Mr. Alonzo Fitz Clarence. There! You are both good people, and
I like you; so I am going to trust you together while I attend to a
few household affairs. Sit down, Rosannah; sit down, Alonzo. Good-by; I
sha'n't be gone long."
Alonzo had been bowing and smiling all the while, and motioning
imaginary young ladies to sit down in imaginary chairs, but now he took
a seat himself, mentally saying, "Oh, this is luck! Let the winds blow
now, and the snow drive, and the heavens frown! Little I care!"
While these young people chat themselves into an acquaintanceship, let
us take the liberty of inspecting the sweeter and fairer of the two. She
sat alone, at her graceful ease, in a richly furnished apartment which
was manifestly the private parlor of a refined and sensible lady,
if signs and symbols may go for anything. For instance, by a low,
comfortable chair stood a dainty, top-heavy workstand, whose summit was
a fancifully embroidered shallow basket, with varicolored crewels, and
other strings and odds and ends protruding from under the gaping lid and
hanging down in negligent profusion. On the floor lay bright shreds of
Turkey red, Prussian blue, and kindred fabrics, bits of ribbon, a spool
or two, a pair of scissors, and a roll or so of tint | 612.678635 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.6597240 | 474 | 8 |
Produced by David Clarke, Dan Horwood and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
{Transcriber's Note:
All square brackets [] are from the original text. Braces {} ("curly
brackets") are supplied by the transcriber.
A caret character '^' indicates the following letters are superscript
in the original.
More transcriber's notes are provided at the end of the text.}
LEADING ARTICLES
ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
{Illustration: W. H. McFarlane, Lith^r Edin^r
HUGH MILLER
_Fac-simile of a Calotype by D. O. Hill, R. I. A. 1845.
see page 184_}
MURRAY AND GIBB, EDINBURGH,
PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.
LEADING ARTICLES
ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
BY
HUGH MILLER,
AUTHOR OF 'THE OLD RED SANDSTONE,' ETC. ETC.
_EDITED BY HIS SON-IN-LAW_,
THE REV. JOHN DAVIDSON.
_FOURTH EDITION._
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM P. NIMMO.
1872.
PREFACE.
The present volume is issued in compliance with the strong solicitations
of many, to whose desire deference was due. In selecting the articles,
I have been guided mainly by two considerations,--namely, the
necessity for reproducing the mature opinion of a great mind, upon
great subjects; and for making the selection so varied, as to convey to
the reader some idea of the wonderful versatility of the powers
which could treat subjects so diverse in their nature with such
uniform eloquence and discrimination. I trust that the chapters on
Education will prove to be a valuable contribution to the speedy
settlement of that question at the present crisis. Those on
Sutherlandshire are inserted because they possess a permanent value,
in connection with the social and economical history of our country.
Some of the articles are of a personal character, and are introduced,
not, certainly, for the purpose of recalling old animosities, but
solely to illustrate the author's method of | 612.679764 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.7766050 | 1,538 | 18 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
PORT ARGENT
A Novel
By Arthur Colton
With a Frontispiece by Eliot Keen
New York
Henry Holt And Company
1904
[Ill 0001]
[Ill 0010]
[Ill 0011]
IN MEMORIAM
C. W. WELLS
DEDICATED
TO
GEORGE COLTON
863714
PORT ARGENT
CHAPTER I--PULSES
|PORT ARGENT is a city lying by a brown navigable river that gives it
a waterway to the trade of the Lakes. No one knows why it grew there,
instead of elsewhere on the banks of the Muscadine, with higher land and
better convenience. One dim-eyed event leaped on the back of another,
and the city grew.
In the Senate Chamber where accidents and natural laws meet in Executive
Session or Committee of the Whole, and log-roll bills, there are no
“press galleries,” nor any that are “open to the public.” Inferences
have been drawn concerning its submerged politics, stakes laid on
its issues, and lobbying attempted. What are its parties, its
sub-committees? Does an administrative providence ever veto its bills,
or effectively pardon the transgressors of any statute?
Fifty years ago the Honourable Henry Champney expected that the acres
back of his large square house, on Lower Bank Street by the river, would
grow in value, and that their growing values would maintain, or help
to maintain, his position in the community, and show the over-powers to
favour integrity and Whig principles. But the city grew eastward instead
into the half-cleared forest, and the sons of small farmers in that
direction are now the wealthy citizens. The increment of the small
farmers and the decrement of Henry Champney are called by social
speculators “unearned,” implying that this kind of attempt to lobby a
session of accidents and natural laws is, in general, futile.
Still, the acres are mainly built over. The Champney house stands back
of a generous lawn with accurate paths. Trolley cars pass the front edge
of the lawn. Beyond the street and the trolleys and sidewalks comes the
bluff. Under the bluff is the tumult of the P. and N. freight-yards. But
people in Port Argent have forgotten what Whig principles were composed
of.
There in his square-cupolaed house, some years ago, lived Henry Champney
with his sister, Miss Eunice, and his daughter, Camilla. Camilla was
born to him in his middle life, and through her eyes he was beginning,
late in his old age, to look curiously at the affairs of a new
generation.
Wave after wave these generations follow each other. The forces of
Champney's generation were mainly spent, its noisy questions and answers
subsiding. It pleased him that he was able to take interest in the
breakers that rolled over their retreat. He wondered at the growth of
Port Argent.
The growth of Port Argent had the marks of that irregular and corrupt
legislation of destiny. It had not grown like an architect-builded
house, according to orderly plans. If some thoughtful observer had come
to it once every decade of its seventy years, it might have seemed to
his mind not so much a mechanic result of men's labours as something
living and personal, a creature with blood flowing daily through
arteries and veins (trolley cars being devices to assist the flow),
with brains working in a thousand cells, and a heart beating foolish
emotions. He would note at one decade how it had thrown bridges across
the river, steeples and elevator-buildings into the air, with sudden
throbs of energy; had gathered a bundle of railroads and a row
of factories under one arm, and was imitating speech through a
half-articulate daily press; at another decade, it would seem to have
slept; at another, it had run asphalt pavements out into the country,
after whose enticing the houses had not followed, and along its busiest
streets were hollow, weed-grown lots. On the whole, Port Argent would
seem masculine rather than feminine, reckless, knowing not form or
order, given to growing pains, boyish notions, ungainly gestures,
changes of energy and sloth, high hope and sudden moodiness.
The thoughtful observer of decades, seeing these signs of eccentric
character, would feel curious to understand it from within, to enter its
streets, offices, and homes, to question and listen, to watch the civic
heart beat and brain conceive.
One April afternoon, some decades ago, such an observer happened by and
found gangs of men tearing up Lower Bank Street.
Lower Bank Street was higher than Bank Street proper, but it was down
the river, and in Port Argent people seldom cared whether anything
fitted anything else.
Bank Street proper was the main business street beside the river. Fifty
years before, in forecasting the future city, one would have pictured
Lower Bank Street as an avenue where wealth and dignity would take
its pleasure; so had Henry Champney pictured it at that time; but
the improvident foreigner lived along it largely, and possessed Port
Argent's one prospect, the brown-flowing river with its ships. Most of
the buildings were small houses or tenements. There was one stately
line of square old mansions, a block or two long and beginning with the
Champney place.
A worn-out, puddle-holding Macadam roadbed had lain in the street since
the memory of most men. It had occurred to a railroad to come into the
city from the north, peg a station to the river bank, and persuade the
city to pave its approaches, and when the observer of decades asked
a citizen on the sidewalk: “Why, before this long, grey station and
freight-yards here of the Peninsular and Northern Railroad are these
piles of paving brick, this sudden bustle on Lower Bank Street?” he was
told: “It's a deal between Marve Wood and the P. and N. He was going to
make them come into the Union Station, but they fixed him, I guess.”
“Fixed him?”
“Oh, they're a happy family now.”
The citizens of Port Argent held singular language.
“Who is Marve Wood?”
“He's--there he is over there.”
“Talking to the young man with the notebook and papers?”
“Yes. That's Dick Hennion, engineer and contractor.”
“And this Wood--is he an engineer and contractor?”
“No--well, yes. He contracts with himself and engineers the rest of us.”
The observer of decades moved on, thoughtfully to observe other phases
of the city, its markets, churches, charities, children pouring out of
school, its pleasures at theatre, fair-grounds, and Outing Club.
The young man with the notebook stood on the curb, writing in it with
a pencil. He was large, lean, sinewy, broad-shouldered, brown-haired,
grey-eyed, short-moustached, with features bony and straight. He
produced the effect | 612.796645 |
2023-11-16 18:27:16.8046770 | 2,705 | 76 | Project Gutenberg Etext Songs of the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman
Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!
Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers.
Please do not remove this.
This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book.
Do not change or edit it without written permission. The words
are carefully chosen to provide users with the information they
need about what they can legally do with the texts.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below. We need your donations.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3)
organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541
As of 12/12/00 contributions are only being solicited from people in:
Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,
Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Montana,
Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota,
Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.
International donations are accepted,
but we don't know ANYTHING about how
to make them tax-deductible, or
even if they CAN be made deductible,
and don't have the staff to handle it
even if there are ways.
As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising
will begin in the additional states. Please feel
free to ask to check the status of your state.
International donations are accepted,
but we don't know ANYTHING about how
to make them tax-deductible, or
even if they CAN be made deductible,
and don't have the staff to handle it
even if there are ways.
These donations should be made to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109
Title: Songs of the Ridings
Author: F. W. Moorman
Release Date: May, 2002 [Etext #3232]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this file first posted = 02/04/01]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Project Gutenberg Etext Songs of the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman
*****This file should be named 3232.txt or 3232.zip*****
This etext was produced by Dave Fawthrop.
Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any
of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our books one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to send us error messages even years after
the official publication date.
Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our sites at:
http://gutenberg.net
http://promo.net/pg
Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement
can surf to them as follows, and just download by date; this is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext02
or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext02
Or /etext01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release fifty new Etext
files per month, or 500 more Etexts in 2000 for a total of 3000+
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
should reach over 300 billion Etexts given away by year's end.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.
At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.
We need your donations more than ever!
Presently, contributions are only being solicited from people in:
Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,
Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Nevada,
Montana, Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina,
South Dakota, Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.
As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising
will begin in the additional states.
These donations should be made to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation,
EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541,
has been approved as a 501(c)(3) organization by the US Internal
Revenue Service (IRS). Donations are tax-deductible to the extent
permitted by law. As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising will begin in the
additional states.
All donations should be made to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation. Mail to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Avenue
Oxford, MS 38655-4109 [USA]
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information at:
http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html
***
If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:
Michael S. Hart <[email protected]>
[email protected] forwards to [email protected] and archive.org
if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on....
Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.
We would prefer to send you information by email.
***
Example command-line FTP session:
ftp ftp.ibiblio.org
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext02, etc.
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files...set bin for zip files]
GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etexts,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.
To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause | 612.824717 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.1546770 | 4,174 | 19 |
Produced by K Nordquist and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
American Commonwealths
MINNESOTA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: MINNESOTA
TO ACCOMPANY
W. W. FOLWELL’S
MINNESOTA in AMERICAN COMMONWEALTHS
Compiled by the author, 1908.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
American Commonwealths
MINNESOTA
THE NORTH STAR STATE
BY
WILLIAM WATTS FOLWELL
[Illustration: L’ETOILE DU NORD]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT 1908 BY WILLIAM WATTS FOLWELL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1908_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
If this compend of Minnesota history shall be found a desirable
addition to those already before the public, it will be due to the good
fortune of the writer in reaching original sources of information not
accessible to his predecessors.
The most important of them are: the papers of Governor Alexander
Ramsey, in the possession of his daughter, Mrs. Marion R. Furness; the
letter-books and papers of General H. H. Sibley, preserved in the
library of the Minnesota Historical Society; some hundreds of letters
saved by Colonel John H. Stevens, and deposited by him in the same
library; the papers of Ignatius Donnelly, in the hands of his family;
the great collection of Green Bay and Prairie du Chien papers belonging
to the Wisconsin Historical Society; the remarkable group of early
French documents owned by the Chicago Historical Society; and finally,
the priceless collection of Minnesota newspapers preserved by the
Minnesota Historical Society.
Grateful acknowledgments are offered to many citizens who have given
information out of their own knowledge, or have directed the writer to
other sources. Among “old Territorians” who have rendered invaluable
aid must be named Simeon P. Folsom, John A. Ludden, Joseph W. Wheelock,
Benjamin H. Randall, A. L. Larpenteur, A. W. Daniels, John Tapper, and
William Pitt Murray. The last named has put me under the heaviest
obligation.
W. W. F.
UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA,
MINNEAPOLIS, MINN., June 1, 1908.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FRENCH PERIOD 1
II. THE ENGLISH DOMINION 29
III. MINNESOTA WEST ANNEXED 42
IV. FORT SNELLING ESTABLISHED 54
V. EXPLORATIONS AND SETTLEMENTS 70
VI. THE TERRITORY ORGANIZED 86
VII. TERRITORIAL DEVELOPMENT 108
VIII. TRANSITION TO STATEHOOD 133
IX. THE STRUGGLE FOR RAILROADS 159
X. ARMING FOR THE CIVIL WAR 178
XI. THE OUTBREAK OF THE SIOUX 190
XII. THE SIOUX WAR 205
XIII. SEQUEL TO THE INDIAN WAR 222
XIV. HONORS OF WAR 240
XV. REVIVAL 254
XVI. STORM AND STRESS 267
XVII. CLEARING UP 304
XVIII. FAIR WEATHER 333
XIX. A CHRONICLE OF RECENT EVENTS 340
INDEX 367
MINNESOTA
CHAPTER I
THE FRENCH PERIOD
The word Minnesota was the Dakota name for that considerable tributary
of the Mississippi which, issuing from Big Stone Lake, flows
southeastward to Mankato, turns there at a right angle, and runs on to
Fort Snelling, where it empties into the great river. It is a compound
of “mini,” water, and “sota,” gray-blue or sky-. The name was
given to the territory as established by act of Congress of March 3,
1849, and was retained by the state with her diminished area.
If one should travel in the extension of the jog in the north boundary,
west of the Lake of the Woods, due south, he could hardly miss Lake
Itasca. If then he should embark and follow the great river to the Iowa
line, his course would have divided the state into two portions, not
very unequal in extent. The political history of the two parts is
sufficiently diverse to warrant a distinction between Minnesota East
and Minnesota West. England never owned west of the river, Spain gained
no foothold east of it. France, owning on both sides, yielded Minnesota
East to England in 1763, and sold Minnesota West to the United States
in 1803. Up to the former date, the whole area was part of New France
and had no separate history.
Although the French dominion existed for more than two hundred years,
it is not important for the present compendious work that an elaborate
account be made of their explorations and commerce. They made no
permanent settlement on Minnesota soil. No institution, nor monument,
nor tradition, even, has survived to determine or affect the life of
the commonwealth. It will be sufficient to summarize from an abounding
literature the successive stages of the French advance from the
Atlantic to the Mississippi, their late and brief efforts to establish
trade and missions in the upper valley, and the circumstances which led
to their expulsion from the American continent.
It is now well known that in the first decade of the sixteenth century
Norman and Breton fishermen were taking cod in Newfoundland waters, and
it is reasonably surmised that they had been so engaged before the
Cabots, under English colors, had coasted from Labrador towards Cape
Cod in 1497. The French authorities, occupied with wars, foreign and
domestic, were unable to participate with Spain, England, and Portugal
in pioneer explorations beyond seas. It was not till 1534 that Francis
I, a brilliant and ambitious monarch, dispatched Jacques Cartier, a
daring navigator, to explore lands and waters reported of by French
fishermen, and, if possible, to discover the long-sought passage to
Cathay. In the summer of that year Cartier made the circuit of the Gulf
of St. Lawrence, and returned to France disappointed of his main
purpose. His neglect to enter the great river flowing into the gulf is
unexplained. At two convenient places he went ashore to set up
ceremonial crosses and proclaim the dominion of his king. In the
following year (1535), on a second expedition he ascended the St.
Lawrence River to the Huron village Hochelaga, on or near the site of
Montreal. He wintered in a fort built near Quebec, where one fourth of
his crew died of scurvy. In May, 1536, after setting up another cross
with a Latin inscription declaring the royal possession, he sailed away
for home. Five years later (1541) Cartier participated in still another
expedition, which, prosecuted into a third year, resulted disastrously.
The king had spent much money, but the passage to China had not been
found, no mines had been discovered, no colony had been planted, no
heathen converted.
Throughout the remainder of the sixteenth century the French kings were
too much engrossed in great religious wars, fierce and bloody beyond
belief but for existing proofs, to give thought or effort to extending
their dominion in the New World. The treaty of Vervins with Spain and
the Edict of Nantes, both occurring in 1598, gave France an interval of
peace within and without. Henry IV (“Henry of Navarre”) at once turned
his eyes to the coasts of America, on which as yet no Europeans had
made any permanent settlements. His activity took the form of
patronizing a series of trading voyages. On one of these, which sailed
in 1603, he sent Samuel Champlain, then about thirty-five years of age,
a gallant soldier and an experienced navigator. He had already visited
the West Indies and the Isthmus of Darien, and in his journal of the
voyage had foreshadowed the Panama Canal. He was now particularly
charged with reporting on explorations and discoveries. On this voyage
Champlain ascended the St. Lawrence to Montreal and vainly attempted to
surmount the Lachine Rapids. On the return of the expedition in
September of the same year, Champlain laid before the king a report and
map. They gave such satisfaction as to lead to a similar appointment on
an expedition sent out the following year. For three years Champlain
was occupied in exploring and charting the coasts of Nova Scotia and
New England, a thousand miles or thereabout.
In 1608 he went out in the capacity of lieutenant-governor of New
France, a post occupied for the remaining twenty-seven years of his
life, with the exception of a brief interval. On July 3 he staked out
the first plat of Quebec. His trifling official engagements left him
ample leisure to prosecute those explorations on which his heart was
set; chief of them the road to China.
In 1609, to gain assistance of the Indians in his neighborhood, he
joined them in a war-party to the head of the lake to which he then
gave his name. A single volley from the muskets of himself and two
other Frenchmen put the Iroquois, as yet unprovided with firearms, to
headlong rout. Six years later he led a large force of Hurons from
their homes in upper Canada between Lake Simcoe and Georgian Bay,
across Lake Ontario, to be defeated by the well-fortified Iroquois. The
notes of his expedition added the Ottawa River, Lake Nipissing, the
French River, Lake Huron, and Lake Ontario to his map. Could Champlain
have foreseen the disasters to follow for New France and the Huron
nation, he would not have made the Iroquois his and their implacable
enemy. He made no further journeys westward in person, but adopted a
plan of sending out young men, whom he had put to school among native
tribes, to learn their languages and gather their traditions and
surmises as to regions yet unvisited. One of them, Etienne Brulé, who
had been his interpreter on the second expedition against the Iroquois,
and detached before the battle on an embassy to an Indian tribe, did
not return till after three years of extensive wanderings. He showed a
chunk of copper which he declared he had brought from the shore of a
great lake far to the west, nine days’ journey in length, which
discharged over a waterfall into Lake Huron.
In 1634 another of Champlain’s apprentices, Jean Nicollet by name,
passed through the Straits of Mackinaw and penetrated to the head of
Green Bay and possibly farther. He may have been at the Sault Sainte
Marie. So confident was he of reaching China that he took with him a
gorgeous mandarin’s robe of damask to wear at his court reception.
Attired in it he addressed the gaping Winnebagoes, putting a climax on
his peroration by firing his pistols. Champlain’s map of 1632 showed
his conjectured Lake Michigan north of Lake Huron. Nicollet gave it its
proper location.
Champlain’s stormy career closed at Christmas, 1635. The honorable
title of “Father of New France” rightly belongs to him, in spite of the
fact that in none of his great plans had he achieved success. He had
not found the road to the Indies, the savages remained in the power of
the devil, and no self-supporting settlement had been planted. Quebec’s
population did not exceed two hundred, soldiers, priests, fur-traders
and their dependents. There was but one settler cultivating the soil.
Exploration languished after Champlain’s death, and for a generation
was only incidentally prosecuted by missionaries and traders. In 1641
two Jesuit fathers, Jogues and Raymbault, traveled to the Sault Sainte
Marie, and gave the first reliable account of the great lake.
From the earliest lodgments of white men on the St. Lawrence the
fur-trade assumed an importance far greater than the primitive
fisheries. In the seventeenth century the fashion of fur-wearing spread
widely among the wealthier people of Europe. The beaver hat had
superseded the Milan bonnet. No furs were in greater request than those
gathered in the Canadian forests. A chief reason for the long delay of
cultivation in the French settlements was the profit to be won by
ranging for furs. Montreal, founded in 1642 as a mission station, not
long after became, by reason of its location at the mouth of the
Ottawa, the entrepôt of the western trade. The business took on a
simple and effective organization. Responsible merchants provided the
outfit, a canoe, guns, powder and lead, hulled corn and tallow for
subsistence, and an assortment of cheap and tawdry merchandise. Late in
the summer the “coureurs des bois” set out for the wilderness. Those
bound for the west traveled by the Ottawa route in large companies, for
better defense against skulking Iroquois. On reaching Lake Huron, they
broke up, each crew departing to its favorite haunts.
The chances for large profits naturally attracted to this primitive
commerce some men of talent and ambition. In 1656 two such came down to
Montreal piloting a flotilla of fifty Ottawa canoes deeply laden with
precious furs. They had been absent for two years, had traveled five
hundred leagues from home, and had heard of various nations, among them
the “Nadouesiouek.” The author of the Jesuit Relation for the year
speaks of them as “two young Frenchmen, full of courage,” and as the
“two young pilgrims,” but suppresses their names. Again, in 1660 two
Frenchmen reach Montreal from the upper countries, with three hundred
Algonquins in sixty canoes loaded with furs worth $40,000. The journal
of the Jesuit fathers gives the name of one of them as of a person of
consequence, Des Groseilliers; and says of him, “Des Grosillers
wintered with the nation of the Ox... they are sedentary
Nadwesseronons.”
The two Frenchmen of 1660 are now believed to have been Medard Chouart,
Sieur des Groseilliers, and Pierre d’Esprit, Sieur de Radisson, both
best known by their titles. The latter was the younger man, and brother
to Groseilliers’ second wife. In 1885 the Prince Society of Boston
printed 250 copies of the “Voyages of Peter Esprit Radisson,” written
by him in English. The manuscript had lain in the Bodleian Library of
Oxford University for nearly two hundred years. No doubt has been
raised as to its authenticity. While the accounts of the different
voyages are not free from exaggerations, not to say outright
fabrications, the reader will be satisfied that the writer in the main
told a true story of the wanderings and transactions of himself and
comrade. These two men a few years later went over to the English and
became the promoters of the Hudson’s Bay Company.
If Radisson’s story be true, he and Groseilliers were the first white
men to tread the soil of Minnesota. As he tells it, the two left
Montreal in the month of August, 1658, and after much trouble with the
“Iroquoits” along the Ottawa, reached the Sault Sainte Marie, where
they “made good cheare” of whitefish. Embarking late in the same
season, they went along “the most delightful and wonderous coasts” of
Lake Superior, passed the Pictured Rocks, portaged over Keweenaw Point,
and made their way to the head of Chequamegon Bay. Here they built a
“fort” of stakes in two days, which was much admired by the wild men.
Having cached a part of their goods, they proceeded inland to a Huron
village on a lake believed to be Lake Courte Oreille, in Sawyer County,
Wisconsin, where they were received with great ceremony. At the first
snowfall the people departed for their winter hunt, and appointed a
rendezvous after two months and a half. Before leaving the village the
Frenchmen sent messengers “to all manner of persons and nations,”
inviting them to a feast at which presents would be distributed. The
best guess locates this rendezvous on or near Knife Lake, in Kanabec
County, Minnesota. That was then Sioux country, and the people
thereabout were long after known as Isantis or Knife Sioux, probably
because they got their first steel knives from these Frenchmen. While
at their rendezvous eight “ambassadors from the nation of the Beefe”
(i. e. Buffalo, of course) came to give notice that a great number of
their people would assemble for the coming feast. They brought a
calumet “of red stone as big as a fist and as long as a hand.” Each
ambassador was attended by two wives carrying wild rice and Indian corn
as a present. For the feast a great concourse of Algonquin tribes
gathered and prepared a “fort” six hundred paces square, obviously a
mere corral of poles and brush. A “foreguard” of thirty young Sioux,
“all proper men,” heralded the coming of the elders of their village,
who arrived next day “with incredible pomp.” Grand councils were held,
followed by feasting, dancing, mimic battles, and games of many sorts,
including the greased pole. As described, this was no casual
assemblage, but a great and extraordinary convocation. It lasted a
fortnight.
The two Frenchmen now made seven small journeys “to return the visit of
the Sioux, and found themselves in a town of great cabins covered with
skins and mats, in a country without wood and where corn was grown.”
The account of this six weeks’ trip is brief and indefinite. The
conjecture that Groseilliers and Radisson traveled a hundred and fifty
miles, more or less, into the prairie region west of the Mississippi,
either by way of the Minnesota or the Crow Wing rivers, has slight
support. The account may have been invented from information obtained
of the Sioux at the convocation.
In the early spring of 1660 the two adventurers returned to Chequamegon
Bay, whence they continued to Montreal without notable incident. In his
narrative Radisson injects after the return from the nation of the
Beefe a story of | 613.174717 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.4651870 | 353 | 57 |
Produced by 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.)
LITTLE WHITE FOX AND HIS ARCTIC FRIENDS
[Illustration: "Such ugly, bent noses I never saw before in all my life,
either." FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 21_]
LITTLE WHITE FOX
AND HIS ARCTIC FRIENDS
BY
ROY J. SNELL
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
GEORGE F. KERR
[Device]
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1916
_Copyright, 1916_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published, September, 1916
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LITTLE WHITE FOX MAKES A DISCOVERY 1
II. LITTLE MISS PTARMIGAN FOOLS HIM 9
III. HE GETS HIS HEAD THUMPED 19
IV. WHEN LITTLE FOXES QUARREL 27
V. LITTLE WHITE FOX MEETS BARRED SEAL 34
VI. LITTLE WHITE FOX HELPS HIMSELF 41
VII. LITTLE WHITE BEAR AND LITTLE BLACK BEAR 48
VIII. TROUBLE FOR LITTLE WHITE BEAR 54
IX. LITTLE BLACK BEAR'S DISCOVERY 61
X. FUN FOR TWO LITTLE BEARS | 613.485227 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.5601640 | 770 | 17 |
Produced by Margaret Willden, Mormon Texts Project Intern
(http://mormontextsproject.org/)
TREASURES IN HEAVEN
FIFTEENTH BOOK OF THE
FAITH PROMOTING SERIES
DESIGNED FOR THE INSTRUCTION
AND ENCOURAGEMENT OF YOUNG
LATTER-DAY SAINTS
COMPILED AND PUBLISHED BY
GEO. C. LAMBERT
SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH
1914
OFFICIAL SANCTION
April 8, 1914
To the First Presidency, City.
Dear Brethren:
I have had a desire for a long time past to resume the publication
of the Faith Promoting Series that I originated and published
something like thirty-five years ago, but which has been suspended
for almost thirty years.
I received the sanction of the Church authorities when the
publication of this series was commenced, and had ample evidence
afterwards of the popularity of the volumes issued, and of the
general benefit resulting therefrom. I now desire your sanction
in what I may do in publishing additional volumes; and hope to
subserve the interests of the Church and promote true faith only in
what I publish.
If you deem it necessary to appoint a committee to whom I may
refer any matter concerning which there may be a question as to
propriety, etc., I shall be glad to have you do so.
I am prepared to assume all financial responsibility, and believe,
with the experience I have had, I shall be able to do effective
work in the selection and preparation of the matter.
I intend to make the volumes about one hundred pages each, and hope
to be able to sell them at twenty-five cents per volume.
I have the matter partially prepared for two volumes, the first to
relate to Temple work, and to be called "Treasures in Heaven," the
second to contain a variety of incidents and experiences, and to be
called "Choice Memories."
A waiting your kind consideration and reply, and with kindest
regards, I remain
Your Brother,
GEO. C. LAMBERT.
April 30, 1914
Elder George C. Lambert, City.
Dear Brother:
We learn by yours of the 28th inst. that you desire to resume the
publication of the "Faith Promoting Series," discontinued some
thirty years ago, and we take pleasure in informing you that you
have our sanction to do this, and that we have appointed Elders
George F. Richards, A. W. Ivins and Joseph F. Smith, Jr. as a
committee to read the manuscript.
With kind regards,
Your Brethren,
JOSEPH F. SMITH, ANTHON H. LUND, CHARLES W. PENROSE,
First Presidency.
PREFACE
No lesson taught by the Savior during his ministry in mortality was
more frequently and thoroughly impressed than that of unselfish
service. Of those who labored solely for the things of this world,
or for praise or the honors that men can bestow, He had a habit of
saying: "They have their reward." If they obtained that which they
strove for they were already repaid: they were entitled to nothing
more. Of the rich He said, "Ye have received your consolation." It
was not sufficient that man should seek to benefit or bring happiness
alone to those they loved. Even that He evidently regarded as | 613.580204 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.5612670 | 4,587 | 8 |
Produced by Tim Lindell, Stephen Hutcheson, 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.)
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
CHILDREN OF THE CLIFF
BY
BELLE WILEY
AND
GRACE WILLARD EDICK
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1905, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America.
TO
THE CHILDREN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The cliff country 1
II. Lost 13
III. The tower 18
IV. A cliff house 28
V. The cliff home 35
VI. The dress of the cliff people 44
VII. The race 50
VIII. The feast 59
IX. The journey 66
X. Home again 72
CHAPTER I
THE CLIFF COUNTRY
Little Teni and Mavo lived in a dry sandy country far away from here.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
They lived with their father and mother high up on a rocky cliff.
All about them were rocks and sand.
They could not play in the shade of the trees, because in that dry land
there were very few trees.
But the little boy and girl had great fun climbing up and down the rocks
and running in the sunshine.
One day when Mavo and Teni were playing at the foot of the cliff, they
saw some baby rabbits not far away.
They were brown rabbits, just the kind that Teni loved to play with.
"Oh, Mavo! Let us catch them," he said, and the two ran off together.
As the children came near, the little rabbits scampered away as fast as
they could.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
The mother rabbit was waiting for her children in a hole near by and
they ran straight for home.
Mavo laughed as the little creatures ran over the sand toward the hollow
cliff.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"Come, Mavo," said Teni. "We can catch them if we hurry."
They did not see the rabbits go into the hole, and ran on and on.
"I see them, Teni," said Mavo, pointing to a brown spot in the distance.
But when they came to the brown spot they saw only a stone.
They looked all about them, but could find no trace of the rabbits. Mavo
was so disappointed not to find them!
"Where are the rabbits?" said Teni.
"We have lost them."
"They may be hiding there," he said, looking toward a clump of cedar
trees, at the foot of the cliff.
The two children ran among the trees, but could find no rabbits.
Mavo was tired and thirsty, so Teni said, "Sit down, Mavo; I will get
you a drink of water. See, the rocks are wet. There must be a spring in
the cliff."
Mavo sat on a rock, while her brother climbed up the cliff to the
spring.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
As he stooped down to take a drink he wondered what he could use to
carry some water to Mavo.
He looked around for a gourd but could find none.
The only thing he could use was the little skin bag that hung around his
neck.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
He never opened this bag, for he knew that if he lost the bit of bear's
fur from inside, no one would know what his real name was.
The children of the cliff-dwellers took their names from their mothers.
These names were very queer, because they were the names of animals or
the sun or the moon.
The little piece of fur showed that Mavo and Teni belonged to the bear
family.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Teni knew that Mavo was very thirsty, so he took the bag from his neck
and opened it.
He held the fur tight in his hand, for he had no pocket in his loose
skin tunic.
Mavo drank the clear water, and Teni sat down beside her and put the fur
carefully back in the bag.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Being very warm, he threw off his skin tunic for a few minutes and
rolled about in the sand.
The brother and sister meant to rest only a moment, but as the shadows
grew longer and longer the little heads drooped, and soon they were fast
asleep in the warm sand.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
The sun went down.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
The little stars came out.
Their mother had told them that these were baby suns, and that the pale
moon was the mother.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
As the children slept, an owl cried over their heads, and the black
beetles ran over their little brown feet.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
CHAPTER II
LOST
In the early morning, when Father Sun began to put his star babies to
bed, the little cliff-dwellers awoke.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
They looked about for their father and mother, for they thought they had
been sleeping on their own little skin bed.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"Why, Teni," said Mavo, "we are out of doors; see the red cliff, and the
cedar-tree over there."
They called and called, but no one answered.
Even the owl had gone.
Teni took Mavo by the hand, and said, "Let us go home."
So they started straight for the cliff which they thought was home.
They walked and walked, but the cliff was not as near as it seemed.
Mavo began to cry, and said, "Oh, Teni, hurry home, I am so hungry!"
"Never mind, Mavo," said Teni, "I will find something for you to eat,
and then we will try to find home."
So Mavo stopped crying, and clung to Teni's hand, as he looked about for
the little plant which he knew was good to eat.
Teni had to look a long time, and Mavo was very tired before he found
the plant.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"See, Mavo! this is what I have been looking for," said Teni, as he
stooped down and pulled up an herb.
"Let us eat these roots; they are very good; then we will start for
home."
The brother and sister stopped a short time to eat their breakfast of
roots, then they ran on again.
As the sun grew hotter the sand seemed to grow heavier.
How glad they would be to find their home!
CHAPTER III
THE TOWER
As they stopped a moment to rest under some sage-bushes, they saw
something which frightened them.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
A band of fierce Indians was coming toward them.
The Indians had paint on their faces and bows in their hands. They had
long black hair like Teni's, but their skin was much darker.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Mavo clung to Teni, and both crouched behind the bushes.
They did not speak, for fear the Indians might hear them.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Teni drew Mavo close to him and wiped the tears from her eyes. He knew
that this tribe of Indians hated his people, and would kill him and his
sister if they should find them.
It was well that the children were hidden by the trees, for the Indians
passed by without seeing them.
The children's eyes were filled with red dust so that they could not see
for a long time.
When the dust cleared away, they saw a man running toward them.
He was running from those fierce Indians.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"Look, look, Teni," said Mavo, "there is father coming for us. See! Here
he is! Call him, Teni!"
Teni jumped up very quickly and called as loudly as he could.
The man understood the call because he was a cliff-dweller too.
The cliff people were Indians, who had a language of their own.
As the man came nearer, the children saw it was not their father, though
he looked very much like him.
"What are you doing here?" he said to Teni.
"We want to go home," said the boy, "but we can not find the way."
"You can not go home now," said the man, "for those Indians would get
you."
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"Come, I will take care of you."
He took Mavo in his strong arms, and telling Teni to follow, he walked
over the hot sand to a tall tower on the cliff.
The tower was made of stones held together with clay.
It stood high on the cliff, and from its little windows one could see
far into the valley.
When the cliff-dwellers were in this fortress, they were safe from their
enemies because when the ladders were pulled up there was no way to get
in.
The man found a ladder and raised it to a hole high in the tower.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
They climbed it and were soon inside.
Mavo and Teni looked through the peep-holes in the walls while their new
friend pulled in the ladder.
"Are you hungry?" said the man, looking toward the children.
Mavo nodded, for she was very hungry.
The brother and sister had had nothing but herbs to eat since the day
before.
"I will look for some food," said their new friend. "There must be some
here."
Then he climbed into the storeroom and came back with his hands full of
dried meat.
He gave the meat to the children, and while they ate, he climbed down to
a room below and pulled some willow branches from a hole in the wall. He
called the children, and lifted them into this room.
It was dark down there, but he told Mavo and Teni not to be afraid, for
they would soon be out in the light.
They crawled through the hole into a dark tunnel.
The way was very long and the children were very tired.
But soon they reached the end of the tunnel.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
CHAPTER IV
A CLIFF HOUSE
They were glad to see the sunshine again.
They sat down at the foot of the cliff to rest a moment.
"Is that your home?" asked Teni, pointing to the cliff far above him.
Mavo looked up at the stone house on the rocky shelf.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
This house, with its plastered walls, looked like a part of the cliff.
There were finger-prints in the plaster, for the people had worked with
their hands, because they had few tools.
The tools they did have were made of stone and bone.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
The children noticed a woman climbing into the high door-way.
Mavo said, "Who is that?"
"My wife," replied Demino.
The woman turned and saw the children.
She wore a loose skin tunic, and her long black hair hung over her
shoulders.
She smiled at the children, and motioned to Demino to come up into the
house.
A little boy was shouting to his father from the small window above the
door.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
He, too, had seen the strangers, and wished them to come in.
Demino waved his hand and said, "That is my little boy. He wants to see
you."
"Let us hurry and climb the ladder."
Mavo cried, "I will not go! I will not go! I want my mother!"
She did not like the strange house.
Teni put his arm about his sister and said, "Come, Mavo. We must be
brave."
When they were in the house even Teni felt strange, for it was very much
larger than his house.
Tears came to his eyes, but he tried hard not to cry.
"Oh, Mavo!" he called, "see!" and they ran to the corner, where a tiny
brown baby lay fast asleep on a deerskin.
The little boy, who had been climbing up and down some wooden pegs in
the wall, ran toward them, saying, "That is my baby brother."
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Mavo lay down on the deerskin and put her little hands on the baby's
cheek.
She was happy now, and soon fell asleep.
CHAPTER V
THE CLIFF HOME
"Come, Teni," said the little boy, "I will show you my home."
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Teni was glad to see this strange house, for he had never been in one so
large before.
They climbed about from room to room.
There were so many that Teni could not count them.
After a while the little boy said, "Let us go into this store-room."
So they climbed the notched pole and lifted the stone from the hole
which led into the largest granary.
Teni said, "There is only one granary in our house. How many have you?"
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"Five," said the little boy, "but this is the largest one."
"See how much food we have!"
Teni's eyes opened wide with wonder. He had never seen a storeroom so
well filled. There were piles and piles of skin boxes filled with
powdered buffalo's meat. There were large baskets filled with grain and
beans.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
In one corner was a box of wheat, and hanging from the pegs in the wall
were the skin clothes and skin leggings ready for winter's wear.
The boys climbed up some of the pegs and looked over the wall into the
large reservoir.
There was only a little water in it, because it had not rained for many
months.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
One of the stone jars on the wall had some water in it, and Teni took a
long drink.
Then they crept carefully along the wall till they came to a part of the
cliff which hung over the reservoir.
The boys stood here a few moments and looked down at the water.
"This reservoir is nearly empty," said Teni.
"Have you another?"
"Yes," said the boy, "but we pray for rain every day, because the other
reservoir is nearly empty also."
Just then Teni thought of Mavo, so they started back.
On the way they stopped at a round room which was in the center of this
queer house.
"What is this room?" said Teni.
"The kiva," said the boy. "All the men of this cliff village sleep here
on the skins which you see scattered about."
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
On a shelf in one part of the kiva was a curious-looking doll baby with
a painted face, long hair, and bright-colored clothes.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
This doll was an idol, so the children stopped to put some red corn at
its feet, touching its dress very gently.
"Let us light the fire," said Teni.
They walked to a hole in the center of the floor and sat down beside it.
Then they rubbed two pieces of flint together to make a spark.
They lighted the cedar wood that was in the hole, and watched the flames
grow brighter and brighter.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"Hush!" said Teni, "we must be very quiet. I can hear the spirits
talking in the fire."
"The spirits say that Mavo and I will soon be at home with father and
mother and we shall be glad, too."
By and by the boys went quietly from the still room.
CHAPTER VI
THE DRESS OF THE CLIFF PEOPLE
"Let us race back," said Teni, "and I will tell Mavo what the spirits in
the fire said."
Away they ran as fast as they could, and the race was soon over.
Teni was a good runner, but he did not win this time.
Mavo was awake and very glad to see her brother.
She jumped up to meet him and led him to a part of the room where two
women stood over a fire.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Teni watched them as they mixed the ground corn with water and poured
this on a hot stone.
The women were very busy, so that they did not notice the children.
They had much piki to make, for the men would soon be home.
"May I have some?" said Mavo.
Then the women looked up and saw the three children standing near them.
They gave Mavo a piece of piki for herself and another for Teni.
The other little boy was not hungry, but sat down with the others while
they ate.
Demino was just coming back from the store-room with some dried peaches
and powdered buffalo's meat.
He placed this food on the floor and heated another stone for the women,
so that they could make more piki.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Just then Baby awoke and began to cry, so his mother gave him a warm
drink of herbs and water.
Mavo said, "I will give the baby some of this piki;" but the mother
shook her head and said, "No, Baby is too little."
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Teni took the beads from his sister's neck and gave them to the little
one.
Soon Baby was happy playing with the beads and pulling at Mavo's loose
skin dress.
Teni's clothes were of skin too; even his little moccasins were made of
soft skin.
In winter these cliff Indians wore heavier skin clothing, and long
leggings which came up to their knees.
They never needed caps, for their hair was long and thick.
They loved to wear bright beads and bracelets, and often painted their
faces with gay colors.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
CHAPTER VII
THE RACE
Teni and his new friend took Mavo by the hand and climbed out on the
rocky shelf, which was the only yard these children had.
They walked toward a place where some women were making jars from clay.
One woman was mixing the clay with water, while another shaped the jars
with her hand.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
Near-by, on the ground, were many jars of different shapes which were
being dried by the sun.
The cliff-dwellers used these jars for holding water.
The children watched the women for a while, then went to another part of
the cliff where other women were weaving baskets from cedar fibers.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
The baskets were closely woven, so that they could be used to carry
water.
As the children stood there, Demino came down the ladder with a water
jar on his head, and behind him came his wife with the baby on her back.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
"Let us have a race," said Teni. Mavo wanted to run too, but Teni said
she was too little.
The boys climbed down to a lower shelf where more cliff people were
gathered.
Here were other boys, and they wanted to race too.
They were soon on the sandy ground below the cliff and ready for the
start.
One of the boys had a large dog. He wanted him in the race too, because
he could run so fast.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
They started off toward a hill. The boys were to race to the hill and
back. The boy who won was to ride a pony belonging to one of the men.
On and on they ran, while the cliff people strained their eyes watching
them.
Teni seemed in the lead, but just as they were nearing home the large
dog dashed ahead and won the race.
Teni came next.
The dog wagged his tail as the boys ran up to him.
He looked at Teni, as much as to say, "You may have the ride."
Now the pony was led up, and Teni was lifted to its back.
Teni could ride a pony, because all Indian boys are taught to ride when
they are very young.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
So he started off, sitting very straight and looking proudly before him.
Mavo clapped her hands and said, "Hurry back, Teni."
"I will," answered Teni, as the pony galloped away.
The boy and the pony were soon hidden by the thick dust.
In a short time Teni was back.
He jumped down quickly and patted the pony's head, happy because he had
had so | 613.581307 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.5623600 | 3,579 | 11 |
This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
[Picture: Cover]
[Picture: The Guild Chapel and Nash’s House]
SUMMER DAYS IN
SHAKESPEARE LAND
SOME DELIGHTS OF THE ANCIENT TOWN OF
STRATFORD-UPON-AVON AND THE COUNTRY ROUND
ABOUT; TOGETHER WITH A SKETCH OF THE LIFE
OF MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
IN WHICH MANY THINGS BOTH NEW AND ENTER-
TAINING ARE TO BE FOUND, PRETTILY SET FORTH
FOR THE PLEASURE OF THE GENTLE READER; AND
WHEREIN CERTAIN FANATICS ARE HANDSOMELY
CONFUTED.
WRITTEN BY CHARLES G. HARPER, AND
FOR THE MOST PART ALSO ILLUSTRATED BY HIM
WITH A PEN
OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS ARE FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
[Picture: Logo]
NEW YORK
JAMES POTT & COMPANY
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD.
1913
* * * * *
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
PREFACE
BY “Shakespeare Land,” as used in these pages, Stratford-on-Avon and the
country within a radius of from twelve to twenty miles are meant;
comprising parts of Warwickshire and Gloucestershire, and some portions
of Worcestershire which are mentioned by Shakespeare, or must have been
familiar to him. So many thousands annually visit Stratford-on-Avon that
the town, and in some lesser degree the surrounding country, are thought
to be hackneyed and spoilt for the more intellectual and leisured
visitor; but that is very far from being the case. Apart from such
acknowledged centres of Shakespearean interest as the Birthplace at
Stratford-on-Avon, the parish church, and Anne Hathaway’s Cottage at
Shottery; and excepting such great show-places as Kenilworth and Warwick
castles, Shakespeare Land is by no means overrun, and is in every way
charming and satisfying. Stratford town itself, the very centre of
interest, is unspoiled; and the enterprise of the majority of
Shakespearean pilgrims is of such a poor quality, and their intellectual
requirements as a rule so soon satisfied, that the real beauties of the
Warwickshire villages and the towns and villages of the Cotswolds are to
them a sealed hook. Except these byways be explored, such an essential
side of Shakespeare as that I have touched upon in the chapter
“Shakespeare the Countryman” will be little understood.
It is thus entirely a mistaken idea to think the Shakespeare Country
overdone. On the contrary, it is much less known than it ought to be,
and would be, were it in any other land than our own. And Stratford
itself has not done so much as might have been expected in exploiting
possible Shakespearean interest. Ancient house-fronts that the poet must
have known still await the removal of the plaster which for two centuries
or more has covered them; and the Corporation archives have not yet been
thoroughly explored.
Incidentally these pages may serve to expose some of the Baconian
heresies. If there be many whose judgment is overborne by the
tub-thumping of the Baconians, let them turn to some of the extravagances
of Donnelly and others mentioned here, and then note the many local
allusions which Shakespeare and none other could have written.
The Bacon controversy, which since 1857 has offered considerable
employment for speculative minds, and is still in progress, is now
responsible for some six hundred books and pamphlets, monuments of
perverted ingenuity and industrious research misapplied; of evidence
misunderstood, and of judgment biased by a clearly proclaimed intention
to place Bacon where Shakespeare stands. These exceedingly well-read
gentlemen, profited in strange concealments, have produced a deal of
skimble-skamble stuff that galls our good humours. The veriest antics,
they at first amuse us, but in a longer acquaintance they are, as Hotspur
says of Glendower, “as tedious as a tired horse, a railing wife; Worse
than a smoky house.”
This is no place to fully enter the discussion, but we may here note the
opinion of Harvey, the great contemporary man of science, on Bacon, the
amateur of science. “My Lord Chancellor,” he said, “writes about Science
like a Lord Chancellor.” Any one who reads Bacon’s poetry will notice
that the poets might have applied the same taunt to his lines.
Yet they tell us now, these strange folk, eager for a little cheap
notoriety, not only that “Bacon wrote the Greene, Marlowe, and
Shakespeare plays,” but that his is the pen that gives the Authorised
Version of the Bible its literary grace. Well, well. They say the owl
was a baker’s daughter; a document in madness.
CHARLES G. HARPER.
_Ealing_, _August_ 24, 1912.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I 1
The Beginnings of
Stratford-on-Avon.
CHAPTER II 6
The Shakespeares—John
Shakespeare, Glover,
Woolmerchant—Birth of
William
Shakespeare—Rise and
Decline of John
Shakespeare—Early
Marriage of William.
CHAPTER III 12
Anne Hathaway,
Shakespeare’s
bride—The hasty
marriage—Shakespeare’s
wild young days—He
leaves for
London—Grendon
Underwood.
CHAPTER IV 22
Continued decline in
the affairs of John
Shakespeare—William
Shakespeare’s success
in London—Death of
Hamnet, William
Shakespeare’s only
son—Shakespeare buys
New Place—He retires
to Stratford—Writes
his last play, _The
Tempest_—His death.
CHAPTER V 34
Stratford-on-Avon—It
has its own life,
quite apart from
Shakespearean
associations—Its
people and its
streets—Shakespeare
Memorials.
CHAPTER VI 49
Shakespeare’s
Birthplace—
Restoration, of
sorts—The business of
the Showman—The
Birthplace Museum—The
Shakespearean Garden.
CHAPTER VII 60
Church Street—The
“Castle” Inn—The Guild
Chapel, Guild Hall and
Grammar School—New
Place.
CHAPTER VIII 75
The Church of the Holy
Trinity,
Stratford-on-Avon.
CHAPTER IX 85
The Church of the Holy
Trinity,
Stratford-on-Avon
(_continued_)—The
Shakespeare grave and
monument.
CHAPTER X 92
The Church of the Holy
Trinity,
Stratford-on-Avon
(_concluded_)—The
Shakespeare grave and
monument—The Miserere
Seats.
CHAPTER XI 101
Shottery and Anne
Hathaway’s Cottage.
CHAPTER XII 114
Charlecote.
CHAPTER XIII 127
Shakespeare the
countryman.
CHAPTER XIV 136
The ‘Eight
Villages’—‘Piping’
Pebworth and ‘Dancing’
Marston.
CHAPTER XV 147
The ‘Eight Villages’
(_concluded_).
CHAPTER XVI 164
The ‘Swan’s
Nest’—Haunted?—
Clifford
Chambers—Wincot—
Quinton, and its club
day.
CHAPTER XVII 174
Chipping Campden.
CHAPTER XVIII 186
A Deserted
Railway—Villages of
the Stour
Valley—Ettington and
Squire
Shirley—Shipston-on-
Stour—Brailes—Compton
Wynyates.
CHAPTER XIX 195
Luddington—Welford—
Weston-on-Avon—Cleeve
Priors—Salford Priors.
CHAPTER XX 201
Evesham.
CHAPTER XXI 211
Broadway—Winchcombe—
Shakespearean
Associations—Bishop’s
Cleeve.
CHAPTER XXII 219
Tewkesbury.
CHAPTER XXIII 230
Clopton
House—Billesley—The
Home of Shakespeare’s
Mother, Wilmcote—Aston
Cantlow—Wootton
Wawen—Shakespeare
Hall, Rowington.
CHAPTER XXIV 238
Welcombe—Snitterfield—
Warwick—Leicester’s
Hospital—St. Mary’s
Church and the
Beauchamp Chapel.
CHAPTER XXV 254
Warwick Castle.
CHAPTER XXVI 266
Guy’s Cliff—The Legend
of Guy—Kenilworth and
its
Watersplash—Kenilworth
Castle.
CHAPTER XXVII 283
Coventry.
INDEX 291
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The Guild Chapel and Nash’s House _Frontispiece_
“Shakespeare’s Farm,” formerly the “Ship” Inn, 19
Grendon Underwood
Chapel Street, Stratford-on-Avon 37
The Harvard House _To face_ 42
The Harvard House: Panel Room 44
Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-on-Avon 46
The Memorial Theatre _To face_ 48
Shakespeare’s Birthplace 50
The Kitchen, Shakespeare’s Birthplace 54
The Room in which Shakespeare was born 56
Shakespeare’s Signet-ring 58
The “Windmill” Inn 61
The Guild Chapel, Guild Hall, Grammar School and 65
Almshouses
The Schoolmaster’s House and Guild Chapel 69
The Head Master’s Desk, Stratford-on-Avon Grammar 70
School _To face_
Ancient Knocker, Stratford-on-Avon Church 80
Shakespeare’s Monument _To face_ 86
Inscription on Shakespeare’s Grave 89
The Chancel, Holy Trinity Church, with Shakespeare’s 92
Monument _To face_
A Stratford Miserere: The Legend of the Unicorn 100
Shottery 103
Anne Hathaway’s Cottage 106
The Living-room, Anne Hathaway’s Cottage 109
Anne Hathaway’s Bedroom 112
Lucy Shield of Arms 120
The “Tumbledown Stile,” Charlecote _To face_ 120
The Gatehouse, Charlecote 123
Charlecote 125
“Piping Pebworth” 140
“Dancing Marston” 142
Dining-Room, formerly the Kitchen, King’s Lodge 145
“Drunken Bidford” 149
The “Falcon,” Bidford 150
“Haunted Hillborough” (1) 151
“Haunted Hillborough” (2) 153
“Hungry Grafton” 154
The Hollow Road, Exhall 156
“<DW7> Wixford” 157
Brass to Thomas de Cruwe and wife, Wixford 159
“Beggarly Broom” 162
Clopton Bridge, and the “Swan’s Nest” 166
Clifford Chambers 168
Old Houses, Chipping Campden _To face_ 174
The Market House, Chipping Campden ,, 174
Grevel’s House 177
Interior of the Market House, Chipping Campden _To 178
face_
Chipping Campden Church 182
Brass to William Grevel and wife, Chipping Campden 184
Compton Wynyates 192
Boat Lane, Welford 198
Bell Tower, Evesham 204
The Almonry, Evesham 206
Abbey Gateway, Evesham 209
High Street, Tewkesbury 223
The “Bear” Inn and Bridge, Tewkesbury 227
The Arden House, Home of Shakespeare’s mother, 233
Wilmcote
Wootton Wawen Church _To face_ 234
Shakespeare Hall, Rowington 236
Leicester’s Hospital, Warwick 239
Leicester’s Hospital: the Courtyard _To face_ 240
Leicester’s Hospital: one of the Brethren ,, 244
The Beauchamp Chapel, Warwick 246
The Crypt of St. Mary’s, Warwick 248
Cæsar’s Tower, Warwick Castle 263
Kenilworth Castle: Ruins of the Banquetting Hall 278
Stained Glass Window Inscription 289
CHAPTER I
The Beginnings of Stratford-on-Avon.
NINETY-FIVE miles from the City of London, in the southern part of
Warwickshire, and on the left, or northern bank of the Avon, stands a
famous town. Not a town famed in ancient history, nor remarkable in
warlike story, nor great in affairs of commerce. It was never a strong
place, with menacing castle or defensive town walls with gates closed at
night. It stood upon a branch road, in a thinly-peopled forest-district,
and in every age the wars and tumults and great social and political
movements which constitute what is called “history” have passed it by.
Such is, and has been from the beginning, the town of Stratford-on-Avon,
whose very name, although now charged with a special significance as the
birthplace of Shakespeare, takes little hold upon the imagination when we
omit the distinguishing “on Avon.” For there are other Stratfords to be
found upon the map of England, as necessarily there must be when we
consider the origin of the name, which means merely the ford where the
“street”—generally a paved Roman road—crossed a river. And as fords of
this kind must have been very numerous along the ancient roads of this
country before bridges were built, we can only be astonished that there
are not more Stratfords than the five or six that are found in the
gazetteers.
The Roman road that came this way was a vicinal route from the Watling
Street where Birmingham now stands, through Henley-in-Arden and Alcester,
the Roman station of _Alauna_. Passing over the ford of the Avon, it
went to London by way of Ettington, Sunrising Hill, and Banbury. Other
Roman roads, the Fosse Way and Ryknield Street, remodelled on the lines
of ancient British track-ways, passed east and west of Stratford at an
equal distance of six miles.
All the surrounding district north of the Avon was woodland, the great
Forest of Arden; and to the south of the river stretched a more low-lying
country as far as the foot of the Cotswold Hills, much less thickly
wooded. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when the Forest of Arden was
greatly diminished, these districts owned two distinctive names: the
forest being called “the Wooland,” and the southward pasture-lands “the
Feldon.”
The travellers who came this way in early Saxon times, and perhaps even
later, came to close grips with the true inwardness of things. They
looked death often in the face as they went the lonely road. The wild
things in the forest menaced them, floods obscured the fords, lawless men
no less fierce than the animals which roamed the tangled brakes lurked
and slew. “Now am I in Arden,” the wayfarer might have | 613.5824 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.5624950 | 1,722 | 31 |
Produced by Jane Robins, Reiner Ruf, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
######################################################################
Transcriber’s Notes
This e-text is based on ‘The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine,’
from July, 1913. The table of contents, based on the index from the May
issue, has been added by the transcriber.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been retained, but
punctuation and typographical errors have been corrected. Passages
in English dialect and in languages other than English have not been
altered.
Special characters have been used to highlight the following font
styles:
italic: _underscores_
small caps: ~tilde characters~
######################################################################
FICTION NUMBER
~The Century Magazine~
~Vol. LXXXVI~ JULY, 1913 No. 3
CONTENTS
PAGE
~Beelzebub Came to the Convent, How~ _Ethel Watts Mumford_ 323
Picture by N. C. Wyeth.
~Millet’s Return to his Old Home.~ _Truman H. Bartlett_ 332
Pictures from pastels
by Millet.
~Man who did not Go to Heaven on _Ellis Parker Butler_ 340
Tuesday, The~
~Borrowed Lover, The~ _L. Frank Tooker_ 348
~Remington, Frederic, Recollections
of~ _Augustus Thomas_ 354
Pictures by Frederic Remington,
and portrait.
~Spinster, American, The~ _Agnes Repplier_ 363
~Coming Sneeze, The~ _Harry Stillwell Edwards_ 368
Picture by F. R. Gruger.
~Balkan Peninsula, Skirting the~ _Robert Hichens_
V. In Constantinople. 374
Pictures by Jules Guérin and
from photographs.
~Noteworthy Stories of the Last
Generation.~
The New Minister’s Great _C. H. White_ 390
Opportunity.
With portrait of the author,
and new picture by Harry
Townsend.
~Camilla’s First Affair.~ _Gertrude Hall_ 400
Pictures by Emil
Pollak-Ottendorff.
~T. Tembarom.~ _Frances Hodgson Burnett_ 413
Drawings by Charles S. Chapman.
~Mannering’s Men.~ _Marjorie L. C. Pickthall_ 427
~Verita’s Stratagem.~ _Anne Warner_ 430
~St. Elizabeth of Hungary.~ By _Timothy Cole_ 437
Francisco Zubarán. Engraved
on wood by
~Hard Money, The Return to~ _Charles A. Conant_ 439
Portraits, and cartoons by
Thomas Nast.
~Morgan’s, Mr., Personality~ _Joseph B. Gilder_ 459
Picture from photograph.
~Socialism in the Colleges.~ _Editorial_ 468
~Money behind the Gun, The~ _Editorial_ 470
~One Way to make Things Better.~ _Editorial_ 471
~“Schedule K,” Comments on~ _Editorial_ 472
~Christmas, On Allowing the Editor _Leonard Hatch_ 473
to Shop Early for~
~Business in the Orient.~ _Harry A. Franck_ 475
~Cartoons.~
Foreign Labor. _Oliver Herford_ 477
Ninety Degrees in the Shade. _J. R. Shaver_ 477
VERSE
~My Conscience.~ _James Whitcomb Riley_ 331
Decoration by Oliver Herford.
~House-without-Roof.~ _Edith M. Thomas_ 339
~Sierra Madre.~ _Henry Van Dyke_ 347
~Prayers for the Living.~ _Mary W. Plummer_ 367
~Little People, The~ _Amelia Josephine Burr_ 387
~Belle Dame Sans Merci, La~ _John Keats_ 388
Republished with pictures by
Stanley M. Arthurs.
~Eden, Beauty in.~ _Alfred Noyes_ 399
~Gettysburg, High Tide at, The.~ _Will H. Thompson_ 410
~Blank Page, For a~ _Austin Dobson_ 458
~Maeterlinck, Maurice~ _Stephen Phillips_ 467
~Brother Mingo Millenyum’s Ordination.~ _Ruth McEnery Stuart_ 475
~Ballade of Protest, A~ _Carolyn Wells_ 476
~Same Old Lure, The~ _Berton Braley_ 478
~Limericks.~:
Text and pictures by Oliver Herford.
XXX. The Gnat and the Gnu. 479
XXXI. The Sole-Hungering Camel. 480
HOW BEELZEBUB CAME TO THE CONVENT
BY ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD
Author of “The Eyes of the Heart,” “Whitewash,” etc.
WITH A PICTURE BY N. C. WYETH
Copyright 1913, by ~The Century Co.~ All rights reserved.
Sister Eulalia rose from the bench by the door in answer to Sister
Teresa’s call. The broken pavement in the outer patio of the Convent of
La Merced echoed the tapping of her stick as she slowly made her way
to the arch leading to the interior of the building. Sister Eulalia
was blind, but as nearly the whole seventy years of her life had been
passed within these same gray walls familiarity supplied the defect
of vision. Her daily tasks never had been interrupted since, a full
half-century before, a wind-driven cactus-thorn had robbed her of
sight. She wore with simple dignity the white woolen garb of the order,
with its band of blue ribbon from which depended a silver cross, the
snowy coif framing her saintly face with smooth bands that contrasted
with the wrinkled surface of her skin. To the eye of an artist, her
frail figure in its quaint surroundings of Spanish architecture, dating
from the early years of the seventeenth century, would have made an
irresistible appeal. But no artist ever sought that remote, almost
forgotten city, and for the few Indians and half-breeds who have
inherited the fallen glories of Antigua de Guatemala, the moribund
convent held no interest. Occasionally one of the older “Indigenes”
whose conscience troubled him would leave an offering of food at the
twisted iron gate and mumble a request for prayers of intercession; or
the dark-eyed half-Spanish children would stare with something of both
fascination and fear at the five white-clad ancient women who, morning
and evening, crossed the patio to the chapel: Sister Eulalia on the arm
of Sister Teresa, Sister Rose de Lima and Sister Catalina, one on each
side of the Mother Superior. To these two younger sisters--their years
were but sixty-six and sixty-nine--had fallen, by common consent, the
care of the Mother Superior, whose age no one knew, so great it was,
and whose inf | 613.582535 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.5642850 | 1,864 | 37 |
Produced by Brian Coe, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)
ORGANIZATION
ORGANIZATION
HOW ARMIES ARE FORMED FOR WAR
BY
COLONEL HUBERT FOSTER
ROYAL ENGINEERS
LONDON
HUGH REES, LTD.
119 PALL MALL, S.W.
1911
(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)
PRINTED AND BOUND BY
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,
LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
PREFACE
The Author was led to compile this account of Army Organization owing
to his inability to discover any book dealing systematically with that
subject. Military writers do, of course, make frequent allusions to
Organization, but a previous acquaintance with the subject is generally
assumed. One looks in vain for an explicit account, either of the
principles underlying organization, or of the development of its forms
and methods.
It is true that the word Organization figures in the title of more than
one Military treatise, but the subject is handled unsystematically
and empirically, so that the ordinary reader is unable to realize the
significance of the facts. In some cases the term Organization is
interpreted in so wide a sense as to include not only Tactics, Staff
Duties, and Administration, but any matters of moment to an army. Thus,
in the volume of essays recently published, an author of weight states
that “Organization for War means thorough and sound preparation for war
in all its branches,” and goes on to say, “the raising of men, their
physical and moral improvement... their education and training... are
the fruits of a sound organization.”
In the present work, Organization is taken in a more literal and
limited sense. The book would otherwise have tended to become a
discussion of every question affecting the efficiency of armies. The
intention of the Author is to give in broad outline a general account
of Organization for War, and of the psychological principles underlying
the exercise of Command, which it is the main purpose of Organization
to facilitate.
At the same time the organization discussed is not restricted to that
of the British Army, but is that of modern armies in general, as well
as of individual armies in particular, that of the British Army being
described in greater detail, in Part II.
In Part IV. will be found a sketch of the History of Organization,
which should interest any one who, like the Author, is not content with
knowing things as they happen to be at present, unless he can trace the
steps by which they came to be so.
The subject is intentionally not treated with minuteness of detail.
To have made the book a cyclopædia of detailed information about
organization would have obscured its purpose. It is hoped that the work
may prove useful to the increasing numbers of those who have taken up
Military work throughout the Empire, and not uninteresting to general
readers, and students of history.
HUBERT FOSTER.
SYDNEY, _June 1910_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
ABBREVIATIONS xv
INTRODUCTION xvii
PART I
_WAR ORGANIZATION OF THE PRESENT DAY_
CHAPTER I
THE OBJECT OF ORGANIZATION
Command 3
Definition of Organization 4
The Chain of Command 5
Units or Formations of Troops 6
CHAPTER II
THE FIGHTING TROOPS
The Arms of the Service 8
Characteristics of the Arms 8
1. Cavalry 9
2. Artillery 12
3. Engineers 13
4. Infantry 15
CHAPTER III
ORGANIZATION OF THE UNITS OF EACH ARM
1. Infantry 17
2. Cavalry 21
3. Artillery 23
4. Engineers 30
CHAPTER IV
NEW VARIETIES OF FIGHTING TROOPS
1. Mounted Infantry 32
2. Mountain Infantry 33
3. Mountain Artillery 34
4. Machine Guns 34
5. Cavalry Pioneers 35
6. Cyclists and Motor Cars 36
7. Scouts 37
8. Field Orderlies 39
9. Military Police 39
CHAPTER V
FORMATIONS OF ALL ARMS
1. The Division 42
2. The Army Corps 44
3. Cavalry Corps 47
4. The Army as a Unit 48
The Administrative Services for the above 51
CHAPTER VI
THE STAFF
Composition of Head-Quarters 54
The General Staff 57
The Adjutant-General’s Branch 59
The Quarter-Master-General’s Branch 59
Staff of Subordinate Commands 60
Importance of the Staff 60
Number of Officers allotted to the Staff 61
CHAPTER VII
WAR ESTABLISHMENTS
Their Object and Utility 62
States and Returns 65
Reinforcements 66
Evils of Improvised Organizations 68
Importance of Preserving Original Organization 69
The _Ordre de Bataille_ 71
Importance of keeping it Secret 72
Consequent drawbacks of Symmetry in Organization 72
PART II
_BRITISH WAR ORGANIZATION_
CHAPTER VIII
THE EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
Its Composition 78
Composition of Subordinate Commands 80
Strength of the Sub-Commands, and of Whole Force 83
Strength of Units of each Arm 85
Composition of their Head-Quarters 86
CHAPTER IX
THE EXPEDITIONARY FORCE (_continued_)
ADMINISTRATIVE SERVICES
Their Directors 88
Organization of the Lines of Communication 90
The Main Services, having Units with the Fighting Troops 92
1. Service of Inter-communication 92
2. Transport 97
3. Supply 101
4. The Medical Services 106
CHAPTER X
THE EXPEDITIONARY FORCE (_continued_)
SERVICES ON THE LINES OF COMMUNICATION
5. The Veterinary Service 111
6. The Ordnance Service 112
7. The Railway Services 115
8. The Works Service 116
9. The Postal Service 117
10. The Accounts Department 118
11. The Records Branch 119
12. Depôts for Personnel 120
CHAPTER XI
The Territorial Force 121
The Army of India 122
CHAPTER XII
SPECIAL FEATURES OF BRITISH WAR ORGANIZATION
Their Object and Advantages 125
PART III
_ORGANIZATION OF FOREIGN ARMIES_
CHAPTER XIII
WAR ORGANIZATION OF THE FIGHTING TROOPS
Normal War Organization 140
Organization of each Army 141
1. GERMANY 141
2. FRANCE 145
3. RUSSIA 147
4. AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 148
5. ITALY 150
6. JAPAN 151
7. SWITZERLAND 152
8. UNITED STATES 154
CHAPTER XIV
COMPOSITION OF NATIONAL ARMIES
Armies of First Line 155
Armies of Second Line 156
Reserves 158
War Strengths of the Various Powers 160
PART IV
_HISTORY OF ORGANIZATION_
INTRODUCTION 165
CHAPTER XV
ORGANIZATION IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY
Origin of Organization 167
Earliest Regimental Organization 171
The early Standing | 613.584325 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.5655110 | 474 | 11 |
Produced by David Widger. HTML version by Al Haines
THE SNOW-IMAGE
AND
OTHER TWICE-TOLD TALES
THE MAN OF ADAMANT
By
Nathaniel Hawthorne
In the old times of religious gloom and intolerance lived Richard
Digby, the gloomiest and most intolerant of a stern brotherhood. His
plan of salvation was so narrow, that, like a plank in a tempestuous
sea, it could avail no sinner but himself, who bestrode it
triumphantly, and hurled anathemas against the wretches whom he saw
struggling with the billows of eternal death. In his view of the
matter, it was a most abominable crime--as, indeed, it is a great
folly--for men to trust to their own strength, or even to grapple to
any other fragment of the wreck, save this narrow plank, which,
moreover, he took special care to keep out of their reach. In other
words, as his creed was like no man's else, and being well pleased that
Providence had intrusted him alone, of mortals, with the treasure of a
true faith, Richard Digby determined to seclude himself to the sole and
constant enjoyment of his happy fortune.
"And verily," thought he, "I deem it a chief condition of Heaven's
mercy to myself, that I hold no communion with those abominable myriads
which it hath cast off to perish. Peradventure, were I to tarry longer
in the tents of Kedar, the gracious boon would be revoked, and I also
be swallowed up in the deluge of wrath, or consumed in the storm of
fire and brimstone, or involved in whatever new kind of ruin is
ordained for the horrible perversity of this generation."
So Richard Digby took an axe, to hew space enough for a tabernacle in
the wilderness, and some few other necessaries, especially a sword and
gun, to smite and slay any intruder upon his hallowed seclusion; and
plunged into the dreariest depths of the | 613.585551 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.6255510 | 442 | 15 |
Produced by David Newman, Chuck Greif, Janet Blenkinship
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
Among the Farmyard People
BY
Clara Dillingham Pierson
Author of "Among the Meadow People," and "Forest People".
Illustrated by F. C. GORDON
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
Copyright by
E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY
31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
1899
TO THE CHILDREN
_Dear Little Friends:_
I want to introduce the farmyard people to you, and to have you call
upon them and become better acquainted as soon as you can. Some of them
are working for us, and we surely should know them. Perhaps, too, some
of us are working for them, since that is the way in this delightful
world of ours, and one of the happiest parts of life is helping and
being helped.
It is so in the farmyard, and although there is not much work that the
people there can do for each other, there are many kind things to be
said, and even the Lame Duckling found that he could make the Blind
Horse happy when he tried. It is there as it is everywhere else, and I
sometimes think that although the farmyard people do not look like us or
talk like us, they are not so very different after all. If you had seen
the little Chicken who wouldn't eat gravel when his mother was reproving
him, you could not have helped knowing his thoughts even if you did not
understand a word of the Chicken language. He was thinking, "I don't
care! I don't care a bit! So now!" That was long since, for he was a
Chicken when I was a little girl, and both of us grew up some time ago.
I think I have always been more sorry for him because when he was
learning to eat gravel I was learning to eat some things which I did not
like; and so | 613.645591 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.6404470 | 1,262 | 19 |
Produced by Emmy, Charlene Taylor 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: A STREET SHOWMAN.]
PEEPS INTO CHINA; OR, The Missionary's Children.
BY E. C. PHILLIPS,
AUTHOR OF "TROPICAL READING-BOOKS," "THE ORPHANS," "BUNCHY,"
"HILDA AND HER DOLL," ETC.
[Illustration]
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK & MELBOURNE._
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
To
MY DEAR PARENTS,
IN
LOVING MEMORY.
"Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years
Thy tenderness for me?"
[Illustration: Contents.]
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COUNTRY RECTORY 9
II. THE FIRST PEEP 21
III. THE RELIGIONS OF CHINA 44
IV. CHINESE CHILDHOOD 69
V. THE MERCHANT SHOWMAN 89
VI. LITTLE CHU AND WOO-URH 100
VII. LEONARD'S EXPLOIT IN FORMOSA 114
VIII. THE BOAT POPULATION 134
IX. AT CANTON 153
X. A BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 179
XI. PROCESSIONS 197
XII. THE LAST PEEP 208
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE COUNTRY RECTORY.
[Illustration]
"NOT really; you can't mean it really!"
"As true as possible. Mother told me her _very own_ self," was the
emphatic reply.
Two children, brother and sister, the boy aged ten, the girl three years
older, were carrying on this conversation in the garden of a country
rectory.
"But really and truly, on your word of honour," repeated Leonard, as
though he could not believe what his sister had just related to him.
"I hope my word is always a word of honour; I thought everybody's word
ought to be that," Sybil Graham replied a little proudly, for when she
had run quickly to bring such important news to her brother, she could
not help feeling hurt that he should refuse to believe what she said.
"And we are really going there, and shall actually see the 'pig-tails'
in their own country, and the splendid kites they fly, and all the
wonderful things that father used to tell us about? Oh! it seems too
good to be true."
"But it is true," Sybil repeated with emphasis. "And I dare say we might
even see tea growing, as it does grow there, you know, and I suppose we
shall be carried about in sedan-chairs ourselves." She was really as
happy as her brother, only not so excitable.
At this moment their mother joined them. "Oh, mother!" the boy then
exclaimed, "how beautiful! Sybil has just told me, but I could not
believe her."
"I thought the news would delight you both very much," Mrs. Graham
answered. "Your father and I have been thinking about going to China for
some time, but we would not tell you anything about it until matters
were quite settled, and now everything seems to be satisfactorily
arranged for us to start in three months' time."
"That will be in August, then," they both said at once.
"Oh, how very beautiful!" Sybil exclaimed. "_I like my father to be a
missionary very much._ He must be glad too; isn't he, mother?"
"Very glad indeed, although the joy will entail some sadness also. I
expect your father will grieve a good deal to leave this dear little
country parish of ours, and the duties he has so loved to perform here,
but a wider field of usefulness having opened out for him, he is very
thankful to obey the call."
[Illustration: THE CHURCH.]
"And father will do it so well, mother," answered Sybil. "I wonder
whether I shall be able to do anything to help him there?"
"I think you have long since found out, Sybil," was her mother's loving
answer, "that you can always be doing something to help us."
Sybil and Leonard had as yet only learnt a part of the story. They had
still to learn the rest. This going to China would not be all beautiful,
all joy for them, especially for Sybil, with her very affectionate
nature and dread of saying "Good-byes," for she and Leonard were only to
be taken out on a trip--a pleasure tour--to see something of China, and
to return to England to go on with their education at the end of six
months.
Mr. Graham then calling his wife, the children were again left alone.
It was no easy matter to go as a missionary to China. This Mr. Graham
well knew, for his father, although only for a short time, had been one
over there before him, and had discovered--what so many other later
brother missionaries have found out also--that to obtain even a hearing
on the subject of religion from a Chinaman, who has been trained and
brought up to be a superstitious idolater, very vain of his wisdom and
antiquity as a nation, and to look upon Europeans as barbarians, is
often a most difficult matter.
Eighteen years before Mr. Graham the elder went out to Peking as one of
the first missionaries to China, and his only son, who had then just
qualified for the medical profession, accompanied him. | 613.660487 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.7537150 | 1,862 | 9 |
Produced by readbueno, Barry Abrahamsen, 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.)
IVAR THE VIKING
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IVAR THE VIKING
A ROMANTIC HISTORY
BASED UPON AUTHENTIC FACTS OF THE
THIRD AND FOURTH CENTURIES
BY
PAUL DU CHAILLU
AUTHOR OF “THE VIKING AGE,” “THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN,”
“EXPLORATIONS IN EQUATORIAL AFRICA,” “A JOURNEY TO
ASHANGO LAND,” ETC.
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY ALBEMARLE STREET
1893
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO GEORGE W. CHILDS
My Dear Childs: Years of our unbroken friendship, going back more than a
quarter of a century, have passed away, and the recollection of all
your kindnesses during that time comes vividly before my mind. Many
a time your home in Philadelphia, at the sea-side, or at Wootton has
been my home, and many of the happy days of my life have been spent
with you and your kind wife. Three years ago I lay on a sick-bed at
your house, and all that tender nursing, the skill of the physician,
and loving hands could do that winter was done for me, and for all
that I am indebted to you and to Mrs. Childs. Now a twenty miles’
walk day after day does not fatigue me. “Ivar the Viking” was partly
written, after my recovery, under the shade trees of Wootton and in
the midst of the perfume of its flowers. To you, my dear old friend,
I dedicate the book as a token of the esteem and high regard I have
for your noble character, and in grateful remembrance of all you
have done for me.
PAUL DU CHAILLU.
NEW YORK, September, 1893.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
THE story of “IVAR THE VIKING” depicts the actual life of Norse chiefs
who ruled at the period therein described, and also gives the customs,
religion, life, and mode of thinking which prevailed among the people.
My object in writing this story is to give a view, in a popular way, of
the life of these early ancestors of the English-speaking peoples, whose
seat of power was on the islands situated in the basin of the Baltic and
the countries known to-day as Scandinavia.
The reader of this volume will gain a correct idea of the civilization
of the Norsemen of that period, the men who came to the gates of Rome,
and settled in Britain, Gaul, Germania, on the shores of the
Mediterranean, and other countries.
I begin the story of my hero with his birth, accompanied by the
characteristic ceremonies attending it; then I tell of his fostering,
his education, his coming of age, of the precepts of wisdom he is
taught, of his foster-brothers, of the sacred ceremony of
foster-brotherhood, of his warlike expeditions and commercial voyages,
of the death and funeral of his father, of his accession to rule, and
other similarly typical Viking events.
I speak in the narrative of the dwellings of the people; how they lived;
of their “bys,” or burgs; of the different grades making up society; of
their feasts; of their temples; of their worship, religious ceremonies,
and sacrifices; of funerals; of Amazons; of athletic games; of women and
maidens; of love; of duels and sports; of dress; of men and women; of
marriages. In a word, the book is a life-like picture of the period. The
time which I have chosen is the epoch when the Norsemen were most surely
and swiftly sapping the power of Rome, and engaged in colonization on
the largest scale.
There is not an object, a jewel, either Norse, Roman, or Greek, or a
coin mentioned, that has not been found in the present Scandinavia, and
is not seen to-day in its museums, and often in great numbers.
The descriptions of customs interwoven in the narrative are derived from
authentic records, the sagas, the evidence of graves, and of antiquities
in general. These are more fully, scientifically, and technically
described in my work published three years ago, “The Viking Age.”
The descriptions of dresses of the women have been most carefully drawn
from the sagas, and from the handles of three keys seen in “The Viking
Age,” where three women in full dress are represented. The materials and
jewels with which I have adorned them are those found in their graves.
The attire of the men is from the garments, weapons, and ornaments of
that early period, found in graves and bogs, and from descriptions in
the sagas.
* * * * *
“The Viking Age” had hardly been published in England, when a storm of
protests and adverse criticisms arose from many quarters of that
conservative country; for it is there that the old belief in the Angle
and Anglo-Saxon descent of the modern English-speaking peoples is most
rooted, having indeed become a religion with many Englishmen.
I fully expected opposition to the new views I propounded. Had not my
former accounts of African travels been received with incredulity? Did
not the people laugh when I told that I had seen a race of pigmies and
been in their villages? Did they not doubt my descriptions of the great
equatorial forest, of gorillas, cannibals, etc.? I was before the time.
I was too young; and these circumstances were against me. But then, as
in the case of “The Viking Age,” I found warm supporters and defenders
in England itself.
I knew that it was bold on my part to attack the Saxon idol which had
been worshipped so long among Englishmen, and to try to destroy the
faith in which they and their fathers had believed. Was the glorious
Anglo-Saxon name which the people had been shouting for so long, even in
America, to be overthrown? What, then, would become of the sturdy
qualities claimed as inherited from the so-called Anglo-Saxon race? The
qualities are there, only the name of Anglo-Saxon ought to be changed to
that of Norse.
Nothing but absolute conviction made me take this bold step. I had never
been satisfied with the assertions of historians, and could see no
evidence in their writings for the conclusions at which they had arrived
in regard to the name Anglo-Saxon and as to who were the conquerors and
settlers of Britain.
When I travelled in the Norselands, to the northern part of which I gave
the name of “The Land of the Midnight Sun,” a name which has been
generally adopted since, I became convinced that the conquerors of
Britain were Norse; for while visiting their museums, which contained
the Norse antiquities, I saw that these objects were the same as those
called in England by antiquarians, Angle, Anglo-Saxon, Anglo-Roman, and
in France, Frankish. These facts set me thinking, and ultimately
produced “The Viking Age.”
* * * * *
As soon as I brought before the public the evidence I had collected,
many voices rose and exclaimed: “Woe to him who tries to dispel our
belief and destroy our faith!” The world is full of such examples in the
treatment of new ideas. How could I escape hostility when I proclaimed
that the antiquities called in England by archæologists and others, and
classified in the museums as Angle, Anglo-Saxon, Anglo-Roman, are Norse,
consequently that the ancestors of the English-speaking people are from
the basin of the Baltic and present Scandinavia, and that it is only
there that one sees the antiquities of a most warlike and sea-faring
race of the period of the so-called _Saxon_ maritime expeditions?
Many apply the name of Anglo-Saxon to the people who settled in Britain,
without knowing why, except that they had been taught to believe it from
their school and college days, or because the majority believe so. I
maintain that the earlier England, popularly placed at the southern part
of the peninsula of Jutland, is mythical; that such antiquities pointed
out as Angle are not found there; that | 613.773755 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.7592360 | 1,175 | 89 |
Produced by Al Haines.
THE DIARY
_of a_ FRESHMAN
_By_
CHARLES MACOMB FLANDRAU
Author of "Harvard Episodes"
_NEW YORK_
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE AND COMPANY
_MDCCCCI_
_Copyright, 1900, by_
The Curtis Publishing Co.
_Copyright, 1901, by_
Doubleday, Page & Company
University Press
John Wilson and Son
Cambridge, U.S.A.
_TO THE_
"_For Ever Panting and For Ever Young._"
_Courteous acknowledgment is here
made to the Saturday Evening
Post, Philadelphia, in which these
papers first saw the light._
_*THE*_*
DIARY *_*of a*_* FRESHMAN*
*I*
Mamma left for home this afternoon. As I want to be perfectly truthful
in my diary, I suppose I must confess that before she actually went away
I sometimes thought I should be rather relieved when she was no longer
here. Mamma has a fixed idea that I came to college for the express
purpose of getting my feet wet by day, and sleeping in a draught by
night. She began the furnishing of my rooms by investing in a pair of
rubber boots,--the kind you tie around your waist with a string. The
clerk in the shop asked her if I was fond of trout-fishing, and she
explained to him that I had always lived in the West where the climate
was dry, and that she didn't know how I would stand the dampness of the
seacoast. Mamma thought the clerk was so interested in my last attack
of tonsillitis I didn't have the heart to tell her that all the time he
was looking sympathetic with his right eye, he was winking at me with
his left.
Now that she is gone, however, I don't see how I could have thought,
even for a moment, that I should be glad, and I've been sitting here
for an hour just looking at my room and all the nice things she advised
me about and helped me to choose--wishing she could see how cosey it is
late at night with the green lamp lighted and a little fire going. (It
isn't really cool enough for a fire; I had to take my coat off for a
while, the room got so warm--but I was anxious to know how the andirons
looked with a blaze behind them.) I suppose she is lying awake in the
sleeping-car thinking of me. She made me move my bed to the other side
of the room, so that it wouldn't be near the window. I moved it back
again; but I think now I 'll change it again to the way she liked it.
Of course I was disappointed last May when I found I hadn't drawn a room
in one of the college buildings. I had an idea that if you didn't live
in one of the buildings owned by the college you wouldn't feel,
somehow, as if you "belonged." Before I arrived in Cambridge I worried
a good deal over it. The old Harvard men at home were most
unsatisfactory about this when I asked their advice. The ones who had
lived in the Yard when they were in college seemed to think there was
n't any particular use in going to college at all unless you could live
either in their old rooms or some in the same building; and the ones who
had lived outside as I am going to do (this year, anyhow) said the
college buildings were nice enough in their way, but if I could only get
the dear old place (which was pulled down fifteen years ago) where James
Russell Lowell had scratched his name on the window-pane, and where
somebody else (I've forgotten who it was) crawled up the big chimney
when the sheriff came to arrest him for debt and was discovered because
he did not crawl far enough, I should be all right.
I don't see how the good times and the advantages of a place like this
hold out for so long; everybody who has been here speaks as if he had
about used them up.
Well, we found rooms pleading to be rented; every other house in
Cambridge has a "Student's Room to Let" card in the window. Even some
of the rooms in the Yard had been given up at the last minute by fellows
who flunked their exams. Mamma said she felt very sorry for the poor
boys; and after that the enormity of my having been conditioned in
physics and solid geometry decreased considerably. The trouble (there
were four days full of it) wasn't in finding a good place, but in trying
to decide on some one place. For a while it looked as though I should
either have to live in five separate houses--some of them over a mile
apart--or give up going to college. We dragged up and down all the
quiet side streets within a reasonable distance of the Yard, ringing
bells and asking questions until the words "I should like to look at"
and "What is the price of?" began to sound like some kind of a silly
English Meisterschaft system. Several times when we were very tired we
wandered by mistake into houses we had been to | 613.779276 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.7611770 | 3,579 | 7 |
Produced by David Garcia, Pat McCoy, Rick Niles and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This book was produced from scanned images of public
domain material from the Google Print project.)
THE SALAMANDER
[Illustration: Dore]
THE
SALAMANDER
_By_
OWEN JOHNSON
_Author of_
THE VARMINT, STOVER AT YALE
THE SIXTY-FIRST SECOND, ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
EVERETT SHINN
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1914
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
TO MY WIFE
FOREWORD
Precarious the lot of the author who elects to show his public what it
does not know, but doubly exposed he who in the indiscreet exploration
of customs and manners publishes what the public knows but is unwilling
to confess! In the first place incredulity tempers censure, in the
second resentment is fanned by the necessity of self-recognition. For
the public is like the defendant in matrimony, amused and tolerant when
unconvinced of the justice of a complaint, but fiercely aroused when
defending its errors.
In the present novel I am quite aware that where criticism is most
risked is at the hands of those entrenched moralists who, while
admitting certain truths as fit subjects for conversation, aggressively
resent the same when such truths are published. Many such will believe
that in the following depiction of a curious and new type of modern
young women, product of changing social forces, profoundly significant
of present unrest and prophetic of stranger developments to come, the
author, in depicting simply what does exist, is holding a brief for what
should exist.
If the type of young girls here described were an ephemeral
manifestation or even a detached fragment of our society, there might be
a theoretical justification for this policy of censure by silence. But
the Salamanders are neither irrelevant nor the product of unrelated
forces. The rebellious ideas that sway them are the same ideas that are
profoundly at work in the new generation of women, and while for this
present work I have limited my field, be sure that the young girl of
to-day, from the age of eighteen to twenty-five, whether facing the
world alone or peering out at it from the safety of the family, whether
in the palaces of New York, the homesteads of New England, the manors of
the South or the throbbing cities and villages of the West, whatever her
station or her opportunity, has in her undisciplined and roving
imagination a little touch of the Salamander.
That there exists a type of young girl that heedlessly will affront
every appearance of evil and can yet remain innocent; that this
innocence, never relinquished, can yet be tumultuously curious and
determined on the exploration of the hitherto forbidden sides of life,
especially when such reconnoitering is rendered enticing by the presence
of danger--here are two apparent contradictions difficult of belief. Yet
in the case of the Salamander's brother, society finds no such
difficulty--it terms that masculine process, "seeing the world," a study
rather to be recommended for the sake of satisfied future tranquillity.
That the same can be true of the opposite sex, that a young girl without
physical temptation may be urged by a mental curiosity to see life
through whatever windows, that she may feel the same impetuous frenzy of
youth as her brother, the same impulse to sample each new excitement,
and that in this curiosity may be included the safe and the dangerous,
the obvious and the complex, the casual and the strange, that she may
arrogate to herself the right to examine everything, question
everything, peep into everything--tentatively to project herself into
every possibility and after a few years of this frenzy of excited
curiosity can suddenly be translated into a formal and discreet mode of
life--here is an exposition which may well appear incredible on the
printed page. I say on the printed page because few men are there who
will not recognize the justice of the type of Salamander here portrayed.
Only as their experience has been necessarily individual they do not
proceed to the recognition of a general type. They know them well as
accidents in the phantasmagoria of New York but they do not comprehend
them in the least.
The Salamander in the last analysis is a little atom possessed of a
brain, thrown against the great tragic luxury of New York, which has
impelled her to it as the flame the moth.
She comes roving from somewhere out of the immense reaches of the
nation, revolting against the commonplace of an inherited narrowness,
passionately adventurous, eager and unafraid, neither sure of what she
seeks nor conscious of what forces impel or check her. She remains a
Salamander only so long as she has not taken a decision to enter life by
one of the thousand avenues down which in her running course she has
caught an instant vista. Her name disappears under a new self-baptism.
She needs but a little money and so occasionally does a little work. She
brings no letters of introduction, but she comes resolved to know whom
she chooses. She meets them all, the men of New York, the mediocre, the
interesting, the powerful, the flesh hunters, the brutes and those who
seek only an amused mental relaxation. She attracts them by hook or
crook, in defiance of etiquette, compelling their attention in ways that
at the start hopelessly mystify them and lead to mistakes. Then she
calmly sets them to rights and forgives them. If she runs recklessly in
the paths of danger, it is because to her obsessed curiosity it is
imperative for her to try to comprehend what this danger can mean.
She has no salon to receive her guests--she turns her bedroom at noon
into a drawing-room, not inviting every one, but to those to whom she
extends the privilege fiercely regulating the proprieties. She may have
a regular occupation or an occasional one, neither must interfere with
her liberty of pleasure. She needs money--she acquires it indirectly, by
ways that bear no offense to her delightfully illogical but keen
sensibilities. With one man she will ride in his automobile, far into
the night--to another she will hardly accord the tips of her gloves. She
makes no mistakes. Her head is never dizzy. Her mind is in control and
she knows at every moment what she is doing. She will dare only so far
as she knows she is safe.
She runs the gamut of the city, its high lights and its still shadows.
She enters by right behind its varied scenes. She breakfasts on one egg
and a cup of coffee, takes her luncheon from a high-legged stool in a
cellar restaurant, reluctantly counting out the change, and the same
night, with supreme indolence, descends from a luxurious automobile,
before the flaring portals of the restaurant most in fashion, giving her
fingers to those who rank among the masters of the city.
This curiosity that leads her to flit from window to window has in it no
vice. It is fed only by the zest of life. Her passion is to know, to
leave no cranny unexplored, to see, not to experience, to flit
miraculously through the flames--never to be consumed!
That her standard of conduct is marvelous, that her ideas of what is
permitted and what is forbidden are mystifying, is true. So too is it
difficult to comprehend, in the society of men of the world, what is
fair and what is unfair, what is "done" and what is not "done." To
understand the Salamander, to appreciate her significance as a criticism
of our present social forms, one must first halt and consider what
changes are operating in our social system.
* * * * *
If one were privileged to have the great metropolis of New York reduced
to microcosm at his feet, to be studied as man may study the marvelous
organism of the anthill or the hive, two curious truths would become
evident. First that those whom the metropolis engenders seldom succeed
their fathers, that they move in circles as it were, endlessly revolving
about a fixed idea, apparently stupefied by the colossal shadows under
which they have been born; secondly that daily, hourly even, a stream of
energetic young men constantly arrives from the unknown provinces, to
reinvigorate the city, rescue it from stagnation, ascending abruptly to
its posts of command, assuming direction of its manifold
activities--ruling it.
Further, one would perceive that the history of the city is the result
of these two constantly opposed forces, one striving to conserve, the
other to acquire. The inheritors constantly seek to define the city's
forms, encase its society, limit its opportunities, transform its young
activities into inheritable institutions; while the young and ardent
adventurers who come with no other baggage than their portmanteaux of
audacity and sublime disdain, are constantly firing it with their
inflaming enthusiasm, purifying it with their new health, forcing the
doors of reluctant sets, storming its giant privileges, modernizing its
laws, vitalizing its arts, capturing its financial hierarchies, opposing
to the solidifying force of attempted systems their liberating
corrective of opportunity and individualism. Of the two forces, only the
conqueror from without is important.
This phenomenon of immigration is neither new nor peculiar to our
civilization. It is indeed the living principle of a metropolis which,
as it requires food, water, fire for its material existence, must also
hourly levy, Minotaur-like, its toll on foreign youth. Woman has had no
counterpart to this life-giving fermentation of young men. The toll of
the metropolis has been the toll of corruption, spreading corruption,
and this continuous flow of the two sexes through the gates of the city
has been like the warring passage through the arteries of red
life-defending corpuscles and disease-bearing germs.
Now suddenly to one who thus profoundly meditates this giant scheme, a
new phenomenon has appeared. All at once amid the long stretching lines
of young men that seek the city from the far horizon appear the figures
of young women, not by hundreds but by the thousands, following in the
steps of their brothers, wage-earners animated by the same desire for
independence, eager and determined for a larger view of life, urged
outward by the same imperative revolt against stagnation, driven by the
same unrest for the larger horizon. This culminative movement, begun in
the decline of the nineteenth century, may well be destined to mark the
twentieth century as the great era of social readjustment.
In the past the great block to woman's complete and equal communion with
man has been her economic dependence on him; while she has not been
necessary to man, man has been necessary to her. Hence her forced
acceptation of his standard of her position and her duties. In one
generation, by this portentous achievement of economic independence,
woman in a night, like Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham, has suddenly
elevated herself to a position of aggressive equality. Those who see in
the feminine movement no further than a question of political expediency
perceive no more than a relatively unimportant manifestation. What has
happened is that the purely masculine conception of society has been
suddenly put to the challenge. Man's conception of religion, of marriage
and the family, of property rights versus sentimental rights, of
standards of conduct and political expediency, imperfect and groping as
they have been, will, in the future, progress according to a new
alliance between man and woman. And this world revolution has come, day
by day, month after month, in the spectacle of young women, bundles in
arms, light of purse, rebel in heart, moving in silent thousands toward
the great cities. In this new army of women who have now intrenched
themselves in the strongholds of economic independence, there are two
distinct but related divisions, the great mass who must work and the
relatively smaller class, socially more significant, who must live,
those, of whom the Salamanders are the impatient outstripping advance,
who are determined to liberate their lives and claim the same rights of
judgment as their brothers.
What has brought this great emigration to pass? Several causes, some
actively impelling, others merely passively liberating--the taking down
of weakened bars.
* * * * *
The causes which have actively impelled this liberating emigration are
more clearly perceived, the causes which have passively permitted this
removal of the bars are less obvious. We are a society of
passage--between two ports. Scarcely can we recall the thin shores we
have departed, nor can any one foretell what outlines, at the end of
the voyage, will rise out of the sea of experiment. In every social
revolution there are three distinct generations, the first of intrenched
traditions, the second of violent reaction and the third of
reconstruction. And if it seem a law of nature's tireless action and
reaction that fathers and sons should be ever set against one another,
ever misunderstanding one another, the true measure of human progress
lies in that degree of change which results between the first and the
third generations. Between this old generation of authority and this
present generation of logic has come a feminine revolution startling in
the shock of its abruptness. Yet a social revolution that obliterates in
an hour the landmarks of ages, frequently resembles a cataclysm of
nature--the gathering torrent only becomes possible with the last six
inches of earth. What has broken out in these last half a dozen years
has been accumulating without beginning--for ideas can have no
beginnings. They have existed in the unconscious human soul as the germ
of physical evolution has lain among the glaciers and the wilderness.
What then was the position of women under the old order? That generation
of authority was intrenched in the great social domination of the
church. What in effect did religion say to women? It said:
"Remember always that this life is of no moment. It is given you that
you may inherit eternity. Reckon not the present, aspire to the next.
Abnegation is glorious, suffering is to be prized, sacrifices patiently
made bring you by so much nearer to Heaven. Subordinate yourself, bear
everything, accept all burdens gladly. Live for others; forgive,
inspire. If this life seem to you narrow and motherhood staggering,
bleak, joyless, think not on the fatigue but on the awakening."
With the turning of men's minds to the dormant truths of science came a
great agnostic revolt that brought a scientific questioning of all facts
and a demand that everything should fall or stand by the test of the
reason. In this new enthusiasm for logic, which has overturned so many
rooted institutions with its militant individualism, the authority of
the home has been shattered, divorce has been multiplied in the protest
against the old unreasoning tyranny of marriage, and the Puritan
domination of the church has too often become a social institution for
the better ordering of the masses and an outward form of polite
respectability. In this complete breaking down of authority the voice of
the church that spoke to women has been lost.
Another troubling phase began simultaneously, the period of miraculous
material opportunity, the fungus growth of fortunes great and little.
The suddenly prosperous parents began to plan for their children those
opportunities which had been denied them, seeking to educate them beyond
what they had known--a process ever linked with tragedy and
disillusionment. What now results, with the thousands of young girls who
have learned of magazines and novels or who have gone out from the
confining narrowness of little homes to a broader education--not simply
in books but in the experience of life, of a certain independency, of
the opportunities beyond?
* * * * *
At about the age of eighteen the Salamander returns to town or village,
to the mediocrity of the home from which she has escaped | 613.781217 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.8571830 | 2,273 | 7 |
Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
PETER
A Novel of Which He is Not the Hero
By F. Hopkinson Smith
CHAPTER I
Peter was still poring over his ledger one dark afternoon in December,
his bald head glistening like a huge ostrich egg under the flare of the
overhead gas jets, when Patrick, the night watchman, catching sight of
my face peering through the outer grating, opened the door of the Bank.
The sight so late in the day was an unusual one, for in all the years
that I have called at the Bank--ten, now--no, eleven since we first knew
each other--Peter had seldom failed to be ready for our walk uptown when
the old moon-faced clock high up on the wall above the stove pointed at
four.
"I thought there was something up!" I cried. "What is it, Peter--balance
wrong?"
He did not answer, only waved his hand in reply, his bushy gray eyebrows
moving slowly, like two shutters that opened and closed, as he scanned
the lines of figures up and down, his long pen gripped tight between his
thin, straight lips, as a dog carries a bone.
I never interrupt him when his brain is nosing about like this; it is
better to keep still and let him ferret it out. So I sat down outside
the curved rail with its wooden slats backed by faded green curtains,
close to the big stove screened off at the end of the long room, fixed
one eye on the moon-face and the other on the ostrich egg, and waited.
There are no such banks at the present time--were no others then, and
this story begins not so very many years' ago--A queer, out-of-date,
mouldy old barn of a bank, you would say, this Exeter--for an
institution wielding its influence. Not a coat of paint for half a
century; not a brushful of whitewash for goodness knows how much longer.
As for the floor, it still showed the gullies and grooves, with here
and there a sturdy knot sticking up like a nut on a boiler, marking the
track of countless impatient depositors and countless anxious borrowers,
it may be, who had lock-stepped one behind the other for fifty years
or more, in their journey from the outer door to the windows where the
Peters of the old days, and the Peter of the present, presided over the
funds entrusted to their care.
Well enough in its day, you might have said, with a shrug, as you looked
over its forlorn interior. Well enough in its day! Why, man, old John
Astor, James Beekman, Rhinelander Stewart, Moses Grinnell, and a lot of
just such worthies--men whose word was as good as their notes--and
whose notes were often better than the Government's, presided over its
destinies, and helped to stuff the old-fashioned vault with wads of
gilt-edged securities--millions in value if you did but know it--and
making it what it is to-day. If you don't believe the first part of my
statement, you've only to fumble among the heap of dusty ledgers piled
on top of the dusty shelves; and if you doubt the latter part, then try
to buy some of the stock and see what you have to pay for it. Although
the gas was turned off in the directors' room, I could still see
from where I sat the very mahogany table under which these same
ruffle-shirted, watch-fobbed, snuff-taking old fellows tucked their
legs when they decided on who should and who should not share the bank's
confidence.
And the side walls and surroundings were none the less shabby and quite
as dilapidated. Even the windows had long since given up the fight
to maintain a decent amount of light, and as for the grated opening
protected by iron shutters which would have had barely room to swing
themselves clear of the building next door, no Patrick past or present
had ever dared loosen their bolts for a peep even an inch wide into the
canyon below, so gruesome was the collection of old shoes, tin cans,
broken bottles and battered hats which successive generations had
hurried into the narrow un-get-at-able space that lay between the two
structures.
Indeed the only thing inside or out of this time-worn building which the
most fertile of imaginations could consider as being at all up to date
was the clock. Not its face--that was old-timey enough with its sun,
moon and stars in blue and gold, and the name of the Liverpool maker
engraved on its enamel; nor its hands, fiddle-shaped and stiff, nor
its case, which always reminded me of a coffin set up on end awaiting
burial--but its strike. Whatever divergences the Exeter allowed itself
in its youth, or whatever latitude or longitude it had given its
depositors, and that, we may be sure, was precious little so long as
that Board of Directors was alive, there was no wabbling or wavering, no
being behind time, when the hour hand of the old clock reached three and
its note of warning rang out.
Peter obeyed the ominous sound and closed his Teller's window with a
gentle bang. Patrick took notice and swung to the iron grating of the
outer door. You might peer in and beg ever so hard--unless, of course,
you were a visitor like myself, and even then Peter would have to give
his consent--you might peer through, I say, or tap on the glass, or you
might plead that you were late and very sorry, but the ostrich egg never
turned in its nest nor did the eyebrows vibrate. Three o'clock was three
o'clock at the Exeter, and everybody might go to the devil--financially,
of course--before the rule would be broken. Other banks in panicky
times might keep a side door open until four, five or six--that is, the
bronze-rail, marble-top, glass-front, certify-your-checks-as-early-as-
ten-in-the-morning-without-a-penny-on-deposit kind of banks--but not the
Exeter--that is, not with Peter's consent--and Peter was the Exeter so
far as his department was concerned--and had been for nearly thirty
years--twenty as bookkeeper, five as paying teller and five as receiving
teller.
And the regularity and persistency of this clock! Not only did it
announce the hours, but it sounded the halves and quarters, clearing its
throat with a whirr like an admonitory cough before each utterance.
I had samples of its entire repertoire as I sat there:
One...two...three...four...five--then half an hour later a whir-r and a
single note. "Half-past five," I said to myself. "Will Peter never find
that mistake?" Once during the long wait the night watchman shifted his
leg--he was on the other side of the stove--and once Peter reached up
above his head for a pile of papers, spreading them out before him under
the white glare of the overhead light, then silence again, broken only
by the slow, dogged tock-tick, tock-tick, or the sagging of a hot coal
adjusting itself for the night.
Suddenly a cheery voice rang out and Peter's hands shot up above his
head.
"Ah, Breen & Co.! One of those plaguey sevens for a nine. Here we are!
Oh, Peter Grayson, how often have I told you to be careful! Ah, what
a sorry block of wood you carry on your shoulders. I won't be a minute
now, Major." A gratuitous compliment on the part of my friend, I being
a poor devil of a contractor without military aspirations of any kind.
"Well, well, how could I have been so stupid. Get ready to close up,
Patrick. No, thank you, Patrick, my coat's inside; I'll fetch it."
He was quite another man now, closing the great ledger with a bang;
shouldering it as Moses did the Tables of the Law, and carrying it into
the big vault behind him--big enough to back a buggy into had the great
door been wider--shooting the bolts, whirring the combination into
so hopeless and confused a state that should even the most daring and
expert of burglars have tried his hand or his jimmy on its steel plating
he would have given up in despair (that is unless big Patrick fell
asleep--an unheard-of occurrence) and all with such spring and
joyousness of movement that had I not seen him like this many times
before I would have been deluded into the belief that the real Peter
had been locked up in the dismal vault with the musty books and that an
entirely different kind of Peter was skipping about outside.
But that was nothing to the air with which he swept his papers into the
drawer of his desk, brushed away the crumpled sheets upon which he
had figured his balance, and darted to the washstand behind the narrow
partition. Nor could it be compared to the way in which he stripped
off his black bombazine office-coat with its baggy pockets--quite a
disreputable-looking coat I must say--taking it by the nape of the neck,
as if it were some loathsome object to be got rid of, and hanging it
upon a hook behind him; nor to the way in which he pulled up his shirt
sleeves and plunged his white, long-fingered, delicately modeled hands
into the basin, as if cleanliness were a thing to be welcomed as a
part of his life. These carefully dried, each finger by itself--not
forgetting the small seal ring on the little one--he gave an extra
polish to his glistening pate with the towel, patted his fresh,
smooth-shaven cheeks with an unrumpled handkerchief which he had
taken from his inside pocket, carefully adjusted his white neck-cloth,
refastening the diamond pin--a tiny one but clear as a baby's tear--put
on his frock-coat with its high collar and flaring tails, took down
his silk hat, gave it a flourish with his handkerchief, unhooked his
overcoat from a peg behind the door (a gray surtout cut something like
the first Napoleon's) and stepped out | 613.877223 |
2023-11-16 18:27:17.8596500 | 1,075 | 58 |
Produced by David Widger
SAILORS' KNOTS
By W.W. Jacobs
1909
SELF-HELP
The night-watchman sat brooding darkly over life and its troubles. A
shooting corn on the little toe of his left foot, and a touch of liver,
due, he was convinced, to the unlawful cellar work of the landlord of the
Queen's Head, had induced in him a vein of profound depression. A
discarded boot stood by his side, and his gray-stockinged foot protruded
over the edge of the jetty until a passing waterman gave it a playful rap
with his oar. A subsequent inquiry as to the price of pigs' trotters
fell on ears rendered deaf by suffering.
"I might 'ave expected it," said the watchman, at last. "I done that
man--if you can call him a man--a kindness once, and this is my reward
for it. Do a man a kindness, and years arterwards 'e comes along and
hits you over your tenderest corn with a oar."
[Illustration: "''E comes along and hits you over your tenderest corn
with a oar.'"]
He took up his boot, and, inserting his foot with loving care, stooped
down and fastened the laces.
Do a man a kindness, he continued, assuming a safer posture, and 'e tries
to borrow money off of you; do a woman a kindness and she thinks you want
tr marry 'er; do an animal a kindness and it tries to bite you--same as a
horse bit a sailorman I knew once, when 'e sat on its head to 'elp it get
up. He sat too far for'ard, pore chap.
Kindness never gets any thanks. I remember a man whose pal broke 'is leg
while they was working together unloading a barge; and he went off to
break the news to 'is pal's wife. A kind-'earted man 'e was as ever you
see, and, knowing 'ow she would take on when she 'eard the news, he told
her fust of all that 'er husband was killed. She took on like a mad
thing, and at last, when she couldn't do anything more and 'ad quieted
down a bit, he told 'er that it was on'y a case of a broken leg, thinking
that 'er joy would be so great that she wouldn't think anything of that.
He 'ad to tell her three times afore she understood 'im, and then,
instead of being thankful to 'im for 'is thoughtfulness, she chased him
'arf over Wapping with a chopper, screaming with temper.
I remember Ginger Dick and Peter Russet trying to do old Sam Small a
kindness one time when they was 'aving a rest ashore arter a v'y'ge.
They 'ad took a room together as usual, and for the fust two or three
days they was like brothers. That couldn't last, o' course, and Sam was
so annoyed one evening at Ginger's suspiciousness by biting a 'arf-dollar
Sam owed 'im and finding it was a bad 'un, that 'e went off to spend the
evening all alone by himself.
He felt a bit dull at fust, but arter he had 'ad two or three 'arf-pints
'e began to take a brighter view of things. He found a very nice, cosey
little public-'ouse he hadn't been in before, and, arter getting two and
threepence and a pint for the 'arf-dollar with Ginger's tooth-marks on,
he began to think that the world wasn't 'arf as bad a place as people
tried to make out.
There was on'y one other man in the little bar Sam was in--a tall, dark
chap, with black side-whiskers and spectacles, wot kept peeping round the
partition and looking very 'ard at everybody that came in.
"I'm just keeping my eye on 'em, cap'n," he ses to Sam, in a low voice.
"Ho!" ses Sam.
"They don't know me in this disguise," ses the dark man, "but I see as
'ow you spotted me at once. Anybody 'ud have a 'ard time of it to
deceive you; and then they wouldn't gain nothing by it."
"Nobody ever 'as yet," ses Sam, smiling at 'im.
"And nobody ever will," ses the dark man, shaking his 'cad; "if they was
all as fly as you, I might as well put the shutters up. How did you twig
I was a detective officer, cap'n?"
Sam, wot was taking a drink, got some beer up 'is nose with surprise.
"That's my secret," he ses, arter the tec 'ad patted 'im on the back and
brought 'im round.
"You're a marvel, that's wot you are | 613.87969 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.0546330 | 3,580 | 6 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
ERCHIE
My Droll Friend
By Hugh Foulis
(Neil Munro)
(The Looker-On)
William Blackwood and Sons Edinburgh and London
MCMIV
[Illustration: 0008]
[Illustration: 0009]
PREFACE.
The majority of the following chapters are selections from “Erchie”
articles contributed to the pages of the ‘Glasgow Evening News’ during
the past three years. A number of the sketches are now published for the
first time.
ERCHIE
I INTRODUCTORY TO AN ODD CHARACTER
|On Sundays he is the beadle of our church; at other times he Waits.
In his ecclesiastical character there is a solemn dignity about his
deportment that compels most of us to call him Mr MacPherson; in his
secular hours, when passing the fruit at a city banquet, or when at the
close of the repast he sweeps away the fragments of the dinner-rolls,
and whisperingly expresses in your left ear a fervent hope that “ye’ve
enjoyed your dinner,” he is simply Erchie.
Once I forgot, deluded a moment into a Sunday train of thought by his
reverent way of laying down a bottle of Pommery, and called him Mr
MacPherson. He reproved me with a glance of his eye.
“There’s nae Mr MacPhersons here,” said he afterwards; “at whit ye might
call the social board I’m jist Erchie, or whiles Easy-gaun Erchie wi’
them that kens me langest. There’s sae mony folks in this world don’t
like to hurt your feelings that if I was kent as Mr MacPherson on this
kind o’ job I wadna mak’ enough to pay for starchin’ my shirts.”
I suppose Mr MacPherson has been snibbing-in preachers in St Kentigern’s
Kirk pulpit and then going for twenty minutes’ sleep in the vestry since
the Disruption; and the more privileged citizens of Glasgow during
two or three generations of public dinners have experienced the kindly
ministrations of Erchie, whose proud motto is “A flet fit but a warm
hert.” I think, however, I was the first to discover his long pent-up
and precious strain of philosophy.
On Saturday nights, in his office as beadle of St Kentigern’s, he lights
the furnaces that take the chill off the Sunday devotions. I found him
stoking the kirk fires one Saturday, not very much like a beadle in
appearance, and much less like a waiter. It was what, in England, they
call the festive season.
“There’s mair nor guid preachin’ wanted to keep a kirk gaun,” said he;
“if I was puttin’ as muckle dross on my fires as the Doctor whiles
puts in his sermons, efter a Setturday at the gowf, ye wad see a bonny
difference on the plate. But it’s nae odds-a beadle gets sma’ credit,
though it’s him that keeps the kirk tosh and warm, and jist at that
nice easy-osy temperature whaur even a gey cauldrife member o’ the
congregation can tak’ his nap and no’ let his lozenge slip doon his
throat for chitterin wi’ the cauld.”
There was a remarkably small congregation at St Kentigern’s on the
following day, and when the worthy beadle had locked the door after
dismissal and joined me on the pavement, “Man,” he said, “it was a puir
turn-oot yon--hardly worth puttin’ on fires for. It’s aye the wye; when
I mak’ the kirk a wee bit fancy, and jalouse there’s shair to be twa
pound ten in the plate, on comes a blash o’ rain, and there’s hardly
whit wid pay for the starchin’ o’ the Doctor’s bands.
“Christmas! They ca’t Christmas, but I could gie anither name for’t. I
looked it up in the penny almanac, and it said, ‘Keen frost; probably
snow,’ and I declare-to if I hadna nearly to soom frae the hoose.
“The almanacs is no’ whit they used to be; the auld chaps that used to
mak’ them maun be deid.
“They used to could do’t wi’ the least wee bit touch, and tell ye in
January whit kind o’ day it wad be at Halloween, besides lettin’ ye ken
the places whaur the Fair days and the ‘ool-markets was, and when they
were to tak’ place-a’ kind o’ information that maist o’ us that bocht
the almanacs couldna sleep at nicht wantin’. I’ve seen me get up at
three on a cauld winter’s mornin’ and strikin’ a licht to turn up Orr’s
Penny Commercial and see whit day was the Fair at Dunse. I never was
at Dunse in a’ my days, and hae nae intention o’ gaun, but it’s a grand
thing knowledge, and it’s no’ ill to cairry. It’s like poetry-’The Star
o’ Rabbie Burns’ and that kind o’ thing-ye can aye be givin’ it a ca’
roond in your mind when ye hae naething better to dae.
“Oh, ay! A puir turn-oot the day for Kenti-gern’s; that’s the drawback
o’ a genteel congregation like oors-mair nor half o’ them’s sufferin’
frae Christmas turkey and puttin’ the blame on the weather.”
“The bubbly-jock is the symbol o’ Scotland’s decline and fa’; we maybe
bate the English at Bannockburn, but noo they’re haein’ their revenge
and underminin’ oor constitution wi’ the aid o’ a bird that has neither
a braw plumage nor a bonny sang, and costs mair nor the price o’ three
or four ducks. England gave us her bubbly-jock and took oor barley-bree.
“But it’s a’ richt; Ne’erday’s comin’; it’s begun this year gey early,
for I saw Duffy gaun up his close last nicht wi’ his nose peeled.
“‘Am I gaun hame, or am I comin’ frae’t, can ye tell me?’ says he, and
he was carryin’ something roond-shaped in his pocket-naipkin.
“‘Whit’s wrang wi’ ye, puir cratur?’ I says to him.
“‘I was struck wi’ a sheet o’ lichtnin’,’ says he, and by that I ken’t
he had been doon drinkin’ at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, and that the
season o’ peace on earth, guid-will to men was fairly started.
“‘MacPherson,’ he says, wi’ the tear at his e’e, ‘I canna help it, but
I’m a guid man.’
“‘Ye are that, Duffy,’ I says, ‘when ye’re in your bed sleepin’; at
ither times ye’re like the rest o’ us, and that’s gey middlin’. Whit
hae’ye in the naipkin?’
“He gied a dazed look at it, and says, ‘I’m no shair, but I think it’s a
curlin’-stane, and me maybe gaun to a bonspiel at Carsbreck.’
“He opened it oot, and found it was a wee, roond, red cheese.
“‘That’s me, a’ ower,’ says he--‘a Christmas for the wife,’ and I
declare there was as much drink jaupin’ in him as wad hae done for a
water-’shute.’
“Scotland’s last stand in the way o’ national customs is bein’ made at
the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, whaur the flet half-mutchkin, wrapped up in
magenta tissue paper so that it’ll look tidy, is retreatin’ doggedly,
and fechtin’ every fit o’ the way, before the invadin’ English Christmas
caird. Ten years ago the like o’ you and me couldna’ prove to a freen’
that we liked him fine unless we took him at this time o’ the year into
five or six public-hooses, leaned him up against the coonter, and
grat on his dickie. Whit dae we dae noo? We send wee Jennie oot for a
shilling box o’ the year afore last’s patterns in Christmas cairds, and
show oor continued affection and esteem at the ha’penny postage rate.
“Instead o’, takin’ Duffy roon’ the toon on Ne’erday, and hurtin’ my
heid wi’ tryin’ to be jolly, I send him a Christmas caird, wi’ the
picture o’ a hayfield on the ootside and ‘Wishin’ you the Old, Old Wish,
Dear,’ on the inside, and stay in the hoose till the thing blaws bye.
“The shilling box o’ Christmas cairds is the great peace-maker; a gross
or twa should hae been sent oot to Russia and Japan, and it wad hae
stopped the war.’ Ye may hae thocht for a twelvemonth the MacTurks were
a disgrace to the tenement, wi’ their lassie learnin’ the mandolin’,
and them haein’ their gas cut aff at the meter for no’ payin’ the last
quarter; but let them send a comic caird to your lassie--‘Wee Wullie to
Wee Jennie,’ and they wad get the len’ o’ your wife’s best jeely-pan.
“No’ but whit there’s trouble wi’ the Christmas caird. It’s only when ye
buy a shillin’ box and sit doon wi’ the wife and weans to consider wha
ye’ll send them to that ye fin’ oot whit an awfu’ lot o’ freen’s ye hae.
A score o’ shillin’ boxes wadna gae ower half the kizzens I hae, wi’ my
grandfaither belangin’ to the Hielan’s, so Jinnet an’ me jist let’s on
to some o’ them we’re no’ sendin’ ony cairds oot this year because it’s
no’ the kin’ o’ society go ony langer. And ye have aye to keep pairt
o’ the box till Ne’erday to send to some o’ the mair parteeclar anes ye
forgot a’ thegither were freen’s o’ yours till they sent ye a caird.
“Anither fau’t I hae to the Christmas cairds is that the writin’ on
them’s generally fair rideeculous.
“‘May Christmas Day be Blythe and Gay, and bring your household Peace
and Joy,’ is on the only caird left ower to send to Mrs Maclure; and
when ye’re shearin’ aff the selvedges o’t to mak’ it fit a wee envelope,
ye canna but think that it’s a droll message for a hoose wi’ five weans
lyin’ ill wi’ the whoopin’-cough, and the man cairryin’ on the wye
Maclure does.
“‘Old friends, old favourites, Joy be with you at this Season,’ says
the caird for the MacTurks, and ye canna but mind that every third
week there’s a row wi’ Mrs MacTurk and your wife aboot the key o’ the
washin’-hoose and lettin’ the boiler rust that bad a’ the salts o’
sorrel in the Apothecaries’ll no tak’ the stains aff your shirts.
“Whit’s wanted is a kin’ o’ slidin’ scale o’ sentiment on Christmas
cairds, so that they’ll taper doon frae a herty greetin’ ye can
truthfully send to a dacent auld freen’ and the kind o’ cool ‘here’s to
ye!’ suited for an acquaintance that borrowed five shillin’s frae ye at
the Term, and hasna much chance o’ ever payin’t back again.
“If it wasna for the Christmas cairds a lot o’ us wad maybe never
jalouse there was onything parteecular merry aboot the season. Every man
that ye’re owin’ an accoont to sends it to ye then, thinkin’ your
hert’s warm and your pouches rattlin’. On Christmas Day itsel’ ye’re
aye expectin’ something; ye canna richt tell whit it is, but there’s ae
thing certain--that it never comes. Jinnet, my wife, made a breenge for
the door every time the post knocked on Thursday, and a’ she had for’t
at the end o’ the day was an ashet fu’ o’ whit she ca’s valenteens, a’
written on so that they’ll no even dae for next year.
“I used to wonder whit the banks shut for at Christmas, but I ken noo;
they’re feart that their customers, cairried awa’ wi’ their feelin’
o’ guid-will to men, wad be makin’ a rush on them to draw money for
presents, and maybe create a panic.
“Sae far as I can judge there’s been nae panic at the banks this year.”
“Every Ne’erday for the past fifty years I hae made up my mind I was
gaun to be a guid man,” he went on. “It jist wants a start, they tell me
that’s tried it, and I’m no’ that auld. Naething bates a trial.
“I’m gaun to begin at twelve o’clock on Hogmanay, and mak’ a wee note
o’t in my penny diary, and put a knot in my hankie to keep me in mind.
Maist o’ us would be as guid’s there’s ony need for if we had naething
else to think o’. It’s like a man that’s hen-taed--he could walk fine if
he hadna a train to catch, or the rent to rin wi’ at the last meenute,
or somethin’ else to bother him. I’m gey faur wrang if I dinna dae the
trick this year, though.
“Oh! ay. I’m gaun to be a guid man. No’ that awfu’ guid that auld
freen’s’ll rin up a close to hide when they see me comin’, but jist
dacent--jist guid enough to please mysel’, like Duffy’s singin’. I’m no’
makin’ a breenge at the thing and sprainin’ my leg ower’t. I’m startin’
canny till I get into the wye o’t. Efter this Erchie MacPherson’s gaun
to flype his ain socks and no’ leave his claes reel-rail aboot the hoose
at night for his wife Jinnet to lay oot richt in the mornin’. I’ve lost
money by that up till noo, for there was aye bound to be an odd sixpence
droppin’ oot and me no’ lookin’. I’m gaun to stop skliffin’ wi’ my feet;
it’s sair on the boots. I’m gaun to save preens by puttin’ my collar
stud in a bowl and a flet-iron on the top o’t to keep Erchie’s Flitting
it frae jinkin’ under the chevalier and book-case when I’m sleepin’. I’m
gaun to wear oot a’ my auld waistcoats in the hoose. I’m------”
“My dear Erchie,” I interrupted, “these seem very harmless reforms.”
“Are they?” said he. “They’ll dae to | 614.074673 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.0714120 | 7,436 | 22 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: J. D. Gillilan (signature)]
TRAIL TALES
BY
JAMES DAVID GILLILAN
THE ABINGDON PRESS
NEW YORK--CINCINNATI
Copyright, 1915, by
JAMES DAVID GILLILAN
DEDICATED AFFECTIONATELY
TO MY MOTHER,
TO MY WIFE;
LIKEWISE TO
THE PREACHERS OF
UTAH MISSION
AND
IDAHO ANNUAL CONFERENCE
CONTENTS
PREFACE 9
GOD'S MINISTER 11
THE WESTERN TRAIL 13
THE LONG TRAIL 19
THE DESERT 31
SAGEBRUSH 39
THE IRON TRAIL 47
A Railroad Saint in Idaho 49
An Unusual Kindness 59
INDIANS OF THE TRAIL 63
Introductory Words 65
Pocatello, the Chief 67
The Babyless Mother 72
Mary Muskrat 76
Bad Ben 79
A Three-Cornered Sermon 82
Three Years After 87
Chief Joseph and His Lost Wallowa 92
The White Man's Book 96
LIGHTS AND SIDELIGHTS 99
THE STAGECOACH 107
AMONG THE HILLS 117
The Mother Deer 119
The Shepherd 121
The Feathered Drummer 122
MORMONDOM 123
The Trail of the Mormon 125
Some Mormon Beliefs 131
Weber Tom, Ute Polygamist 138
Polygamy of To-Day 145
GREAT SALT LAKE 149
ARGONAUT SAM'S TALE 157
THE WRAITH OF THE BLIZZARD 167
THE GREAT NORTHWEST 175
ILLUSTRATIONS
J. D. Gillilan _Frontispiece_
Chief Joseph, Nez Perce Indian 64
Wallowa Lake 94
End of the Trail 183
PREFACE
In his young manhood the writer of these sketches came up into this
realm of widest vision, clearest skies, sweetest waters, and happiest
people to engraft the green twig of his life upon the activities of
the mountaineers of the thrilling West.
At that time the vast plains and the barren valleys were silvered over
with the ubiquitous sage through which crept lazily and aimlessly the
many unharnessed arroyo-making streams waiting only the appearance of
their master, man. Under his scientific, skilled, and economic
guidance these wild waters, lassoed, tamed, and set to work, taking
the place of clouds where there are none, were soon to cause the gray
garden of nature to become goldened by the well-nigh illimitable acres
of grain and other home-making products.
The West has an abundant variety of life of a sort most intensely
human. Life, always so earnest in Anglo-Saxon lands, seems to have
accentuated individuality here in a wondrous and contagious degree.
These few stories, culled from the repertoire of an active life of
more than thirty years, are samples of personal experiences, and are
taken almost at random from mining camp, frontier town and settlement,
public and private life.
As a minister the writer has had wide and varied opportunities in all
the Northwest, but more especially in Utah, Oregon, and Idaho. Many a
man much more modest has far excelled him in life experiences, but
some of them have never told.
This little handful of goldenrod is affectionately dedicated to them
of the Trails.
THE AUTHOR.
GOD'S MINISTER
_Dedicated to the Mountain Ministers_
As terrace upon terrace
Rise the mountains o'er the humbler hills
And stretch away to dizzy heights
To meet heaven's own pure blue;
From thence to steal those soft and filmy clouds
With which to wrap their heads and shoulders--
Bare of other cloak--
Transforming them to rains and snows
To bless this elsewise desert world:
So, he who stands God's minister '<DW41> men,
High reaches out above all earthly things
And comes in contact with the thoughts of God;
Conveys them down in blessings to mankind--
Richest of blessings,
Holiest fruit of heaven--
Plucked fresh from off the Tree of Life
That springs hard by the Lamb's white throne,
And bears the plenteous leaves which grow
To heal the wounded nations.
THE WESTERN TRAIL
And step by step since time began
I see the steady gain of man.
--Whittier.
THE WESTERN TRAIL
"An overland highway to the Western sea" was the thought variously
expressed by many men in both public and private life among the
French, English, and Americans from very early times. In 1659 Pierre
Radisson and a companion, by way of the Great Lakes, Fox, and
"Ouisconsing" Rivers, discovered the "east fork" of the "Great River"
and crossed to the "west fork," up which they went into what is now
the Dakotas, only to find it going still "interminably westward."
In 1766 Carver, an Englishman, went by the same route up the "east
fork" to Saint Anthony Falls; thence he traveled to Canada, to learn
from the Assiniboin Indians the existence of the "Shining Mountains"
and that beyond them was the "Oregan," which went to the salt sea.
As early as 1783 Thomas Jefferson wrote to George Rogers Clark to tell
him he understood the English had subscribed a very large sum of
money for exploration of the country west of the Mississippi, and as
far as California. He even expressed himself as being desirous of
forming a party of Americans to make the trip.
Twenty years later, under the direction of _President_ Thomas
Jefferson, General Clark was made a member of the Lewis and Clark
Expedition, which went up the "great river" and ultimately crossed
through Montana and Idaho to the Columbia (Oregan?) and the "salt
sea."
Zebulon Pike was turned back by the imperious Rocky Mountains in 1806.
A few years later Captain Bonneville braved the plains, the plateaus,
the mountain passes, and the deserts, and saw the Columbia. Then
continuous migrations finally fixed the overland highway known from
ocean to ocean as the Oregon Trail.
The Mormons followed this national road when they trekked to the
valley of Salt Lake in 1847--a dolorous path to many.
Because the Oregon Trail was nature's way, man and commerce made it
their way. Road sites are not like city sites--made to order; they are
discovered. For that reason the pioneer railway transcontinental also
followed this trail. The Union Pacific marks with iron what so many of
the emigrants marked with their tears and their graves. From the mouth
of the Platte to the heart of the Rocky Mountains and beyond is a
continuous cemetery of nameless tombs.
The next few pages will give some sketches of fact depicting scenes of
sunlight and shadow that fell on this highway in days not so very long
agone.
THE LONG TRAIL
Those mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like pierce the desert airs,
When nearer seen and better known
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
--_Longfellow_.
THE LONG TRAIL
The Old Overland Trail from the Missouri River to the Willamette is a
distance of nearly two thousand miles. Before Jason Lee and Marcus
Whitman sanctioned its use for the migrating myriads of Americans
seeking the shores of the sunset sea, trappers and adventurers, good
and bad, had mapped out a general route over the wind-whipped passes,
where the storm stands sentinel and guards the granite ways among the
rough Rocky Mountains. They had followed the falls-filled Snake and
the calmer Columbia, which plow for a thousand miles or more among
basaltic bastions buttressing the mountain sides, or through the lava
lands where cavernous chasms yawn and abysmal depths echo back the
sullen roar of the raging rapids.
In the early forties of the nineteenth century restless spirits
from Missouri and eastward began to filter through the fingertips
of the beckoning mountains of the West and locate in the land where
storms seldom come and where the extremes of heat and cold are
unknown--Willamette Valley, Oregon.
In these early days, a farmer, whom we shall name Johnson, with wife
and son, hoping to better conditions and prolong life, thus sought the
goal toward the setting sun. Starting when the sturdy spring was
enlivening all nature, they left the malarial marshes of the
Mississippi Valley, where quinine and whisky for "fevernagur" were to
be had at every crossroads store, and in a couple of weeks found
themselves west of the muddy Missouri, where the herds of humped bison
grazed as yet unafraid among the rolling, well-wooded hills of eastern
Kansas.
Barring a few common hindrances, they went well and reached the higher
and hotter plains in midsummer; they were out of the sight of hills
and trees--just one weary, eternal, unchangeable vista day after day.
Mrs. Johnson had not been well, and after a few weeks that promised
more for the future than they fulfilled, she began gradually to lose
strength.
But she was made of the uncomplaining material pioneers are wrought
of, the ones who so lived, loved, and labored that the hard-earned
sweets of civilization grew to highest perfection about their graves,
and proved the most enduring monument to their memory. She never
murmured other than to ask occasionally: "Father, how much farther?
Isn't it a wonderfully long way to Oregon?"
"Just over that next range of hills, I think, from what the trappers
told me," was the reply, after they had come to the toes of the
foothills that terminate the long-lying limbs of the giant Rockies.
But he did not know the stealth of the mountains nor the fantastic
pranks the canyony ranges can play upon the stranger. A snowy-haired
peak, brother to Father Time, wearing a fringe of evergreens for his
neckruff, would play hide-and-seek with them for days, dodging behind
this eminence and hiding away back of that hill, only to reappear
apparently as far off as ever, and sometimes in a different direction
from where he last seemed to be.
After a few more days: "Father, how many more miles do you think?"
"O, not many now, I am sure!" cheerily and optimistically would come
the answer.
As they climbed, and climbed, and climbed, the ripening service-berry,
blackened by weeks of attention by the unclouded sun, and the pine-hen
and the speckled beauties from the noisy trout-streams, added to their
comforts, and for a little while appeared to enliven the tired and
fading woman. A frosty night or two, a peak newly whitened with early
snow, put an invigorating thrill and pulse into the blood of the man
and the boy, but she crept just a little nearer to the camp fire of
evenings and found herself more and more languid in responding to the
call of the day that returned all too soon for her. At last, rolling
out on the Wahsatch side of the continental backbone, they encountered
very warm but shortening days, while the nights grew chillier. Having
passed to the north of Salt Lake by the trail so well and faithfully
marked by Mr. Ezra Meeker in recent years, they began to realize that
they were with the waters that flow to the west.
One evening, after the tin plates, iron forks and knives, and the
pewter spoons had been washed and returned to their box, and as they
were getting ready for their nightly rest, Mrs. Johnson said, wearily:
"Father, it just seems to me I would be glad if I never would waken
again. It seems I would enjoy never again hearing the everlasting
squeech, squeech of the wheels in the sand, and see the sun go down
day after day so red and so far away over those new mountains. O, I am
so tired!"
"Never mind, mother, we are not far from our new home now;" and moving
over to her side as she sat leaning against the wagon-tongue, the man
slipped his own tired arm about her shoulders and let her rest against
him, for he was indeed weary, and the trail _was_ wonderfully long.
The following morning he purposely lay still just a little longer than
was his custom, although he was most prudently desirous of making as
much speed as he could while the weather continued so good; he knew
the rains might soon set in and make travel over unmade roads much
worse than it already was.
When he arose he noiselessly crept away from her side and quietly
called the boy to go and bring up the horses and the cow, cautioning
him to take off the horse-bell and carry it so as not to arouse the
mother when he came to camp. Quietly as possible he made the fire and
prepared their breakfast of fare that was daily becoming scantier.
Then, when all was ready, he tiptoed through the sand to where she lay
under the spreading arms of a little desert juniper, such as are
occasionally found in the deserts, and where she had said the night
before she wished she could sleep forever. She looked so calm and
restful he hesitated to wake her; it seemed like robbery to take from
her one moment of the longed-for and hard-earned rest. Yet it was time
they were on their road, and the day was fine; so after a few minutes
he called, gently, "Mother, you're getting a nice rest, aren't you?"
She did not stir. He then stooped to kiss the languid lips--they were
cold. She was dead. They had been seeking a home by the shores of the
sunset sea; she had found the sunrise land.
It is a sad, solemn, and sacred thing to be with our dead, but to be
alone, hundreds of miles from the face of any friend, in such an hour,
is an experience few ever have to meet. Pioneer-like, the father scans
the horizon, locating all the prominent features of the landscape. He
makes a rude map, not forgetting the juniper. As best he can he
prepares the body for the burying. And such a burying! No lumber with
which to make even a rough box; nothing but their daily clothing and
nightly bedding was to be had. The unlined grave was more than usually
forbidding. The desert demon had trailed that brave body and was now
swallowing it up. They made the grave by the juniper where she last
slept, and, sorrowing, the father and the son went on, firm in the
resolve that the loved one should not always lie in a desert grave.
Forty years later a man past middle-age, riding a horse and leading
another, to whose packsaddle was fastened a box, went slowly along
that old trail in Southern Idaho, now almost obliterated by
many-footed Progress. He was scanning the hills and consulting a piece
of age-yellowed paper, broken at all its ancient creases. It was the
son obeying the dying request of the old father--going to find, if
possible, the spot where the tired mother went to sleep so long ago,
and bring all that remained to rest by his side.
It was no easy task. Fertile fields, whose irrigated areas now
presented billowy breasts of ripening grain; mighty ditches like
younger and better-behaved rivers; a railway following the general
direction of the old trail; ranch-houses and fat haystacks indenting
the sky-line once so bare of all except clumps of sagebrush--these all
conspired to make the task next to impossible.
Man may scratch the hillsides, but cannot mar the majesty of the
mountains; they were unchanged. The map he carried was the one his
father made on the spot more than a generation before. It had been
well made and the specifications were minute. After a long while,
carefully measuring and comparing, he found the spot to him so sacred.
The juniper tree, so rare in that section, had not been disturbed by
the new owner of the land, and as the precious burden, secured at
last, was borne away, it still stood on guard--as if lonely now. Like
father, like son. Both were faithfully bound by the strongest tie in
the universe--love!
THE DESERT
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
--_Gray_.
As geographers, Sosius, crowd into the edges of
their maps parts of the world which they do not
know about, adding notes in the margin to the
effect that beyond this lies nothing but sandy
deserts full of wild beasts, and unapproachable
bogs.
--_Plutarch_.
THE DESERT
Much of the Old Overland Trail lay across the "Great American Desert,"
as it was named in the earlier geographies. Irrigation and progressive
energy have made these wastes in many instances literally to "blossom
as the rose"; but until that was done these stretches were weary
enough.
He who knows only the desert of the geography naturally conceives it
an absolutely forsaken and empty region where nothing but dust-storms
are born unattended and die "without benefit of the clergy." But the
desert has character and is as variable as many another creature.
THE SAND STORM
An experience in an actual sand storm is food upon which the
reminiscent may ruminate many a day, being much more pleasant in
memory than in the making. First come the scurrying outriders, lithe
and limber whisking gusts, dancing and whirling like Moslem
dervishes, coyly brushing the traveler or boldly flinging fierce
fistfuls of dirt into his eyes; then off with a swish of invisible
skirts--vanishing possibly in the same direction whence they came.
They go leaving him wiping his astonished eyes disgustedly, for the
act was so sudden and tragic as to excite tears. Before he is aware of
it other and stronger gusts duplicate the dastardly deed of the first
wingless wizard of the plains, and the hapless voyager is left
gasping. Almost immediately there are to be seen the regular "desert
devils," as they are called, bringing a dozen or more whirling columns
of yellow silt rapidly through the air, each pirouetting on one foot,
assuming meanwhile all sorts of fantastic shapes.
Now for the fierce onset. Like blasts of a blizzard, the shrapnel of
the desert is hurled into eyes, face, ears, and nostrils; little
rivers pour down the back and fill every discoverable wrinkle and
cranny of the clothing with their gritty load.
If in summer, buttoning the clothing is suffocation, and the
perspiration soon makes one a mass of grime; if in winter, it is not
so unbearable, for a comfortable fencing can be made against the sand
and the cold.
The whole landscape is obliterated by and by, and the trails are so
often drift-filled that unless one is himself accustomed to such
methods of travel or has an experienced plainsman as his driver and
guide, there is danger of becoming lost, or so out of the way that
night may overtake him and compel a waterless camp for himself and
team.
TWILIGHT AND DAWN
But to see the morning slip off its night clothes and step out into
daylight, or watch day don her night-wraps and snuggle down into
twilight on the quiet sand-ocean! In summer it is a scene of splendor,
often coming after a day or an evening of sandy wrath.
At early dawn, lining the eastern horizon, are the soft pencils of
bashful day over-topping the jagged sawteeth of the yet sleeping
mountains, fifty or more miles away. A faint hinting of the lightening
of the sky only deepens the blackness of the snow-streaked peaks. The
cowardly coyote's yelp comes more and more faintly, the burrowing
owl's "to-whit, to-whoo" falls dying on the moveless air, and the
white sparrow of the sagebrush starts up as if to catch the early worm
he is almost sure not to find. The loping jack rabbit slips softly to
his greasewood shelter and the prairie dog bounces barking from his
snake-infested haunt, noisily preparing for his day's digging and
foraging.
The stubborn mountains begin to let the sun's forerunning rays glide
between them; the sky, now old gold, is fast transforming into
kaleidoscopic crimsons and other reds, while the swift arms of the
day-painter are reaching from between the peaks of the precipitous
crags and dyeing the scales of the mackerel sky with hues and tints
the rainbow would covet.
In the opposite direction a morning mirage inverts an image of a
stretch of trees along the far-away river and blends them top to
top till they seem greenish-black columns supporting the dun clouds
of the west, while the belated moon peers through the half-unreal
corridors.
SUNSET
The sunset is far more gorgeous; it often reaches grandeur. Let it be
a winter evening. A suggestion of storm has been playing threats. The
western hills have reached up their time-toughened arms and carried
the burnt-out lantern of day to bed, tucking him away in gold-lace
tapestry and rose-tinted down. Then the blue, black, and brown clouds
change quickly to purple, pink, and red by turns, and the opaline sky
itself forms a background for the dissolving community of interlacing
filaments of priceless filigree, till in time too full of interest to
compute by measure, the whole heavens are aflame with a riotous orgy
of color, a prodigality of shifting scene, making one think of the
descriptions essayed by the writer of the Apocalypse.
We think of Moses who wished to see God "face to face," but was told
he would be permitted to behold only the "dying away of his glory." No
wonder the man who was forty years in the wilderness before that grand
exode, and forty more through the unsurveyed deserts, was enabled to
write the majestic prose-poems that have lived unaltered through all
these thousands of critical years! He was in the region where
inspiration is dispensed with hands of infinite wealth. God is the
dispenser.
SAGEBRUSH
This is the forest primeval.--_Longfellow_.
The continuous woods where rolls the Oregon.--_Bryant_.
SAGEBRUSH
Frequently within these pages mention has been made of the commonest
of all our native plants on the Trail--sagebrush. Botanically, it is,
_Artemisia tridentata_. The new Standard Dictionary defines sagebrush
as "any one of the various shrubby species of Artemisia, of the aster
family, growing on the elevated plains of the Western United States,
especially _Artemisia tridentata_, very abundant from Montana to
Colorado and westward." The leaf ends in three points; hence the
adjective tridentata--the three-toothed artemisia.
There are several varieties of sagebrush, and a person not well
acquainted with the desert might easily mistake one for the other.
There are the white sage, a good forage plant for sheep, and the
yellow sage, which, when properly taken, can be made useful for
cattle. Then there is the common variety, the sort named above. This
is not to be mistaken for the prickly greasewood which infests the
more alkaline regions; nor the rabbit-brush with its blossom so like
the goldenrod, but with a very disagreeable odor. No man who knows
will ever buy land where the greasewood grows thickly; it is
unproductive because of the large percentage of alkali. But the
ancient-looking sage is a pretty sure indication of fertility of soil.
Mother Nature is sometimes hard pushed to find dresses for all her
poorer areas; of course the better portions of the land east or west,
north or south, care for their clothes better than do these arid
stretches and the clothing is a richer vegetation.
This ever-gray, little hunger-pinched pygmy among trees looks about as
much like an oak as does a diminutive monkey like a grown man.
A peculiarity of this individual in treedom is that it keeps its
ash- leaf until it has a new set to put on in the spring, so
that all winter long it presents the same color as it does in the
summertime. Its bark is loose and shaggy, being shed rapidly, and
gives one the thought of the old grape vine; hanging in bunches, the
bole has always a ragged appearance. It is truly the dry-land plant,
always found where the alkali or water is not too abundant; but in
favored spots where there is only a little dampness and not too much
fierceness of the summer heat it grows eight or ten feet high, making
a body large enough for fence posts. This is extraordinary, for
usually these Liliputian forests do not attain a height of more than
four feet, and often much less. So diminutive are these solemn woods
that the ordinary gang-plow can walk right through them, turning the
shrubbery under like tall grass, although every tree is perfect, just
like the dwarf creations produced by the resourceful Japanese.
The seed of this tiny tree grows on stiff, upright filaments like the
broom-corn straws. These stems are very bitter and are often used by
the range-riders on long rides or roundups to excite the flow of
saliva when thirst overtakes them too far from water. Because of its
bitterness it is often called wormwood.
Not many uses have been found for the wood of these primeval forests.
In many sections the people have nothing but sagebrush for firewood.
The whole tree is used, special stoves, or heaters, being made to
accommodate the whole plant. It is gathered in the following manner:
Two immense T-rails of railroad iron are laid side by side, one
inverted, and securely fastened together; to the ends of these are
hitched two teams of horses or mules, which pulling parallel to each
other, are driven into the standing fairy forests and the swaths of
fallen timber show the track of this unnatural storm. Its roots have
such slight hold on the soil that it easily falls. Wagons and
pitchforks follow, and the whole of the felling is hauled untrimmed to
the home for hand-axing if too large; and it is all burned, top and
root. There is so much vegetable oil in this queer plant that it makes
a fine and very quick fire, green or dry.
After a summer rain there is no aromatic perfume surpassing that of
the odor of sagebrush filling the newly washed air. The mountaineer
who has had to make a trip East gladly opens his window, as his train
pushes back into the habitat of these aromatic shrubs, to get an
early whiff of the health-laden, sage-sweetened atmosphere of the
beloved Westland and homeland.
THE IRON TRAIL
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In their houses of self-content;
There are souls like stars that dwell apart
In their fellowless firmament.
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran.
But, let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
--Sam Walter Foss.
A RAILROAD SAINT IN IDAHO
The "railroad saint" was a locomotive engineer. His life was ever an
open book, yet while careful and almost severe in his personal
religious habits, he did not criticize the manners of his associates.
He simply let his well kept searchlight shine.
Though born in Ohio, his boy life was spent mainly in Nebraska, when
it was just emerging from the ragged swaddlings of rough frontierdom;
and during his young manhood he lived in Wyoming, at the time when men
"carried the law in their hip-pockets," as he graphically expressed
it.
Early becoming an employee of the Union Pacific, he was a permanent
portion of its westward intermountain extension, and he did his life's
work among the scenic cliffs and clefts of the picturesque crags and
corrugated canyons of the wrinkled ridges in the Rocky and the Wahsatch
ranges. Opportunities for literary education were very limited to one
so engaged, and little more than what was absolutely necessary to the
railmen did he receive. But he was not ignorant by any means. In later
years he read extendedly and with careful discrimination. He had a
poet's soul, but was not visionary.
His mother had been a careful and sensible Christian. The indelible
impress she left upon him was like to that given by Jochebed to her
son Moses. He never wholly escaped from her hallowed influence,
although he descended into vicious living and became a notorious and
blatant blasphemer, sceptic, and drunkard.
Once when attending a national convention of railway engineers in an
Eastern city he noticed a little flower boy vainly attempting to
dispose of his roses. Our engineer (who always had a feeling for the
"other fellow") paid the lad for all he had left and directed him to
carry them to the hotel where the delegates were stopping, and give
them to the ladies in the parlor. This act was repeated on successive
days. It attracted attention finally, and one of the delegates asked
him if he were a Christian. Characteristically he blurted out: "Do
you see anything about me that indicates it? If so, I will take it off
at once. Why do you ask such a question?"
"Because," said the questioner, "your kindness to that pale-faced
little flower boy makes people think you are."
"Nothing at all queer about that," was the quick reply. "Common
humanity should dictate such deeds. If I myself wanted a favor, I'd
not go to any Christian for it; I'd rather tackle a bartender or a
gambler."
"Well, Dr. T----, of the Methodist Church, has heard of you," remarked
his questioner, "and he says he would like to meet you for an hour or
so before you leave the city."
"But I've no desire to meet any preacher, though if it will afford the
gentleman any pleasure, I will gladly do it for that reason and no
other. What do you suppose he wants?"
The intermediary arranged a time of meeting, and after introducing the
men, left the "eagle eye" in the pleasant study of the minister, a
pastor of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. After a few minutes
of easy conversation, the minister abruptly cut all Gordian knots and
said: "Mr.----, are you a Christian?"
"No, sir, not so you can notice it."
"Why are you not?"
"Why should I be?"
"It gives to every one who embraces true religion a better, broader,
worthier view and conception of life."
"Wherein, mister?"
"It puts purpose into his life and interprets the end to which he is
tending."
Then came up from the keen intellect-quiver of our Rocky Mountain
engineman all the stock phrases, replies, and arguments of Voltaire,
Rousseau, Ingersoll, and others whose writings he knew perfectly.
With Christian and cultivated patience the minister listened and then
said with captivating and sympathetic tenderness: "But, my dear sir,
that is all speculation on the part of those scholarly and eloquent
men whom you quote so accurately. They know no better. The religion of
Jesus is not speculation; it is practical knowledge. Would not you,
sir, like to know personally as to its truth?"
"Yes, but how can I?"
His foot had been taken in the snare of the wise trapper.
Said the preacher: "You can; and this is the way. As you leave this
city for your return to the West, get a cheap New Testament; indeed,
here is a copy; please accept it. Tear it in two in the middle,
retaining only the four Gospels--Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Read
them; you will by yourself and by this means find the way to perfect
knowledge."
He of the throttle, hungry for the deepest knowledge, did as directed
and advised.
Back to his cab and engine he went, under the deepest conviction. Yet
he declared that he needed no extraneous assistance to be as good as
any Christian; Jesus he considered a superfluity, and said so. The
negative influences of the atheistic authors yet warped him. He said:
"I dare any of you to watch me. I can and will be as upright as any
Christian on earth." But after a short time of exemplary conduct, he
would wake up some morning only to discover to his hearty disgust that
he had been on an extended period of dissipation. Later he would
attempt another straightening-up and | 614.091452 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.1360620 | 1,705 | 8 |
Produced by Giovanni Fini, sp1nd and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
By Mary Johnston
HAGAR.
THE LONG ROLL. The first of two books dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color by N. C. WYETH.
CEASE FIRING. The second of two books dealing with the war between the
States. With Illustrations in color by N. C. WYETH.
LEWIS RAND. With Illustrations in color by F. C. YOHN.
AUDREY. With Illustrations in color by F. C. YOHN.
PRISONERS OF HOPE. With Frontispiece.
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD. With 8 Illustrations by HOWARD PYLE, E. B.
THOMPSON, A. W. BETTS, and EMLEN MCCONNELL.
THE GODDESS OF REASON. _A Drama._
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
[Illustration:
(p. 154)
“GOOD-BYE, MISTRESS FRIENDLY-SOUL!”]
THE WITCH
BY
MARY JOHNSTON
[Illustration: LOGO]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY MARY JOHNSTON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1914_
CONTENTS
I. THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER 1
II. THE CAP AND BELLS 10
III. THE TWO PHYSICIANS 24
IV. THE ROSE TAVERN 37
V. THE ROAD TO HAWTHORN 54
VI. THE MAN WITH THE HAWK 69
VII. JOAN 82
VIII. THE SQUIRE’S BROTHER 97
IX. THE OAK GRANGE 109
X. IN HAWTHORN FOREST 124
XI. THE PLAGUE 136
XII. HERON’S COTTAGE 151
XIII. HAWTHORN CHURCH 165
XIV. NIGHT 176
XV. NEXT DAY 188
XVI. MASTER THOMAS CLEMENT 204
XVII. MOTHER SPURAWAY 218
XVIII. THE GAOL 235
XIX. ADERHOLD AND CARTHEW 246
XX. THE WITCH JUDGE 260
XXI. THE WITCH 272
XXII. ESCAPE 281
XXIII. THE ROAD TO THE PORT 298
XXIV. THE FARTHER ROAD 312
XXV. THE SILVER QUEEN 327
XXVI. THE OPEN BOAT 342
XXVII. THE ISLAND 351
XXVIII. FOUR YEARS 362
XXIX. THE SPANIARDS 376
XXX. THE ISLET 387
XXXI. THE HOUR-GLASS 404
XXXII. A JOURNEY 420
THE WITCH
THE WITCH
CHAPTER I
THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER
IT was said that the Queen was dying. She lay at Richmond, in the
palace looking out upon the wintry, wooded, March-shaken park, but
London, a few miles away, had daily news of how she did. There was
much talk about her--the old Queen—much telling of stories and
harking back. She had had a long reign—“Not far from fifty years, my
masters!”—and in it many important things had happened. The crowd in
the streets, the barge and wherry folk upon the wind-ruffled river,
the roisterers in the taverns drinking ale or sack, merchants and
citizens in general talking of the times in the intervals of business,
old soldiers and seamen ashore, all manner of folk, indeed, agreed
upon the one most important thing. The most important thing had been
the scattering of the Armada fifteen years before. That disposed of,
opinions differed as to the next most important. The old soldiers were
for all fighting wherever it had occurred. The seamen and returned
adventurers threw for the voyages of Drake and Frobisher and Gilbert
and Raleigh. With these were inclined to agree the great merchants
and guild-masters who were venturing in the East India and other
joint-stock companies. The little merchant and guild fellows agreed
with the great. A very large number of all classes claimed for the
overthrow of Popery the first place. On the other hand, a considerable
number either a little hurriedly slurred this, or else somewhat too
anxiously and earnestly supported the assertion. One circle, all
churchmen, lauded the Act of Uniformity, and the pains and penalties
provided alike for Popish recusant and non-conforming Protestant.
Another circle, men of a serious cast of countenance and of a growing
simplicity in dress, left the Act of Uniformity in obscurity, and
after the deliverance from the Pope, made the important happening the
support given the Protestant principle in France and the Netherlands.
A few extreme loyalists put in a claim for the number of conspiracies
unearthed and trampled into nothingness—Scottish conspiracies, Irish
conspiracies, Spanish conspiracies, Westmoreland and Northumberland
conspiracies, Throgmorton conspiracies—the death of the Queen of
Scots, the death, two years ago, of Essex.
All agreed that the Queen had had a stirring reign—all but the latter
end of it. The last few years—despite Irish affairs—had been dull and
settled, a kind of ditch-water stagnation, a kind of going downhill.
Fifty years, almost, was a long time for one person to reign....
On a time the Queen had been an idol and a cynosure—for years
the love of a people had been warm about her. It had been a people
struggling to become a nation, beset with foreign foes and inner
dissensions, battling for a part in new worlds and realms. She had led
the people well, ruled well, come out with them into the Promised Land.
And now there was a very human dissatisfaction with the Promised Land,
for the streams did not run milk and honey nor were the sands golden.
As humanly, the dissatisfaction involved the old Queen. She could not
have been, after all, the Queen that they had thought her.... After
crying for so many years “Long live Queen Elizabeth!” there would come
creeping into mind a desire for novelty. _King James,—King James!_ The
words sounded well, and promised, perhaps, the true Golden Age. But
they were said, of course, under breath. The Queen was not dead yet.
They told strange stories of her—the old Queen; usually in small,
select companies where there were none but safe men. As March roared
on, there was more and more of this story-telling, straws that showed
the way the tide was setting. They were rarely now stories of her
youth, of her courage and fire, of her learning, of the danger in which
she lived when she was only “Madam Elizabeth,” of her imprisonment
in the Tower—nor were they stories of her coronation, and of the
way, through so many long years, she had queened it, of her “mere
Englishness,” her steady courage, | 614.156102 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.1582620 | 2,106 | 57 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)
Pure Books on Avoided Subjects
_Books for Men_
_By Sylvanus Stall, D. D._
“What a Young Boy Ought to Know.”
“What a Young Man Ought to Know.”
“What a Young Husband Ought to Know.”
“What a Man of 45 Ought to Know.”
_Books for Women_
_By Mrs. Mary Wood-Allen, M. D., And Mrs. Emma F. A. Drake, M. D._
“What a Young Girl Ought to Know.”
“What a Young Woman Ought to Know.”
“What a Young Wife Ought to Know.”
“What a Woman of 45 Ought to Know.”
PRICE AND BINDING
The books are issued in uniform size and but one style of binding, and
sell in America at $1, in Great Britain at 4s., net, per copy, post free,
whether sold singly or in sets.
PUBLISHED BY
IN THE UNITED STATES
THE VIR PUBLISHING COMPANY
2237 Land Title Building Philadelphia
IN ENGLAND
THE VIR PUBLISHING COMPANY
7 Imperial Arcade, Ludgate Circus, London, E.C.
IN CANADA
WILLIAM BRIGGS
29-33 Richmond Street West Toronto, Ontario
[Illustration: EMMA F. ANGELL DRAKE, M.D.]
PRICE $1.00 NET
4S. NET
PURITY AND TRUTH
WHAT A YOUNG
WIFE
OUGHT TO KNOW
(_THOUSAND DOLLAR PRIZE BOOK_)
BY
MRS. EMMA F. ANGELL DRAKE, M. D.
Graduate of Boston University Medical College; formerly
Physician and Principal of Mr. Moody’s School at Northfield,
Mass.; Professor of Obstetrics at Denver Homœopathic Medical
School and Hospital; Author of “What a Woman of 45 Ought to
Know,” “Maternity Without Suffering.”
PHILADELPHIA, PA.: 2337 LAND TITLE BUILDING.
THE VIR PUBLISHING COMPANY
LONDON: TORONTO:
7, IMPERIAL ARCADE, WM. BRIGGS,
LUDGATE CIRCUS, E. C. 33 RICHMOND ST., WEST.
COPYRIGHT, 1901, by SYLVANUS STALL
COPYRIGHT, 1902, by SYLVANUS STALL
Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England
Protected by International copyright in Great Britain and
all her colonies, and, under the provisions of the Berne
Convention, in Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, Spain,
Switzerland, Tunis, Hayti, Luxembourg, Monaco, Norway,
and Japan
_All rights reserved_
[PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES]
Dedicated
TO THE YOUNG WIVES WHO DESIRE THE BEST FOR THEMSELVES, FOR THEIR HUSBANDS
AND FOR THEIR OFFSPRING
PREFACE
To this generation as to no other, are we indebted for the awakening of
woman. Not the awakening alone which has led her out of the old lines
into nearly every avenue open to man in his pursuit of the necessities
and luxuries of life; but that other and larger awakening which has set
her down face to face with herself, and in her study of woman she has
shown herself courageous.
Bravely acknowledging her own limitations, she has set herself the task
of fortifying the weak points, curbing the more daring aspirations, and
getting herself into trim, so to speak, that she may traverse the sea of
life, without danger to herself, her cargo, or to any of the countless
ships which follow in her wake, or that pass her in the day or the night.
Not all women have yet awakened, and for those who have eyes to see, and
have seen, a great work is still waiting to be done. They must reach out
and rouse their sisters. Will they do it? With our young wives rests
the weal or woe of the future generations. To them we say, “What of the
future, and what sort of souls shall you give to it?”
EMMA F. A. DRAKE.
DENVER, Colorado,
United States of America.
_February 1st, 1901._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
INTELLIGENCE OF THE YOUNG WIFE.
Out of girlhood into wifehood.—The setting up of a new
home.—Woman’s exalted place.—Earlier influences.—Importance
of intelligence.—Woman fitted by creator for wifehood
and motherhood.—The position of reproductive organs in
the body.—Dangers of crowding contents of abdomen.—What
all young wives need to know.—Premium previously set
upon ignorance.—Heredity.—Failures and successes of our
ancestors.—Faults and virtues transmitted through heredity, 21-35
CHAPTER II.
HOME AND DRESS.
Preparations for successful home-makers.—The importance of
sensible dress.—An opportunity for reform.—The conditions of
attractive dress.—A question of healthfulness.—What wives need
to know concerning dress.—The kind to be avoided.—Injurious
dress destroying the race.—The ailments caused by wrong
dressing.—The corset curse.—A summary of the evils of dress, 37-46
CHAPTER III.
HEALTH OF THE YOUNG WIFE.
Health insures happiness.—Be ambitious for health.—The scarcity
of perfectly healthy women.—Fashion to the Rescue.—The boon
of health.—Necessity of ventilation and fresh air.—Duties to
the home.—The greatness of woman’s sphere.—In the society
drift.—The extreme of wholly avoiding society.—Keeping in
the middle of the road.—Pleasures and recreations taken
together.—Taking time to keep young.—Mistakes which some
husbands make.—Wrecks at the beginning of married life, 47-55
CHAPTER IV.
THE CHOICE OF A HUSBAND.
Higher standards are being set up in the choice of a
husband.—Should be worthy of both love and respect.—Love
likely to idealize the man.—The real characteristics
necessary.—Deficiencies in character not to be supplied after
marriage.—The right to demand purity.—Young men who “sow wild
oats.”—Importance of good health.—Weaknesses and diseases which
descend from parents to children.—The parents’ part in aiding
to a wise choice.—The value of the physician’s counsel.—One
capable of supporting wife and children.—A dutiful son makes
a good husband.—Essential requisites enumerated.—The father
reproduced in his children.—The equivalents which the wife
should bring to her husband, 57-64
CHAPTER V.
WHAT SHALL A YOUNG WIFE EXPECT TO BE
TO HER HUSBAND?
The young wife should seek to be her husband’s equal, but not
his counterpart.—The recognized centre of the home.—Woman’s
true greatness.—Man’s helpmeet.—Mrs. Gladstone’s part in her
husband’s greatness.—Should attract her husband from the
club to the home.—Continuing to be attractive in dress and
manners.—Should accept both wifehood and motherhood.—Should
keep pace with his mental growth.—Guarding against improper
use of literary clubs, reading circles, etc.—Solomon’s picture
of the model young wife.—A converted heathen’s estimate of his
Christian wife, 65-72
CHAPTER VI.
TROUSSEAU AND WEDDING PRESENTS.
Husband and wife ruined before their “crane is
hung.”—The foolish and ruinous display at weddings.—An
illustration given.—How wedding presents lead to debt and
unhappiness.—Living does not need much machinery.—Mistake
of copying after people of large wealth.—Wise choice of
furniture.—The best adornments for the home.—The trousseaux of
our foremothers.—The need of simplicity.—Artificialities that
make a veil between our souls and God, 73-78
CHAPTER VII.
THE MARITAL RELATIONS.
The subject approached with reluctance.—The marital state
should be the most sacred of sanctuaries.—Wrongly interpreted
it is the abode of darkness and sin.—Its influence for good or
evil upon character.—Responsibility of mothers for the unhappy
lives of their daughters.—Commercial marriages.—Marriage as
it should be.—The husband’s danger from “aggressiveness.”—The
wife should not provoke the wrongs she suffers.—Marital
modesty.—Parenthood the justification of the marital
act.—Reproduction the primal purpose.—Harmony of purpose and
life.—Love’s highest plane.—The value of continence.—The right
and wrong of marriage.—The relation during gestation.—Effects
of relation during gestation illustrated.—The wrong-doings of
good men.—The fruits of ignorance.—The better day coming, 79-96
CHAPTER VIII.
PREPARATION FOR MOTHERHOOD.
Motherhood the glory of womanhood.—Maternity natural and
productive of health.—Prevalence of knowledge of methods | 614.178302 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.3366240 | 1,680 | 21 |
Produced by Simon Page
THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS
By B. M. Bower
CHAPTER I. IN SEARCH OF THE WESTERN TONE
"What do you care, anyway?" asked Reeve-Howard philosophically. "It
isn't as if you depended on the work for a living. Why worry over the
fact that a mere pastime fails to be financially a success. You don't
need to write--"
"Neither do you need to slave over those dry-point things," Thurston
retorted, in none the best humor with his comforter "You've an income
bigger than mine; yet you toil over Grecian-nosed women with untidy hair
as if each one meant a meal and a bed."
"A meal and a bed--that's good; you must think I live like a king."
"And I notice you hate like the mischief to fail, even though."
"Only I never have failed," put in Reeve-Howard, with the amused
complacency born of much adulation.
Thurston kicked a foot-rest out of his way. "Well, I have. The fashion
now is for swashbuckling tales with a haze of powder smoke rising
to high heaven. The public taste runs to gore and more gore, and
kidnappings of beautiful maidens-bah!"
"Follow the fashion then--if you must write. Get out of your pink tea
and orchid atmosphere, and take your heroines out West--away out, beyond
the Mississippi, and let them be kidnapped. Or New Mexico would do."
"New Mexico is also beyond the Mississippi, I believe," Thurston hinted.
"Perhaps it is. What I mean is, write what the public wants, since you
don't relish failure. Why don't you do things about the plains? It
ought to be easy, and you were born out there somewhere. It should come
natural."
"I have," Thurston sighed. "My last rejection states that the local
color is weak and unconvincing. Hang the local color!" The foot-rest
suffered again.
Reeve-Howard was getting into his topcoat languidly, as he did
everything else. "The thing to do, then," he drawled, "is to go out and
study up on it. Get in touch with that country, and your local color
will convince. Personally though, I like those little society skits you
do--"
"Skits!" exploded Thurston. "My last was a four-part serial. I never did
a skit in my life."
"Beg pardon-which is more than you did after accusing my studies of
having untidy hair. Don't look so glum, Phil. Go out and learn your
West; a month or so will put you up to date--and by Jove! I half envy
you the trip."
That is what put the idea into Thurston's head; and as Thurston's ideas
generally bore fruit of one sort or another, he went out that very day
and ordered from his tailor a complete riding outfit, and because he
was a good customer the tailor consented to rush the work. It seemed to
Thurston, looking over cuts of the very latest styles in riding clothes,
that already he was breathing the atmosphere of the plains.
That night he stayed at home and dreamed, of the West. His memory,
coupled with what he had heard and idealized by his imagination,
conjured dim visions of what he had once known had known and forgotten;
of a land here men and conditions harked back to the raw foundations
of civilization; where wide plains flecked with sage-brush and ribboned
with faint, brown trails, spread away and away to a far sky-line. For
Phil Thurston was range-born, if not range-bred, His father had chosen
always to live out on the edge of things--out where the trails of men
are dim and far apart-and the silent prairie bequeaths a heritage of
distance-hunger to her sons.
While he brooded grew a keen longing to see again the little town
huddled under the bare, brown hills that shut out the world; to see the
gay-blanketed Indians who stole like painted shadows about the place,
and the broad river always hurrying away to the sunrise. He had been
afraid of the river and of the bare hills and the Indians. He felt that
his mother, also, had been afraid. He pictured again--and he picture was
blurred and indistinct-the day when strange men had brought his father
mysteriously home; men who were silent save for the shuffling of their
feet, and who carried their big hats awkwardly in their hands.
There had been a day of hushed voices and much weeping and gloom, and
he had been afraid to play. Then they had carried his father as
mysteriously away again, and his mother had hugged him close and cried
bitterly and long. The rest was blank. When one is only five, the
present quickly blurs what is past, and he wondered that, after
all these years, he should feel the grip of something very like
homesickness--and for something more than half forgotten. But though
he did not realize it, in his veins flowed the adventurous blood of his
father, and to it the dim trails were calling.
In four days he set his face eagerly toward the dun deserts and the
sage-brush gray.
At Chicago a man took the upper berth in Thurston's section, and settled
into the seat with a deep sigh--presumably of thankfulness. Thurston,
with the quick eye of those who write, observed the whiteness of his
ungloved hands, the coppery tan of cheeks and throat, the clear keenness
of his eyes, and the four dimples in the crown of his soft, gray hat,
and recognized him as a fine specimen of the Western type of farmer,
returning home from the stockman's Mecca. After that he went calmly back
to his magazine and forgot all about him.
Twenty miles out, the stranger leaned forward and tapped him lightly on
the knee. "Say, I hate to interrupt yuh," he began in a whimsical drawl,
evidently characteristic of the man, "but I'd like to know where it is
I've seen yuh before."
Thurston glanced up impersonally, hesitated between annoyance and a
natural desire to, be courteous, and replied that he had no memory of
any previous meeting.
"Mebby not," admitted the other, and searched the face of Thurston with
his keen eyes. It came to Phil that they were also a bit wistful, but he
went unsympathetically back to his reading.
Five miles more and be touched Thurston again, apologetically yet
insistently. "Say," he drawled, "ain't your name Thurston? I'll bet
a carload uh steers it is--Bud Thurston. And your home range is Fort
Benton."
Phil stared and confessed to all but the "Bud."
"That's what me and your dad always called yuh," the man asserted.
"Well, I'll be hanged! But I knew it. I knew I'd run acrost yuh
somewheres. You're the dead image uh your dad, Bill Thurston. And me and
Bill freighted together from Whoop-up to Benton along in the seventies.
Before yuh was born we was chums. I don't reckon you'd remember me? Hank
Graves, that used to pack yuh around on his back, and fill yuh up on
dried prunes--when dried prunes was worth money? Yuh used to call 'em
'frumes,' and--Why, it was me with your dad when the Indians pot-shot
| 614.356664 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.3614780 | 3,014 | 9 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
A CHRISTMAS MORALITY
[Illustration: Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass
grow. _Frontispiece._]
[Illustration]
LITTLE PETER
A Christmas Morality
for Children of any Age
By LUCAS MALET
AUTHOR OF 'COLONEL ENDERBY'S WIFE' ETC.
[Illustration]
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY PAUL HARDY
LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1888
TO
CECILY
IN TOKEN OF AFFECTION
TOWARDS HERSELF, HER MOTHER, AND HER STATELY HOME
THIS LITTLE STORY IS DEDICATED
BY
HER OBEDIENT SERVANT
LUCAS MALET
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Which deals with the opinions of a Cat, and the sorrows of
a Charcoal-burner 1
II. Which introduces the Reader to an Admirer of the Ancient
Romans 19
III. Which improves our acquaintance with the Grasshopper-man 36
IV. Which leaves some at Home, and takes some to Church 50
V. Which is both Social and Religious 68
VI. Which attempts to show why the Skies fall 84
VII. Which describes a pleasant Dinner Party, and an
unpleasant Walk 95
VIII. Which proves that even Philosophic Politicians may
have to admit themselves in the wrong 115
IX. Which is very short because, in some ways, it is rather
sad 132
X. Which ends the Story 143
_ILLUSTRATIONS._
'Remember my ears are so quick I can hear
the grass grow' _Frontispiece_
'What will happen? please tell me' _To face p._ 10
'Go to bed when you are told' " 34
'You all despise me' " 66
Going to Church " 72
Lost " 110
Waiting " 120
Found " 138
The Charcoal-burner visits Little Peter " 150
[Illustration: Little Peter.]
CHAPTER I.
WHICH DEALS WITH THE OPINIONS OF A CAT, AND THE SORROWS OF A CHARCOAL
BURNER.
The pine forest is a wonderful place. The pine-trees stand in ranks
like the soldiers of some vast army, side by side, mile after mile, in
companies and regiments and battalions, all clothed in a sober uniform
of green and grey. But they are unlike soldiers in this, that they are
of all ages and sizes; some so small that the rabbits easily jump
over them in their play, and some so tall and stately that the fall
of them is like the falling of a high tower. And the pine-trees are
put to many different uses. They are made into masts for the gallant
ships that sail out and away to distant ports across the great ocean.
Others are sawn into planks, and used for the building of sheds; for
the rafters and flooring, and clap-boards and woodwork of our houses;
for railway-sleepers, and scaffoldings, and hoardings. Others are
polished and fashioned into articles of furniture. Turpentine comes
from them, which the artist uses with his colours, and the doctor in
his medicines; which is used, too, in the cleaning of stuffs and in a
hundred different ways. While the pine-cones, and broken branches and
waste wood, make bright crackling fires by which to warm ourselves on a
winter's day.
But there is something more than just this I should like you to think
about in connection with the pine forest; for it, like everything else
that is fair and noble in nature, has a strange and precious secret of
its own.
You may learn the many uses of the trees in your school books, when
men have cut them down or grubbed them up, or poked holes in their
poor sides to let the turpentine run out. But you can only learn the
secret of the forest itself by listening humbly and reverently for it
to speak to you. For Nature is a very great lady, grander and more
magnificent than all the queens who have lived in sumptuous palaces and
reigned over famous kingdoms since the world began; and though she will
be very kind and gracious to children who come and ask her questions
modestly and prettily, and will show them the most lovely sights and
tell them the most delicious fairy tales that ever were seen or heard,
she makes very short work with conceited and impudent persons. She
covers their eyes and stops their ears, so that they can never see her
wonderful treasures or hear her charming stories, but live, all their
lives long, shut up in the dark fusty cupboard of their own ignorance,
and stupid self-love, and self-satisfaction, thinking they know all
about everything as well as if they had made it themselves, when they
do not really know anything at all. And because you and I dislike fusty
cupboards, and because we want to know anything and everything that
Nature is condescending enough to teach us, we will listen, to begin
with, to what the pine forest has to tell.
When the rough winds are up and at play, and the pine-trees shout and
sing together in a mighty chorus, while the hoarse voice of them is
like the roar of the sea upon a rocky coast, then you may learn the
secret of the forest. It sings first of the winged seed; and then of
the birth of the tiny tree; of sunrise and sunset, and the tranquil
warmth of noon-day, and of the soft, refreshing rain, and the kindly,
nourishing earth, and of the white moonlight, and pale, moist garments
of the mist, all helping the tree to grow up tall and straight, to
strike root deep and spread wide its green branches. It sings, too, of
the biting frost, and the still, dumb snow, and the hurrying storm,
all trying and testing the tree, to prove if it can stand firm and
show a brave face in time of danger and trouble. Then it sings of the
happy spring-time, when the forest is girdled about with a band of
flowers; while the birds build and call to each other among the high
branches; and the squirrel helps his wife to make her snug nest for the
little, brown squirrel-babies that are to be; and the dormice wake up
from their long winter sleep, and sit in the sunshine and comb their
whiskers with their dainty, little paws. And then the forest sings of
man--how he comes with axe and saw, and hammer and iron wedges, and
lays low the tallest of its children, and binds them with ropes and
chains, and hauls them away to be his bond-servants and slaves. And,
last of all, it sings slowly and very gently of old age and decay and
death; of the seed that falls on hard, dry places and never springs up;
of the tree that is broken by the tempest or scathed by the lightning
flash, and stands bare and barren and unsightly; sings how, in the end,
all things shrink and crumble, and how the dust of them returns and is
mingled with the fruitful soil from which at first they came.
This is the song of the pine forest, and from it you may learn this
lesson: that the life of the tree and of beast and bird are subject to
the same three great laws as the life of man--the law of growth, of
obedience, and of self-sacrifice. And perhaps, when you are older, if
you take care to avoid that spirit of conceit and impudence which, as
we have already said, gets people into such trouble with Nature, you
may come to see that these three laws are after all but one, bound for
ever together by the golden cord of love.
Once upon a time, just on the edge of the pine forest, there lived a
little boy. He lived in a big, brown, wooden house, with overhanging
eaves and a very deep roof to it, which swept down from the high middle
gable like the wings of a hen covering her chickens. The wood-sheds,
and hay-barn, and the stable where the brown-eyed, sweet-breathed
cows lay at night, and the clean, cool dairy, and the cheese-room
with its heavy presses were all under this same wide sheltering roof.
Before the house a meadow of rich grass stretched down to a stream,
that hurried along over rocky limestone ledges, or slipped away over
flat sandy places where you might see the little fishes playing at
hide-and-seek or puss in the corner among the bright pebbles at the
bottom. While on the shallow, marshy puddles by the stream side, where
the forget-me-not and brook-lime and rushes grow, the water-spiders
would dance quadrilles and jigs and reels all day long in the sunshine,
and the frogs would croak by hundreds in the still spring evenings,
when the sunset was red behind the pine-trees to the west. And in this
pleasant place little Peter lived, as I say, once upon a time, with his
father and mother, and his two brothers, and Eliza the servant-maid,
and Gustavus the cowherd.
He was the youngest of the children by a number of years, and was such
a small fellow that Susan Lepage, his mother, could make him quite a
smart blouse and pair of trousers out of Antony's cast-off garments,
even when all the patches and thin places had been cut out. He had a
black, curly head, and very round eyes--for many things surprised him,
and surprise makes the eyes grow round as everybody knows--and a dear,
little, red mouth, that was sweet to kiss, and nice, fat cheeks, which
began to look rather cold and blue, by the way, as he stood on the
threshold one evening about Christmas time, with Cincinnatus, the old,
tabby tom-cat, under his arm. He was waiting for his brother Antony
to come home from the neighbouring market-town of Nullepart. It was
growing dusk, yet the sky was very clear. The sound of the wind in the
pine branches and of the chattering stream was strange in the frosty
evening air; so that little Peter felt rather creepy, as the saying is,
and held on very tight to Cincinnatus for fear of--he didn't quite know
what.
'Come in, little man, come in,' cried his mother, as she moved to and
fro in the ruddy firelight, helping Eliza to get ready the supper. 'You
will be frozen standing there outside; and we shall be frozen, too,
sitting here with the door open. Antony will get home none the quicker
for your watching. That which is looked for hardest, they say, comes
last.'
But Peter only hugged Cincinnatus a little closer--thereby making that
long-suffering animal kick spasmodically with his hind legs, as a
rabbit does when you hold it up by the ears--and looked more earnestly
than ever down the forest path into the dimness of the pines.
Just then John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner, came up to the open
door, with a couple of empty sacks across his shoulders. Now the
charcoal-burner was a great friend of little Peter's, though he was
a queer figure to look at. For his red hair hung in wild locks down
over his shoulders, and his eyes glowed red too--as red as his own
smouldering charcoal fires--and his back was bent and crooked; while
his legs were so inordinately long and thin, that all the naughty
little boys in Nullepart, when he went down there to sell his sacks of
charcoal, used to run after him up the street, shouting:--
'Hurrah, hurrah! here's the grasshopper man again! Hey, ho!
grasshopper, give us a tune--haven't you brought your fiddle?'
But when Paqualin got annoyed, as he sometimes did, and turned round
upon them with his glowing eyes, they would all scuttle away as hard as
their legs could carry them. For, like a good many other people, they
were particularly courageous when they could only see the enemy's back.
You may be sure our little Peter never called the charcoal-burner by
any offensive names, and therefore, having a good conscience, had no
cause to be afraid of him.
'Eh! but what is this?' he cried, in his high cracked voice as he flung
down the sacks, and stood by the little lad in the doorway. 'Remember
my ears are so quick I can hear the grass grow. Just now I heard the
best mother in the world call her little boy to go indoors, and here
he stands still on the threshold. If you do not go in do you know what
will happen, eh?'
'No; what will happen? Please tell me,' said Peter.
[Illustration: 'WHAT WILL HAPPEN? PLEASE TELL ME.' _Page 10._]
The charcoal-burner stretched out one long arm and pointed away into
the forest, and | 614.381518 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.3615690 | 384 | 9 |
Produced by David Garcia, Linda Hamilton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
[Illustration: FIGHT WITH THE GRIZZLY BEARS. _p. 290._]
THE
BACKWOODSMAN;
OR,
=Life on the Indian Frontier.=
[Illustration]
LONDON:
WARD, LOOK, AND TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
THE
BACKWOODSMAN
OR
=Life on the Indian Frontier.=
EDITED BY
SIR C. F. LASCELLES WRAXALL, BART.
[Illustration: WL&T]
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO.,
172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. MY SETTLEMENT 1
II. THE COMANCHES 6
III. A FIGHT WITH THE WEICOS 12
IV. HUNTING ADVENTURES 19
V. THE NATURALIST 30
VI. MR. KREGER'S FATE 41
VII. A LONELY RIDE 53
VIII. THE JOURNEY CONTINUED 66
IX. HOMEWARD BOUND 82
X. THE BEE HUNTER 99
XI. THE WILD HORSE 114
XII | 614.381609 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.3616190 | 972 | 165 |
Produced by Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY
FROM THE
QUARTERLY JOURNAL
OF ECONOMICS
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO. DALLAS
ATLANTA. SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE
VALUE OF MONEY
BY
B. M. ANDERSON, JR., PH. D.
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ECONOMICS, HARVARD UNIVERSITY
AUTHOR OF "SOCIAL VALUE"
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1917
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1917
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1917.
To
B. M. A., III
AND
J. C. A.
WHO OFTEN INTERRUPTED THE WORK
BUT NONE THE LESS INSPIRED IT
PREFACE
The following pages have as their central problem the value of money.
But the value of money cannot be studied successfully as an isolated
problem, and in order to reach conclusions upon this topic, it has been
necessary to consider virtually the whole range of economic theory; the
general theory of value; the role of money in economic theory and the
functions of money in economic life; the theory of the values of stocks
and bonds, of "good will," established trade connections, trade-marks,
and other "intangibles"; the theory of credit; the causes governing the
volume of trade, and particularly the place of speculation in the volume
of trade; the relation of "static" economic theory to "dynamic" economic
theory.
"Dynamic economics" is concerned with change and readjustment in
economic life. A distinctive doctrine of the present book is that the
great bulk of exchanging grows out of dynamic change, and that
speculation, in particular, constitutes by far the major part of all
trade. From this it follows that the main work of money and credit, as
instruments of exchange, is done in the process of dynamic readjustment,
and, consequently, that the theory of money and credit _must be a
dynamic theory_. It follows, further, that a theory like the "quantity
theory of money," which rests in the notions of "static equilibrium" and
"normal adjustment," abstracting from the "transitional process of
readjustment," touches the real problems of money and credit not at all.
This thesis has seemed to require statistical verification, and the
effort has been made to measure the elements in trade, to assign
proportions for retail trade and for wholesale trade, to obtain
_indicia_ of the extent and variation of speculation in securities,
grain, and other things on the organized exchanges, and to indicate
something of the extent of less organized speculation running through
the whole of business. The ratio of foreign to domestic trade has been
studied, for the years, 1890-1916.
The effort has also been made to determine the magnitudes of banking
transactions, and the relation of banking transactions to the volume of
trade. The conclusion has been reached that the overwhelming bulk of
banking transactions occur in connection with speculation. The effort
has been made to interpret bank clearings, both in New York and in the
country outside, with a view to determining quantitatively the major
factors that give rise to them.
In general, the inductive study would show that modern business and
banking centre about the stock market to a much greater degree than most
students have recognized. The analysis of banking assets would go to
show that the main function of modern bank credit is in the direct or
indirect financing of corporate and unincorporated _industry_.
"Commercial paper" is no longer the chief banking asset.
It is not concluded from this, however, that commerce in the ordinary
sense is being robbed by modern tendencies of its proper banking
accommodation, or that the banks are engaged in dangerous practices. On
the contrary it is maintained that the ability of the banks to aid
ordinary commerce is increased | 614.381659 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.5565890 | 1,728 | 6 |
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/witchstories00lintrich
WITCH STORIES
Collected by
E. LYNN LINTON,
Author of "Azeth the Egyptian," "Amymone," Etc.
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."--EXODUS XXII. 18.
London:
Chapman and Hall, 193 Piccadilly.
1861.
[_The right of Translation reserved._]
London: Printed By W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.
PREFACE.
In offering the following collection of witch stories to the public, I do
not profess to have exhausted the subject, or to have made so complete a
summary as I might have done, had I been admitted into certain private
libraries, which contain, I believe, many concealed riches. But I had no
means of introduction to them, and was obliged to be content with such
authorities as I found in the British Museum, and the other public
libraries to which I had access. I do not think that I have left much
untold; but there must be, scattered about England, old MSS. and unique
copies of records concerning which I can find only meagre allusions, or
the mere names of the victims, without a distinctive fact to mark their
special history. Should this book come to a second edition, any help from
the possessors of these hitherto unpublished documents would be a gain to
the public, and a privilege which I trust may be afforded me.
Neither have I attempted to enter into the philosophy of the subject. It
is far too wide and deep to be discussed in a few hasty words; and to sift
such evidence as is left us--to determine what was fraud, what
self-deception, what actual disease, and what the exaggeration of the
narrator--would have swelled my book into a far more important and bulky
work than I intended or wished. As a general rule, I think we may apply
all the four conditions to every case reported; in what proportion, each
reader must judge for himself. Those who believe in direct and personal
intercourse between the spirit-world and man, will probably accept every
account with the unquestioning belief of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries; those who have faith in the calm and uniform operations of
nature, will hold chiefly to the doctrine of fraud; those who have seen
much of disease and that strange condition called "mesmerism," or
"sensitiveness," will allow the presence of absolute nervous derangement,
mixed up with a vast amount of conscious deception, which the insane
credulity and marvellous ignorance of the time rendered easy to practise;
and those who have been accustomed to sift evidence and examine witnesses,
will be utterly dissatisfied with the loose statements and wild distortion
of every instance on record.
E. LYNN LINTON.
_London_, 1861.
The Witches of Scotland
Scotland was always foremost in superstition. Her wild hills and lonely
fells seemed the fit haunting-places for all mysterious powers; and long
after spirits had fled, and ghosts had been laid in the level plains of
the South, they were to be found lingering about the glens and glades of
Scotland. Very little of graceful fancy lighted up the gloom of those
popular superstitions. Even Elfame, or Faerie, was a place of dread and
anguish, where the devil ruled heavy-handed and Hell claimed its yearly
tithe, rather than the home of fun and beauty and petulant gaiety as with
other nations: and the beautiful White Ladies, like the German Elle-women,
had more of bale than bliss as their portion to scatter among the sons of
men. Spirits like the goblin Gilpin Horner, full of malice and unholy
cunning,--like grewsome brownies, at times unutterably terrific, at times
grotesque and rude, but then more satyr-like than elfish,--like May
Moulachs, lean and hairy-armed, watching over the fortunes of a family,
but prophetic only of woe, not of weal,--like the cruel Kelpie, hiding
behind the river sedges to rush out on unwary passers-by, and strangle
them beneath the waters,--like the unsained laidly Elf, who came tempting
Christian women, to their souls' eternal perdition if they yielded to the
desires of their bodies,--like the fatal Banshie, harbinger of death and
ruin,--were the popular forms of the Scottish spirit-world; and in none of
them do we find either love or gentleness, but only fierceness and crime,
enmity to man and rebellion to God. But saddest and darkest and unholiest
of all was the belief in witchcraft, which infested society for centuries
like a sore eating through to the very heart of humanity, and which was
nowhere more bitter and destructive than among the godly children of our
Northern sister. Strange that the land of the Lord should have been the
favourite camping-ground of Satan, that the hill of Zion should have had
its roots in the depths of Tophet!
The formulas of the faith were as gloomy as the persons. The power of the
evil eye; the faculty of second sight, which always saw the hearse plumes,
and never the bridal roses; the supremacy of the devil in this
God-governed world of ours, and the actual and practical covenant into
which men and women daily entered with him; the unlimited influence of the
curse, and the sin and mischief to be wrought by charm and spell; the
power of casting sickness on whomsoever one would, and the ease with which
a blight could be sent on the corn, and a murrain to the beasts, by those
who had not wherewithal to stay their hunger for a day, these were the
chief signs of that fatal power with which Satan endowed his chosen
ones--those silly, luckless chapmen who bartered away their immortal souls
for no mess of pottage even, and no earthly good to breath or body, but
only that they might harm their neighbours and revenge themselves on those
who crossed them. Sometimes, indeed, they had no need to chaffer with the
devil for such faculties: as in the matter of the evil eye; for Kirk, of
Aberfoyle, tells us that "some are of so venomous a Constitution, by being
radiated in Envy and Malice, that they pierce and kill (like a Cockatrice)
whatever Creature they first set their Eyes on in the Morning: so was it
with Walter Grahame, some Time living in the Parock wherein now I am, who
killed his own Cow after commending its Fatness, and shot a Hair with his
Eyes, having praised its Swiftness (such was the Infection of ane Evill
Eye); albeit this was unusual, yet he saw no Object but what was obvious
to other Men as well as to himselfe." And a certain woman looking over the
door of a byre or cowhouse, where a neighbour sat milking, shot the calf
dead and dried up and sickened the cow, "by the venomous glance of her
evill eye." But perhaps she had got that venom by covenant with the devil;
for this was one of the prescriptive possessions of a witch, and ever the
first dole from the Satanic treasury. When Janet Irving was brought to
trial (1616) for unholy dealings with the foul fiend, it was proved--for
was it not sworn to? and that was quite sufficient legal proof in all
witchcraft cases--that he had told her "yf | 614.576629 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.5568490 | 2,277 | 52 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic
text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
HOME ENTERTAINING
What To Do and How To Do It
HOME ENTERTAINING
AMUSEMENTS FOR EVERY ONE
EDITED BY
WILLIAM E. CHENERY
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
PUBLISHED, AUGUST, 1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
_All Rights Reserved_
HOME ENTERTAINING
Norwood Press
Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
PREFACE
THIS collection of games, tricks, and pastimes is the result of many
years’ effort to find the most clever and practical diversions and
entertainments suitable for the home. Each trick has been tested
by the editor, and each sport introduced has received most careful
consideration in regard to ease of production, as well as the enjoyment
to be gained from it.
As no refined person of any age can find amusement in coarseness, great
care has been exercised in presenting only such diversions as are to
be welcomed in a refined home circle. The necessity for elaborate
apparatus has also been avoided, so that with dullness, difficulty,
expense, and ill-taste eliminated, it is felt that this collection will
supply a lack which has always existed, as the many who have sought
in vain for a bright, safe, and up-to-date book of really feasible
entertainments will appreciate.
While this book contains much that is original, especially in
descriptive matter and ways of presentation, it has of course been
necessary to draw freely from the accumulated mass of tricks and
“sells” that have in some form or other come down from unknown times,
and are recognized as being the common property of any who take pains
to learn them. As a matter of courtesy, due acknowledgement is hereby
made to all who have preceded me in this line of work.
A word of general advice to the amateur entertainer may be in order.
Never tell the company what you are about to do, unless the very nature
of a trick demands that its outcome be stated in advance. In this case,
do it as guardedly as possible. If you state that you are to perform a
certain trick, you thereby greatly increase the chance of detection, as
the spectators will know what to look for, and in that way will more
readily arrive at the true method of bringing about the results. Do
not allow yourself to be persuaded into performing a trick twice in
an evening. With the element of surprise gone, the best performance
loses much of its effect. Finally, remember that a great deal depends
upon the personality of the entertainer. An easy flow of pleasantries,
which may or may not have to do with what is being performed, adds to
the entertainment of the company, and at the same time helps much in
diverting the attention of your friends from too close a scrutiny of
your proceedings.
WILLIAM E. CHENERY.
FRAMINGHAM, MASS.,
May, 1912.
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Magnetic Ring 1
To Tell the Hour 2
The Spirit Calculator 3
The Square of Sixteen Numbers 5
The Square of Nine Digits 5
Making a Bird Enter a Cage 6
The Handkerchief Snake 6
To Pass Your Body Through a Postal Card 7
Silhouettes 8
Gymnastics for the Tongue 9
The Passenger to Boulogne 9
Mind-reading 10
Blowing a Card on Twine 12
Naming a Card 12
A Horse Race 14
A Jam-eating Contest 15
A Potato Race 15
Guessing Contests 16
A Phonograph Concert 17
To Lift Fifteen Matches with One 18
A Donkey Party 19
The Dwarf Exhibit 19
Stick-and-Pea Amusement 22
An Introduction to the Doll Family 22
Second Sight 24
The Blind Feeding the Blind 25
An Amateur Vaudeville 25
The Elusive Coin 25
Novel Paper-cutting 26
The Mysterious Remainder 27
Home Field-Sports 29
(a) One-yard Dash 29
(b) Tug of War 29
(c) Standing High Jump 29
(d) Hurdle Race 29
(e) Drinking Race 30
(f) Bun Race 30
(g) Cracker-eating Contest 30
(h) Rainy-Day Race 30
The Gentlemen Nurse-Maids 31
New Year’s Resolutions for Others 32
Can You Draw a Watch-face? 33
The Endless Thread 34
The Telltale Glass 35
Pairing Ten Half-dimes 37
Deceptive Heights 37
(a) Of a Hat 37
(b) Of a Barrel 37
Slang 38
Observation Contest 39
The Bargain-counter Game 39
The “Thirty-five” Trick 41
An Ink Shock 42
Reading from Folded Papers 42
Blind Man’s Buff with Dominoes 43
“My Aunt Has Arrived from Paris” 44
Surprising Strength 45
Card-passing Contest 46
A Cobweb Tangle 47
A Novel Masquerade 47
Hit the Bag 48
A Pretended Illusion 49
Dancing Fairies 49
Describing a Lady’s Costume 50
The Wonderful Hat 51
Mirror-Drawing 51
The Dancing Skeleton 53
Pitching Cards at a Hat 54
Peanut Guessing 54
Peanut Shelling 54
Peanut Rolling 55
The Peanut Hunt 55
Progressive Peanut Party 55
Your Friends in Black 57
GAMES
Packing the Trunk 59
Blowing Ping-pong Balls 60
Doing the Impossible 60
The Game of “It” 61
The Game of “Turtle” 63
The Game of “Empty Hands” 64
Simon Says 65
Passing Bean-bags 66
Buzz 67
Can You Laugh? 68
An Optical Game 68
Blowing the Feather 69
Throwing the Handkerchief 70
Going to Jerusalem 71
Find the Whistle 71
The All-around Story Game 72
An Obstacle Game 72
Impudence 73
Rolling Chase-ball 74
TRICKS
The Sharpers Outwitted 76
The Raised Hand 78
Unconscious Movements 78
The Broken Match Restored 79
The Cent and the Hole 80
Mysterious Reading 81
The Baffling Card 83
A Watch Trick 83
Silk from Paper 84
The Obedient Ball 86
Tricks with a Pen 87
The Dice and Cup 88
The Surprising Paper Bands 89
Napkin-ring Trick 89
The Magical Cups of Tin 90
The Elusive Cork 92
The Three Pennies 92
A Lesson in Gravity 93
The Tantalizing Half-dollar 93
Drawing Matches to Win 94
Eye-errors and Ghosts 96
The Detaining Hand-clasp 98
The Pictorial Nail 99
Cane Trick 99
PANTOMIMES
General Directions 101
Aerial Figures 103
Silhouettes 105
Shadow Pictures 106
Shadow Show 106
CARD TRICKS
Calling the Cards 110
The Odd Card 114
Naming the Cards 116
A Diamond Ace of Hearts 117
A Three-card Trick 118
Detection by Smell 119
Naming a Drawn Card 121
Grouping the Kings 123
Detecting a Turned Card 124
Telling the Number of Transposed Cards 124
The Three Packets 127
A Card Found at the Second Guess 127
Pocketing a Chosen Card 128
To Pick Out a Card Thought Of 131
The Siamese Aces 133
Detection of a Drawn Card by Color 136
Mathematical Detection of Card 137
Passing a Card to Top of Pack 138
The Trick of “Thirty-one” 140
SOAP-BUBBLES
Blowing Soap-bubbles 142
Fantastic Soap-bubbles 143
Rebounding Bubbles 145
FORFEITS 146
HALLOWE’EN
Decorations 149
Invitations 150
Receiving Guests 150
The Heads of Bluebeard’s Wives 152
The Severed Head 153
Ghost Stories 154
The Unearthly Look 154
Luminous Writing 155
The Floating Candle 155
Ornamented Apples 156
Finding the Candle 156
The Full Moon | 614.576889 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.6257390 | 647 | 153 |
Produced by Barbara Tozier, Jane Hyland, Bill Tozier and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
Secret Memoirs
THE COURT OF ROYAL SAXONY
1891-1902
This edition, printed on Japanese vellum paper, is limited to two
hundred and fifty copies.
No. ________
[Illustration: LOUISE, EX-CROWN-PRINCESS OF SAXONY
Photo taken shortly before her flight from Dresden]
Secret Memoirs
THE COURT OF ROYAL SAXONY 1891-1902
THE STORY OF LOUISE CROWN PRINCESS
FROM THE PAGES OF HER DIARY, LOST AT THE TIME OF HER ELOPEMENT FROM
DRESDEN WITH M. ANDRE ("RICHARD") GIRON
BY HENRY W. FISCHER
Author of "Private Lives of William II and His Consort," "Secret History
of the Court of Berlin," etc., etc.
Illustrated from Photographs
BENSONHURST, NEW YORK FISCHER'S FOREIGN LETTERS, INC. PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1912
BY HENRY W. FISCHER
Copyright, 1912, applied for by Henry W. Fischer in Great Britain
Copyright, 1912, by Henry W. Fischer, in Germany, France, Austria,
Switzerland, and all foreign countries having international copyright
arrangements with the United States
[_All rights reserved, including those of translation_]
EDITOR'S CARD
This is to certify that the Ex-Crown Princess of Saxony, now called
Countess Montiguoso, Madame Toselli by her married name, is in no way,
either directly or indirectly, interested in this publication.
There has been no communication of whatever nature, directly or through
a third party, between this lady and the editor or publishers. In fact,
the publication will be as much a surprise to her as to the general
public.
The Royal Court of Saxony, therefore, has no right to claim, on the
ground of this publication, that Princess Louise violated her agreement
with that court as set forth in the chapter on the _Kith and Kin of the
ex-Crown Princess of Saxony_, under the heads of "_Louise's Alimony and
Conditions_" and "_Allowance Raised and a Further Threat_."
HENRY W. FISCHER, _Editor_.
Fischer's Foreign Letters, Publishers
THIS BOOK AND ITS PURPOSE
By Henry W. Fischer
Of Memoirs that are truly faithful records of royal lives, we have a
few; the late Queen Victoria led the small number of crowned
autobiographists only to discourage the reading of self-satisfied royal
ego-portrayals forever, but in the Story of Louise of Saxony we have the
main life epoch of a Cyprian Royal, who had no inducement to say
anything false and is not afraid to say anything true.
For the Saxon Louise wrote not to guide the | 614.645779 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.6491030 | 3,666 | 8 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Keith Edkins and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
* * * * *
[Illustration: Transverse Section of the Building, showing the Interior
completed.]
The
Crystal Palace:
Its
Architectural History
and
Constructive Marvels.
By
Peter Berlyn, and Charles Fowler, Junr.
London:
James Gilbert, Paternoster Row.
mdcccli.
----
PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION BY
JAMES GILBERT, 49 PATERNOSTER ROW,
(UNIFORM WITH THE PRESENT VOLUME),
The Curiosities and Wonders
contained within
The Crystal Palace.
BY
PETER BERLYN, ESQ.
Illustrated by Several Hundred Engravings.
----
[Illustration]
TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ALBERT,
The Following Pages,
DESCRIPTIVE OF
THE ARCHITECTURAL AND CONSTRUCTIVE MARVELS OF
THE STOREHOUSE OF THE WORLD'S WONDERS
OF ART, SCIENCE, AND MANUFACTURE,
ARE, BY PERMISSION, MOST HUMBLY DEDICATED,
AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE
OF THE ADMIRATION AND GRATITUDE
WHICH, IN COMMON WITH THE WHOLE CIVILIZED WORLD,
ARE AMPLY SHARED IN BY
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S
MOST DEVOTED, FAITHFUL, AND OBEDIENT SERVANT,
THE PUBLISHER.
----
Contents.
PAGE.
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS 1
COMMITTEE FOR ALL MATTERS RELATING TO THE BUILDING 2
LABOURS OF THE BUILDING COMMITTEE 3
THE COMPETITION DESIGNS 6
BUILDINGS USED FOR PREVIOUS EXHIBITIONS IN FRANCE, GERMANY, AND
ENGLAND 15
DESCRIPTION OF THE BUILDING COMMITTEE'S DESIGN 21
OPPOSITION TO THIS DESIGN 24
THE TENDERS 24
HISTORY OF MR. PAXTON'S DESIGN 27
GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF THE BUILDING 33
THE PAXTON'S GUTTERS 40
THE SASH-BARS 44
THE RIDGES 46
THE GLASS 46
THE BOX GUTTERS 47
THE ROOF GIRDERS 47
THE IRON DRILLING MACHINE 49
THE PUNCHING MACHINE 50
THE ADZING AND PLANING MACHINE 51
THE COLUMNS AND CONNECTING-PIECES 52
THE BASE-PIECES 53
THE CAST-IRON GIRDERS 54
THE GALLERIES 55
TESTING THE CAST-IRON GIRDERS 55
ROOF OF TRANSEPT 58
THE FACEWORK 59
THE DIAGONAL BRACING 60
THE STAIRCASES 60
THE FLOOR AND FOUNDATIONS 62
FIRST OPERATIONS ON THE GROUND 63
SETTING-OUT THE GROUND 64
FIXING THE BASE-PLATES 65
HENDERSON'S DERRICK CRANE 67
RAISING AND FIXING THE COLUMNS AND GIRDERS 68
HOISTING THE ROOF TRUSSES 69
PROVISION FOR EXPANSION OF GIRDERS 70
GLAZING THE ROOF 71
STAGE FOR REPAIRING THE GLASS, ETC. 73
HOISTING THE RIBS FOR TRANSEPT ROOF 73
GLAZING THE TRANSEPT ROOF 76
THE PAINTING 76
THE HAND-RAIL MACHINE 78
GENERAL VIEW OF THE WORKS 79
PAYING THE WORKMEN 80
GENERAL STATISTICS 82
THE PARTI- PAINTING 83
THE WATER SUPPLY 87
THE STABILITY OF THE BUILDING 87
TESTING THE GALLERIES 88
GENERAL ADVANTAGES OF THE BUILDING 89
CONCLUSION 89
APPENDIX:--
LIST OF COMPETITORS FOR THE BUILDING i
LIST A.--COMPETITORS ENTITLED TO FAVOURABLE MENTION vi
LIST B.--COMPETITORS ENTITLED TO FURTHER HIGHER HONORARY
DISTINCTION viii
THE TWO COMPETITION DESIGNS SPECIALLY MENTIONED BY THE BUILDING
COMMITTEE ix
MEMORANDUM ON THE SITE xi
REPORT OF THE ROYAL COMMISSIONERS, PRESENTED TO HER MAJESTY ON THE
OPENING OF THE BUILDING xvii
List of Illustrations.
PAGE.
TRANSVERSE SECTION OF THE BUILDING, SHOWING THE
INTERIOR COMPLETED-- _frontispiece_.
PLAN OF THE BUILDING FOR THE FRENCH EXPOSITION IN 1849 16
VIEW OF THE PRINCIPAL ENTRANCE OF THE SAME 17
INTERIOR VIEW OF THE "PALACE" 18
INTERIOR VIEW OF THE CATTLE-SHED 19
VIEW OF KROLL'S WINTERGARTEN AT BERLIN _facing_ 19
PLAN OF KROLL'S WINTERGARTEN 20
VIEW OF THE BIRMINGHAM EXPOSITION BUILDING 20
GROUND-PLAN OF THE DESIGN OF THE BUILDING COMMITTEE _facing_ 22
EXTERIOR VIEW OF THE SAME _facing_ 24
COMMON MODE OF GLAZING ROOFS 28
METHOD BY RIDGE AND FURROW 29
CUTTERS OF MR. PAXTON'S SASH-BAR MACHINE 30
THE VICTORIA REGIA HOUSE, CHATSWORTH 32
INTERIOR OF THE SAME 33
GROUND-PLAN OF THE BUILDING FOR THE EXHIBITION 34
VIEW OF ONE 24-FEET SQUARE BAY OF ROOF PARTLY COMPLETED 36
PORTION OF THE LOWER STOREY OF THE PRINCIPAL ELEVATIONS 37
VIEW OF THE INTERIOR OF THE TRANSEPT _facing_ 38
VIEW OF GLASS ROOF FROM THE LEAD FLAT _facing_ 39
GENERAL VIEW OF THE BUILDING FROM THE SOUTH-WEST _facing_ 40
THE EXTERNAL RAILING 40
SECTION OF THE PAXTON'S GUTTER, WITH THE STRONG SASH-BAR 41
THE CIRCULAR PLANING MACHINE 41
PORTION OF THE SAME SHOWING DETAIL 41
SECTIONS OF THE PAXTON'S GUTTER, SHOWING DIFFERENT STAGES IN THE
MACHINE 42
THE GUTTER-CUTTING MACHINE 42
MACHINE FOR FINISHING ENDS OF GUTTERS AND RIDGES 43
MACHINE FOR CUTTING OUT SASH-BARS 44
THE SASH-BAR DRILLING MACHINE 45
PORTION OF THE SAME, ENLARGED 46
SECTION OF THE RIDGES, ETC 46
DIAGRAM OF 48-FEET GIRDER 48
DIAGRAM OF 72-FEET GIRDER 48
THE IRON DRILLING MACHINE 50
THE PUNCHING MACHINE AND SHEARS 50
THE ADZING-CUTTERS 51
THE ADZING AND PLANING MACHINE 52
SECTION OF A COLUMN 52
A BASE-PIECE 54
VIEW OF THE INTERIOR FROM THE LEVEL OF GALLERIES _facing_ 55
FRAME AND HYDRAULIC PRESS FOR TESTING THE GIRDERS 56
INTERIOR VIEW OF THE CENTRAL AVENUE TOWARDS THE WEST _facing_ 58
LOUVRE FRAME 60
VIEW OF STAIRCASE 61
FIXING CAST-IRON DRAIN-PIPE 62
VIEW OF CRANE AND PROVING-PRESS 66
HENDERSON'S DERRICK CRANE 67
PORTIONS OF THE SAME 67
FIXING THE GIRDERS 68
GENERAL VIEW OF THE WORKS IN PROGRESS _facing_ 69
HOISTING THE 72-FEET TRUSSES 70
GLAZING-WAGGON FOR FLAT ROOF 72
A PAIR OF RIBS PREPARED FOR RAISING 74
HOISTING THE RIBS FOR THE TRANSEPT ROOF _facing_ 75
STAGE FOR GLAZING TRANSEPT ROOF 76
THE SASH-BAR PAINTING MACHINE 77
PORTION OF THE SAME IN DETAIL 77
THE HAND-RAIL CUTTING MACHINE 78
PORTION OF THE SAME 78
THE BRASS TICKETS FOR WORKMEN 80
THE INTERIOR OF THE PAY-OFFICE 81
THE MEN TAKING THEIR WAGES 81
THE WORKMEN WAITING TO BE PAID 82
VIEW OF THE BUILDING FROM THE NORTH BANK OF THE SERPENTINE _facing_ 86
TESTING AN EXPERIMENTAL BAY OF THE GALLERY FLOOR _facing_ 88
VIEW OF THE BOILER-HOUSE, ETC. _facing_ 88
VIEW OF SOUTH FRONT OF THE BUILDING 92
APPENDIX:--
EXTERIOR VIEW OF MONS. HOREAU'S DESIGN FOR THE BUILDING _facing_ ix
INTERIOR OF THE SAME _facing_ ix
VIEW OF EXTERIOR FROM ONE END OF MESSRS. TURNERS' DESIGN
FOR THE BUILDING _facing_ x
TRANSVERSE SECTION AND VIEW OF THE INTERIOR OF THE SAME _facing_ x
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS.
So much has already been said and written, both wisely and well, upon the
marvellous edifice which has just been reared with such magical rapidity to
enshrine the results of the skill and industry of all nations, that it
would appear an almost hopeless task to present the subject in any new
point of view to the reader.
If, therefore, the authors cannot lay claim to novelty or originality in
the execution of the pleasurable work which they have undertaken, they are
not without hopes that, from their having been connected with this gigantic
undertaking during the greater part of its progress, they will be enabled
to trace in a more detailed and consecutive manner than has yet been
attempted the history of the design and execution of the building up to the
period of its completion.
A great deal has been lately said upon the want of distinctive character in
almost all the buildings of the present day; and it is certainly a striking
fact that in scarcely any of our important modern structures does the
exterior appearance in any way lead the spectator to form an idea of the
purposes or arrangement of the interior, the former being apparently
governed by fancy, or the fashion for some particular style, while the
latter only, is accommodated to the peculiar requirements of the case. Thus
we have porticos which do not shelter from the weather, or in which no one
is allowed to walk; Venetian palaces appear piled upon a substructure of
plate-glass; baronial castles prove to be model prisons; and
richly-decorated mansions, from the time of "Good Queen Bess," or fanciful
Italian villas, are made to serve for the accommodation of paupers.
The ancients appear to have been more careful in this respect, so that the
form and external arrangement afforded in most cases a ready key to the
purposes of their structures. Their temples, their fora, theatres and
amphitheatres, baths, and other public edifices, seem each to have been
stamped with their own characteristic features, at the same time without in
any way producing a monotonous uniformity among the different examples of
the same class of building.
Now, if this criterion of excellence be applied to the remarkable building
recently erected in Hyde Park, it will be found that the constructive
arrangement of the interior is plainly expressed without, and it must be
conceded that it possesses at least those elements of beauty arising from
consistency and simplicity which, in combination with its vast size, give
it also that of grandeur. That it is faultless it would be needless to
assert, or to imagine that, from its example, a new style of architecture
will originate; but that it is admirably suited to its purpose, that it is
a remarkable specimen of the constructive skill of this country, and that
it will certainly form one of the most interesting objects of the Great
Exhibition by which it has been called into being, if not the most
interesting of all, must, we think, be admitted by all candid observers.
Although the building in its present form was designed, as well as carried
out, in a singularly short space of time, this could not have been
accomplished but for the great amount of thought and labour which had been
previously bestowed upon the subject. In order, therefore, to trace the
whole of the progress of the design, it will be necessary briefly to advert
to the early labours bestowed upon the project.
On the 5th of January, 1850, the Royal Commission for carrying out this
great scheme was gazetted; its first and second meetings, which were
respectively held on the 11th and 18th of the same month, were entirely
devoted to preliminary arrangements, and determining the mode of conducting
its proceedings.
Among the most urgent matters calling for the attention of the
Commissioners, the subject of the building early presented itself, as it
was of the utmost importance that the longest possible time should be
allowed for its erection; and, accordingly, at the third meeting, held on
the 24th of January, the following noblemen and gentlemen were appointed to
act as a
Committee for all Matters relating to the Building.
His Grace the Duke of BUCCLEUCH, K.G., F.R.S.
The Right Hon. the Earl of ELLESMERE, F.S.A.
CHARLES BARRY, Esq., R.A., F.R.S.
WILLIAM CUBITT, Esq., F.R.S., Pr. of J.C.E.
ROBERT STEPHENSON, Esq., M.P., F.R.S.
C. R. COCKERELL, Esq., R.A.
I. K. BRUNEL, Esq., F.R.S.
THOMAS L. DONALDSON, Esq., M.I.B.A.
From which list it will be seen that some of the very highest professional
talent in the country was enlisted on behalf of the undertaking.
Labours of the Building Committee.
The first point to be ascertained by this Committee was where to find an
eligible site; for although they were not able at that early stage of their
labours to determine the exact amount of space that would be required, they
appear to have been of opinion that, from the general data before them,
about sixteen acres would be necessary--an amount which has been
subsequently considerably exceeded, but which was already an enormous area
to be covered by one building; and in dealing with it the Committee must
have felt that a very heavy amount of responsibility rested upon them, as
appears, indeed, from their recommendation to the Royal Commission given
below.
After about a month of attentive deliberation, the Committee made a report
upon this part of their labours.
With regard to the site, it had appeared to the Committee that--firstly,
the north-eastern portion of Hyde Park; secondly, the long space between
her Majesty's private road and the Kensington road, in the southern part of
Hyde Park; and thirdly, the north-western portion of Regent's Park, were
the only available spaces about the metropolis | 614.669143 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.6550020 | 1,500 | 719 |
Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
LONDON
BY
WALTER BESANT
AUTHOR OF "ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN"
"FIFTY YEARS AGO" ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
Copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
PREFACE
In the following chapters it has been my endeavor to present pictures of
the City of London--instantaneous photographs, showing the streets, the
buildings, and the citizens at work and at play. Above all, the
citizens: with their daily life in the streets, in the shops, in the
churches, and in the houses; the merchant in the quays and on 'Change;
the shopkeeper of Cheapside; the priests and the monks and the friars;
the shouting of those who sell; the laughter and singing of those who
feast and drink; the ringing of the bells; the dragging of the criminal
to the pillory; the Riding of the Lord Mayor and Aldermen; the river
with its boats and barges; the cheerful sound of pipe and tabor; the
stage with its tumblers and its rope-dancers; the 'prentices with their
clubs; the evening dance in the streets. I want my pictures to show all
these things. The history of London has been undertaken by many writers;
the presentment of the city and the people from age to age has never
yet, I believe, been attempted.
The sources whence one derives the materials for such an attempt are, in
the earlier stages, perfectly well known and accessible to all. Chaucer,
Froissart, Lydgate, certain volumes of the "Early English Text Society,"
occur to everybody. But the richest mine, for him who digs after the
daily life of the London citizen during the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, is certainly Riley's great book of _Extracts from the City
Records_. If there is any life or any reality in the three chapters of
this book which treat of the Plantagenet period, it is certainly due to
Riley.
As regards the Tudor period, the wealth of illustration is astonishing.
One might as well be writing of the city life of this day, so copious
are the materials. But it is not to Shakespeare and the dramatists that
we must look for the details so much as to the minor writers, the
moralists and satirists, of whom the ordinary world knows nothing.
The reign of Charles II. directs one to the Plague and to the Fire. I
was fortunate in finding two tracts, one dealing with the plague of
1603, and the other with that of 1625. These, though they are earlier
than Charles II., were invaluable, as illustrating the effect of the
pestilence in causing an exodus of all who could get away, which took
place as much in these earlier years as in 1666. Contemporary tracts on
the state of London after the Fire, also happily discovered, proved
useful. And when the Plague and the Fire had been dismissed, another
extraordinary piece of good fortune put me in possession of certain
household accounts which enabled me to present a bourgeois family of the
period at home.
Where there is so much to speak about, one must exercise care in
selection. I have endeavored to avoid as much as possible those points
which have already been presented. For instance, the growth of the
municipality, the rise of the Guilds and the Companies, the laws of
London, the relations of the City to the Sovereign and the State--these
things belong to the continuous historian, not to him who draws a
picture of a given time. In the latter case it is the effect of law, not
its growth, which is important. Thus I have spoken of the pilgrimizing
in the time of Henry II.; of the Mysteries of that time; things that
belonged to the daily life; rather than to matters of policy, the
stubborn tenacity of the City, or the changes that were coming over the
conditions of existence and of trade. Again, in Plantagenet London one
might have dwelt at length upon the action taken by London in successive
civil wars. That, again, belongs to the historian. I have contented
myself with sketching the churches and the monasteries, the palaces and
the men-at-arms, the merchants and the workmen.
Again, in the time of George II., the increase of trade, which then
advanced by leaps and bounds, the widening of the world to London
enterprise, the part which London took in the conquest of India and the
ejection of France from North America belong to history. For my own part
I have preferred to show the position, the influence, and the work of
the Church at a time generally believed to be the deadest period in the
whole history of the Church of England. This done, I have gone on to
illustrate the day-by-day life of the citizens, with the prices of
things, the management, and the appearance of the City.
One thing remains to be said. Mr. Loftie, in his _History of London_
(Stadford), first gave the world a reconstruction of the ground--the
_terrain_--of London and its environs before ever a house was erected or
an acre cleared. The first chapter of this book--that on Roman London
and After--is chiefly due to a study of this map, and to realizing what
that map means when applied to the scanty records of Augusta. This map
enabled me to recover the years which followed the retreat of the
Romans. I cannot allow this chapter to be called a Theory. It is, I
venture to claim for it, nothing less than a Recovery.
WALTER BESANT.
UNITED UNIVERSITY CLUB:
_May 2, 1892_.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. AFTER THE ROMANS 1
II. SAXON AND NORMAN 43
III. PLANTAGENET 105
IV. PLANTAGENET--_CONTINUED_ 155
V. PLANTAGENET--_CONTINUED_ 215
VI. TUDOR 263
VII. TUDOR--_CONTINUED_ 320
VIII. CHARLES THE SECOND 371
IX. GEORGE THE SECOND 429
INDEX 501
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
_Stowe's Monument, in North Aisle of St. Andrew Undershaft_ 2
_Roman Marble Sarcophagus._ Guildhall 4
_Statues of Mercury, Apollo, and Jupiter or Neptune: found
in the Thames, | 614.675042 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.6568970 | 2,705 | 7 |
Produced by David Edwards, Demian Katz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 10
MAY 1, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
HARD LUCK
OR THE BALLOON
HOUSE PLOT
[Illustration: "This way, Dick" yelled Motor Matt
as he struck down one of the
ruffians.]
STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 10. NEW YORK, May 1, 1909. Price Five Cents.
Motor Matt's Hard Luck
OR,
THE BALLOON-HOUSE PLOT.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. AN OLD FRIEND.
CHAPTER II. A TRAP.
CHAPTER III. OVERBOARD.
CHAPTER IV. RESCUED.
CHAPTER V. BUYING THE "HAWK."
CHAPTER VI. MATT SCORES AGAINST JAMESON.
CHAPTER VII. AT THE BALLOON HOUSE.
CHAPTER VIII. THE PLOT OF THE BRADY GANG.
CHAPTER IX. CARL IS SURPRISED.
CHAPTER X. HELEN BRADY'S CLUE.
CHAPTER XI. JERROLD GIVES HIS AID.
CHAPTER XII. GRAND HAVEN.
CHAPTER XIII. THE LINE ON BRADY.
CHAPTER XIV. THE WOODS BY THE RIVER.
CHAPTER XV. BRADY A PRISONER.
CHAPTER XVI. BACK IN SOUTH CHICAGO.
THE RED SPIDER.
PIGEON-WHISTLE CONCERTS.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad
of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won
for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of
"Mile-a-minute Matt."
=Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a
fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness.
=Dick Ferral=, a Canadian boy and a favorite of Uncle Jack; has
served his time in the King's navy, and bobs up in New Mexico where
he falls into plots and counter-plots, and comes near losing his life.
=Helen Brady=, Hector Brady's daughter, who helps Motor Matt.
=Hector Brady=, a rival inventor who has stolen his ideas from
Hamilton Jerrold. His air ship is called the Hawk and is used for
criminal purposes. Brady's attempt to secure Motor Matt's services as
driver of the Hawk brings about the undoing of the criminal gang.
=Hamilton Jerrold=, an honest inventor who has devoted his life to
aëronautics, and who has built a successful air ship called the Eagle.
=Jameson=, a rich member of the Aëro Club, who thinks of buying the
Hawk.
=Whipple=, =Pete=, =Grove=, =Harper=, members of Brady's gang who
carried out the "balloon-house plot," which nearly resulted in a
tragedy, and finally proved the complete undoing of Hector Brady.
=Ochiltree=, an ex-convict whose past record nearly got him into
trouble.
=Harris=, a policeman of South Chicago who aids Motor Matt in his
work against the Bradys.
=Dennison and Twitchell=, police officers of Grand Haven, Michigan,
who take a part in the final capture of Brady.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD FRIEND.
"Py chimineddy!" muttered Carl Pretzel to himself, starting up on the
couch, where he had been snatching forty winks by way of passing the
time. "Vat's dot? Der voice has some familiar sounds mit me. Lisden
vonce."
A loud, jovial voice floated in through the open window, a voice with a
swing to it that set Carl's nerves in a flutter.
"'In Cawsand bay lying,
And a Blue Peter flying,
All hands were turned up the anchor to weigh,
There came a young lady,
As fair as a May-day,
And modestly hailing, the damsel did say:
"'"I've got a young man there,
D'ye hear? Bear a hand there
To hoist me aboard or to bring him to me:
Which his name's Henry Grady,
And I am a lady,
Just come down to purwent his a-going to sea."'"
The roaring song had come closer and closer. By then it was almost
under the open window. Jumping from the couch, Carl ran across the room
and looked out.
A youth of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a sailor rig and with his hat
cocked over one eye, was lurching along with both hands in his pockets.
Behind him trailed four or five hoodlums, bunched close together and
talking among themselves.
"Here's where I quit you, you lubbers," said the young sailor, halting
at the steps leading up to the boarding-house door, and turning to the
hoodlums. "A messmate of mine berths here, and I'm going to drop in on
him and have a bit of a chat over old times. 'Bout ship, the lot of
you, and make a good offing. I don't like the cut of your jibs any too
well, anyhow. Slant away, slant away."
The sailor backed up against a post at the bottom of the steps.
"Say, yous ole webfoot," said one of the hoodlums, "loosen up, can't
yous, an' fork over the price o' a drink, all around?"
The fellow shambled closer to the sailor and held out one hand with an
expectant grin.
"Not a bob will I give you for a tot of drink," answered the sailor,
"for I'll be keelhauled if you don't look as though you'd already been
topping the boom too much for your own good, but I'll loosen up, as you
call it, for a good meal all around."
His hand went into the pocket of his trousers and he drew out a big
roll of bills. A greedy gleam darted into the hoodlum's eyes as he
glimpsed the bundle of money, and those at his back pushed closer
together, nudging each other in the ribs and pointing while the
sailor's head was bent.
Suddenly the rascal who had acted as spokesman for the rest made a leap
and a grab.
"Avast there, you loafing longshore scuttler!" yelled the young tar.
"What sort of a beachcomber's trick do you call that?"
The hoodlum had whirled, the roll in his hands, and was making off as
fast as his legs could carry him. The sailor sprang after him, but
the rest of the thieving pack jumped in his way and began using their
fists, hoping to give their pal the necessary time to get clear with
the money.
Carl Pretzel, with an angry shout, withdrew from the open window,
dashed from the room, down the stairs and out at the front door.
Without paying any attention to the sailor and those with whom he was
tussling, the Dutch boy rushed past the struggling group and made a bee
line after the thief.
Carl was too fat for a swift sprinter, but the thieving hoodlum was
handicapped by a game leg, and Carl was able to overhaul him slowly.
Looking over his shoulder in order to take in the situation behind,
the thief saw the Dutch boy, and redoubled his efforts to get away. An
alley lay just ahead, and the thief turned into it. Carl plunged after
him, but when he got into the alley, the fellow with the money had
mysteriously vanished.
"Dot's a funny t'ing!" panted Carl, coming to a halt and peering
around. "Vere dit he go mit himseluf?"
Garbage barrels and boxes lined the alley on both sides. Carl started
onward again, peering sharply behind each garbage receptacle as he
advanced. Suddenly he discovered the man he was looking for, crouching
behind a big box.
Carl was a little way beyond the box before he caught sight of the
thief.
"Dere you vas!" he yelled, as he faced about. "Now I ged you, und I
dake avay vat you got--yah, so helup me!"
He rushed at the thief, and the latter got up, squirmed around the end
of the box, and leaped for the side of a shed whose wall stood flush
with the alley.
The shed had a square opening, about four feet from the ground, for
convenience in unloading wood. The thief had his eye on the opening. If
he could get into the shed, he probably reasoned, he could run through
into the back yard of the house, gain the street in front, and so,
undoubtedly, evade his fat pursuer.
But he didn't make it. By the time he was half through the opening,
Carl was close enough to grab his thrashing feet, and he hung onto them
like grim death.
"How you like dot, hey?" jubilated the Dutch boy. "You findt oudt, py
shimmy, dot it don'd vas so easy to ged avay mit money dot don'd pelong
mit you. Oof you shkin oudt, you leaf your feet pehind, und oof you
don't come pack indo der alley, den I pull you in two. How vas dot for
some fixes?"
"Wot's de matter wit' yous?" came the angry, muffled voice from inside
the shed. "Le'go 'r I'll kick a hole in your face!"
"You vill I don'd t'ink," puffed Carl, still hanging to the feet. "Gif
oop der money, you dinhorn, oder I turn you ofer py der bolice und you
go to der lockoop."
The hoodlum made no move to return the money, but continued to struggle
wildly. With a firm hold on each ankle, Carl laid back and pulled for
all he was worth; but the thief had caught hold of something inside and
all Carl's pulling didn't get him an inch toward the alley.
While the whole matter was at a deadlock, the thief half in half out of
the shed, and Carl tugging fruitlessly, the young sailor appeared at
the end of the alley. Taking quick note of the situation at the shed,
he gave a yell and bore down in that direction.
"Well, strike me lucky, old ship," cried the young tar, "this is my
busy day and no mistake. Is that the duffing son of a flounder that got
away with my wad?"
"He iss der feller, Verral," panted Carl. "He don'd vant to come out
oof der vood shet."
"Hang onto his pins, matey," was the answer, "and I'll fix him."
The sailor pushed his hands through the hole, grabbed the hoodlum by
the throat, and exerted a steady pressure.
This manoeuvre was successful. Half strangled, the thief's clutching
fingers relaxed their hold, and the sailor and Carl, between them,
managed to drag him back into the alley.
"Now, you pirate," cried the sailor, dropping down on the captive,
"where's that money? That was a raw play you made and you might have
pulled it off if it hadn't been for my mate, here. D'you want to go
below, in irons? Where's the roll?"
"Look in his bocket | 614.676937 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.7352210 | 1,481 | 822 |
Produced by Susan Skinner, Ted Garvin and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. VI.
PAISLEY
Birth Place of Tannahill, Alexander Wilson, John Wilson, &c.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: [Handwritten: Ever yours truly,
Chas. Mackay.]]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL VI.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
MDCCCLVII.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
CHARLES BAILLIE, ESQ.,
SHERIFF OF STIRLINGSHIRE,
CONVENER OF THE ACTING COMMITTEE FOR REARING
A NATIONAL MONUMENT
TO THE
ILLUSTRIOUS DEFENDER OF SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE,
THIS SIXTH VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS DEDICATED,
WITH SENTIMENTS OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT AND ESTEEM,
BY
HIS VERY OBEDIENT FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION, xi
OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG. BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, xx
CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D., 1
Love aweary of the world, 8
The lover's second thoughts on world weariness, 9
A candid wooing, 11
Procrastinations, 12
Remembrances of nature, 13
Believe, if you can, 15
Oh, the happy time departed, 17
Come back! come back! 17
Tears, 18
Cheer, boys, cheer, 20
Mourn for the mighty dead, 21
A plain man's philosophy, 22
The secrets of the hawthorn, 24
A cry from the deep waters, 25
The return home, 26
The men of the North, 28
The lover's dream of the wind, 29
ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD, 31
Bonnie Mary Hay, 33
Scotland, I have no home but thee, 33
GEORGE DONALD, 35
The spring time o' life, 36
The scarlet rose-bush, 37
HENRY GLASSFORD BELL, 39
My life is one long thought of thee, 40
Why is my spirit sad? 41
Geordie Young, 42
My fairy Ellen, 44
A bachelor's complaint, 45
WILLIAM BENNET, 47
Blest be the hour of night, 48
The rose of beauty, 49
I 'll think on thee, love, 50
There's music in a mother's voice, 51
The brig of Allan, 52
GEORGE OUTRAM, 54
Charge on a bond of annuity, 55
HENRY INGLIS, 59
Weep away, 59
JAMES MANSON, 61
Ocean, 61
The hunter's daughter, 63
An invitation, 63
Cupid and the rose-bud, 64
Robin Goodheart's carol, 65
JAMES HEDDERWICK, 67
My bark at sea, 68
Sorrow and song, 69
The land for me, 70
The emigrants, 72
First grief, 73
The linnet, 76
WILLIAM BROCKIE, 78
Ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair, 78
ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN, 80
The lang winter e'en, 80
THOMAS YOUNG, 81
Antoinette; or, The Falls, 81
ROBERT WILSON, 84
Away, away, my gallant bark, 84
Love, 85
EDWARD POLIN, 87
A good old song, 88
ALEXANDER BUCHANAN, 89
I wander'd alane, 89
Katie Blair, 91
DAVID TAYLOR, 92
My ain gudeman, 92
ROBERT CATHCART, 94
Mary, 94
WILLIAM JAMIE, 96
Auld Scotia's sangs, 96
JOHN CRAWFORD, 98
My auld wifie Jean, 102
The land o' the bonnet and plaid, 103
Sing on, fairy Devon, 104
Ann o' Cornylee, 105
My Mary dear, 106
The waes o' eild, 107
JOHN STUART BLACKIE, 109
Song of Ben Cruachan, 115
The braes of Mar, 117
My loves, 118
Liking and loving, 120
WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P., 121
Ruth, 122
Shallum, 126
THOMAS C. LATTO, 127
The kiss ahint the door, 128
The widow's ae bit lassie, 129
The yellow hair'd ladd | 614.755261 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.8277390 | 2,378 | 7 |
Produced by David Widger
THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER
by Mark Twain
Part 3.
Chapter VIII. The question of the Seal.
About five o'clock Henry VIII. awoke out of an unrefreshing nap, and
muttered to himself, "Troublous dreams, troublous dreams! Mine end is now
at hand: so say these warnings, and my failing pulses do confirm it."
Presently a wicked light flamed up in his eye, and he muttered, "Yet will
not I die till HE go before."
His attendants perceiving that he was awake, one of them asked his
pleasure concerning the Lord Chancellor, who was waiting without.
"Admit him, admit him!" exclaimed the King eagerly.
The Lord Chancellor entered, and knelt by the King's couch, saying--
"I have given order, and, according to the King's command, the peers of
the realm, in their robes, do now stand at the bar of the House, where,
having confirmed the Duke of Norfolk's doom, they humbly wait his
majesty's further pleasure in the matter."
The King's face lit up with a fierce joy. Said he--
"Lift me up! In mine own person will I go before my Parliament, and with
mine own hand will I seal the warrant that rids me of--"
His voice failed; an ashen pallor swept the flush from his cheeks; and
the attendants eased him back upon his pillows, and hurriedly assisted
him with restoratives. Presently he said sorrowfully--
"Alack, how have I longed for this sweet hour! and lo, too late it
cometh, and I am robbed of this so coveted chance. But speed ye, speed
ye! let others do this happy office sith 'tis denied to me. I put my
Great Seal in commission: choose thou the lords that shall compose it,
and get ye to your work. Speed ye, man! Before the sun shall rise and
set again, bring me his head that I may see it."
"According to the King's command, so shall it be. Will't please your
majesty to order that the Seal be now restored to me, so that I may forth
upon the business?"
"The Seal? Who keepeth the Seal but thou?"
"Please your majesty, you did take it from me two days since, saying it
should no more do its office till your own royal hand should use it upon
the Duke of Norfolk's warrant."
"Why, so in sooth I did: I do remember... What did I with it?... I
am very feeble... So oft these days doth my memory play the traitor
with me... 'Tis strange, strange--"
The King dropped into inarticulate mumblings, shaking his grey head
weakly from time to time, and gropingly trying to recollect what he had
done with the Seal. At last my Lord Hertford ventured to kneel and offer
information--
"Sire, if that I may be so bold, here be several that do remember with me
how that you gave the Great Seal into the hands of his highness the
Prince of Wales to keep against the day that--"
"True, most true!" interrupted the King. "Fetch it! Go: time flieth!"
Lord Hertford flew to Tom, but returned to the King before very long,
troubled and empty-handed. He delivered himself to this effect--
"It grieveth me, my lord the King, to bear so heavy and unwelcome
tidings; but it is the will of God that the prince's affliction abideth
still, and he cannot recall to mind that he received the Seal. So came I
quickly to report, thinking it were waste of precious time, and little
worth withal, that any should attempt to search the long array of
chambers and saloons that belong unto his royal high--"
A groan from the King interrupted the lord at this point. After a little
while his majesty said, with a deep sadness in his tone--
"Trouble him no more, poor child. The hand of God lieth heavy upon him,
and my heart goeth out in loving compassion for him, and sorrow that I
may not bear his burden on mine old trouble-weighted shoulders, and so
bring him peace."
He closed his eyes, fell to mumbling, and presently was silent. After a
time he opened his eyes again, and gazed vacantly around until his glance
rested upon the kneeling Lord Chancellor. Instantly his face flushed with
wrath--
"What, thou here yet! By the glory of God, an' thou gettest not about
that traitor's business, thy mitre shall have holiday the morrow for lack
of a head to grace withal!"
The trembling Chancellor answered--
"Good your Majesty, I cry you mercy! I but waited for the Seal."
"Man, hast lost thy wits? The small Seal which aforetime I was wont to
take with me abroad lieth in my treasury. And, since the Great Seal hath
flown away, shall not it suffice? Hast lost thy wits? Begone! And hark
ye--come no more till thou do bring his head."
The poor Chancellor was not long in removing himself from this dangerous
vicinity; nor did the commission waste time in giving the royal assent to
the work of the slavish Parliament, and appointing the morrow for the
beheading of the premier peer of England, the luckless Duke of Norfolk.
{1}
Chapter IX. The river pageant.
At nine in the evening the whole vast river-front of the palace was
blazing with light. The river itself, as far as the eye could reach
citywards, was so thickly covered with watermen's boats and with
pleasure-barges, all fringed with coloured lanterns, and gently agitated
by the waves, that it resembled a glowing and limitless garden of flowers
stirred to soft motion by summer winds. The grand terrace of stone steps
leading down to the water, spacious enough to mass the army of a German
principality upon, was a picture to see, with its ranks of royal
halberdiers in polished armour, and its troops of brilliantly costumed
servitors flitting up and down, and to and fro, in the hurry of
preparation.
Presently a command was given, and immediately all living creatures
vanished from the steps. Now the air was heavy with the hush of suspense
and expectancy. As far as one's vision could carry, he might see the
myriads of people in the boats rise up, and shade their eyes from the
glare of lanterns and torches, and gaze toward the palace.
A file of forty or fifty state barges drew up to the steps. They were
richly gilt, and their lofty prows and sterns were elaborately carved.
Some of them were decorated with banners and streamers; some with
cloth-of-gold and arras embroidered with coats-of-arms; others with
silken flags that had numberless little silver bells fastened to them,
which shook out tiny showers of joyous music whenever the breezes
fluttered them; others of yet higher pretensions, since they belonged to
nobles in the prince's immediate service, had their sides picturesquely
fenced with shields gorgeously emblazoned with armorial bearings. Each
state barge was towed by a tender. Besides the rowers, these tenders
carried each a number of men-at-arms in glossy helmet and breastplate,
and a company of musicians.
The advance-guard of the expected procession now appeared in the great
gateway, a troop of halberdiers. 'They were dressed in striped hose of
black and tawny, velvet caps graced at the sides with silver roses, and
doublets of murrey and blue cloth, embroidered on the front and back with
the three feathers, the prince's blazon, woven in gold. Their halberd
staves were covered with crimson velvet, fastened with gilt nails, and
ornamented with gold tassels. Filing off on the right and left, they
formed two long lines, extending from the gateway of the palace to the
water's edge. A thick rayed cloth or carpet was then unfolded, and laid
down between them by attendants in the gold-and-crimson liveries of the
prince. This done, a flourish of trumpets resounded from within. A
lively prelude arose from the musicians on the water; and two ushers with
white wands marched with a slow and stately pace from the portal. They
were followed by an officer bearing the civic mace, after whom came
another carrying the city's sword; then several sergeants of the city
guard, in their full accoutrements, and with badges on their sleeves;
then the Garter King-at-arms, in his tabard; then several Knights of the
Bath, each with a white lace on his sleeve; then their esquires; then the
judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs; then the Lord High
Chancellor of England, in a robe of scarlet, open before, and purfled
with minever; then a deputation of aldermen, in their scarlet cloaks; and
then the heads of the different civic companies, in their robes of state.
Now came twelve French gentlemen, in splendid habiliments, consisting
of pourpoints of white damask barred with gold, short mantles of
crimson velvet lined with violet taffeta, and carnation coloured
hauts-de-chausses, and took their way down the steps. They were of the
suite of the French ambassador, and were followed by twelve cavaliers of
the suite of the Spanish ambassador, clothed in black velvet, unrelieved
by any ornament. Following these came several great English nobles with
their attendants.'
There was a flourish of trumpets within; and the Prince's uncle, the
future great Duke of Somerset, emerged from the gateway, arrayed in a
'doublet of black cloth-of-gold, and a cloak of crimson satin flowered
with gold, and ribanded with nets of silver.' He turned, doffed his
plumed cap, bent his body in a low reverence, and began to step backward,
bowing at each step. A prolonged trumpet-blast followed, and a
proclamation, "Way for the high and mighty the Lord Edward, Prince of
Wales!" High aloft on the palace walls a long line of red tongues of
flame leapt forth with a thunder-crash; the massed world on the river
burst into a mighty roar of welcome; and Tom Canty, the cause and hero of
it all, stepped into view and slightly bowed his | 614.847779 |
2023-11-16 18:27:18.9265060 | 1,037 | 13 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
OBSERVATIONS
ON THE PRESENT STATE
OF THE
AFFAIRS
OF
THE RIVER PLATE.
BY
THOMAS BAINES.
"Malheur au siecle, temoin passif d'une lutte heroique, qui
croirait qu'on peut sans peril, comme sans penetration de
l'avenir, laisser immoler une nation."
CHATEAUBRIAND.
LIVERPOOL:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED AT THE LIVERPOOL TIMES OFFICE,
CASTLE STREET.
1845.
OBSERVATIONS
ON
THE PRESENT STATE OF
THE AFFAIRS OF THE RIVER PLATE.
The destructive war which has now been waged for so many years, by the
Chief of the Province of Buenos Ayres against the Republic of Uruguay,
involves questions of so much importance to the commercial interests,
and to the national honour of England, that nothing can account for the
very slight attention which it has received from Parliament and the
press, except the fact that many of the principal considerations
connected with it have never yet been fully brought before the British
public. In order to supply this deficiency, and to show how much it
concerns the character of this country that this war should at once be
brought to a close in the only manner in which it can be ended; that is,
by the prompt and decided interference of the Governments of France and
England, I have thought that it might be useful to lay before the public
the following observations and documents, explanatory of the principles
involved in the war; of the conduct pursued by Mr. Mandeville, the
British Minister to the Argentine Confederation, at the most critical
period of its progress; and of the strong and rapidly-increasing
interest which this country, and more especially the port of Liverpool,
has in the preservation of the threatened independence of the Republic
of Uruguay.
Most of the readers of these remarks are no doubt aware that the
Province of the Banda Oriental, or eastern bank of the River Plate, was
first constituted an independent state, under the title of the Republic
of Uruguay, at the close of the war between the Argentine Confederation
and the Empire of Brazil, in the year 1828. This arrangement was in a
great measure brought about by the good offices of Lord Ponsonby, the
Ambassador of the British Government to the Court of Rio, and the result
of his negociations was so agreeable to the English Government, that
the peace thus concluded was made a subject of congratulation in the
speech from the throne in the year 1829. The principal object in forming
this new Republic was, to put an end to the destructive war between
Buenos Ayres and Brazil, originating in the claims put forward by both
these countries to the possession of the Province of the Banda Oriental.
The Brazilians, who had had possession of it for several years, were
naturally unwilling to have so warlike and powerful a state as the
Argentine Republic on their most vulnerable frontier, and the Argentines
were not less unwilling to have the Brazilian frontier pushed more than
a hundred leagues up the River Plate, and within the limits of the
ancient Viceroyalty of Paraguay, which had for ages been occupied by the
Spanish race. As the only effectual solution of these difficulties, the
English Government proposed that the Banda Oriental should be rendered
independent of both countries, and this, after some negociation, was
agreed to by all the parties concerned.
The primary object of the mediation of the English Government was the
re-establishment and preservation of peace and amity between two
nations, with both of which England had valuable commercial relations;
and this object has been completely gained by the arrangement then
effected. During the sixteen years which have elapsed since the treaty
was concluded, no serious difference has occurred between Brazil and the
Argentine Confederation, nor is any likely to occur so long as the
barrier of an independent state is interposed between them. It is only
during the last two years that serious discussions have arisen between
them, and these have originated in the fears of Brazil, lest the
successes of the Buenos Ayrean army, now before Monte Video, should be
such as to break down the barrier established by the Ponsonby treaty,
and again to bring the Buenos Ayreans on the frontiers of Rio Grande.
From apprehension of this event, the Brazilian Government has allowed
General Paz, with his military staff, to pass through its territory to
place himself at the head of the Correntino | 614.946546 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.0273490 | 4,174 | 20 |
Produced by Alan Winterrowd from a text scanned and made
available By Google Books
A Winter Amid the Ice and Other Thrilling Stories
By Jules Verne
Published by:
The World Publishing House
New Yowk, 1877
Contents
DOCTOR OX'S EXPERIMENT
CHAPTER I.
How it is useless to seek, even on the best maps, for the small
town of Quiquendone
CHAPTER II.
In which the Burgomaster Van Tricasse and the Counsellor
Niklausse consult about the affairs of the town
CHAPTER III.
In which the Commissary Passauf enters as noisily as unexpectedly
CHAPTER IV.
In which Doctor Ox reveals himself as a physiologist of the first
rank, and as an audacious experimentalist
CHAPTER V.
In which the burgomaster and the counsellor pay a visit to Doctor
Ox, and what follows
CHAPTER VI.
In which Frantz Niklausse and Suzel Van Tricasse form certain
projects for the future
CHAPTER VII.
In which the Andantes become Allegros, and the Allegros Vivaces
CHAPTER VIII.
In which the ancient and solemn German waltz becomes a whirlwind
CHAPTER IX.
In which Doctor Ox and Ygene, his assistant, say a few words
CHAPTER X.
In which it will be seen that the epidemic invades the entire
town, and what effect it produces
CHAPTER XI.
In which the Quiquendonians adopt a heroic resolution
CHAPTER XII.
In which Ygene, the assistant, gives a reasonable piece of
advice, which is eagerly rejected by Doctor Ox
CHAPTER XIII.
In which it is once more proved that by taking high ground all
human littlenesses may be overlooked
CHAPTER XIV.
In which matters go so far that the inhabitants of Quiquendone,
the reader, and even the author, demand an immediate denouement
CHAPTER XV.
In which the denouement takes place
CHAPTER XVI.
In which the intelligent reader sees that he has guessed
correctly, despite all the author's precautions
CHAPTER XVII.
In which Doctor Ox's theory is explained
MASTER ZACHARIUS.
CHAPTER I.
A winter night
CHAPTER II.
The pride of science
CHAPTER III.
A strange visit
CHAPTER IV.
The Church of St. Pierre
CHAPTER V.
The hour of death
A DRAMA IN THE AIR
A WINTER AMID THE ICE
CHAPTER I.
The black flag
CHAPTER II.
Jean Cornbutte's project
CHAPTER III.
A ray of hope
CHAPTER IV.
In the passes
CHAPTER V.
Liverpool Island
CHAPTER VI.
The quaking of the ice
CHAPTER VII.
Settling for the winter
CHAPTER VIII.
Plan of the explorations
CHAPTER IX.
The house of snow
CHAPTER X.
Buried alive
CHAPTER XI.
A cloud of smoke
CHAPTER XII.
The return to the ship
CHAPTER XIII.
The two rivals
CHAPTER XIV.
Distress
CHAPTER XV.
The white bears
CHAPTER XVI.
Conclusion
ASCENT OF MONT BLANC
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
She handed her father a pipe
The worthy Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse had now her second
husband
"I have just come from Dr. Ox's"
"It is in the interests of science"
"The workmen, whom we have had to choose in Quiquendone, are not
very expeditious"
The young girl took the line
"Good-bye, Frantz," said Suzel
Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in "Les
Huguenots"
They hustle each other to get out
It was no longer a waltz
It required two persons to eat a strawberry
"To Virgamen! to Virgamen!"
"A burgomaster's place is in the front rank"
The two friends, arm in arm
The whole army of Quiquendone fell to the earth
He would raise the trap-door constructed in the floor of his
workshop
The young girl prayed
"Thou wilt see that I have discovered the secrets of existence".
"Father, what is the matter?"
Then he resumed, in an ironical tone
From morning till night discontented purchasers besieged the
house
This proud old man remained motionless
"It is there--there!"
"See this man,--he is Time"
He was dead
"Monsieur, I salute you"
"Monsieur!" cried I, in a rage
"He continued his observations for seven or eight hours with
General Morlot"
"The balloon became less and less inflated"
"Zambecarri fell, and was killed!"
The madman disappeared in space
"Monsieur the cure," said he, "stop a moment, if you please"
Andre Vasling, the mate, apprised Jean Cornbutte of the dreadful
event
A soft voice said in his ear, "Have good courage, uncle"
Andre Vasling showed himself more attentive than ever
On the 12th September the sea consisted of one solid plain
They found themselves in a most perilous position, for an
icequake had occurred
Map in hand, he clearly explained their situation
The caravan set out
"Thirty-two degrees below zero!"
Despair and determination were struggling in his rough features
for the mastery
It was Louis Cornbutte
Penellan advanced towards the Norwegians
Marie begged Vasling on her knees to produce the lemons, but he
did not reply
Marie rose with cries of despair, and hurried to the bed of old
Jean Cornbutte
The bear, having descended from the mast, had fallen on the two
men
The old cure received Louis Cornbutte and Marie
View of Mont Blanc from the Brevent
View of Bossons glacier, near the Grands-Mulets
Passage of the Bossons Glacier
Crevasse and bridge
View of the "Seracs"
View of "Seracs"
Passage of the "Junction"
Hut at the Grands-Mulets
View of Mont Blanc from Grands-Mulets
Crossing the plateau
Summit of Mont Blanc
Grands-Mulets:--Party descending from the hut
DOCTOR OX'S EXPERIMENT.
CHAPTER I.
HOW IT IS USELESS TO SEEK, EVEN ON THE BEST MAPS, FOR THE SMALL TOWN
OF QUIQUENDONE.
If you try to find, on any map of Flanders, ancient or modern,
the small town of Quiquendone, probably you will not succeed. Is
Quiquendone, then, one of those towns which have disappeared? No.
A town of the future? By no means. It exists in spite of
geographies, and has done so for some eight or nine hundred
years. It even numbers two thousand three hundred and ninety-three
souls, allowing one soul to each inhabitant. It is situated
thirteen and a half kilometres north-west of Oudenarde, and
fifteen and a quarter kilometres south-east of Bruges, in the
heart of Flanders. The Vaar, a small tributary of the Scheldt,
passes beneath its three bridges, which are still covered with a
quaint mediaeval roof, like that at Tournay. An old chateau is to
be seen there, the first stone of which was laid so long ago as
1197, by Count Baldwin, afterwards Emperor of Constantinople; and
there is a Town Hall, with Gothic windows, crowned by a chaplet
of battlements, and surrounded by a turreted belfry, which rises
three hundred and fifty-seven feet above the soil. Every hour you
may hear there a chime of five octaves, a veritable aerial piano,
the renown of which surpasses that of the famous chimes of
Bruges. Strangers--if any ever come to Quiquendone--do not quit
the curious old town until they have visited its "Stadtholder's
Hall", adorned by a full-length portrait of William of Nassau, by
Brandon; the loft of the Church of Saint Magloire, a masterpiece
of sixteenth century architecture; the cast-iron well in the
spacious Place Saint Ernuph, the admirable ornamentation of which
is attributed to the artist-blacksmith, Quentin Metsys; the tomb
formerly erected to Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles the
Bold, who now reposes in the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges; and
so on. The principal industry of Quiquendone is the manufacture
of whipped creams and barley-sugar on a large scale. It has been
governed by the Van Tricasses, from father to son, for several
centuries. And yet Quiquendone is not on the map of Flanders!
Have the geographers forgotten it, or is it an intentional
omission? That I cannot tell; but Quiquendone really exists; with
its narrow streets, its fortified walls, its Spanish-looking
houses, its market, and its burgomaster--so much so, that it has
recently been the theatre of some surprising phenomena, as
extraordinary and incredible as they are true, which are to be
recounted in the present narration.
Surely there is nothing to be said or thought against the
Flemings of Western Flanders. They are a well-to-do folk, wise,
prudent, sociable, with even tempers, hospitable, perhaps a
little heavy in conversation as in mind; but this does not
explain why one of the most interesting towns of their district
has yet to appear on modern maps.
This omission is certainly to be regretted. If only history, or
in default of history the chronicles, or in default of chronicles
the traditions of the country, made mention of Quiquendone! But
no; neither atlases, guides, nor itineraries speak of it. M.
Joanne himself, that energetic hunter after small towns, says not
a word of it. It might be readily conceived that this silence
would injure the commerce, the industries, of the town. But let
us hasten to add that Quiquendone has neither industry nor
commerce, and that it does very well without them. Its barley-sugar
and whipped cream are consumed on the spot; none is exported. In
short, the Quiquendonians have no need of anybody. Their desires are
limited, their existence is a modest one; they are calm, moderate,
phlegmatic--in a word, they are Flemings; such as are still to be
met with sometimes between the Scheldt and the North Sea.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH THE BURGOMASTER VAN TRICASSE AND THE COUNSELLOR NIKLAUSSE
CONSULT ABOUT THE AFFAIRS OF THE TOWN.
"You think so?" asked the burgomaster.
"I--think so," replied the counsellor, after some minutes of
silence.
"You see, we must not act hastily," resumed the burgomaster.
"We have been talking over this grave matter for ten years,"
replied the Counsellor Niklausse, "and I confess to you, my
worthy Van Tricasse, that I cannot yet take it upon myself to
come to a decision."
"I quite understand your hesitation," said the burgomaster, who
did not speak until after a good quarter of an hour of reflection,
"I quite understand it, and I fully share it. We shall do wisely to
decide upon nothing without a more careful examination of the
question."
"It is certain," replied Niklausse, "that this post of civil
commissary is useless in so peaceful a town as Quiquendone."
"Our predecessor," said Van Tricasse gravely, "our predecessor
never said, never would have dared to say, that anything is
certain. Every affirmation is subject to awkward qualifications."
The counsellor nodded his head slowly in token of assent; then he
remained silent for nearly half an hour. After this lapse of
time, during which neither the counsellor nor the burgomaster
moved so much as a finger, Niklausse asked Van Tricasse whether
his predecessor--of some twenty years before--had not thought of
suppressing this office of civil commissary, which each year cost
the town of Quiquendone the sum of thirteen hundred and seventy-five
francs and some centimes.
"I believe he did," replied the burgomaster, carrying his hand
with majestic deliberation to his ample brow; "but the worthy man
died without having dared to make up his mind, either as to this
or any other administrative measure. He was a sage. Why should I
not do as he did?"
Counsellor Niklausse was incapable of originating any objection
to the burgomaster's opinion.
"The man who dies," added Van Tricasse solemnly, "without ever
having decided upon anything during his life, has very nearly
attained to perfection."
This said, the burgomaster pressed a bell with the end of his
little finger, which gave forth a muffled sound, which seemed
less a sound than a sigh. Presently some light steps glided
softly across the tile floor. A mouse would not have made less
noise, running over a thick carpet. The door of the room opened,
turning on its well-oiled hinges. A young girl, with long blonde
tresses, made her appearance. It was Suzel Van Tricasse, the
burgomaster's only daughter. She handed her father a pipe, filled
to the brim, and a small copper brazier, spoke not a word, and
disappeared at once, making no more noise at her exit than at her
entrance.
[Illustration: She handed her father a pipe]
The worthy burgomaster lighted his pipe, and was soon hidden in a
cloud of bluish smoke, leaving Counsellor Niklausse plunged in
the most absorbing thought.
The room in which these two notable personages, charged with the
government of Quiquendone, were talking, was a parlour richly
adorned with carvings in dark wood. A lofty fireplace, in which
an oak might have been burned or an ox roasted, occupied the
whole of one of the sides of the room; opposite to it was a
trellised window, the painted glass of which toned down the
brightness of the sunbeams. In an antique frame above the
chimney-piece appeared the portrait of some worthy man,
attributed to Memling, which no doubt represented an ancestor of
the Van Tricasses, whose authentic genealogy dates back to the
fourteenth century, the period when the Flemings and Guy de
Dampierre were engaged in wars with the Emperor Rudolph of
Hapsburgh.
This parlour was the principal apartment of the burgomaster's
house, which was one of the pleasantest in Quiquendone. Built in
the Flemish style, with all the abruptness, quaintness, and
picturesqueness of Pointed architecture, it was considered one of
the most curious monuments of the town. A Carthusian convent, or
a deaf and dumb asylum, was not more silent than this mansion.
Noise had no existence there; people did not walk, but glided
about in it; they did not speak, they murmured. There was not,
however, any lack of women in the house, which, in addition to
the burgomaster Van Tricasse himself, sheltered his wife, Madame
Brigitte Van Tricasse, his daughter, Suzel Van Tricasse, and his
domestic, Lotche Jansheu. We may also mention the burgomaster's
sister, Aunt Hermance, an elderly maiden who still bore the
nickname of Tatanemance, which her niece Suzel had given her when
a child. But in spite of all these elements of discord and noise,
the burgomaster's house was as calm as a desert.
The burgomaster was some fifty years old, neither fat nor lean,
neither short nor tall, neither rubicund nor pale, neither gay
nor sad, neither contented nor discontented, neither energetic
nor dull, neither proud nor humble, neither good nor bad, neither
generous nor miserly, neither courageous nor cowardly, neither
too much nor too little of anything--a man notably moderate in
all respects, whose invariable slowness of motion, slightly
hanging lower jaw, prominent eyebrows, massive forehead, smooth
as a copper plate and without a wrinkle, would at once have
betrayed to a physiognomist that the burgomaster Van Tricasse was
phlegm personified. Never, either from anger or passion, had any
emotion whatever hastened the beating of this man's heart, or
flushed his face; never had his pupils contracted under the
influence of any irritation, however ephemeral. He invariably
wore good clothes, neither too large nor too small, which he
never seemed to wear out. He was shod with large square shoes
with triple soles and silver buckles, which lasted so long that
his shoemaker was in despair. Upon his head he wore a large hat
which dated from the period when Flanders was separated from
Holland, so that this venerable masterpiece was at least forty
years old. But what would you have? It is the passions which wear
out body as well as soul, the clothes as well as the body; and
our worthy burgomaster, apathetic, indolent, indifferent, was
passionate in nothing. He wore nothing out, not even himself, and
he considered himself the very man to administer the affairs of
Quiquendone and its tranquil population.
The town, indeed, was not less calm than the Van Tricasse
mansion. It was in this peaceful dwelling that the burgomaster
reckoned on attaining the utmost limit of human existence, after
having, however, seen the good Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse, his
wife, precede him to the tomb, where, surely, she would not find
a more profound repose than that she had enjoyed on earth for
sixty years.
This demands explanation.
The Van Tricasse family might well call itself the "Jeannot
family." This is why:--
Every one knows that the knife of this typical personage is as
celebrated as its proprietor, and not less incapable of wearing
out, thanks to the double operation, incessantly repeated, of
replacing the handle when it is worn out, and the blade when it
becomes worthless. A precisely similar operation had been going
on from time immemorial in the Van Tricasse family, to which
Nature had lent herself with more than usual complacency. From
1340 it had invariably happened that a Van Tricasse, when left a
widower, had remarried a Van Tricasse younger than himself; who,
becoming in turn a widow, had married again a Van Tricasse
younger than herself; and so on, without a break in the
continuity, from generation to generation. Each died in his or
her turn with mechanical regularity. Thus the worthy Madame
Brigitte Van Tricasse had now her second husband; and, unless she
violated her every duty, would precede her spouse--he being ten
years younger than herself--to the other world, to make room for
a new Madame Van Tricasse. Upon this the burgomaster calmly
counted | 615.047389 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.0547310 | 1,728 | 15 |
Produced by David Clarke, JoAnn Greenwood and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
TALES BY POLISH AUTHORS
London
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & Co., LTD.
New York
LONGMANS, GREEN & Co.
FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET
TALES
BY
POLISH AUTHORS
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
STEFAN ZEROMSKI ADAM SZYMANSKI
WACLAW SIEROSZEWSKI
TRANSLATED BY
ELSE C. M. BENECKE
Oxford
B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET
1915
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
Of the contemporary Polish authors represented in this volume only
Henryk Sienkiewicz is well known in England. Although the works of
Stefan Zeromski, Adam Szymanski, and Waclaw Sieroszewski are widely
read in Poland, none have as yet appeared in English, so far as the
present translator is aware. 'Srul--from Lubartow' is generally
considered one of the most striking of Adam Szymanski's Siberian
'Sketches.' The author writes from personal experience, having himself
been banished to Siberia for a number of years. The same can be said
of Waclaw Sieroszewski; during the fifteen years spent in Siberia as a
political exile, he made a study of some of the native tribes,
especially the Yakut and Tungus, and has written a great deal on this
subject. Stefan Zeromski is also one of the most distinguished modern
Polish novelists; several of his books have been translated into
French and German.
The translator is under a deep obligation to the authors, MM.
Sienkiewicz, Szymanski, and Zeromski, for kindly allowing her to
publish these tales in English, and to Mr. J. H. Retinger, Secretary
of the Polish Bureau in London, for authorising the same on behalf of
M. Sieroszewski.
E. C. M. B.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
Henryk Sienkiewicz: '_Bartek the Conqueror_' 1
Stefan Zeromski: '_Twilight_' 101
'_Temptation_' 113
Adam Szymanski: '_Srul--from Lubartow_' 119
Waclaw Sieroszewski: '_In Autumn_' 137
'_In Sacrifice to the Gods_' 163
POLISH PRONUNCIATION:
After k, rz = English sh.
sz = English sh
cz = English ch
l = English w
w = English v
BARTEK THE CONQUEROR
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
CHAPTER I
My hero's name was Bartek Slowik[1]; but owing to his habit of staring
when spoken to, the neighbours called him 'Bartek Goggle-Eyes.'
Indeed, he had little in common with nightingales, and his
intellectual qualities and truly childish _naivete_ won him the
further nickname of 'Bartek the Blockhead.' This last was the most
popular, in fact, the only one handed down to history, though Bartek
bore yet a fourth,--an official--name. Since the Polish words'man'
and 'nightingale'[2] present no difference to a German ear, and the
Germans love to translate Barbarian Proper names into a more cultured
language in the cause of civilization, the following conversation took
place when he was being entered as a recruit.
'What is your name?' the officer asked Bartek.
'Slowik.'
'Szloik[3] _Ach, ja, gut._'
And the officer wrote down 'Man.'
Bartek came from the village of Pognebin, a name given to a great many
villages in the Province of Posen and in other parts of Poland. First
of all there was he himself, not to mention his land, his cottage and
two cows, his own piebald horse, and his wife, Magda. Thanks to this
combination of circumstances he was able to live comfortably, and
according to the maxim contained in the verse:
To him whom God would bless He gives, of course,
A wife called Magda and a piebald horse.
In fact, all his life he had taken whatever Providence sent without
troubling about it. But just now Providence had ordained war, and
Bartek was not a little upset at this. For news had come that the
Reserves would be called up, and that it would be necessary to leave
his cottage and land, and entrust it all to his wife's care. People at
Pognebin were poor enough already. Bartek usually worked at the
factory in the winter and helped his household on in this way;--but
what would happen now? Who could know when the war with the French
would end?
Magda, when she had read through the papers, began to swear:
'May they be damned and die themselves! May they be blinded!--Though
you are a fool--yet I am sorry for you. The French give no quarter;
they will chop off your head, I dare say.'
Bartek felt that his wife spoke the truth. He feared the French like
fire, and was sorry for himself on this account. What had the French
done to him? What was he going after there,--why was he going to that
horrible strange land where not a single friendly soul was to be
found? He knew what life at Pognebin was like,--well, it was neither
easy nor difficult, but just such as it was. But now he was being told
to go away, although he knew that it was better to be here than
anywhere else. Still, there was no help for it;--such is fate. Bartek
embraced his wife, and the ten-year old Franek; spat, crossed himself,
and went out of the cottage, Magda following him. They did not take
very tender leave of one another. They both sobbed, he repeating,
'Come, come, hush!' and went out into the road. There they realized
that the same thing which had happened to them had happened to all
Pognebin, for the whole village was astir, and the road was obstructed
by traffic. As they walked to the station, women, children, old men
and dogs followed them. Everyone's heart was heavy; but a few smoked
their pipes with an air of indifference, and some were already
intoxicated. Others were singing with hoarse voices:
'Skrzynecki[4] died, alas!
No more his voice is heard;
His hand, bedeckt with rings,
No more shall wield the sword,'
while one or two of the Germans from Pognebin sang 'Die Wacht am
Rhein' out of sheer fright. All that motley and many-<DW52>
crowd,--including policemen with glittering bayonets,--moved in file
towards the end of the village with shouts, bustle, and confusion.
Women clung to their 'warriors'' necks and wept; one old woman showed
her yellow teeth and waved her arms in the air; another cried: 'May
the Lord remember our tears!' There were cries of: 'Franek! Kaska!
Jozek! good-bye!' Dogs barked, the church bell rang, the priest even
said the prayers for the dying, since not one of those now going to
the station would return. The war had claimed them all, but the war | 615.074771 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.1257150 | 2,378 | 9 |
Produced by deaurider and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
FAMOUS FROSTS AND FROST FAIRS.
_Number 389_
_Of Four-Hundred Copies printed._
[Illustration: FROST FAIR ON THE RIVER THAMES, IN 1814.]
FAMOUS FROSTS
AND
FROST FAIRS
IN
GREAT BRITAIN.
Chronicled from the Earliest to
the Present Time.
BY
_WILLIAM ANDREWS, F.R.H.S._,
Author of “Historic Romance,” “Modern Yorkshire Poets,” etc.
LONDON:
GEORGE REDWAY, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1887.
PREFACE.
The aim of this book is to furnish a reliable account of remarkable
frosts occurring in this country from the earliest period in our Annals
to the present time. In many instances, I have given particulars as
presented by contemporary writers of the scenes and circumstances
described.
In the compilation of this Chronology, several hundred books, magazines,
and newspapers, have been consulted, and a complete list would fill
several pages. I must not, however, omit to state that I have derived
much valuable information from a scarce book printed on the Ice of
the River Thames, in the year 1814, and published under the title of
“Frostiana.” I have gleaned information from the late Mr. Cornelius
Walford’s “Famines of the World,” which includes a carefully prepared
summary of “The Great Frosts of History.” Some of the poems in my pages,
bibliographical notes and facts, are culled from Dr. Rimbault’s “Old
Ballads Illustrating the Great Frost of 1683-4,” issued by the Percy
Society. It will be also observed that I have drawn curious information
from Parish Registers and old Parish Accounts.
Several ladies and gentlemen have rendered me great assistance, and
amongst the number must be named, with gratitude, Mrs. George Linnæus
Banks, author of “The Manchester Man;” Mr. Jesse Quail, F.S.S., editor
of the _Northern Daily Telegraph_; Mr. C. H. Stephenson, actor, author,
and antiquary; Mr W. H. K. Wright, F.R.H.S., editor of the _Western
Antiquary_; Mr. W. G. B. Page, of the Hull Subscription Library;
Mr. Frederick Ross, F.R.H.S., and Mr. Ernest E. Baker, editor of the
“Somersetshire Reprints.” Mr. E. H. Coleman kindly prepared for me a long
list of books and magazines containing articles on this subject. I have
to thank Mr. Mason Jackson, the author of “The Pictorial Press,” for
kindly presenting to me the quaint cut which appears on page 29 of my
work.
In 1881, the greater part of the matter contained in this book appeared
in the _Bradford Times_, a well-conducted journal, under the able
editorship of Mr. W. H. Hatton, F.R.H.S. The articles attracted more than
local attention, and I was pressed to reproduce them in a volume, but
owing to various circumstances, I have not been able to comply with the
request until now. The record is now brought up to date, and many facts
and particulars, gleaned since the articles appeared, have been added.
WILLIAM ANDREWS.
Rose Cottage, Hessle, Hull,
January, 1887.
[Illustration]
Famous Frosts and Frost Fairs in Great Britain.
[Sidenote: A.D.]
[Sidenote: 134]
Thames frozen over for two months.
[Sidenote: 153]
Very severe frost, lasting nearly three months. English rivers frozen,
including the Thames.
[Sidenote: 173]
A frost lasted three months, and was followed by a dearth.
[Sidenote: 220]
A continuous frost of five months in Britain.
[Sidenote: 250]
Thames frozen for nine weeks.
[Sidenote: 290-91]
Severe frost lasted six weeks. English rivers frozen.
[Sidenote: 359]
The frost very severe in England and Scotland. It lasted fourteen weeks
in the latter country.
[Sidenote: 474]
Four months’ frost, and great snow.
[Sidenote: 507-8]
Frost lasted two months: rivers frozen.
[Sidenote: 525]
Thames frozen for six weeks.
[Sidenote: 604]
A frost lasting four months, followed by dearth in Scotland: also very
severe in England.
[Sidenote: 670]
“A fatal frost.”--SHORT.
[Sidenote: 695]
Thames frozen for six weeks, and booths erected on the ice.
[Sidenote: 759-60]
Frost from October 1st, 759, to February 26th, 760.
[Sidenote: 821]
Great frost after two or three weeks’ rain.
[Sidenote: 827]
Thames frozen for nine weeks.
[Sidenote: 908]
The greater part of the English rivers frozen for two months.
[Sidenote: 923]
Thames frozen for thirteen weeks.
[Sidenote: 962]
The frost this year was so great as to cause a famine.
[Sidenote: 975]
Severe frost.
[Sidenote: 987]
This year is notable for a frost lasting one hundred and twenty days.
[Sidenote: 998]
Thames frozen for five weeks.
[Sidenote: 1020]
Very severe frost.
[Sidenote: 1035]
Short says: “Frost on Midsummer day; all grass and grain and fruit
destroyed; a dearth.”
[Sidenote: 1059]
Great frost, followed by a severe plague and famine.
[Sidenote: 1061]
Thames frozen for seven weeks.
[Sidenote: 1063]
Fourteen weeks’ frost: Thames frozen.
[Sidenote: 1076-7]
Frost lasted from 1st November, 1076, to 15th April, 1077. It is recorded
in the “Harleian Miscellany,” iii, page 167, that: “In the tenth year
of his [William the Conqueror] reign, the cold of winter was exceeding
memorable, both for sharpness and for continuance; for the earth remained
hard from the beginning of November until the midst of April then
ensuing.”
[Sidenote: 1086]
According to Walford’s “Insurance Cyclopædia,” “The weather was so
inclement that in the unusual efforts made to warm the houses, nearly all
the chief cities of the kingdom were destroyed by fire, including a great
part of London and St. Paul’s.”
[Sidenote: 1092]
In this year occurred a famous frost, and it is stated, in the quaint
language of an old chronicler, that “the great streams [of England] were
congealed in such a manner that they could draw two hundred horsemen and
carriages over them; whilst at their thawing, many bridges, both of wood
and stone, were borne down, and divers water-mills were broken up and
carried away.”
[Sidenote: 1095-99]
Very severe winters.
[Sidenote: 1114-15]
The following is from an “Old Chronicle:” “Great frost; timber bridges
broken down by weight of ice. This year was the winter so severe with
snow and frost, that no man who was then living ever remembered one more
severe; in consequence of which there was great destruction of cattle.”
[Sidenote: 1121-22]
A severe frost killed the grain crops. A famine followed.
[Sidenote: 1128]
Very severe frost.
[Sidenote: 1149-50]
Frost lasted from 10th December to 19th February.
[Sidenote: 1154]
A great frost.
[Sidenote: 1176]
A frost lasted from Christmas to Candlemas.
[Sidenote: 1205]
In Stow’s “Chronicle,” it is recorded that on the 14th day of January,
1205, “began a frost which continued till the 20th day of March, so that
no ground could be tilled; whereof it came to passe that, in the summer
following, a quarter of wheat was sold for a mark of silver in many
places of England, which for the most part, in the days of King Henry
II., was sold for twelve pence; a quarter of oats for forty pence, that
were wont to be sold for fourpence. Also the money was so sore clipped
that there was no remedy but to have it renewed.” Short states, “Frozen
ale and wine sold by weight.”
[Sidenote: 1207]
Fifteen weeks’ frost.
[Sidenote: 1209]
A long and hard winter followed by dearth.
[Sidenote: 1221]
Severe frost.
[Sidenote: 1226]
Severe frost and snow.
[Sidenote: 1233]
Frost lasted until Candlemas.
[Sidenote: 1234-35]
Penkethman gives the following particulars of this frost: “18 Henry
III. was a great frost at Christmasse, which destroyed the corne in
the ground, and the roots and hearbs in the gardens, continuing till
Candlemasse without any snow, so that no man could plough the ground,
and all the yeare after was unseasonable weather, so that barrenesse of
all things ensued, and many poor folks died for the want of victualls,
the rich being so bewitched with avarice that they could yield them no
reliefe.”
[Sidenote: 1241]
A great frost after a heavy fall of snow.
[Sidenote: 1250]
Very severe frost.
[Sidenote: 1254]
A severe frost from 1st January to 14th March.
[Sidenote: 1263]
On St. Nicholas’s Day a month’s hard frost set in.
[Sidenote: 1269]
A frost lasted from 30th November to the 2nd February.
[Sidenote: 1281-2]
“From Christmas to the Purification of Our Lady, there was such a frost
and snow as no man living could remember the like: where, through five
arches of London Bridge, and all Rochester Bridge, were borne downe and
carried away by the streame; and the like hapned to many other bridges
in England. And, not long after, men passed over the Thames between
Westminster and Lambeth dryshod.”--Stow, edited by Howes, 1631.
[Sidenote: 1288]
Great frost and snow.
[Siden | 615.145755 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.1258140 | 7,435 | 16 |
Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall, Jeannie Howse and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
* * * * *
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has |
| been preserved. |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For |
| a complete list, please see the end of this document. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
* * * * *
CHRISTIANITY AS
MYSTICAL FACT
AND
THE MYSTERIES OF ANTIQUITY
BY
DR. RUDOLF STEINER
AUTHOR OF "MYSTICS OF THE RENAISSANCE," "THE GATES
OF KNOWLEDGE," ETC.
_THIRD EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED_
EDITED BY H. COLLISON
THE AUTHORIZED ENGLISH TRANSLATION
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914
BY
H. COLLISON
The copyrights, the publishing rights, and the editorial
responsibility for the translations of the works of Rudolf Steiner,
Ph.D., with the exception of those already published under the
editorial supervision of Mr. Max Gysi, are now vested in Mr. Harry
Collison, M.A., Oxon.
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
_Christianity as Mystical Fact_ was the title given by the author to
this work, when, eight years ago, he gathered into it the substance of
lectures delivered by him in 1902. The title indicated the special
character of the book. In it the attempt was made, not merely to
represent historically the mystical content of Christianity, but to
describe the origin of Christianity from the standpoint of mystical
contemplation. Underlying this intention was the thought that at the
genesis of Christianity mystical facts were at work which can only be
perceived by such contemplation.
It is only the book itself which can make clear that by "mystical" its
author does not imply a conception which relies more on vague feelings
than on "strictly scientific statements." It is true that "mysticism"
is at present widely understood in the former sense, and hence it is
declared by many to be a sphere of the human soul-life with which
"true science" can have nothing to do. In this book the word
"mysticism" is used in the sense of the representation of a spiritual
fact, which can only be recognised in its true nature when the
knowledge of it is derived from the sources of spiritual life itself.
If the kind of knowledge drawn from such sources is rejected, the
reader will not be in a position to judge of the contents of this
book. Only one who allows that the same clearness may exist in
mysticism as in a true representation of the facts of natural science,
will be ready to admit that the content of Christianity as mysticism
may also be mystically described. For it is not only a question of the
contents of the book, but first and foremost of the methods of
knowledge by means of which the statements in it are made.
Many there are in the present day who have a most violent dislike to
such methods, which are regarded as conflicting with the ways of true
science. And this is not only the case with those willing to admit
other interpretations of the world than their own, on the ground of
"genuine knowledge of natural science," but also with those who as
believers wish to study the nature of Christianity.
The author of this book stands on the ground of a conception which
sees that the achievements of natural science in our age must lead up
into true mysticism. In fact, any other attitude as regards knowledge
actually contradicts everything presented by the achievements of
natural science. The facts of natural science itself indeed cannot be
comprehended by means of those methods of knowledge which so many
people would like to employ to the exclusion of others, under the
illusion that they stand on the firm ground of natural science. It is
only when we are prepared to admit that a full appreciation of our
present admirable knowledge of nature is compatible with genuine
mysticism, that we can take the contents of this book into
consideration.
The author's intention is to show, by means of what is here called
"mystical knowledge," how the source of Christianity prepared its own
ground in the mysteries of pre-Christian times. In this pre-Christian
mysticism we find the soil in which Christianity throve, as a germ of
quite independent nature. This point of view makes it possible to
understand Christianity in its independent being, even though its
evolution is traced from pre-Christian mysticism. If this point of
view be overlooked, it is very possible to misunderstand that
independent character, and to think that Christianity was merely a
further development of what already existed in pre-Christian
mysticism. Many people of the present day have fallen into this error,
comparing the content of Christianity with pre-Christian conceptions,
and then thinking that Christian ideas were only a continuation of the
former. The following pages are intended to show that Christianity
presupposes the earlier mysticism just as a seed must have its soil.
It is intended to emphasise the peculiar character of the essence of
Christianity, through the knowledge of its evolution, but not to
extinguish it.
It is with deep satisfaction that the author is able to mention that
this account of the nature of Christianity has found acceptance with
a writer who has enriched the culture of our time in the highest sense
of the word, by his important works on the spiritual life of humanity.
Edouard Schure, author of _Les Grands Inities_,[1] is so far in accord
with the attitude of this book that he undertook to translate it into
French, under the title, _Le mystere chretien et les mysteres
antiques_. It may be mentioned by the way, and as a symptom of the
existence at the present time of a longing to understand the nature of
Christianity as presented in this work, that the first edition was
translated into other European languages besides French.
The author has not found occasion to alter anything essential in the
preparation of this second edition. On the other hand, what was
written eight years ago has been enlarged, and the endeavour has been
made to express many things more exactly and circumstantially than was
then possible. Unfortunately the author was obliged, through stress
of work, to let a long period elapse between the time when the first
edition was exhausted, and the appearance of the second.
RUDOLF STEINER.
May, 1910.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This book is to be had in an English translation, by F. Rothwell,
under the title of _The Great Initiates_, A Sketch of the Secret
History of Religions, by Edouard Schure (Pub., Rider & Son, London).
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION iii
CHAPTER
I.--POINTS OF VIEW 1
II.--THE MYSTERIES AND THEIR WISDOM 10
III.--THE GREEK SAGES BEFORE PLATO IN THE LIGHT OF THE
WISDOM OF THE MYSTERIES 39
IV.--PLATO AS A MYSTIC 63
V.--THE WISDOM OF THE MYSTERIES AND THE MYTH 93
VI.--THE MYSTERY WISDOM OF EGYPT 127
VII.--THE GOSPELS 147
VIII.--THE LAZARUS MIRACLE 159
IX.--THE APOCALYPSE OF ST. JOHN 177
X.--JESUS AND HIS HISTORICAL BACKGROUND 198
XI.--THE NATURE OF CHRISTIANITY 203
XII.--CHRISTIANITY AND HEATHEN WISDOM 215
XIII.--ST. AUGUSTINE AND THE CHURCH 227
NOTES 239
* * * * *
CHRISTIANITY AS MYSTICAL FACT
* * * * *
Christianity as Mystical Fact
I
POINTS OF VIEW
Natural Science has deeply influenced modern thought. It is becoming
more and more impossible to speak of spiritual needs and the life of
the soul, without taking into consideration the achievements and
methods of this science. It must be admitted, however, that many
people satisfy these needs, without letting themselves be troubled by
its influence. But those who feel the beating of the pulse of the age
must take this influence into consideration. With increasing swiftness
do ideas derived from natural science take possession of our brains,
and, unwillingly though it may be, our hearts follow, often in
dejection and dismay. It is not a question only of the number thus won
over, but of the fact that there is a force within the method of
natural science, which convinces the attentive observer that that
method contains something which cannot be neglected, and is one by
which any modern conception of the universe must be profoundly
affected. Many of the outgrowths of this method compel a justifiable
rejection. But such rejection is not sufficient in an age in which
very many resort to this way of thinking, and are attracted to it as
if by magic. The case is in no way altered because some people see
that true science long ago passed, by its own initiative, beyond the
shallow doctrines of force and matter taught by materialists. It would
be better, apparently, to listen to those who boldly declare that the
ideas of natural science will form the basis of a new religion. If
these ideas also appear shallow and superficial to one who knows the
deeper spiritual needs of humanity, he must nevertheless take note of
them, for it is to them that attention is now turned, and there is
reason to think they will claim more and more notice in the near
future.
Another class of people have also to be taken into account, those
whose hearts have lagged behind their heads. With their reason they
cannot but accept the ideas of natural science. The burden of proof is
too much for them. But those ideas cannot satisfy the religious needs
of their souls,--the perspective offered is too dreary. Is the human
soul to rise on the wings of enthusiasm to the heights of beauty,
truth, and goodness, only for each individual to be swept away in the
end like a bubble blown by the material brain? This is a feeling which
oppresses many minds like a nightmare. But scientific concepts oppress
them also, coming as they do come with the mighty force of authority.
As long as they can, these people remain blind to the discord in their
souls. Indeed they console themselves by saying that full clearness in
these matters is denied to the human soul. They think in accordance
with natural science so long as the experience of their senses and the
logic of their intellect demand it, but they keep to the religious
sentiments in which they have been educated, and prefer to remain in
darkness as to these matters,--a darkness which clouds their
understanding. They have not the courage to battle through to the
light.
There can be no doubt whatever that the habit of thought derived from
natural science is the greatest force in modern intellectual life, and
it must not be passed by heedlessly by any one concerned with the
spiritual interests of humanity. But it is none the less true that the
way in which it sets about satisfying spiritual needs is superficial
and shallow. If this were the right way, the outlook would indeed be
dreary. Would it not be depressing to be obliged to agree with those
who say: "Thought is a form of force. We walk by means of the same
force by which we think. Man is an organism which transforms various
forms of force into thought-force, an organism the activity of which
we maintain by what we call 'food,' and with which we produce what we
call 'thought.' What a marvellous chemical process it is which could
change a certain quantity of food into the divine tragedy of Hamlet."
This is quoted from a pamphlet of Robert G. Ingersoll, bearing the
title, _Modern Twilight of the Gods_. It matters little if such
thoughts find but scanty acceptance in the outside world. The point is
that innumerable people find themselves compelled by the system of
natural science to take up with regard to world-processes an attitude
in conformity with the above, even when they think they are not doing
so.
It would certainly be a dreary outlook if natural science itself
compelled us to accept the creed proclaimed by many of its modern
prophets. Most dreary of all for one who has gained, from the content
of natural science, the conviction that in its own sphere its mode of
thought holds good and its methods are unassailable. For he is driven
to make the admission that, however much people may dispute about
individual questions, though volume after volume may be written, and
thousands of observations accumulated about the struggle for existence
and its insignificance, about the omnipotence or powerlessness of
natural selection, natural science itself is moving in a direction
which, within certain limits, must find acceptance in an
ever-increasing degree.
But are the demands made by natural science really such as they are
described by some of its representatives? That they are not so is
proved by the method employed by these representatives themselves. The
method they use in their own sphere is not such as is often described,
and claimed for other spheres of thought. Would Darwin and Ernst
Haeckel ever have made their great discoveries about the evolution of
life if, instead of observing life and the structure of living beings,
they had shut themselves up in a laboratory and there made chemical
experiments with tissue cut out of an organism? Would Lyell have been
able to describe the development of the crust of the earth if, instead
of examining strata and their contents, he had scrutinised the
chemical qualities of innumerable rocks? Let us really follow in the
footsteps of these investigators who tower like giants in the domain
of modern science. We shall then apply to the higher regions of
spiritual life the methods they have used in the study of nature. We
shall not then believe we have understood the nature of the "divine"
tragedy of Hamlet by saying that a wonderful chemical process
transformed a certain quantity of food into that tragedy. We shall
believe it as little as an investigator of nature could seriously
believe that he has understood the mission of heat in the evolution of
the earth, when he has studied the action of heat on sulphur in a
retort. Neither does he attempt to understand the construction of the
human brain by examining the effect of liquid potash on a fragment of
it, but rather by inquiring how the brain has, in the course of
evolution, been developed out of the organs of lower organisms.
It is therefore quite true that one who is investigating the nature of
spirit can do nothing better than learn from natural science. He need
only do as science does, but he must not allow himself to be misled by
what individual representatives of natural science would dictate to
him. He must investigate in the spiritual as they do in the physical
domain, but he need not adopt the opinions they entertain about the
spiritual world, confused as they are by their exclusive
contemplation of physical phenomena.
We shall only be acting in the spirit of natural science if we study
the spiritual development of man as impartially as the naturalist
observes the sense-world. We shall then certainly be led, in the
domain of spiritual life, to a kind of contemplation which differs
from that of the naturalist as geology differs from pure physics and
biology from chemistry. We shall be led up to higher methods, which
cannot, it is true, be those of natural science, though quite
conformable with the spirit of it. Such methods alone are able to
bring us to the heart of spiritual developments, such as that of
Christianity, or other worlds of religious conceptions. Any one
applying these methods may arouse the opposition of many who believe
they are thinking scientifically, but he will know himself, for all
that, to be in full accord with a genuinely scientific method of
thought.
An investigator of this kind must also go beyond a merely historical
examination of the documents relating to spiritual life. This is
necessary just on account of the attitude he has acquired from his
study of natural history. When a chemical law is explained, it is of
small use to describe the retorts, dishes, and pincers which have led
to the discovery of the law. And it is just as useless, when
explaining the origin of Christianity, to ascertain the historical
sources drawn upon by the Evangelist St. Luke, or those from which the
"hidden revelation" of St. John is compiled. History can in this case
be only the outer court to research proper. It is not by tracing the
historical origin of documents that we shall discover anything about
the dominant ideas in the writings of Moses or in the traditions of
the Greek mystics. These documents are only the outer expression for
the ideas. Nor does the naturalist who is investigating the nature of
man trouble about the origin of the word "man," or the way in which it
has developed in a language. He keeps to the thing, not to the word in
which it finds expression. And in studying spiritual life we must
likewise abide by the spirit and not by outer documents.
II
THE MYSTERIES AND THEIR WISDOM
A kind of mysterious veil hangs over the manner in which spiritual
needs were satisfied during the older civilisations by those who
sought a deeper religious life and fuller knowledge than the popular
religions offered. If we inquire how these needs were satisfied, we
find ourselves led into the dim twilight of the mysteries, and the
individual seeking them disappears for a time from our observation. We
see how it is that the popular religions cannot give him what his
heart desires. He acknowledges the existence of the gods, but knows
that the ordinary ideas about them do not solve the great problems of
existence. He seeks a wisdom which is jealously guarded by a community
of priest-sages. His aspiring soul seeks a refuge in this community.
If he is found by the sages to be sufficiently prepared, he is led up
by them, step by step, to higher knowledge, in places hidden from the
eyes of outward observers. What then happens to him is concealed from
the uninitiated. He seems for a time to be entirely removed from
earthly life and to be transported into a hidden world.
When he reappears in the light of day a different, quite transformed
person is before us. We see a man who cannot find words sublime enough
to express the momentous experience through which he has passed. Not
merely metaphorically but in a most real sense does he seem to have
gone through the gate of death and to have awakened to a new and
higher life. He is, moreover, quite certain that no one who has not
had a similar experience can understand his words.
This was what happened to those who were initiated into the Mysteries,
into that secret wisdom withheld from the people and which threw light
on the greatest questions. This "secret" religion of the elect existed
side by side with the popular religion. Its origin vanishes, as far as
history is concerned, into the obscurity in which the origin of
nations is lost. We find this secret religion everywhere amongst the
ancients as far as we know anything concerning them; and we hear their
sages speak of the Mysteries with the greatest reverence. What was it
that was concealed in them? And what did they unveil to the initiate?
The enigma becomes still more puzzling when we discover that the
ancients looked upon the Mysteries as something dangerous. The way
leading to the secrets of existence passed through a world of terrors,
and woe to him who tried to gain them unworthily. There was no greater
crime than the "betrayal" of secrets to the uninitiated. The "traitor"
was punished with death and the confiscation of his property. We know
that the poet AEschylus was accused of having reproduced on the stage
something from the Mysteries. He was only able to escape death by
fleeing to the altar of Dionysos and by legally proving that he had
never been initiated.
What the ancients say about these secrets is significant, but at the
same time ambiguous. The initiate is convinced that it would be a sin
to tell what he knows and also that it would be sinful for the
uninitiated to listen. Plutarch speaks of the terror of those about to
be initiated, and compares their state of mind to preparation for
death. A special mode of life had to precede initiation, tending to
give the spirit the mastery over the senses. Fasting, solitude,
mortifications, and certain exercises for the soul were the means
employed. The things to which man clings in ordinary life were to lose
all their value for him. The whole trend of his life of sensation and
feeling was to be changed.
There can be no doubt as to the meaning of such exercises and tests.
The wisdom which was to be offered to the candidate for initiation
could only produce the right effect upon his soul if he had previously
purified the lower life of his sensibility. He was introduced to the
life of the spirit. He was to behold a higher world, but he could not
enter into relations with that world without previous exercises and
tests. The relations thus gained were the condition of initiation.
In order to obtain a correct idea on this matter, it is necessary to
gain experience of the intimate facts of the growth of knowledge. We
must feel that there are two widely divergent attitudes towards that
which the highest knowledge gives. The world surrounding us is to us
at first the real one. We feel, hear, and see what goes on in it, and
because we thus perceive things with our senses, we call them real.
And we reflect about events, in order to get an insight into their
connections. On the other hand, what wells up in our soul is at first
not real to us in the same sense. It is "merely" thoughts and ideas.
At the most we see in them only images of reality. They themselves
have no reality, for we cannot touch, see, or hear them.
There is another way of being connected with things. A person who
clings to the kind of reality described above will hardly understand
it, but it comes to certain people at some moment in their lives. To
them the whole connection with the world is completely reversed. They
then call the images which well up in the spiritual life of their
souls actually real, and they assign only a lower kind of reality to
what the senses hear, touch, feel, and see. They know that they
cannot prove what they say, that they can only relate their new
experiences, and that when relating them to others they are in the
position of a man who can see and who imparts his visual impressions
to one born blind. They venture to impart their inner experiences,
trusting that there are others round them whose spiritual eyes, though
as yet closed, may be opened by the power of what they hear. For they
have faith in humanity and want to give it spiritual sight. They can
only lay before it the fruits which their spirit has gathered. Whether
another sees them, depends on his spiritual eyes being opened or not.
There is something in man which at first prevents him from seeing with
the eyes of the spirit. He is not there for that purpose. He is what
his senses are, and his intellect is only the interpreter and judge of
them. The senses would ill fulfil their mission if they did not insist
upon the truth and infallibility of their evidence. An eye must, from
its own point of view, uphold the absolute reality of its perceptions.
The eye is right as far as it goes, and is not deprived of its due by
the eye of the spirit. The latter only allows us to see the things of
sense in a higher light. Nothing seen by the eye of sense is denied,
but a new brightness, hitherto unseen, radiates from what is seen. And
then we know that what we first saw was only a lower reality. We see
that still, but it is immersed in something higher, which is spirit.
It is now a question of whether we realise and feel what we see. One
who lives only in the sensations and feelings of the senses will look
upon impressions of higher things as a Fata Morgana, or mere play of
fancy. His feelings are entirely directed towards the things of sense.
He grasps emptiness when he tries to lay hold of spirit forms. They
withdraw from him when he gropes after them. They are just "mere"
thoughts. He thinks them, but does not live in them. They are images,
less real to him than fleeting dreams. They rise up like bubbles while
he is standing in his reality; they disappear before the massive,
solidly built reality of which his senses tell him.
It is otherwise with one whose perceptions and feelings with regard to
reality have changed. For him that reality has lost its absolute
stability and value. His senses and feelings need not become numbed,
but they begin to be doubtful of their absolute authority. They leave
room for something else. The world of the spirit begins to animate the
space left.
At this point a possibility comes in which may prove terrible. A man
may lose his sensations and feelings of outer reality without finding
any new reality opening up before him. He then feels himself as if
suspended in the void. He feels as if he were dead. The old values
have disappeared and no new ones have arisen in their place. The world
and man no longer exist for him. This, however, is by no means a mere
possibility. It happens at some time or other to every one who is
seeking for higher knowledge. He comes to a point at which the spirit
represents all life to him as death. He is then no longer in the
world, but under it,--in the nether world. He is passing through
Hades. Well for him if he sink not! Happy if a new world open up
before him! Either he dwindles away or he appears to himself
transfigured. In the latter case he beholds a new sun and a new
earth. The whole world has been born again for him out of spiritual
fire.
It is thus that the initiates describe the effect of the Mysteries
upon them. Menippus relates that he journeyed to Babylon in order to
be taken to Hades and to be brought back again by the successors of
Zarathustra. He says that he swam across the great water on his
wanderings, and that he passed through fire and ice. We hear that the
Mystics were terrified by a flashing sword, and that blood flowed. We
understand this when we know from experience the point of transition
from lower to higher knowledge. We then feel as if all solid matter
and things of sense had dissolved into water, and as if the ground
were cut away from under our feet. Everything is dead which we felt
before to be alive. The spirit has passed through the life of the
senses, as a sword pierces a warm body; we have seen the blood of
sense-nature flow. But a new life has appeared. We have risen from the
nether-world. The orator Aristides relates this: "I thought I touched
the god and felt him draw near, and I was then between waking and
sleeping. My spirit was so light that no one who is not initiated can
speak of or understand it." This new existence is not subject to the
laws of lower life. Growth and decay no longer affect it. One may say
much about the Eternal, but words of one who has not been through
Hades are "mere sound and smoke." The initiates have a new conception
of life and death. Now for the first time do they feel they have the
right to speak about immortality. They know that one who speaks of it
without having been initiated talks of something which he does not
understand. The uninitiated attribute immortality only to something
which is subject to the laws of growth and decay. The Mystics,
however, did not merely desire to gain the conviction that the kernel
of life is eternal. According to the view of the Mysteries, such a
conviction would be quite valueless, for this view holds that the
Eternal is not present as a living reality in the uninitiated. If such
an one spoke of the Eternal, he would be speaking of something
non-existent. It is rather the Eternal itself that the Mystics are
seeking. They have first to awaken the Eternal within them, then they
can speak of it. Hence the hard saying of Plato is quite real to them,
that the uninitiated sinks into the mire, and that only one who has
passed through the mystical life enters eternity. It is only in this
sense that the words in the fragment of Sophocles can be understood:
"Thrice-blessed are the initiated who come to the realm of the shades.
They alone have life there. For others there is only misery and
hardship."
Is one therefore not describing dangers when speaking of the
Mysteries? Is it not robbing a man of happiness and of the best part
of his life to take him to the portals of the nether-world? Terrible
is the responsibility incurred by such an act. And yet ought we to
refuse that responsibility? These were the questions which the
initiate had to put to himself. He was of opinion that his knowledge
bore the same relation to the soul of the people as light does to
darkness. But innocent happiness dwells in that darkness, and the
Mystics were of opinion that that happiness should not be
sacrilegiously interfered with. For what would have happened in the
first place if the Mystic had betrayed his secret? He would have
uttered words and only words. The feelings and emotions which would
have evoked the spirit from the words would have been absent. To do
this preparation, exercises, tests, and a complete change in the life
of sense were necessary. Without this the hearer would have been
hurled into emptiness and nothingness. He would have been deprived of
what constituted his happiness, without receiving anything in
exchange. One may also say that one could take nothing away from him,
for mere words would change nothing in his life of feeling. He would
only have been able to feel and experience reality through his senses.
Nothing but a terrible misgiving, fatal to life, would be given him.
This could only be construed as a crime.
The wisdom of the Mysteries is like a hothouse plant, which must be
cultivated and fostered in seclusion. Any one bringing it into the
atmosphere of everyday ideas brings it into air in which it cannot
flourish. It withers away to nothing before the caustic verdict of
modern science and logic. Let us therefore divest ourselves for a
time of the education we gained through the microscope and telescope
and the habit of thought derived from natural science, and let us
cleanse our clumsy hands, which have been too busy with dissecting and
experimenting, in order that we may enter the pure temple of the
Mysteries. For this a candid and unbiassed attitude of mind is
necessary.
The important point for the Mystic is at first the frame of mind in
which he approaches that which to him is the highest, the answers to
the riddles of existence. Just in our day, when only gross physical
science is recognised as containing truth, it is difficult to believe
that in the highest things we depend upon the key-note of the soul.
Knowledge thereby becomes an intimate personal concern. But this is
what it really is to the Mystic. Tell some one the solution of the
riddle of the universe! Give it him ready-made! The Mystic will find
it to be nothing but empty sound, if the personality does not meet the
solution half-way in the right manner. The solution in itself is
nothing; it vanishes if the necessary feeling is not kindled at its
contact. A divinity approaches you. It is either everything or
nothing. Nothing, if you meet it in the frame of mind with which you
confront everyday matters. Everything, if you are prepared, and
attuned to the meeting. What the Divinity is in itself is a matter
which does not affect you; the important point for you is whether it
leaves you as it found you or makes another man of you. But this
depends entirely on yourself. You must have been prepared by a special
education, by a development of the inmost forces of your personality
for the work of kindling and releasing what a divinity is able to
kindle and release in you. What is brought to you depends on the
reception you give to it.
Plutarch has told us about this education, and of the greeting which
the Mystic offers the divinity approaching him; "For the god, as it
were, greets each one who approaches him, with the words, 'Know
thyself,' which is surely no worse than the ordinary greeting,
'Welcome.' Then we answer the divinity in the words, 'Thou art,' and
thus we affirm that the true, primordial, and only adequate greeting
for him is to declare that he is. In that existence we really have no
part here, for every mortal being, situated between birth and
destruction, merely manifests an appearance, a feeble and uncertain
image of itself. If we try to grasp it with our understanding, it is
as when water is tightly compressed and runs over merely through the
pressure, spoiling what it touches. For the understanding, pursuing a
too definite conception of each being that is subject to accidents and
change, loses its way, now in | 615.145854 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.1572520 | 3,908 | 9 |
Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
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.
By "religion," then, generally I mean a scheme of the world with some
theory of how man got into it and the influences, mostly supernatural,
which affect him here. It usually, though not always, includes some code
of morality for use here and some account of what happens after death.
This is, I think, more or less the accepted meaning.
And there are the words Spirit and Soul.
I note that in considering origins of religion the great first
difficulty has been how the savage evolved the idea of "God" or "Spirit"
as opposed to man. Various theories have been proposed, such as that it
evolved from reasoning on dreams. To me the question is whether such an
idea exists at all. It may be possible that men trained in abstract
thought without reference to fact, the successors of many generations of
men equally so trained, do consider themselves to have such a
conception. I have met men who declared they had a clear idea of the
fourth dimension in Mathematics and of unending space. There may be
people who can realise a Spirit which has other qualities than man. In
some creeds the idea is assumed as existing. But personally I have never
found it among those who make religion as distinguished from those who
theorise upon it. The gods of the simpler religious people I have met,
whether East or West, have been frankly only enlarged men, with the
appetites and appearances and the powers of men. They differ from men
only in degree, never in kind. They require food and offerings, they
have passions, sometimes they have wives. The early gods are but men. If
they are invisible, so can man be; if they are powerful, so are kings.
It is only a question of degree, never of kind. I do not find that the
God that the Boers appeal to so passionately has any different qualities
in their thoughts from a marvellous man. Truly they will say, "No, God
is a Spirit." Then if you reply, "So be it; tell me how a Spirit differs
from a man, what qualities a Spirit has that are inconceivable in man,"
they cannot go on; and the qualities they appeal to in their God are
always very human qualities--partiality, forgiveness, help, and the
like.
Many men will say they believe things which they do not understand. I
enter into the subject so fully later I do not want to write more now. I
only wish to define that the word God, as I use it, in no wise means
more than "the Personality who causes things."
And again about soul. What is soul? The theologian gets up and answers
at once that soul exists independent of the body. So be it. Then who has
the conception? And what is it like when you have got it? Have
Christians it? Then why can they not understand resurrection of the soul
without also the resurrection of the body? They cannot. Look at the
facts. It is such a fact it has actually forced itself into the creeds.
Angels have bodies and also wings. Ghosts have bodies and also clothes.
They are recognisable. I know a ghost who likes pork for supper. They
sometimes have horses and all sorts of additions. The body may be filmy,
but it is a body. Gas is filmy and quite as transparent as a ghost.
Perhaps the people who have put the transmigration of souls as one of
their religious tenets really have the conception of a soul apart from
any body. I doubt it even here. But this also will come later.
Meanwhile, when I use the word "soul" or "spirit," I do not infer that
it is separable from the body or inseparable. I mean simply the essence
of that which is man; the identity, the ego existing in man as he _is_.
I think, indeed, this is the correct meaning. We say that a city has
fifty thousand souls. Have they no bodies? When I wrote "The Soul of a
People" I certainly did not omit their bodies or ignore them. On the
contrary. And no one supposed I did. I do not either mean to postulate
the inseparability of body and soul. Soul means essence.
Finally, there is the word reason. What is that? By reason I mean the
faculty of arranging and grouping facts. It is the power of perspective
which sees facts in their proper relation to other facts. The facts
themselves are supplied as regards the outer world by the senses of
sight and hearing and taste, of touch and sympathy; and as regards the
inner world of sensations, such as hate, and love, and fear by the
ability to feel those sensations.
Reason itself cannot supply facts. It can but arrange them. By placing a
series of facts in due order the existence of other facts may be
suspected, as the existence of Neptune was deduced from certain known
aberrations. The observation of Neptune by the telescope followed.
In other words, reason may be called "the science of facts."
* * * * *
I offer no apology for this introduction. Most of the confusion of
thought, most of the mistiness of argument, is due to the fact that
people habitually use words without any clear idea of their meaning. A
reviewer of "The Soul of a People" declared that Buddhism was a
philosophy, not a religion. I asked him to give me a list of what he
accepted as religions, and then to furnish a definition of religion that
would include all these and exclude Buddhism. I am still waiting. No
doubt he had never tried to really define what he meant by his words.
Instead of using words as counters of a fixed value he threw them about
as blank cheques, meaning anything or nothing.
When you find confusion of argument in a book, want of clearness of
expression, when you see men arguing and misunderstanding each other,
there is nearly always one reason. Either they are using words in
different senses or they have no clear idea themselves of what they mean
by their words. Ask ten men what they mean when they say, Art, beauty,
civilisation, right, wrong, or any other abstract term, and see if _one_
can give a satisfactory explanation.
This is an error I am trying to avoid.
CHAPTER I.
OF WHAT USE IS RELIGION?
Of what use is religion?
All nations, almost all men, have a religion. From the savage in the
woods who has his traditions of how the world began, who has his ghosts
and his devils to fear or to worship, to the Christian and the Buddhist
with their religion full of beautiful conceptions and ideas--all people
have a religion.
And the religion of men is determined for them by their birth. They are
born into it, as they are into their complexions, their habits, their
language. The Continental and Irish Celt is a Roman Catholic, the Teuton
is a follower of Luther, the Slav a member of the Greek Church. The
Anglo-Saxon, who is a compromise of races, has a creed which is a
compromise also, and the Celt of England has his peculiar form of
dissent, more akin perhaps in some ways to Romanism than to Lutheranism.
A Jew is and has been a Jew, a Hindu is a Hindu, Arabs and Turks are
Mahommedans.
It is so with all races of men. A man's religion to-day is that into
which he is born, and those of the higher and older races who change are
few, so very few they but serve strongly to emphasize the rule.
There have been, it is true, periods when this has not been so. There
have been times of change, of conversions, of | 615.177292 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.2321940 | 1,262 | 18 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DORE GALLERY OF BIBLE ILLUSTRATIONS
Illustrated by Gustave Dore
Complete
This volume, as its title indicates, is a collection of engravings
illustrative of the Bible--the designs being all from the pencil of the
greatest of modern delineators, Gustave Dore. The original work, from
which this collection has been made, met with an immediate and warm
recognition and acceptance among those whose means admitted of its
purchase, and its popularity has in no wise diminished since its first
publication, but has even extended to those who could only enjoy it
casually, or in fragmentary parts. That work, however, in its entirety,
was far too costly for the larger and ever-widening circle of M. Dore's
admirers, and to meet the felt and often-expressed want of this class,
and to provide a volume of choice and valuable designs upon sacred
subjects for art-loving Biblical students generally, this work was
projected and has been carried forward. The aim has been to introduce
subjects of general interest--that is, those relating to the most
prominent events and personages of Scripture--those most familiar to all
readers; the plates being chosen with special reference to the known
taste of the American people. To each cut is prefixed a page of
letter-press--in, narrative form, and containing generally a brief
analysis of the design. Aside from the labors of the editor and
publishers, the work, while in progress, was under the pains-taking and
careful scrutiny of artists and scholars not directly interested in the
undertaking, but still having a generous solicitude for its success. It
is hoped, therefore, that its general plan and execution will render it
acceptable both to the appreciative and friendly patrons of the great
artist, and to those who would wish to possess such a work solely as a
choice collection of illustrations upon sacred themes.
GUSTAVE DORE.
The subject of this sketch is, perhaps, the most original and variously
gifted designer the world has ever known. At an age when most men have
scarcely passed their novitiate in art, and are still under the direction
and discipline of their masters and the schools, he had won a brilliant
reputation, and readers and scholars everywhere were gazing on his work
with ever-increasing wonder and delight at his fine fancy and
multifarious gifts. He has raised illustrative art to a dignity and
importance before unknown, and has developed capacities for the pencil
before unsuspected. He has laid all subjects tribute to his genius,
explored and embellished fields hitherto lying waste, and opened new and
shining paths and vistas where none before had trod. To the works of the
great he has added the lustre of his genius, bringing their beauties into
clearer view and warming them to a fuller life.
His delineations of character, in the different phases of life, from the
horrible to the grotesque, the grand to the comic, attest the versatility
of his powers; and, whatever faults may be found by critics, the public
will heartily render their quota of admiration to his magic touch, his
rich and facile rendering of almost every thought that stirs, or lies yet
dormant, in the human heart. It is useless to attempt a sketch of his
various beauties; those who would know them best must seek them in the
treasure--house that his genius is constantly augmenting with fresh gems
and wealth. To one, however, of his most prominent traits we will
refer--his wonderful rendering of the powers of Nature.
His early wanderings in the wild and romantic passes of the Vosges
doubtless developed this inherent tendency of his mind. There he
wandered, and there, mayhap, imbibed that deep delight of wood and
valley, mountain--pass and rich ravine, whose variety of form and detail
seems endless to the enchanted eye. He has caught the very spell of the
wilderness; she has laid her hand upon him, and he has gone forth with
her blessing. So bold and truthful and minute are his countless
representations of forest scenery; so delicate the tracery of branch and
stem; so patriarchal the giant boles of his woodland monarchs, that the'
gazer is at once satisfied and entranced. His vistas lie slumbering with
repose either in shadowy glade or fell ravine, either with glint of lake
or the glad, long course of some rejoicing stream, and above all, supreme
in a beauty all its own, he spreads a canopy of peerless sky, or a
wilderness, perhaps, of angry storm, or peaceful stretches of soft,
fleecy cloud, or heavens serene and fair--another kingdom to his teeming
art, after the earth has rendered all her gifts.
Paul Gustave Dore was born in the city of Strasburg, January 10, 1833. Of
his boyhood we have no very particular account. At eleven years of age,
however, he essayed his first artistic creation--a set' of lithographs,
published in his native city. The following year found him in Paris,
entered as a 7. student at the Charlemagne Lyceum. His first actual work
began in 1848, when his fine series of sketches, the "Labors of
Hercules," was given to the public through the medium of an illustrated,
journal with which he was for a long time connected as designer. In 1856
were published the illustrations for Balzac's "Contes Drolatiques" and
those for "The Wandering Jew "--the first humorous and grotesque in the
highest degree--indeed, showing a perfect abandonment to fancy; the other
weird and supernatural, with fierce | 615.252234 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.3488290 | 2,152 | 16 |
Produced by Eileen Gormly, Alicia Williams (who did the
scanning, image prep, and OCR), Sam W. and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE
TAPESTRY
BOOK
BY
HELEN CHURCHILL CANDEE
AUTHOR OF "DECORATIVE STYLES AND PERIODS"
_WITH FOUR PLATES IN COLOUR AND NINETY-NINE
ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK-AND-WHITE_
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
MCMXII
[Illustration: HERSE AND MERCURY
Renaissance Brussels Tapestry, Italian Cartoon. W. de Pannemaker,
weaver.
Collection of George Blumenthal, Esq., New York]
_Copyright, 1912,
by_ FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian_
_October, 1912_
TO
TWO CERTAIN BYZANTINE MADONNAS
AND THEIR OWNERS
AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Modesty so dominates the staff in art museums that I am requested not
to make mention of those officers who have helped me with friendly
courtesy and efficiency. To the officers and assistants at the
Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, the Art Institute of Chicago,
the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, and the Print Department in the
Library of Congress in Washington, indebtedness is here publicly
acknowledged with the regret that I may not speak of individuals.
Photographs of tapestries are credited to Messrs. A. Giraudon, Paris;
J. Laurent, Madrid; Alinari, Florence; Wm. Baumgarten, and Albert
Herter, New York, and to those private collectors whose names are
mentioned on the plates.
H. C. C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A FOREWORD 1
II ANTIQUITY 15
III MODERN AWAKENING 25
IV FRANCE AND FLANDERS, 15TH CENTURY 32
V HIGH GOTHIC 51
VI RENAISSANCE INFLUENCE 64
VII RENAISSANCE TO RUBENS 72
VIII ITALY, 15TH THROUGH 17TH CENTURIES 81
IX FRANCE 90
X THE GOBELINS FACTORY 105
XI THE GOBELINS FACTORY (_Continued_) 117
XII THE GOBELINS FACTORY (_Continued_) 126
XIII THE GOBELINS FACTORY (_Continued_) 135
XIV BEAUVAIS 145
XV AUBUSSON 154
XVI SAVONNERIE 159
XVII MORTLAKE 163
XVIII IDENTIFICATIONS 172
XIX IDENTIFICATIONS (_Continued_) 186
XX BORDERS 201
XXI TAPESTRY MARKS 216
XXII HOW IT IS MADE 226
XXIII THE BAYEUX TAPESTRY 241
XXIV TO-DAY 249
BEST PERIODS AND THEIR DATES 265
INDEX 267
ILLUSTRATIONS
HERSE AND MERCURY (_Coloured Plate_) _Frontispiece_
Renaissance Brussels Tapestry, Italian Cartoon. W. de
Pannemaker, weaver. Collection of George Blumenthal,
Esq., New York
FACING PAGE
CHINESE TAPESTRY 14
Chien Lung Period
COPTIC TAPESTRY 15
About 300 A. D.
COPTIC TAPESTRY 16
Boston Museum of Fine Arts
COPTIC TAPESTRY 17
Boston Museum of Fine Arts
TAPESTRY FOUND IN GRAVES IN PERU 18
Date prior to Sixteenth Century
THE SACRAMENTS (_Coloured Plate_) 34
Arras Tapestry, about 1430. Metropolitan Museum of Art,
New York
THE SACRAMENTS 38
Arras Tapestry, about 1430
THE SACRAMENTS 39
Arras Tapestry, about 1430
FIFTEENTH CENTURY, FRENCH TAPESTRY 40
Boston Museum of Fine Arts
THE LIFE OF CHRIST 41
Flemish Tapestry, second half of Fifteenth Century.
Boston Museum of Fine Arts
LA BAILLEE DES ROSES 42
French Tapestry, about 1450. Metropolitan Museum of Art,
New York
FIFTEENTH CENTURY MILLEFLEUR WITH ARMS 43
Cathedral of Troyes
THE LADY AND THE UNICORN 44
French Tapestry, Fifteenth Century. Musee de Cluny, Paris
THE LADY AND THE UNICORN 45
French Tapestry, Fifteenth Century. Musee de Cluny, Paris
THE SACK OF JERUSALEM (DETAIL) 46
Burgundian Tapestry, about 1450. Metropolitan Museum of
Art, New York
SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF CHRIST, WITH ARMORIAL SHIELDS 48
Flemish Tapestry, Fifteenth Century. Institute of Art,
Chicago
HISTORY OF THE VIRGIN 49
Angers Cathedral
DAVID AND BATHSHEBA 50
German Tapestry, about 1450
FLEMISH TAPESTRY. ABOUT 1500 51
Collection of Alfred W. Hoyt, Esq.
DAVID AND BATHSHEBA 52
Flemish Tapestry, late Fifteenth Century
HISTORY OF ST. STEPHEN 53
Arras Tapestry, Fifteenth Century
VERDURE 54
French Gothic Tapestry
"ECCE <DW25>" 55
Brussels Tapestry, about 1520. Metropolitan Museum of
Art, New York
ALLEGORICAL SUBJECT 56
Flemish Tapestry, about 1500. Collection of Alfred W.
Hoyt, Esq.
CROSSING THE RED SEA 57
Brussels Tapestry, about 1500. Boston Museum of Fine Arts
THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN 58
Flemish Tapestry, about 1510. Collection of J. Pierpont
Morgan, Esq., New York
FLEMISH TAPESTRY, END OF FIFTEENTH CENTURY 60
Collection of Martin A. Ryerson, Esq., Chicago. Formerly
in the Spitzer Collection
THE HOLY FAMILY 61
Flemish Tapestry, end of Fifteenth Century. Collection
of Martin A. Ryerson, Esq., Chicago. Formerly in the
Spitzer Collection
CONQUEST OF TUNIS BY CHARLES V (DETAIL) 62
Cartoon by Jan Vermeyen. Woven by Pannemaker. Royal
Collection at Madrid
DEATH OF ANANIAS.--FROM ACTS OF THE APOSTLES BY RAPHAEL 64
From the Palace of Madrid
THE STORY OF REBECCA 65
Brussels Tapestry, Sixteenth Century. Collection of
Arthur Astor Carey, Esq., Boston
THE CREATION 66
Flemish Tapestry. Italian Cartoon, Sixteenth Century
THE ORIGINAL SIN 67
Flemish Tapestry. Italian Cartoon, Sixteenth Century
MELEAGER AND ATALANTA 68
Flemish design, second half of Seventeenth Century.
Woven in Paris workshops by Charles de Comans
PUNIC WAR SERIES 69
Brussels Tapestry. Sixteenth Century. Collection of
Arthur Astor Carey, Esq., Boston
EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF CAESAR 70
Flemish Tapestry. Sixteenth Century. Gallery of the
Arazzi, Florence
WILD BOAR HUNT 71
Flemish Cartoon and Weaving, Sixteenth Century. Gallery
of the Arazzi, Florence
VERTUMNUS AND POMONA 72
First half of Sixteenth Century. Royal Collection of
Madrid
VERTUMNUS AND POMONA 73
First half of Sixteenth Century. Royal Collection of
Madrid
VERTUMNUS AND POMONA 74
First half of Sixteenth Century. Royal Collection of
Madrid
VERTUMNUS AND POMONA 75
First half of Sixteenth Century. Royal Collection of
Madrid
TAPESTRIES FOR HEAD AND SIDE OF BED 76
Renaissance designs. Royal Collection of Madrid
THE STORY OF REBECCA 77
Brussels Tapestry. Sixteenth Century. Collection of
Arthur Astor Carey, Esq., Boston
BRUSSELS TAPESTRY. LATE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 78
Weaver, Jacques Geubels. Institute of Art, Chicago
MEETING OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 79
Brussels Tapestry. Woven by Gerard van den Strecken.
Cartoon attributed to Rubens
THE ANNUNCIATION (_Coloured Plate_) 82
Italian Tapestry. Fifteenth Century. Collection of
Martin A | 615.368869 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.5531950 | 1,280 | 52 |
Produced by Betsie Bush, Carla Foust, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from scans of public domain works at the
University of Michigan\\\'s Making of America collection.)
Transcriber's note
Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer
errors have been changed and are listed at the end. All other
inconsistencies are as in the original.
ADDRESS
DELIVERED BY
HON. HENRY H. CRAPO,
Governor of Michigan,
BEFORE THE
CENTRAL MICHIGAN AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY,
AT THEIR
SHEEP-SHEARING EXHIBITION,
HELD
AT THE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE FARM,
On Thursday, May 24th, 1866.
LANSING:
JOHN A. KERR & CO., STEAM BOOK AND JOB PRINTERS.
1866.
ADDRESS.
_Mr. President, and Members of the "Central Mich. Ag'l Society:"_
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Remote from the theatre of action in the late
rebellion, Michigan has experienced comparatively few of the evils that
followed immediately in its path. The usual pursuits of peaceful life,
were here scarcely disturbed, and by the permission of a Gracious
Providence, the industry of the inhabitants of our State was but little
diverted from its legitimate channels. Nevertheless, while so many of
her patriot sons were engaged in the deadly strife of Southern
battle-fields, and the result of the struggle was in the uncertain
future, a sombre cloud could not fail to brood over our daily life,
interfering with the full enjoyment of the blessings we retained.
Now, however, the roar of cannon and the noise and tumult of war is no
longer heard in our land; the scenes of carnage and blood which our once
peaceful and happy country has recently witnessed are at an end; the
turmoil and strife of armed hosts in deadly conflict have ceased; the
public mind is no longer excited, and the hearts of the people are no
longer pained, by the fearful news of battles fought, and of the
terrible slaughter of kindred and friends. Social order again invites us
to renewed efforts in our respective labor and callings; and we are
permitted "to beat our swords into plow-shares and our spears into
pruning-hooks."
Like the calm and quiet repose of peace when it follows the clamor and
din of war, so is the delightful, cheering and invigorating approach of
spring, as it succeeds the chilling blasts and pelting storms of dreary
winter.
The truth of this is verified to us on the present occasion. We have
come together at this delightful spot, and on this beautiful spring day,
not only for the enjoyment of a festive season, but also for the
improvement of our minds and the increase of our present stock of
knowledge on subjects with which our several interests and our
respective tastes are more or less identified.
At your request and upon your kind invitation, I am here to contribute
my share--small though it be--to the general fund. I should, however,
have much preferred the position of a quiet learner to that of an
incompetent teacher--to have _listened_ rather than to have _spoken_.
But being here, it will be my purpose--by your indulgence--to speak, in
general terms, upon such topics as seem to me appropriate to the
occasion. I shall not presume to theorize, or to speculate; neither
shall I travel through unexplored fields with no other guide than
imagination; nor shall I attempt to entertain you with any rhetorical
flourishes, or figures of speech; but in a simple manner endeavor to
give briefly my own views on the several subjects discussed.
The occasion is undoubtedly one affording a wide field for profitable
discussion; yet the space which your greatest indulgence can be expected
to allow me will render it necessary that I confine myself to a very few
topics, and will barely permit a hasty glance at some of those only
which may be considered appropriate in this address. You will therefore,
I trust, remember that in case I do not refer to subjects which you may
deem of importance, it will be from this reason, and not because I may
have considered them unimportant.
* * * * *
In the first place, then, permit me a brief reference to this
Association, under whose auspices, and by whose directions--acting in
connection with the officers of the Agricultural College--this festival
is held. Your Society, I understand, extends over the counties of
Ingham, Eaton, Clinton, Livingston and Shiawassee, and has been formed
for the purpose of combining and concentrating a wider scope of
individual action than could otherwise be attained, with a view to an
increased interest in the subject of Agriculture and of Agricultural
Fairs; thereby recognizing the principle that "in union there is
strength."
The effort is not only laudable, but will, I have no doubt, be
productive of the most beneficial results. In fact we have in this very
effort to bring into notice and give an increased interest to one of our
most important branches of husbandry in our State--the growth and
production of wool--abundant evidence that such will be the result. By
coming together, as on the present occasion, in the spirit of a free,
frank and social interchange of ideas, an increased interest cannot fail
of being awakened, as well as an extensive inquiry instituted, among
farmers generally, not only as to the most desirable breed of sheep, but
also as to the best modes of tending and keeping and feeding the
different kinds, with a view to the greatest profits. The influence of
such a gathering as this is of much value--not only in encouraging a | 615.573235 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.6273450 | 2,601 | 13 |
Produced by Al Haines
THE
PASSING OF EMPIRE
BY
H. FIELDING-HALL
AUTHOR OF "THE SOUL OF A PEOPLE"
"THE HEARTS OF MEN," ETC.
"Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word
that proceedeth out of the mouth of God"--that
is to say by ideas
LONDON
HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.
PATERNOSTER HOUSE, E.C.
1913
PREFACE
Most people when they talk of India, most books when they treat of
India, are concerned with its differences from the rest of the world.
It is the appearance and the dress of its peoples, their customs and
habits, their superstitions and religions, that are explained and
wondered at.
That is not so here. In this book little or nothing is said of any of
these matters; they do not interest me; they are superficial, and I do
not care for surface things; they are what divide, and truth is what
unites.
It is of the humanity which India shares with the rest of the world,
the hearts that beat always the same under whatever skin, the ideals
that can never be choked by no matter what customs or religions, that
this book is concerned with.
India sees life through different windows than we do; but her eyes are
as our eyes, and she has the same desires as we have. She has been
nearly dead or sleeping for long, but at last she moves. She is awake
or waking. Should it not be our task, our pleasure and our pride, to
help her early steps along the path of conscious strength that leads to
a national life such as that we have been proud of? And to do so must
we not try to understand her?
Have we ever tried?
I do not think we have; but the time is coming when, unless we can go
hand in hand with her along her path to nationhood, she will desert us.
Her destiny is calling her; shall we keep her back?
We cannot keep her back. "No one can be more wise than Destiny." And
if we stand in her way, who will suffer like we shall? For her sake
and for ours should we not try to understand?
This book is an attempt at a beginning.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
PART I
THE OLD INDIA
CHAPTER
I. Indian Unrest
II. The People
III. The Civilian
IV. His Training
V. Criminal Law
VI. Procedure
VII. Civil Law
VIII. The Village
IX. Opium and Excise
PART II
COUNSELS OF DESPAIR
X. The Provincial Councils
XI. The Indian as Civilian
PART III
A NEW INDIA
XII. The New Civilian
XIII. His Training
XIV. Other Services
XV. Law Reform
XVI. Courts Reform
XVII. Self-Government
XVIII. Education
XIX. Conclusion
PART I
THE OLD INDIA
CHAPTER I
INDIAN UNREST
We do not hear so much of the discontent in India now as we did three
or four years ago. There are no reports of seditious meetings,
incendiary propaganda, or disloyal tendencies. The attempt upon the
Viceroy is declared to be an isolated act, springing from no general
cause; a sporadic outbreak of crime which has no importance. No
special measures have to be taken, nor special legislation passed,
though the old repressive legislation is not repealed. In the English
daily papers there is little said of India, and no news is said to be
good news. Therefore in public estimation India has fallen back from
her temporary fever into the immemorial apathy of the East. She is
content, and no one need trouble himself about her. The sedition was
but a froth upon the surface, it had no deep-lying causes; it was
temporary, local, unimportant. We need trouble ourselves no more about
it.
There could be no greater nor more fatal mistake.
There may have been outbursts of irritation like that over the Bengal
partition which have passed because the cause was removed; we may be
now in the trough and not upon the crest of a wave, but that is all
that can be said. The discontent has not passed, nor will it, nor can
it pass. It is deep-rooted in the very nature of things as they are
now. It is not local, nor is it confined to one or two strata of
society, nor is it directed against one or two acts of Government. It
is universal, in all provinces, in all classes, directed not against
this act or that act, but against the Government as a whole. This is
very evident to those upon the spot, has been evident for many years.
The reason more has not been said about it is the absurd notion that
talking of the discontent will tend to increase it, as if real
discontent ever arose from words, or as if it could be understood
unless it were talked about. It should also be evident to those not
upon the spot who reflect on causes and effects. For instance, could
the partition of Bengal have raised such a sudden flame had there been
peace before? People in neither the East nor the West are roused into
such sudden and fierce anger by an administrative change even if the
change is not to their tastes. For there was no real change of
government, nor substantive hardship. The hardship was sentimental
hardship at the worst, not the less a real hardship for that.
No. There was discontent before, and the partition only fanned it into
flame.
And that discontent is not sudden. It has grown slowly for many years.
It is not local; in one province it may be more apparent than in
another, but it is universal. It is not temporary, but increases. So
much is admitted by those who know. Yet no one thinks of diagnosing
it. They shut their eyes, they sit upon the safety-valve, they give
measures which they hope will cause relief but which cannot do so; they
merely accentuate the difficulty and emphasise the ignorance that is
behind it on both sides. How can you cure a fever unless you diagnose
the cause or causes? To administer a drug at random is not likely to
succeed, yet what are the Councils but a random drug? How can they
act? No one knows what the patient suffers from; she herself least of
all, I think. No one can truly diagnose his own illness nor prescribe
his remedy. India feels uncomfortable, and clamours for anything she
can get. The Indian Government gives her what it can, offering
profusest condolence, which is sincere; and for the rest sitting upon
her chest.
But that will avail nothing--how can it? The fever is deep-seated, it
is remittent, it affects the whole system. It is becoming dangerous
both to the patient and her physician. For their lots are bound
together. India cannot yet do without us. She has not got the
organism to govern herself yet. She has no structure, but is an
inchoate mass of people. Did we part, India could not protect herself
against her neighbours by sea or land. She would be a prey to any
enterprising Power. Internally she would dissolve into anarchy. No
one, I think, doubts this. Some claim to doubt it--do they?
And as to England, what would we be were India reft from us?
Further, there is this: you cannot hold India by force alone. Force
has its place, but it cannot stand alone. We conquered and have
governed India by the consent of the people. In fact, she conquered
herself and gave herself to us. We never had to fight peoples, except
in Upper Burma, but only Governments--effete, discredited and weak.
The peoples accepted us: if not with gladness, yet they did accept.
Without that acquiescence we could have done nothing. This must be
thoroughly realised, for it is an essential truth. Anyone can see it
for himself. Given any superiority you like to assume of Englishman
over Indian, could a handful of English officials and seventy thousand
or less British troops conquer and rule three hundred-and-fifty
millions of people, living in a climate suitable to them but deadly to
us, against their will? It is impossible, incredible, absurd. There
has been always a tacit and generally an active consent. Now that
consent is disappearing. Why? And what is to be done? It must be
discovered. Therefore what I propose to do in this book is: First, to
show what our rule was at first and why it was so successful.
To explain how these factors of success gradually disappeared, while at
the same time the people progressed.
To show briefly the state of things to-day--how widely Government and
the people have drifted apart, and how unsuitable Government has become.
To examine the cures proposed and indicate how useless they must be.
Finally, to show how alone Government and the people can be brought
into harmony and the legitimate desires of both be fulfilled.
Let us go back on history, and recount the past so that we may explain
the present.
Some hundreds of years ago--it varies for different places--there were
in India kingdoms that were stable and strong and free. The peoples
were enterprising, active and intelligent, and a high degree of
civilisation was common throughout all classes. I don't think it is
generally realised that five or six hundred years ago India was ahead
of Europe in most matters.
Gradually all this decayed. How and why it decayed this is not the
place to explain; there were several causes, the principal being
religion; but these systems of government all crumbled into dust. It
was not merely dynasties or ruling classes that passed, but that the
whole fabric of its civilisation became weakened and lifeless. The
organisms that held the people together dissolved, and instead of
kingdoms India became simply a mass of village communities, with no
organism above that.
Into this more or less anarchical country came the Moguls from the
north, and established an empire. This Empire was accepted for the
same reason that ours subsequently was accepted--because the people
wanted first of all peace; and as peace could only be found under a
strong government, and the Mogul was the only strong power, they
accepted it. They had, moreover, no organisations to enable them to
resist.
But this Mogul power had no root in the soil, not in any soil. It had
cut itself away from its base, and it could not become rooted in India.
It had, therefore, never any real vitality. The Normans in England
coalesced with the people after a time, and drew strength from them and
their institutions, but the Mogul Empire did not.
Nevertheless, it did to a certain extent enlist the people on its side,
accept them into its organism. There was in the early Emperors no
fanaticism. "As tolerant as Akbar" almost became a proverb. Hindus
and Mussulmans worked together in harmony for the benefit of the
Empire. That is why it succeeded at all, because the line of division
was almost ignored. Then came the fanatic Aurungzebe, who by his zeal
for religion began the destruction of the Empire, which came very
quickly. And when the ruling power was weakened and began to pass,
nothing remained. It was simply | 615.647385 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.6554710 | 182 | 7 |
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/overshadowednove00grigrich
OVERSHADOWED.
A Novel.
by
SUTTON E. GRIGGS
Author of "Imperium in Imperio."
Nashville, Tenn.:
The Orion Publishing Co.
1901.
Copyrighted
Sutton E. Griggs
1901.
DEDICATION.
To the Memory of
ALBERTA,
Who, in the absence of this her oldest
brother, crossed over the | 615.675511 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.8551410 | 1,141 | 25 |
Produced by Nick Wall, David K. Park 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.)
FERN VALE
OR THE
QUEENSLAND SQUATTER.
A NOVEL.
BY COLIN MUNRO.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL II.
LONDON:
T. C. NEWBY,
30 WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
MDCCCLXII.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY THE CALEDONIAN PRESS,
"The National Institution for Promoting the Employment of Women in the
Art of Printing."
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 32
CHAPTER III 48
CHAPTER IV 77
CHAPTER V 105
CHAPTER VI 128
CHAPTER VII 146
CHAPTER VIII 180
CHAPTER IX 205
CHAPTER X 232
CHAPTER XI 253
CHAPTER XII 287
CHAPTER XIII 325
FERN VALE.
CHAPTER I.
"What are these,
So withered, and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't?"
MACBETH, _Act 1, Sc. 3_.
"Those fellows have been up to some mischief I am certain," said Tom
when the blacks departed, as described in the last chapter. "I am
confident my brother has not given them anything; and if they have got
any rations at Strawberry Hill, they must have stolen them. However, if
you intend going over to their corroboree, I'll accompany you."
"I do intend going," said John, "for I have never seen them in such
force as they'll be to-night, and I am curious to see the effect. Do
you know what is the nature of the ceremony of their kipper corroboree?"
"I can't exactly say," replied Tom, "their ordinary corroborees are
simply feasts to commemorate some event; but the kipper corroboree has
some mystery attached to it, which they do not permit strangers to
witness. I believe it is held once a year, to admit their boys into the
communion of men; and to give 'gins' to the neophytes, if they desire to
add to their importance by assuming a marital character. I believe it is
simply a ceremony, in which they recognise the transition of their
youths from infancy to manhood; though they keep the proceedings veiled
from vulgar eyes."
"When, then," continued John, "the kippers are constituted men, and get
their gins, are their marriage engagements of a permanent nature; I mean
does their nuptial ceremony, whatever it may be, effectually couple
them; and is it considered by them inviolable?"
"I believe," replied Tom, "the ceremony is binding on the gins, but
their lords are permitted to exercise a supreme power over the liberty
and destiny of their spouses. The gins are merely looked upon as so many
transferable animals, and they are frequently stolen and carried off by
adventurous lovers from their lawful lords and masters; and as
frequently made over with the free consent of their husbands, the same
as we should do with flocks and herds. Most of the quarrels among the
tribes arise from such thefts; and the wills and inclinations of the
gins are never for a moment considered."
After this remark the conversation of the young men turned into other
channels. About sundown they prepared themselves for their visit, and
mounting their horses started off to the Gibson river; which, owing to
the darkness of the night, and the difficulty they experienced in
threading the bush, and avoiding the fallen logs, they did not reach so
quickly as they had anticipated. They, however, crossed by the flats,
and guided by the noise of the blacks, and the light from their fires in
the scrub, they soon came upon the "camp;" where they found Dugingi,
true to his promise, waiting for them.
The camp was composed of about fifty "gunyas" or huts, formed in a
circle; in the midst of which were several of the natives, talking and
gesticulating most vociferously and wildly. The gunyas were small
conical structures of about five or six feet in diameter; formed by
pieces of cane being fixed into the ground in an arched shape, so as to
make ribs, which were covered with the flakey sheets of the tea tree
bark, and laid perfectly close and compact, in which position they were
fixed by an outer net-work of reedy fibre; making, though primitive and
meagre in accommodation, a dwelling perfectly impervious to the weather.
Into these burrow-like domiciles, crowd, sometimes, as many as five or
six human beings, who coil themselves into a mass to economize space,
and generate caloric in cold nights; when they have | 615.875181 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.9551360 | 459 | 24 |
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE BORDER LEGION
By Zane Grey
1
Joan Randle reined in her horse on the crest of the cedar ridge, and
with remorse and dread beginning to knock at her heart she gazed before
her at the wild and looming mountain range.
"Jim wasn't fooling me," she said. "He meant it. He's going straight for
the border... Oh, why did I taunt him!"
It was indeed a wild place, that southern border of Idaho, and that year
was to see the ushering in of the wildest time probably ever known
in the West. The rush for gold had peopled California with a horde of
lawless men of every kind and class. And the vigilantes and then the
rich strikes in Idaho had caused a reflux of that dark tide of humanity.
Strange tales of blood and gold drifted into the camps, and prospectors
and hunters met with many unknown men.
Joan had quarreled with Jim Cleve, and she was bitterly regretting it.
Joan was twenty years old, tall, strong, dark. She had been born in
Missouri, where her father had been well-to-do and prominent, until,
like many another man of his day, he had impeded the passage of a
bullet. Then Joan had become the protegee of an uncle who had responded
to the call of gold; and the latter part of her life had been spent in
the wilds.
She had followed Jim's trail for miles out toward the range. And now she
dismounted to see if his tracks were as fresh as she had believed. He
had left the little village camp about sunrise. Someone had seen him
riding away and had told Joan. Then he had tarried on the way, for it
was now midday. Joan pondered. She had become used to his idle threats
and disgusted with his vacillations. That had been the trouble--Jim
was amiable, lovable, but since meeting Joan he had not exhibited any
strength of character. Joan stood beside her horse and looked away
toward the dark mountains | 615.975176 |
2023-11-16 18:27:19.9575150 | 562 | 12 |
Produced by Judy Boss
THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
By J. M. Synge
PREFACE
In writing THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD, as in my other plays, I
have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the country
people of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could read the
newspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard also
from herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, or
from beggar-women and ballad-singers nearer Dublin; and I am glad to
acknowledge how much I owe to the folk imagination of these fine people.
Anyone who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish peasantry will
know that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play are tame indeed,
compared with the fancies one may hear in any little hillside cabin in
Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a collaboration; and
there is little doubt that in the happy ages of literature, striking
and beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-teller's or the
playwright's hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It is
probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn and sat
down to his work he used many phrases that he had just heard, as he sat
at dinner, from his mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us who
know the people have the same privilege. When I was writing "The Shadow
of the Glen," some years ago, I got more aid than any learning could
have given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house where
I was staying, that let me hear what was being said by the servant girls
in the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of importance, for in countries
where the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is rich
and living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in his
words, and at the same time to give the reality, which is the root
of all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modern
literature of towns, however, richness is found only in sonnets, or
prose poems, or in one or two elaborate books that are far away from the
profound and common interests of life. One has, on one side, Mallarme
and Huysmans producing this literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zola
dealing with the reality of life in joy | 615.977555 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.0533710 | 3,932 | 14 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
UNDERSTOOD BETSY
BY
DOROTHY CANFIELD
Author of "The Bent Twig," etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ADA C. WILLIAMSON
[Illustration: Uncle Henry looked at her, eyeing her sidewise over the
top of one spectacle glass. (Page 34)]
CONTENTS
I Aunt Harriet Has a Cough
II Betsy Holds the Reins
III A Short Morning
IV Betsy Goes to School
V What Grade is Betsy?
VI If You Don't Like Conversation in a Book Skip this Chapter!
VII Elizabeth Ann Fails in an Examination
VIII Betsy Starts a Sewing Society
IX The New Clothes Fail
X Betsy Has a Birthday
XI "Understood Aunt Frances"
ILLUSTRATIONS
Uncle Henry looked at her, eying her sidewise
over the top of one spectacle-glass Frontispiece
Elizabeth Ann stood up before the doctor.
"Do you know," said Aunt Abigail, "I think
it's going to be real nice, having a little girl
in the house again"
She had greatly enjoyed doing her own hair.
"Oh, he's asking for more!" cried Elizabeth Ann
Betsy shut her teeth together hard, and started across
"What's the matter, Molly? What's the matter?"
Betsy and Ellen and the old doll
He had fallen asleep with his head on his arms
Never were dishes washed better!
Betsy was staring down at her shoes, biting her
lips and winking her eyes
CHAPTER I
AUNT HARRIET HAS A COUGH
When this story begins, Elizabeth Ann, who is the heroine of it, was a
little girl of nine, who lived with her Great-aunt Harriet in a
medium-sized city in a medium-sized State in the middle of this country;
and that's all you need to know about the place, for it's not the
important thing in the story; and anyhow you know all about it because
it was probably very much like the place you live in yourself.
Elizabeth Ann's Great-aunt Harriet was a widow who was not very rich or
very poor, and she had one daughter, Frances, who gave piano lessons to
little girls. They kept a "girl" whose name was Grace and who had asthma
dreadfully and wasn't very much of a "girl" at all, being nearer fifty
than forty. Aunt Harriet, who was very tender-hearted, kept her chiefly
because she couldn't get any other place on account of her coughing so
you could hear her all over the house.
So now you know the names of all the household. And this is how they
looked: Aunt Harriet was very small and thin and old, Grace was very
small and thin and middle-aged, Aunt Frances (for Elizabeth Ann called
her "Aunt," although she was really, of course, a
first-cousin-once-removed) was small and thin and if the light wasn't
too strong might be called young, and Elizabeth Ann was very small and
thin and little. And yet they all had plenty to eat. I wonder what was
the matter with them?
It was certainly not because they were not good, for no womenkind in all
the world had kinder hearts than they. You have heard how Aunt Harriet
kept Grace (in spite of the fact that she was a very depressing person)
on account of her asthma; and when Elizabeth Ann's father and mother
both died when she was a baby, although there were many other cousins
and uncles and aunts in the family, these two women fairly rushed upon
the little baby-orphan, taking her home and surrounding her henceforth
with the most loving devotion.
They had said to themselves that it was their manifest duty to save the
dear little thing from the other relatives, who had no idea about how to
bring up a sensitive, impressionable child, and they were sure, from the
way Elizabeth Ann looked at six months, that she was going to be a
sensitive, impressionable child. It is possible also that they were a
little bored with their empty life in their rather forlorn, little brick
house in the medium-sized city, and that they welcomed the occupation
and new interests which a child would bring in.
But they thought that they chiefly desired to save dear Edward's child
from the other kin, especially from the Putney cousins, who had written
down from their Vermont farm that they would be glad to take the little
girl into their family. But "ANYTHING but the Putneys!" said Aunt
Harriet, a great many times. They were related only by marriage to her,
and she had her own opinion of them as a stiffnecked, cold-hearted,
undemonstrative, and hard set of New Englanders. "I boarded near them
one summer when you were a baby, Frances, and I shall never forget the
way they were treating some children visiting there!... Oh, no, I don't
mean they abused them or beat them... but such lack of sympathy, such
perfect indifference to the sacred sensitiveness of child-life, such a
starving of the child-heart... No, I shall never forget it! They had
chores to do... as though they had been hired men!"
Aunt Harriet never meant to say any of this when Elizabeth Ann could
hear, but the little girl's ears were as sharp as little girls' ears
always are, and long before she was nine she knew all about the opinion
Aunt Harriet had of the Putneys. She did not know, to be sure, what
"chores" were, but she took it confidently from Aunt Harriet's voice
that they were something very, very dreadful.
There was certainly neither coldness nor hardness in the way Aunt
Harriet and Aunt Frances treated Elizabeth Ann. They had really given
themselves up to the new responsibility, especially Aunt Frances, who
was very conscientious about everything. As soon as the baby came there
to live, Aunt Frances stopped reading novels and magazines, and re-read
one book after another which told her how to bring up children. And she
joined a Mothers' Club which met once a week. And she took a
correspondence course in mothercraft from a school in Chicago which
teaches that business by mail. So you can see that by the time Elizabeth
Ann was nine years old Aunt Frances must have known all that anybody can
know about how to bring up children. And Elizabeth Ann got the benefit
of it all.
She and her Aunt Frances were simply inseparable. Aunt Frances shared in
all Elizabeth Ann's doings and even in all her thoughts. She was
especially anxious to share all the little girl's thoughts, because she
felt that the trouble with most children is that they are not
understood, and she was determined that she would thoroughly understand
Elizabeth Ann down to the bottom of her little mind. Aunt Frances (down
in the bottom of her own mind) thought that her mother had never REALLY
understood her, and she meant to do better by Elizabeth Ann. She also
loved the little girl with all her heart, and longed, above everything
in the world, to protect her from all harm and to keep her happy and
strong and well.
And yet Elizabeth Ann was neither very strong nor well. And as to her
being happy, you can judge for yourself when you have read all this
story. She was very small for her age, with a rather pale face and big
dark eyes which had in them a frightened, wistful expression that went
to Aunt Frances's tender heart and made her ache to take care of
Elizabeth Ann better and better.
Aunt Frances was afraid of a great many things herself, and she knew how
to sympathize with timidity. She was always quick to reassure the little
girl with all her might and main whenever there was anything to fear.
When they were out walking (Aunt Frances took her out for a walk up one
block and down another every single day, no matter how tired the music
lessons had made her), the aunt's eyes were always on the alert to avoid
anything which might frighten Elizabeth Ann. If a big dog trotted by,
Aunt Frances always said, hastily: "There, there, dear! That's a NICE
doggie, I'm sure. I don't believe he ever bites little girls.... MERCY!
Elizabeth Ann, don't go near him!... Here, darling, just get on the
other side of Aunt Frances if he scares you so" (by that time Elizabeth
Ann was always pretty well scared), "and perhaps we'd better just turn
this corner and walk in the other direction." If by any chance the dog
went in that direction too, Aunt Frances became a prodigy of valiant
protection, putting the shivering little girl behind her, threatening
the animal with her umbrella, and saying in a trembling voice, "Go away,
sir! Go AWAY!"
Or if it thundered and lightened, Aunt Frances always dropped everything
she might be doing and held Elizabeth Ann tightly in her arms until it
was all over. And at night--Elizabeth Ann did not sleep very well--when
the little girl woke up screaming with a bad dream, it was always dear
Aunt Frances who came to her bedside, a warm wrapper over her nightgown
so that she need not hurry back to her own room, a candle lighting up
her tired, kind face. She always took the little girl into her thin arms
and held her close against her thin breast. "TELL Aunt Frances all about
your naughty dream, darling," she would murmur, "so's to get it off your
mind!"
She had read in her books that you can tell a great deal about
children's inner lives by analyzing their dreams, and besides, if she
did not urge Elizabeth Ann to tell it, she was afraid the sensitive,
nervous little thing would "lie awake and brood over it." This was the
phrase she always used the next day to her mother when Aunt Harriet
exclaimed about her paleness and the dark rings under her eyes. So she
listened patiently while the little girl told her all about the fearful
dreams she had, the great dogs with huge red mouths that ran after her,
the Indians who scalped her, her schoolhouse on fire so that she had to
jump from a third-story window and was all broken to bits--once in a
while Elizabeth Ann got so interested in all this that she went on and
made up more awful things even than she had dreamed, and told long
stories which showed her to be a child of great imagination. But all
these dreams and continuations of dreams Aunt Frances wrote down the
first thing the next morning, and, with frequent references to a thick
book full of hard words, she tried her best to puzzle out from them
exactly what kind of little girl Elizabeth Ann really was.
There was one dream, however, that even conscientious Aunt Frances never
tried to analyze, because it was too sad. Elizabeth Ann dreamed
sometimes that she was dead and lay in a little white coffin with white
roses over her. Oh, that made Aunt Frances cry, and so did Elizabeth
Ann. It was very touching. Then, after a long, long time of talk and
tears and sobs and hugs, the little girl would begin to get drowsy, and
Aunt Frances would rock her to sleep in her arms, and lay her down ever
so quietly, and slip away to try to get a little nap herself before it
was time to get up.
At a quarter of nine every weekday morning Aunt Frances dropped whatever
else she was doing, took Elizabeth Ann's little, thin, white hand
protectingly in hers, and led her through the busy streets to the big
brick school-building where the little girl had always gone to school.
It was four stories high, and when all the classes were in session there
were six hundred children under that one roof. You can imagine, perhaps,
the noise there was on the playground just before school! Elizabeth Ann
shrank from it with all her soul, and clung more tightly than ever to
Aunt Frances's hand as she was led along through the crowded, shrieking
masses of children. Oh, how glad she was that she had Aunt Frances there
to take care of her, though as a matter of fact nobody noticed the
little thin girl at all, and her very own classmates would hardly have
known whether she came to school or not. Aunt Frances took her safely
through the ordeal of the playground, then up the long, broad stairs,
and pigeonholed her carefully in her own schoolroom. She was in the
third grade,--3A, you understand, which is almost the fourth.
Then at noon Aunt Frances was waiting there, a patient, never-failing
figure, to walk home with her little charge; and in the afternoon the
same thing happened over again. On the way to and from school they
talked about what had happened in the class. Aunt Frances believed in
sympathizing with a child's life, so she always asked about every little
thing, and remembered to inquire about the continuation of every
episode, and sympathized with all her heart over the failure in mental
arithmetic, and triumphed over Elizabeth Ann's beating the Schmidt girl
in spelling, and was indignant over the teacher's having pets. Sometimes
in telling over some very dreadful failure or disappointment Elizabeth
Ann would get so wrought up that she would cry. This always brought the
ready tears to Aunt Frances's kind eyes, and with many soothing words
and nervous, tremulous caresses she tried to make life easier for poor
little Elizabeth Ann. The days when they had cried they could neither of
them eat much luncheon.
After school and on Saturdays there was always the daily walk, and there
were lessons, all kinds of lessons--piano-lessons of course, and
nature-study lessons out of an excellent book Aunt Frances had bought,
and painting lessons, and sewing lessons, and even a little French,
although Aunt Frances was not very sure about her own pronunciation. She
wanted to give the little girl every possible advantage, you see. They
were really inseparable. Elizabeth Ann once said to some ladies calling
on her aunts that whenever anything happened in school, the first thing
she thought of was what Aunt Frances would think of it.
"Why is that?" they asked, looking at Aunt Frances, who was blushing
with pleasure.
"Oh, she is so interested in my school work! And she UNDERSTANDS me!"
said Elizabeth Ann, repeating the phrases she had heard so often.
Aunt Frances's eyes filled with happy tears. She called Elizabeth Ann to
her and kissed her and gave her as big a hug as her thin arms could
manage. Elizabeth Ann was growing tall very fast. One of the visiting
ladies said that before long she would be as big as her auntie, and a
troublesome young lady. Aunt Frances said: "I have had her from the time
she was a little baby and there has scarcely been an hour she has been
out of my sight. I'll always have her confidence. You'll always tell
Aunt Frances EVERYTHING, won't you, darling?" Elizabeth Ann resolved to
do this always, even if, as now, she often had to invent things to tell.
Aunt Frances went on, to the callers: "But I do wish she weren't so thin
and pale and nervous. I suppose it is the exciting modern life that is
so bad for children. I try to see that she has plenty of fresh air. I go
out with her for a walk every single day. But we have taken all the
walks around here so often that we're rather tired of them. It's often
hard to know how to get her out enough. I think I'll have to get the
doctor to come and see her and perhaps give her a tonic." To Elizabeth
Ann she added, hastily: "Now don't go getting notions in your head,
darling. Aunt Frances doesn't think there's anything VERY much the
matter with you. You'll be all right again soon if you just take the
doctor's medicine nicely. Aunt Frances will take care of her precious
little girl. SHE'll make the bad sickness go away." Elizabeth Ann, who
had not known before that she was sick, had a picture of herself lying
in the little white coffin, all covered over with white.... In a few
minutes Aunt Frances was obliged to excuse herself from her callers and
devote herself entirely to taking care of Elizabeth Ann.
So one day, after this had happened several times, Aunt Frances really
did send for the doctor, who came briskly in, just as Elizabeth Ann had
always seen him, with his little square black bag smelling of leather,
his sharp eyes, and the air of bored impatience which he always wore in
that house. Elizabeth Ann was terribly afraid to see him, for she felt
in her bones he would say she had galloping consumption and would die
before the leaves cast a shadow. This was a phrase she had picked up
from Grace, whose conversation, perhaps on account of her asthma, was
full of references to early graves and quick declines.
And yet--did you ever hear of such a case before?--although Elizabeth
Ann when she first stood up before the doctor had been quaking with fear
lest he discover some deadly disease in her, she was very much hurt
indeed when, after thumping her and looking at her lower eyelid inside
out, and listening to her breathing, he pushed her away with a little
jerk and said: "There's nothing in the world the matter with that child.
She's as sound as a nut! What she needs is..."--he looked for a moment
at Aunt Frances's thin, anxious face, with the eyebrows drawn together
in a knot of conscientiousness, and then he looked at Aunt Harriet's
thin, anxious face with the eyebrows drawn up that very same way, and
then he glanced at Grace's thin, anxious face peering from the door
waiting for his verdict--and then he drew a long breath, shut his lips
and his little black case very tightly, and did not go on | 616.073411 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.1445580 | 1,693 | 9 |
Produced by Robert J. Hall
MANUAL FOR NONCOMMISSIONED OFFICERS AND PRIVATES OF INFANTRY OF
THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES
1917
To be used by Engineer companies (dismounted) and Coast Artillery
companies for Infantry instruction and training.
WAR DEPARTMENT Document No. 574 OFFICE OF THE ADJUTANT GENERAL
WAR DEPARTMENT,
WASHINGTON, _April_14,_1917._
The following Manual for Noncommissioned Officers and Privates
of Infantry of the Army of the United States is approved and
herewith published for the information and government of all
concerned.
This manual will also be used by Engineer companies (dismounted)
and Coast Artillery companies in connection with Infantry instruction
and training prescribed by the War Department.
By ORDER OF THE SECRETARY OF WAR:
H. L. SCOTT,
_Major_General,_Chief_of_Staff._
OFFICIAL:
H. P. McCAIN.
_The_Adjutant_General._
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. MILITARY DISCIPLINE AND COURTESY
Section 1. Oath of enlistment
Section 2. Obedience
Section 3. Loyalty
Section 4. Discipline
Section 5. Military courtesy
Section 6. Saluting
Section 7. Rules governing saluting
Section 8. Courtesies in conversation
CHAPTER II. ARMS, UNIFORMS, AND EQUIPMENT
Section 1. The rifle
Section 2. Care of the rifle
Section 3. Cleaning the rifle
Section 4. Uniforms
Section 5. The service kit
Section 6. The surplus kit
Section 7. Assembling Infantry equipment
CHAPTER III. RATIONS AND FORAGE
Section 1. The ration
Section 2. Individual cooking
Section 3. The forage ration
CHAPTER IV. PERSONAL HYGIENE AND CARE OF THE FEET
CHAPTER V. EXTRACTS FROM INFANTRY DRILL REGULATIONS, 1911
Section l. Definitions
Section 2. Introduction
Section 3. Orders, commands, and signals
Section 4. School of the soldier
Section 5. School of the squad
Section 6. School of the company
Section 7. Company inspection
Section 8. Manual of tent pitching
Section 9. Manual of the bayonet
CHAPTER VI. FIELD SERVICE
Section 1. Principles of Infantry training
Section 2. Combat
Section 3. Patrolling
Section 4. Advance guards
Section 5. Rear guards
Section 6. Flank guards
Section 7. Outposts
Section 8. Rifle trenches
CHAPTER VII. MARCHING AND CAMPING
Section 1. Breaking camp and preparation for a march
Section 2. Marching
Section 3. Making camp
Section 4. Camp services and duties
CHAPTER VIII. TARGET PRACTICE
Section 1. Preliminary training in marksmanship
Section 2. Sight adjustment
Section 3. Table of sight corrections
Section 4. Aiming
Section 5. Battle sight
Section 6. Trigger squeeze
Section 7. Firing positions
Section 8. Calling the shot
Section 9. Coordination
Section 10. Advice to riflemen
Section 11. The course in small-arms firing
Section 12. Targets
Section 13. Pistol and revolver practice
CHAPTER IX. EXTRACTS PROM MANUAL OF INTERIOR GUARD DUTY
Section 1. Introduction
Section 2. Classification of interior guilds
Section 3. Details and rosters
Section 4. Commander of the guard
Section 5. Sergeant of the guard
Section 6. Corporal of the guard
Section 7. Musicians of the guard
Section 8. Orderlies and color sentinels
Section 9. Privates of the guard
Section 10. Orders for sentinels
Section 11. Countersigns and paroles
Section 12. Guard patrols
Section 13. Watchmen
Section 14. Compliments from guards
Section 15. Prisoners
Section 16. Guarding prisoners
Section 17. Flags
Section 18. Reveille and retreat gun
Section 19. Guard mounting
Section 20. Formal guard mounting for Infantry
Section 21. Informal guard mounting for Infantry
Section 22. Relieving the old guard
CHAPTER X. MAP READING AND SKETCHING
Section 1. Military map reading
Section 2. Sketching
CHAPTER XI. MESSAGE BLANKS
CHAPTER XII. SIGNALS AND CODES
CHAPTER XIII. FIRST-AID RULES
CHAPTER XIV. LAWS AND REGULATIONS
Section 1. General provisions
Section 2. The Army of the United States
Section 3. Rank and precedence of officers and noncommissioned
officers
Section 4. Insignia of officers and noncommissioned officers
Section 5. Extracts from the Articles of War
CHAPTER XV. ENGLISH-FRENCH VOCABULARY
APPENDIX. FORM FOR LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
CHAPTER I.
MILITARY DISCIPLINE AND COURTESY.
SECTION 1. OATH OF ENLISTMENT.
Every soldier on enlisting in the Army takes upon himself the
following obligation:
"I,--------, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will bear true
faith and allegiance to the United States of America; that I will
serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies
whomsoever; and that I will obey the orders of the President of
the United States, and the orders of the officers appointed over
me according to the Rules and Articles of War." (109th Article
of War.)
SECTION 2. OBEDIENCE.
The very first paragraph in the Army Regulations reads:
"All persons in the military service are required to obey strictly
and to EXECUTE PROMPTLY the lawful orders of their superiors."
Obedience is the first and last duty of a soldier. It is the
foundation upon which all military efficiency is built. Without
it an army becomes a mob, while with it a mob ceases to be a
mob and becomes possessed of much of the power of an organized
force. It is a quality that is demanded of every person in the
Army, from the highest to the lowest. Each enlisted man binds
himself, by his enlistment oath, to obedience. Each officer, in
accepting his commission, must take upon himself the same solemn
obligation.
Obey strictly and execute promptly the lawful orders of your
superiors. It is enough to know that the person giving the order,
whether he be an officer, a noncommissioned officer, or a private
acting as such, is your lawful superior. You may not like him,
you may not respect him, but you must respect his position and
authority, and reflect honor and credit upon yourself and your
profession by yielding to all superiors that complete and
unhesitating obedience which is the pleasure as well as the duty
of every true soldier.
Orders must be STRICTLY carried out. It is not sufficient to
comply with only that part which suits you or which involves no
work or danger or hardship. Nor is it proper or permissible, when
you are ordered to do a thing in a certain way or to accomplish a
work in a definitely prescribed manner, for you to obtain the
same results by other methods.
Obedience must be PROMPT | 616.164598 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.2551880 | 89 | 7 |
Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny
PARISIANS IN THE COUNTRY
THE ILLUSTRIOUS GAUDISSART,
AND THE MUSE OF THE DEPARTMENT
By Honore De Balzac
INTRODUCTION
I have sometimes wondered whether it was accident or intention which
made Balzac so frequently combine early and late work in the same
volume. The question is certainly insoluble, and perhaps | 616.275228 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.2611910 | 156 | 25 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books
HAPPY ISLAND
A New “Uncle William” Story
By Jennette Lee
New York The Century Co.
1911
TO
GERALD STANLEY LEE
“To make the young world move—He has eyes,
And ears, and he can read the sun....
In tune with all the children who laugh best
And longest through the sunshine, though far off
Their laughter, and unheard.”
CONTENTS
HAPPY ISLAND
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
X | 616.281231 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.3807290 | 7,437 | 24 |
Produced by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
THERE & BACK
By George Macdonald
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. FATHER, CHILD, AND NURSE
II. STEPMOTHER AND NURSE
III. THE FLIGHT
IV. THE BOOKBINDER AND HIS PUPIL
V. THE MANSONS
VI. SIMON ARMOUR
VII. COMPARISONS
VIII. A LOST SHOE
IX. A HOLIDAY
X. THE LIBRARY
XI. ALICE
XII. MORTGRANGE
XIII. THE BEECH-TREE
XIV. AGAIN THE LIBRARY
XV. BARBARA WYLDER
XVI. BARBARA AND RICHARD
XVII. BARBARA AND OTHERS
XVIII. MRS. WYLDER
XIX. MRS. WYLDER AND BARBARA
XX. BARBARA AND HER CRITICS
XXI. THE PARSON'S PARABLE
XXII. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
XXIII. A HUMAN GADFLY
XXIV. RICHARD AND WINGFOLD
XXV. WINGFOLD AND HIS WIFE
XXVI. RICHARD AND ALICE
XXVII. A SISTER
XXVIII. BARBARA AND LADY ANN
XXIX. ALICE AND BARBARA
XXX. BARBARA THINKS
XXXI. WINGFOLD AND BARBARA
XXXII. THE SHOEING OF MISS BROWN
XXXIII. RICHARD AND VIXEN
XXXIV. BARBARA'S DUTY
XXXV. THE PARSON'S COUNSEL
XXXVI. LADY ANN MEDITATES
XXXVII. LADY ANN AND RICHARD
XXXVIII. RICHARD AND ARTHUR
XXXIX. MR., MRS., AND MISS WYLDER
XL. IN LONDON
XLI. NATURE AND SUPERNATURE
XLII. YET A LOWER DEEP
XLIII. TO BE REDEEMED, ONE MUST REDEEM
XLIV. A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN
XLV. THE CARRIAGE
XLVI. RICHARD'S DILEMMA
XLVII. THE DOORS OF HARMONY AND DEATH
XLVIII. DEATH THE DELIVERER
XLIX. THE CAVE IN THE FIRE
L. DUCK-FISTS
LI. BARONET AND BLACKSMITH
LII. UNCLE-FATHER AND AUNT-MOTHER
LIII. MORNING
LIV. BARBARA AT HOME
LV. MISS BROWN
LVI. WINGFOLD AND BARBARA
LVII. THE BARONET'S WILL
LVIII. THE HEIR
LIX. WINGFOLD AND ARTHUR MANSON
LX. RICHARD AND HIS FAMILY
LXI. HEART TO HEART
LXII. THE QUARREL
LXIII. BARONET AND BLACKSMITH
LXIV. THE BARONET'S FUNERAL
LXV. THE PACKET
LXVI. BARBARA'S DREAM
_NOTE._
_Some of the readers of this tale will be glad to know that the passage
with which it ends is a real dream; and that, with but three or four
changes almost too slight to require acknowledging, I have given it word
for word as the friend to whom it came set it down for me._
CHAPTER I. _FATHER, CHILD, AND NURSE._
It would be but stirring a muddy pool to inquire--not what motives
induced, but what forces compelled sir Wilton Lestrange to marry a woman
nobody knew. It is enough to say that these forces were mainly ignoble,
as manifested by their intermittent character and final cessation.
The _mesalliance_ occasioned not a little surprise, and quite as much
annoyance, among the county families,--failing, however, to remind any
that certain of their own grandmothers had been no better known to the
small world than lady Lestrange. It caused yet more surprise, though
less annoyance, in the clubs to which sir Wilton had hitherto been
indebted for help to forget his duties: they set him down as a greater
idiot than his friends had hitherto imagined him. For had he not been
dragged to the altar by a woman whose manners and breeding were hardly
on the level of a villa in St. John's Wood? Did any one know whence she
sprang, or even the name which sir Wilton had displaced with his own?
But sir Wilton himself was not proud of his lady; and if the thing had
been any business of theirs, it would have made no difference to him; he
would none the less have let them pine in their ignorance. Did not his
mother, a lady less dignified than eccentric, out of pure curiosity beg
enlightenment concerning her origin, and receive for answer from the
high-minded baronet, "Madam, the woman is my wife!"--after which the
prudent dowager asked no more questions, but treated her daughter-in-law
with neither better nor worse than civility. Sir Wilton, in fact, soon
came to owe his wife a grudge that he had married her, and none the
less that at the time he felt himself of a generosity more than human in
bestowing upon her his name. Creation itself, had he ever thought of it,
would have seemed to him a small thing beside such a gift!
That Robina Armour, after experience of his first advances, should have
at last consented to marry sir Wilton Lestrange, was in no sense in her
favour, although after a fashion she was in love with him--in love, that
is, with the gentleman of her own imagining whom she saw in the baronet;
while the baronet, on his part, was what he called in love with what he
called _the woman_. As he was overcome by her beauty, so was she by
his rank--an idol at whose clay feet is cast many a spiritual
birthright--and as mean a deity as any of man's device. But the
blacksmith's daughter was in many respects, notwithstanding, a woman
of good sense, with much real refinement, and a genuine regard for
rectitude. Although sir Wilton had never loved her with what was best
in him, it was not in spite of what was best in him that he fell in love
with her. Had his better nature been awake, it would have justified the
bond, and been strengthened by it.
Lady Lestrange's father was a good blacksmith, occasionally drunk in
his youth, but persistently sober now in his middle age; a long-headed
fellow, with reach and quality in the prudence which had long ceased to
appear to him the highest of virtues. At one period he had accounted it
the prime duty of existence to take care of oneself; and so much of this
belief had he communicated to his younger daughter, that she deported
herself so that sir Wilton married her--with the result that, when Death
knocked at her door, she welcomed him to her heart. The first cry of her
child, it is true, made her recall the welcome, but she had to go with
him, notwithstanding, when the child was but an hour old.
Not one of her husband's family was in the house when she died. Sir
Wilton himself was in town, and had been for the last six months,
preferring London and his club to Mortgrange and his wife. When a
telegram informed him that she was in danger, he did go home, but when
he arrived, she had been an hour gone, and he congratulated himself that
he had taken the second train.
There had been betwixt them no approach to union. When what sir Wilton
called love had evaporated, he returned to his mire, with a resentful
feeling that the handsome woman--his superior in everything that belongs
to humanity--had bewitched him to his undoing. The truth was, she had
ceased to charm him. The fault was not in her; it lay in the dulled eye
of the swiftly deteriorating man, which grew less and less capable
of seeing things as they were, and transmitted falser and falser
impressions of them. The light that was in him was darkness. The woman
that might have made a man of him, had there been the stuff, passed from
him an unprized gift, a thing to which he made Hades welcome.
It was decent, however, not to parade his relief. He retired to the
library, lit a cigar, and sat down to wish the unpleasant fuss of the
funeral over, and the house rid of a disagreeable presence. Had the
woman died of a disease to which he might himself one day have to
succumb, her death might, as he sat there, have chanced to raise for an
instant the watery ghost of an emotion; but, coming as it did, he had no
sympathetic interest in her death any more than in herself. Lolling in
the easiest of chairs, he revolved the turns of last night's play, until
it occurred to him that he might soon by a second marriage take amends
of his neighbours for their disapprobation of his first. So pleasant was
the thought that, brooding upon it, he fell asleep.
He woke, looked, rubbed his eyes, stared, rubbed them again, and stared.
A woman stood in front of him--one he had surely seen!--no, he had never
seen her anywhere! What an odd, inquiring, searching expression in her
two hideous black eyes! And what was that in her arms--something wrapt
in a blanket?
The message in the telegram recurred to him: there must have been a
child! The bundle must be the child! Confound the creature! What did it
want?
"Go away," he said; "this is not the nursery!"
"I thought you might like to look at the baby, sir!" the woman replied.
Sir Wilton stared at the blanket.
"It might comfort you, I thought!" she went on, with a look he felt
to be strange. Her eyes were hard and dry, red with recent tears, and
glowing with suppressed fire.
Sir Wilton was courteous to most women, especially such as had no claim
upon him, but cherished respect for none. It was odd therefore that
he should now feel embarrassed. From some cause the machinery of his
self-content had possibly got out of gear; anyhow no answer came ready.
He had not the smallest wish to see the child, but was yet, perhaps,
unwilling to appear brutal. In the meantime, the woman, with gentle,
moth-like touch, was parting and turning back the folds of the
blanket, until from behind it dawned a tiny human face, whose angel was
suppliant, it may be, for the baptism of a father's first gaze.
The woman held out the child to sir Wilton, as if expecting him to take
it. He started to his feet, driving the chair a yard behind him, stuck
his hands in his pockets, and, with a face of disgust, cried--
"Great God! take the creature away."
But he could not lift his eyes from the face nested in the blanket. It
seemed to fascinate him. The woman's eyes flared, but she did not speak.
"Uglier than sin!" he half hissed, half growled. "--I suppose the animal
is mine, but you needn't bring it so close to me! Take it away--and keep
it away. I will send for it when I want it--which won't be in a hurry!
My God! How hideous a thing may be, and yet human!"
"He is as God made him!" remarked the nurse, quietly for very wrath.
"Or the devil!" suggested his father.
Then the woman looked like a tigress. She opened her mouth, but closed
it again with a snap.
"I may say what I like of my own!" said the father. "Tell me the goblin
is none of mine, and I will be as respectful to him as you please. Prove
it, and I will give you fifty pounds. He's hideous! He's damnably ugly!
Deny it if you can."
The woman held her peace. She could not, even to herself, call him a
child pleasant to look at. She gazed on him for a moment with pitiful,
protective eyes, then covered his face as if he were dead, but she did
not move.
"Why don't you go?" said the baronet.
Instead of replying, she began, as by a suddenly confirmed resolve,
to remove the coverings at the other end of the bundle, and presently
disclosed the baby's feet. The baronet gazed wondering. To what might
not assurance be about to subject him? She took one of the little feet
in a hard but gentle hand, and spreading out "the pink, five-beaded
baby-toes," displayed what even the inexperience of the baronet
could not but recognize as remarkable: between every pair of toes was
stretched a thin delicate membrane. She laid the foot down, took up the
other, and showed the same peculiarity. The child was web-footed, as
distinctly as any properly constituted duckling! Then she lifted, one
after the other, the tiny hands, beautiful to any eye that understood,
and showed between the middle and third finger of each, the same sort of
membrane rising half-way to the points of them.
"I see!" said the baronet, with a laugh that was not nice, having in it
no merriment, "the creature is a monster!--Well, if you think I am to
blame, I can only protest you are mistaken. _I_ am not web-footed! The
duckness must come from the other side."
"I hope you will remember, sir Wilton!"
"Remember? What do you mean? Take the monster away."
The woman rearranged the coverings of the little crooked legs.
"Won't you look at your lady before they put her in her coffin?" she
said when she had done.
"What good would that do her? She's past caring!--No, I won't: why
should I? Such sights are not pleasant."
"The coffin's a lonely chamber, sir Wilton; lonely to lie all day and
all night in!"
"No lonelier for one than for another!" he replied, with an involuntary
recoil from his own words. For the one thing a man must believe--yet
hardly believes--is, that he shall one day die. "She'll be better
without me, anyhow!"
"You are heartless, sir Wilton!"
"Mind your own business. If I choose to be heartless, I may have my
reasons. Take the child away."
Still she did not move. The baby, young as he was, had thrown the
blanket from his face, and the father's eyes were fixed on it: while he
gazed the nurse would not stir. He seemed fascinated by its ugliness.
Without absolute deformity, the child was indeed as unsightly as infant
well could be.
"My God!" he said again--for he had a trick of crying out as if he had
a God--"the little brute hates me! Take it away, woman. Take it away
before I strangle it! I can't answer for myself if it keeps on looking
at me!"
With a glance whose mingled anger and scorn the father did not see, the
nurse turned and went.
He kept staring after her till the door shut, then fell back into his
chair, exclaiming once more, "My God!"--What or whom he meant by the
word, it were hard to say.
"Is it possible," he said to himself, "that the fine woman I
married--for she _was_ a fine woman, a deuced fine woman!--should have
died to present the world with such a travesty! It's like nothing human!
It's an affront to the family! Ah! the strain _will_ show! They say your
sins will find you out! It was a sin to marry the woman! Damned fool I
was! But she bewitched me! I _was_ bewitched!--Curse the little monster!
I shan't breathe again till I'm out of the house! Where was the doctor?
He ought to have seen to it! Hang it all, I'll go abroad!"
Ugly as the child was, however, to many an eye the first thing evident
in him would have been his strong likeness to his father--whose
features were perfect, though at the moment, and at many a moment, their
expression was other than attractive. Sir Wilton disliked children,
and the dislike was mutual. Never did child run to him; never was child
unwilling to leave him. Escaping from his grasp, he would turn and look
back, like Christian emerging from the Valley of the Shadow, as if to
weigh the peril he had been in.
As tenderly as if he had been the loveliest of God's children, the woman
bore her charge up staircases, and through corridors and passages, to
the remote nursery, where, in a cradle whose gay furniture contrasted
sadly with the countenance of the child and the fierceness of her
own eyes, she gently laid him down. But long after he was asleep, she
continued to bend over him, as if with difficulty restraining herself
from clasping him again to her bosom.
Jane Tuke had been married four or five years, but had no children, and
the lack seemed to have intensified her maternity. Elder sister to lady
Lestrange, she had gone gladly to receive her child in her arms, and had
watched and waited for it with an expectation far stronger than that of
the mother; for so thorough was lady Lestrange's disappointment in
her husband, that she regarded the advent of his child almost with
indifference. Jane had an absolute passion for children. She had married
a quarter for faith, a quarter for love, and a whole half for hope. This
divinely inexplicable child-passion is as unintelligible to those
devoid of it, as its absence is marvellous to those possessed by it. Its
presence is its justification, its being its sole explanation, itself
its highest reason. Surely on those who cherish it, the shadow of the
love-creative God must rest more than on some other women! Unpleasing as
was the infant, to know him her own would have made the world a paradise
to Jane. Her heart burned with divine indignation at the wrongs already
heaped upon him. Hardly born, he was persecuted! Ugly! he was _not_
ugly! Was he not come straight from the fountain of life, from the
Father of children? That such a father as she had left in the library
should repudiate him was well! She loved to think of his rejection.
She brooded with delight, in the midst of her wrath, on every word of
disgust that had fallen from his unfatherly lips. The more her baby was
rejected, the more he was hers! He belonged to her, and her only, for
she only loved him! She could say with _France_ in _King Lear_, "Be
it lawful I take up what's cast away!" To her the despised one was the
essence of all riches. The joy of a miser is less than the joy of a
mother, as gold is less than a live soul, as greed is less than love.
No vision of jewels ever gave such a longing as this woman longed with
after the child of her dead sister.
The body that bore was laid in the earth, the thing born was left upon
it. The mother had but come, exposed her infant on the rough shore
of time, and forsaken him in his nakedness. There he lay, not knowing
whence he came, or whither he was going, urged to live by a hunger
and thirst he had not invented, and did not understand. His mother had
helplessly forsaken him, but the God in another woman had taken him up:
there was a soul to love him, two arms to carry him, and a strong heart
to shelter him.
Sir Wilton returned to London, and there enjoyed himself--not much,
but a little the more that no woman sat at Mortgrange with a right to
complain that he took his pleasure without her. He lived the life of the
human animals frequenting the society of their kind from a gregarious
instinct, and for common yet opposing self-ends. He had begun to assume
the staidness, if not dullness, of the animal whose first youth has
departed, but he was only less frolicsome, not more human. He was
settling down to what he had made himself; no virtue could claim a share
in the diminished rampancy of his vices. What a society is that which
will regard as reformed the man whom assuaging fires have left an
exhausted slag--a thing for which as yet no use is known, who suggests
no promise of change or growth, gives no poorest hint of hope concerning
his fate!
With the first unrecognized sense of approaching age, a certain habit
of his race began to affect him, and the idea of a quieter life, with a
woman whose possession would make him envied, grew mildly attractive. A
brilliant marriage in another county would, besides, avenge him on
the narrow-minded of his own, who had despised his first choice! With
judicial family-eye he surveyed the eligible women of his acquaintance.
It was, no doubt, to his disadvantage that already an heir lay "mewling
and puking in the nurse's arms;" for a woman who might willingly be
mother to the inheritor of such a property as his, might not find
attractive the notion of her first being her husband's second son. But
slips between cups and lips were not always on the wrong side! Such
a moon-calf as Robina's son could not with justice represent the
handsomest man and one of the handsomest women of their time. The heir
that fate had palmed upon him might very well be doomed to go the way so
many infants went!
He spread the report that the boy was sickly. A notion that he was not
likely to live prevailed about Mortgrange, which, however originated,
was nourished doubtless by the fact that he was so seldom seen. In
reality, however, there was not a healthier child in all England than
Richard Lestrange.
Sir Wilton's relations took as little interest in the heir as himself,
and there was no inducement for any of them to visit Mortgrange; the
aunt-mother, therefore, had her own way with him. She was not liked in
the house. The servants said she cared only for the little toad of a
baronet, and would do nothing for her comfort. They had, however, just a
shadow of respect for her: if she encouraged no familiarity, she did not
meddle, and was independent of their aid. Even the milking of the cow
which had been, through her persistence, set apart for the child, she
did herself. She sought no influence in the house, and was nothing loved
and little heeded.
Sir Wilton had not again seen his heir, who was now almost a year old,
when the rumour reached Mortgrange that the baronet was about to be
married.
Naturally, the news was disquieting to Jane. The hope, however, was left
her, that the stepmother might care as little for the child as did the
father, and that so, for some years at least, he might be left to her.
It was a terrible thought to the loving woman that they might be parted;
a more terrible thought that her baby might become a man like his
father. Of all horrors to a decent woman, a bad man must be the worst!
If by her death she could have left the child her hatred of evil, Jane
would have willingly died: she loved her husband, but her sister's boy
was in danger!
CHAPTER II. _STEPMOTHER AND NURSE._
The rumour of sir Wilton's marriage was, as rumour seldom is, correct.
Before the year was out, lady Ann Hardy, sister to the earl of Torpavy,
representing an old family with a drop or two of very bad blood in
it, became lady Ann Lestrange How much love there may have been in the
affair, it is unnecessary to inquire, seeing the baronet was what he
was, and the lady understood the _what_ pretty well. She might have
preferred a husband not so much what sir Wilton was, but she was
nine-and-twenty, and her brother was poor. She said to herself, I
suppose, that she might as well as another undertake his reform: some
one must! and married him. She had not much of a trousseau, but was
gorgeously attired for the wedding. It is true she had to return to the
earl three-fourths of the jewels she wore; but they were family jewels,
and why should she not have some good of them? She started with fifty
pounds of her own in her pocket, and a demeanour in her person equal
to fifty millions. When they arrived at Mortgrange, the moon was indeed
still in the sky, but the honey-pot, to judge by the appearance of the
twain, was empty: twain they were, and twain would be. The man wore a
look of careless all-rightness, tinged with an expression of indifferent
triumph: he had what he wanted; what his lady might think of her side
of the bargain, he neither thought nor cared. As to the woman, let her
reflections be what they might, not a soul would come to the knowledge
of them. Whatever it was to others, her pale, handsome face was never
false to herself, never betrayed what she was thinking, never broke
the shallow surface of its frozen dignity. Will any man ever know how a
woman of ordinary decency feels after selling herself? I find the thing
hardly safe to ponder. No trace, no shadow of disappointment clouded the
countenance of lady Ann that sultry summer afternoon as she drove up the
treeless avenue. The education she had received--and education in
the worst sense it was! for it had brought out the worst in her--had
rendered her less than human. The form of her earthly presence had
been trained to a fashionable perfection; her nature had not been left
unaided in its reversion toward the vague animal type from which it was
developed: in the curve of her thin lips as they prepared to smile,
one could discern the veiled snarl and bite. Her eyes were grey, her
eyebrows dark; her complexion was a clear fair, her nose perfect, except
for a sharp pinch at the end of the bone; her nostrils were thin but
motionless; her chin was defective, and her throat as slender as
her horrible waist; her hands and feet were large even for "her tall
personage."
After his lady had had a cup of tea, sir Wilton, for something to
do, proposed taking her over the house, which was old, and worthy of
inspection. In their progress they came to a door at the end of a long
and rather tortuous passage. Sir Wilton did not know how the room was
occupied, or he would doubtless have passed it by; but as its windows
gave a fine view of the park, he opened the door, and lady Ann entered.
Sudden displeasure shortened her first step; pride or something worse
lengthened the next, as she bore down on a woman too much occupied with
a child on her knee to look up at the sound of her entrance. When,
a moment after, she did look up, the dreaded stepmother was looking
straight down on her baby. Their eyes encountered. Jane met an icy
stare, and lady Ann a gaze of defiance--an expression by this time
almost fixed on the face of the nurse, for in her spirit she heard every
unspoken remark on her child. Not a word did the lady utter, but to
Jane, her eyes, her very breath seemed to say with scorn, "Is _that_ the
heir?" Sir Wilton did not venture a single look: he was ashamed of his
son, and already a little afraid of his wife, whom he had once seen
close her rather large teeth in a notable way. As she turned toward the
window, however, he stole a glance at his offspring: the creature was
not quite so ugly as before--not quite so repulsive as he had pictured
him! But, good heavens! he was on the lap of the same woman whose
fierceness had upset him almost as much as his child's ugliness! He
walked to the window after his wife. She gazed for a moment, turned with
indifference, and left the room. Her husband followed her. A glance of
fear, dislike, and defiance, went after them from Jane.
Stronger contrast than those two women it would be hard to find. Jane's
countenance was almost coarse, but its rugged outline was almost grand.
Her hair grew low down on her forehead, and she had deep-set eyes. Her
complexion was rough, her nose large and thick. Her mouth was large
also, but, when unaffected by her now almost habitual antagonism, the
curve of her lip was sweet, and occasionally humorous. Her chin was
strong, and the total of her face what we call masculine; but when
she silently regarded her child, it grew beautiful with the radiant
tenderness of protection.
Her visitors left the door open behind them; Jane rose and shut it,
sat down again, and gazed motionless at the infant. Perhaps he vaguely
understood the sorrow and dread of her countenance, for he pulled a long
face of his own, and was about to cry. Jane clasped him to her bosom in
an agony: she felt certain she would not long be permitted to hold him
there. In the silent speech of my lady's mouth, her jealous love saw the
doom of her darling. What precise doom she dared not ask herself; it
was more than enough that she, indubitably his guardian as if sent from
heaven to shield him, must abandon him to his natural enemy, one who
looked upon him as the adversary of her own children. It was a thought
not to be thought, an idea for which there should be no place in her
bosom! Unfathomable as the love between man and woman is the love of
woman to child.
She spent a wakeful night. From the decree of banishment sure to go
forth against her, there was no appeal! Go she must! Yet her heart cried
out that he was her own. In the same lap his mother had lain before him!
She had carried her by day, and at night folded her in the same arms,
herself but six years old--old enough to remember yet the richness
unspeakable of her new possession. Never had come difference betwixt
them until Robina began to give ear to sir Wilton, whom Jane could not
endure. When she responded, as she did at once, to her sister's cry for
her help, she made her promise that no one should understand who she
was, but that she should in the house be taken for and treated as a
hired nurse. Why Jane stipulated thus, it were hard to say, but so
careful were they both, that no one at Mortgrange suspected the nurse
as personally interested in the ugly heir left in her charge! No one
dreamed that the child's aunt had forsaken her husband to nurse him, and
was living _for_ him day and night. She, in her turn, had promised her
sister never to leave him, and this pledge strengthened the bond of
her passion. The only question was _how_ she was to be faithful to her
pledge, _how_ to carry matters when she was turned away. With those
thin, close-pressed lips in her mind's eye, she could not count on
remaining where she was beyond a few days.
She was not only a woman capable of making up her mind, but a woman of
resource, with the advantage of having foreseen and often pondered the
possibility of that which was now imminent. The same night, silent above
the sleep of her darling, she sat at work with needle and scissors far
into the morning, remodelling an old print dress. For nights after, she
was similarly occupied, though not a scrap or sign of the labour was
visible in the morning.
The crisis anticipated came within a fortnight. Lady Ann did not show
herself a second time in the nursery, but sending for Jane, informed her
that an experienced nurse was on her way from London to take charge
of the child, and her services would not be required after the next
morning.
"For, of course," concluded her ladyship, "I could not expect a woman of
your years to take an under-nurse's place!"
"Please your ladyship, I will gladly," said Jane, eager to avoid or at
least postpone the necessity forcing itself upon her.
"I intend you to go--and _at once_," replied her ladyship; "--that is,
the moment Mrs. Thornycroft arrives. The housekeeper will take care that
you have your month's wages in lieu of warning."
"Very well, my lady!--Please, your ladyship, when may I come and see the
child?"
"Not at all. There is no necessity."
"Never, my lady?"
"Decidedly."
"Then at least I may ask why you send me away so | 616.400769 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.4577510 | 7,436 | 6 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE LIFE OF A CELEBRATED BUCCANEER
_A PAGE OF PAST HISTORY FOR THE USE OF THE CHILDREN OF TO-DAY_
BY RICHARD CLYNTON
LONDON
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO.
PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
1889
LIFE OF A CELEBRATED BUCCANEER.
CHAPTER I.
Once upon a time there lived on an island, separated from the main land
of Europe by a silver streak of the ocean, a celebrated Buccaneer.
There was a rugged grandeur about the rock-bound coast of this island,
with its bluff, bold headlands and beetling cliffs, where the sea birds
loved to make their nests high up above the spray; mingling their cries
with the voice of the ocean as it rushed into its wide and deep throated
caverns. The waves, too, worked ever, and for ever, a broad fretwork
collar round these rocky shores. Unlucky was the ship that found this
island on her lee in a gale of wind. Many a child had been made
fatherless there, and many a wife a widow. But to those who knew how to
thread their way through the many channels, numerous bays, creeks, and
rivers, offered a safe retreat either from the storm or from an enemy.
This island was a fit home for one following the profession of a
Buccaneer. Its natural advantages were extremely great; for not only was
it difficult of access, but its innumerable big throated caverns opened
their wide jaws ready to receive anything that floated in from the
ocean. However, this bold pirate did such a good business, that in a
short time these caves became too small, so he had to build wharves and
warehouses to hold his plunder; for he lived in such an age, and was
surrounded by such unprincipled people, that he could not leave his
things lying about on the shore. Besides which, the climate was not
good, being frequently visited by fogs, gales of wind, and very heavy
rains.
Soon villages rose up; then towns, which in their turn grew into great
cities, the principal of which were generally planted by the side of
some one of his many rivers. Soon the bays and rivers became crowded
with ships, and the shores were busy scenes of industry. Cargoes were
being landed. Sails were being made and repaired; ropes overhauled and
restranded, and the smell of the pitch caldrons rose up and mingled with
the salt air blown in fresh from the sea. Shipwrights' hammers resounded
along the shores, and were echoed back by the beetling cliffs. While the
men worked, the women sang, and the chubby-faced, fair-haired children
played about on the beach.
To those who ask how our bold Buccaneer acquired most of his property,
it must be answered that it came to him in a manner usual in those
times. Everybody laid their hands upon what they could, and then devoted
all their spare time and energy to the keeping of it. Title deeds were
for the most part written in blood, with a sharp-pointed one-nibbed
steel pen. When we live in Rome we must do as the Romans do, and we must
not set up to be better than our neighbours, that is, if we wish to
prosper, and when all the world is going in for universal plunder it
does not pay to stand on one side, with hands idle, arms folded, and
eyes upturned to heaven, saying that people are wicked. Needs must when
the devil drives.
It has been a time-honoured custom to rob and kill, so that riches may
be laid up; then it becomes the duty of all to watch lest the thief
breaks through and steals. This primitive method of doing business is
now justly condemned, and all nations pay at least a tribute to virtue,
by flinging a cloth over any shady action. But nations even now have to
maintain their dignity. Insults have to be resented, and ambitious
designs have to be frustrated. Battles are fought, and people are
slaughtered, and some one, as the saying is, has to pay the piper.
It would almost seem, by a contemplation of things in general, that man
by nature is a robber, the action changing its colour according to the
atmosphere that people have to live in. In barbarous ages the act of
plunder is done openly, and a fellow-creature is sent about his
business, either with a broken head or with a spear through his body,
and there is an end to him, and perhaps the world is not much the
poorer. That honesty is the best policy is, by experience, forced upon
us; but even now, in our most enlightened age, the individual will at
times adulterate his liquor, sand his sugar, and sell short weight,
though he may try to sanctify the deed by saying his prayers before and
after; thus adding somewhat to the general stock of humbugs, hypocrites,
and Pharisees. But to our story.
It was a noble sight to see this bold Buccaneer getting under weigh with
his fleet of ships. Clack, clack went the windlasses, and his brave lads
could be heard singing as they lifted their anchors a peak--
Merrily round our capstans go
As we heave in the slack of our chain,
Into our sails the north winds blow
As we bear away from the main.
Yo ho, my lads, heave ho!
Home went the sheets. Up went the yards, and the sails bellied out to
the wind. On the shores crowded the women and children. The little ones
with shock heads of curly hair, the sport of the breeze, crying after
their fathers, holding up their tearful little faces for the sea-breeze
to kiss. The wives wishing their brave lads a prosperous voyage, and a
safe return, with plenty of plunder. Silks and spices from the East, and
gold and silver from the West, or wherever they could find it. Away went
the ships, with their white canvas spread like the wings of a seagull.
Soon the hulls were down, and the white specks, after lingering for a
while upon the far-off horizon, sank beneath and vanished. Then sending
a sigh after their mates on the wings of the north wind, the women
returned to their homes and sang their young sea whelps to sleep, with
lullabies tuned to the daring deeds of their fathers.
CHAPTER II.
Things in this world do not remain shady long. Time works wonders and
throws the halo of romance over the darkest deeds. See what time and
romance have done for William Tell. Look at your Alexander and your
Frederick; are not they both called great? Ah! these two were conquerors
not plunderers; and there lies the difference, though perhaps Maria
Theresa and one or two others might have had something to say against
one of these fine fellows. Then there is Robin Hood. Have not time and
romance completely changed the aspect of that, at one time, bold and
notorious outlaw? For over fifty years did this jolly robber enjoy
himself upon other people's property. Look too at the numerous other
gentlemen of the road; your crusaders and adventurers in early times.
What were the hardy Norsemen, of whom we love to sing? There is
something very attractive about your robber, no matter whether he
carries on his profession by sea or land, the only thing needful being,
to study him at a distance, and through the halo of this said romance.
If it were not for the world's great robbers what would historians have
to record; what would poets have to sing about? If they had to confine
themselves to the virtuous actions, to the good that is done, their
occupation would be gone. The chronicling of small beer is a waste of
labour.
But there comes a time when the very worst of sinners are troubled by
that mysterious part of the human economy known by the name of
conscience. This conscience is at times a veritable tyrant, saying what
we shall eat, what we shall drink, and what we shall do. To the many the
matter is not one of difficulty. If they have to make their way in the
world, conscience is either thrown overboard, or put under hatches until
such times as it is wanted. Then it comes up all the fresher for its
temporary retirement, and is, generally speaking, very exacting.
The disposition to repent of the evil we have done is not confined
either to age, time, or sex happily. The call comes perhaps, more often,
and earlier, to women than it does to men. Jezebel was not altogether as
good as she ought to have been, but even she might have turned over a
new leaf, and have become a most respectable saint, had not misfortune
thrown her across the path of that impetuous fellow Jehu, with the
result that she was, as every one knows, thrown out of a window. Had
Jezebel lived in the Buccaneer island in his later days, and had she
been young and beautiful, and the paint not too thick upon her face, she
might have been tried for some small act of indiscretion, such for
instance as that trifling incident about Naboth; but probably she would
have been acquitted, when no doubt she would have left the court without
a stain upon her character, and would have been an object of sympathy
ever after. This lady has left a numerous family of daughters behind
her, many of whom, however, turn over new leaves, and having been
considerable sinners, become the most straight-laced, unpitying, and
uncharitable of sour-faced saints. Poor Jezebel the first was never
given a chance. She lived too soon.
But to the point. The time came when our bold Buccaneer received, as the
saying is, his call, and it was brought about in the following manner.
In early times when saints walked about the earth calling sinners to
repentance, one found his way over to the Buccaneer's island, induced to
go there, not by the hope of any worldly gain in the shape of church
preferment or salary; and here lies much of the difference between a
modern saint and an ancient one. But the one, of whom we wish now
particularly to speak, was impelled by the hope of snatching this
burning brand from the devil's fire. Some of the Buccaneer's neighbours
had tried to convert him before this, by means of the sword, but without
effect, for the pirate's nest was a hard one to take, and the eggs burnt
the fingers of all those who attempted to touch them.
The precise spot where the saint landed is open to doubt; so is the
exact time and the method of his transit. Some declared that he came
over on a broomstick. Others again, said he used the ordinary means of
conveyance, and this is the most worthy of credence. About saints there
is generally something that is legendary. He preached his gospel to the
Buccaneer, and told him in the plainest language that he was going to
the devil, about whose dominion he drew such a glowing account that the
Buccaneer was moved.
He repented, and determined to turn over that wonderful leaf, that the
world is for ever hearing so much about, and seeing so little of. To
show his earnestness, the Buccaneer built churches and endowed them, and
not unfrequently out of the money that he took from other people. This
was but right. Belfries rose up in every nook and corner, and their iron
tongues could be constantly heard calling all pious buccaneers to
prayer.
But that befell the saint which sooner or later must happen to us all.
He died, but left behind him a book, which he told the Buccaneer was to
be his rule in life, for between its covers there lay the seed of all
that was good, and the gentle spirit of one, who though dead would live
for ever. The precious gift was handed over to the safe custody of the
Buccaneer's church, and the old saint with much sorrow and ceremony was
laid in his narrow cell, to await there the sound of the last trump.
CHAPTER III.
The days of mourning were barely over when difficulties arose. The faith
left behind by the old saint was extremely good, and even beautiful, but
it was not at all adapted to one who occasionally robbed a neighbour's
hen-roost. Indeed, it was not at all fitted for one who followed the
profession of a bold Buccaneer. It was a trifle hard to sell all that he
had and give it to the poor, who might be a lazy lot of skulking
rascals. Then who could expect to get on in this world, if, when one
cheek was struck he turned the other? Beautiful, yes, but not practical.
If our fighting Buccaneer did this sort of thing, every daw from the
mainland would invade the nest of the eagle, and peck him to death, and
suck his eggs.
Then the command not to lay up riches upon earth; and to live in peace
and charity with all men. This was all very well, but then when you are
surrounded by a lot of people, who will not live up to these fine
sentiments, what is a poor fellow to do?
The Buccaneer had a coxswain, who was his right-hand man, and whose name
was Jack Commonsense. He took him into his confidence. Old Jack
scratched his head, which was a sure sign that he was in trouble, and he
told his master that he did not see any way out of the difficulty, for,
if they sailed by the instruction as laid down in the Book the saint had
left behind, they had better give up the buccaneering business at once,
and try something else. The end of the matter was, that it was handed
over to the Buccaneer's Church to settle, for, as he said in his quaint
sea-faring language, it's no use keeping a dog if you have to bark
yourself. To his clergy he deputed the by no means easy task of shaping
a course in accordance with his book, the Bible, and at the same time
not altogether antagonistic to his worldly interests. In fact, some kind
of a compromise had to be made.
Obedient to the command of their earthly master, the most learned of the
Buccaneer's divines assembled together in solemn conclave, and having
opened the proceedings with prayer, they fell to arguing upon the grave
questions before them. The Scriptures were searched, and very much
learning and piety were displayed, and very much heat, with a little
temper, was introduced; but there seemed to be little probability of
their coming to a satisfactory conclusion. Some said the word must be
adhered to, others said that the word killed, and that it was the spirit
that must be taken into consideration.
After very much argument, which at times cleft asunder the matter in
dispute, thereby forming schism and even sects, a satisfactory
conclusion was arrived at, and the foundation was laid of an edifice,
which in time was to grow into most beautiful proportions. The
foundation rested upon the Book, and the corner stones were those which
Christ had laid in Galilee. The superstructure was built to a large
extent by human hands, and of earthly material. Still it was a noble
edifice, and thus the Buccaneer had manufactured for him a good everyday
religion, somewhat worldly perhaps, but eminently suited to his mode of
life.
There were slight incongruities, but it mattered little to the subject
of our history, and we may presume that he did not see them; or if he
did he did not notice them, which answers the same purpose. Such things
are at all times more apparent to other people than to those especially
interested. Besides, any little shortcomings on the part of the
Buccaneer were amply made amends for by his solicitude for the religious
welfare of others, whose eternal happiness seemed indeed to be more to
him than his own. Wherever he went he took with him his Bible, and as he
had not been able to swallow it wholesale himself, he soothed his
conscience by thrusting it down the throats of other people. If they
would not take it quietly, then he would help them over their difficulty
with the point of his sword. It was a principle of his that if people
would not go to Heaven, that they must be made to go there, and
accordingly he sent a good many to the other world very much against
their will, and very much before their time.
This bold Buccaneer was perhaps originally intended for a Mahommedan,
but being spoilt in the making he became an indifferent Christian. Tell
him this, and it would be wise to clear out at once, and make tracks for
the remotest part of the world.
As a matter of course he must follow the example of all other Christian
people, and enroll himself under the protection of some saint. Now,
whether it was by chance, or whether he was possessed with a grim kind
of humour, it would be impossible to say. Indeed, he may have had a
genuine admiration for the man. The fact remains that he chose as his
patron George of Capadocia, who seems to have done a very good business
in the way of bacon. It is at all times a difficult matter to form a
true estimate of a character far back in history; but it is probable
that the whole saintly calendar does not contain a more disreputable
blackguard than this self-same George; but he is now a saint "de mortuis
etc.;" the bold Buccaneer having now had a good serviceable religion
manufactured for him, and having also been fitted out with a good
elastic and easily worked conscience, he was himself again. Away the
merry rover went, cracking a head here and a crib there, and returning
home with whatever happened to fall in his way.
CHAPTER IV.
All the Buccaneer's neighbours had adopted some characteristic emblem or
device with an appropriate motto. No people, of any degree of
self-respect, can get on without such things. The device generally takes
the form of some beast or bird of prey--eagles and vultures being
greatly favoured. The bold Buccaneer with a characteristic modesty
adopted the lion as his emblem, and as his motto "God and my Right." It
is wonderful how he made both ends of his motto meet to his own great
advantage. These two principles seldom seemed to clash, and if they did,
he generally overcame the difficulty in a most satisfactory manner. This
perhaps was the effect of his having a good conscience.
Now the lion is a noble-looking animal. His appearance is ferocious,
while his roar is terrifying in the extreme. Those who have watched, and
studied his habits, say that in spite of all this, he is about as mean a
beast as ever stole a meal or entered upon an unequal fight, being ever
ready to rob and plunder the weaker inhabitants of the jungle. Of
course, the animal had his good points; all animals have, and, no doubt,
it was these that attracted the Buccaneer's attention. How delighted he
was when his lion's roar frightened any one of his neighbours! What
pleasure too it gave him when he put out his large paw and snatched a
handful of feathers out of any of their birds! But then what a terrible
screeching there was, and very often a fight.
Not to be behind his neighbour in anything, he created high sounding
titles, and honourable distinctions, to reward those of his sons who did
well in the buccaneering trade. Then to support the weight of their
newly acquired dignity, he either allowed them to levy blackmail on whom
they could, or he sent round the hat amongst his own people. This hat
was with him a cherished institution, and was used on all kinds of
occasions. It was hung up in all his churches, but taken down and sent
round after every service. Of such importance was it that it must be
deemed to be worthy at all times of a capital to begin with. For length
of titles he could not approach many of his neighbours, who frequently
found consolation for empty pockets, ruined castles, and extreme poverty
in a long string of names.
The bold Buccaneer grew in strength, in riches, and in righteousness
also. His family increased and multiplied as all good people's families
should; but still he fought, and for the most part conquered. This
proved to his own satisfaction that God was generally on his side. When
the enemy was handed over to him he despoiled him, thus following the
example set him by most other peoples and nations, in olden times and in
new. It is a good thing to pluck a beaten adversary well, lest he flies
again too soon, and sticks either his beak, or his claws into you. Do
not believe him if he says he will not do it. To his beaten foe the
Buccaneer was kind, for he gave to him spiritual consolation; giving his
Bible and selling him his strong and intoxicating drinks. He fully
believed that those who did not live up to the teaching of his book
would be eternally damned, though he did not at all times show a
disposition to live up to it himself, it being very much too
inconvenient to do so. There was occasionally such a difference between
his preaching, and his practice, that his neighbours wondered whether he
was a knave or a hypocrite, or a good honest gentleman who saw no
incongruity in his line of action.
Sometimes in his encounters with his enemies he came off second best, as
the saying is. Then there was nothing he was so sure of as that the
devil was fighting against him. It was his custom then to look about for
a scapegoat, and if he found one he sacrificed him to appease the Divine
anger. Then having bound up his broken head and dressed his wounds, he
took down his book, read a chapter or two, said his prayers, and then
waited until the Lord handed his enemy over to him. Then he quickly
wiped off old scores, adding or taking something, by way of interest.
Thus he became very much respected by all who knew him. As he
prospered, so did his church, for he was very generous as most sailors
are. Whatever the edifice was within, it was beautiful without, and had
a complete organisation. The High Priest, not Caiaphas, stood at the
head of all things, and he was the keeper of the Buccaneer's conscience.
It was the duty of the High Priest to keep all his subordinates in
order. This was a task which at times he could not perform, for the
members of the ecclesiastical body showed themselves to be true chips of
the Buccaneer block, and though essentially men of peace, they proved
themselves at times to be equally men of war. His priests being the
keepers of his conscience, frequently took upon themselves to lecture
him; not hesitating even to tell him of his transgressions. Having
brought the ardent old sinner upon his knees, and prescribed for him
prayers, mortifications, and fastings; having also bled him, they
cleaned and repaired his conscience and sent him on his way again. Thus
did the priesthood grow in power and in self-respect.
Comparisons, it is said, are odious; but they are necessary at times,
and if we compare our friend with any one of his neighbours, we find him
not a bit worse; he himself thinking, indeed, that he was infinitely
better. To exterminate the heathen, or to bring them over from their
evil ways, and to burn all heretics was at one time the pious object of
his life. The weak, too, had to be protected, and those who cannot take
care of themselves ought, at all times, to be extremely obliged to those
who will do it for them, and of course they must expect to pay. Then the
evil doer had to be punished and fined, and the pride of the arrogant
and haughty had to be humbled, and surplus populations had to be worked
off, and anybody undertaking these very disagreeable, though necessary
duties, is deserving of the thanks of those who have neither the taste,
nor the leisure for the occupation. There is nothing strange in all
this. Did not Moses sit upon the hilltop with Aaron on one side and Hur
on the other, and while these two held up his hands did he not look with
satisfaction upon Joshua discomfiting the Amalekites? and very well
Joshua seems to have done his work.
Who then will blame the Buccaneer? As in Joshua's day, so now such
things are necessary. And if the Buccaneer did burn a heretic or two,
what then? He was strictly impartial. To-day it was what was called a
Holy Roman that he fried, to-morrow he varied the bill of fare by
roasting a Protestant. That was in his early days.
Our Buccaneer was essentially a fighting man, and though the Book he
swore by preached peace on earth and good will towards men, his habit
was to mix himself up--in early times at least--in every pot-house brawl
that he could, and a cracked head was to him an honourable distinction.
He as often as not took the wrong side, and he was frequently found
fighting in very queer company; but to his honour it must be said that
the weakness of a neighbour, who was put upon, was more to him than any
abstract principle of right or wrong, and though he was not above
pitching into a fellow smaller than himself, he would not allow anyone
else to indulge in the luxury if he could help it.
The ill-natured--those who are for ever ready to find out spots and
blemishes in other people, to the utter neglect of their own, said all
kinds of things. Called him a hard fighting, hard drinking, and hard
swearing Christian. He did swear; it was a bad habit, no doubt; but then
his climate was enough to make any man swear, and drink into the
bargain. He had his failings, and he did not mind being told of them,
and he would sit patiently in church, whilst his priests thundered at
him from their many pulpits. He took it all in; said his prayers
devoutly, and when the inevitable Hat came round, he gave liberally.
Perhaps he experienced some slight regret on such occasions that some of
his wicked neighbours were not present to partake of the spiritual food
that was thus given freely. He felt sure it would have hit some of them
very hard. It might perhaps have made them mend their ways, though, as
it did not seem to have a permanent effect upon the Buccaneer himself,
there may be a doubt upon the subject. It is said that eels get
accustomed to skinning.
In passing it may be mentioned that his women--at least in early
times--were honest, virtuous, brave and true, and in every way fitting
mothers for a race of warriors. It may be presumed that they had their
faults. Indeed, some of his laws and customs would lead us to believe
that such was the case. For instance, it was laid down as a rule that no
husband should beat his wife with a stick of greater diameter than one
inch. There was very great humanity here. Scolds he sometimes ducked. If
that did not stop the rancour of their tongues he tried the effect of an
instrument called the "branks." This fitted over the head something like
a dog-muzzle, and was fastened behind with a padlock, while an iron
plate rested upon the tongue, and kept it quiet. This was found to be
effective.
Judging from our present high state of civilization when women are
allowed full liberty of speech, these early habits and customs of the
Buccaneer will not bear looking into. Occasionally in later times some
one of his sons, not conspicuous for chivalry, knocked down his wife, or
his mother-in-law, and then jumped upon her; but as a general rule his
manners were very much softened, and his women were treated with very
great indulgence. Perhaps those who suffered were deserving people. If,
in his ruder age, the women did not love their lords and masters, they
at least respected them, and this feeling in the long-run brings the
most happiness. In his latter days a deep suit of mourning, with much
crape, and a becoming widow's cap, often covered a joyous heart, and a
fresh campaign was commenced. But what is love? You have it; you have it
not. It is sometimes near, then again it is obscured by distance. It
wanders about like a sweet and gentle spirit above the earth; soaring
sometimes with outstretched wings to heaven. It seems brightest when
afar. Touch it, and it will shrink and fade like the delicate petals of
a flower. It often haunts a grave-yard and makes a home amongst the
tombs. You fly from it, and it follows; you turn and chase it and it
flies. What is love? It is a veritable Will o' the Wisp.
CHAPTER V.
Honour to whom honour is due. In speaking of the Buccaneer and in
briefly sketching his early life, it would not be right to pass by,
without some slight comment, a people who occupied an island situated
not many miles from his shores. They were called the Ojabberaways. They
came of a spirited and highly sensitive race. They were imaginative in
the extreme, quick of temper, and very prone to insult. The smallest
slight they would look upon as a grave injury. They were also a
quick-witted, clever, and merry people, and fighting was the joy of
their life. They were not total abstainers.
Somehow the Ojabberaways and the Buccaneer, though near neighbours, did
not get on very well together. This often happens, more especially
amongst relations, but the Ojabberaways would not admit that they were
of the same blood as the Buccaneer. They maintained that they came from
a far nobler stock. In fact, it would appear from what the people
themselves said, though history is silent upon the subject, that the
island was at one time inhabited by one or two kings, who left a progeny
sufficient to people the whole place, and that consequently, every
Ojabberaway had royal blood in his veins. No wonder then that they were
high-spirited and proud. Now they looked upon the bold Buccaneer as a
tyrant, whose chief aim in life was to tread under foot, and otherwise
insult them. Nothing would induce them to believe the contrary. They
sucked it in at their mother's breasts. The origin of their name is
wrapped in mystery, but it is probable that it had, in some way, a
connection with the chief produce of their country.
The Ojabberaways were not a united people. Though for the most part they
were inimical to the rule of the Buccaneer, and groaned under what they
considered the chain cast upon them by an alien and an oppressor, there
were many who were comfortable and even happy and contented under his
rule. Between these two sections of the Ojabberaways there was no love
lost. The wild Ojabberaways as they were sometimes called--of course
behind their backs--looked with peculiar hatred upon what were called
the loyal Ojabberaways. Speaking of the people generally it may be said,
that when you came across one who was a thorough gentleman, no finer
specimen of the class could be found in the world; but nature is not at
all times prodigal. There are some flowers that only bloom once in a
hundred years.
For the ordinary occupation of life the people had little or no taste,
and in his own country, if you found one Ojabberaway working, you would
always find two at least indulging in the luxury of looking on. And at
all times an Ojabberaway would give over any labour in which he might be
occupied, to follow a fellow-countryman to his grave, to whom in life he
would not have lent a single sixpence. This respect for the dead is
touching; but the Ojabberaways were a sentimental nation.
They were also a peculiarly constituted people, generous to a fault as
long as they had anything to give; but they, for the most part, lived
beyond their means, for a man with a thousand a year would generally
spend two, and this in time brought them into the usurer's hands and
into difficulties. Then some one had to suffer, and it was generally the
tenant of the land and the peasant. The usurer at all times drives a
hard bargain, and what bowels he has are not those of compassion. What
is in his bond he takes care to have. This gave an opening to the
agitator, and he took advantage of the state of things to stir up
strife.
Then the Ojabberaways had peculiarly formed eyes. To the outward
appearance just like other peoples; but inwardly quite differently
constructed. An object that would appear to an ordinary individual in
one light would impinge upon the retina of an Ojabberaway's eye in such
a manner as to distort some things and magnify others; but most of all a
grievance. On the other hand an obligation would appear as small as if
it were looked at | 616.477791 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.5586730 | 1,280 | 26 |
Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
HARRY HARDING
--_Messenger “45”_
_By_
ALFRED RAYMOND
[Illustration: _The_
GOLDSMITH
_Publishing Co._
CLEVELAND OHIO
MADE IN U.S.A.]
_Copyright 1917, by_
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A MENACE TO THE SCHOOL 1
II ON THE TRAIL OF A JOB 9
III AN ANXIOUS MOMENT 27
IV A SURPRISE AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 37
V FRIENDS AND FOES 51
VI AT THE END OF THE DAY 67
VII TEDDY COMES INTO HIS OWN 75
VIII THE RECRUITS TO COMPANY A 81
IX THE BITTERNESS OF INJUSTICE 95
X BREAKERS AHEAD FOR HARRY 105
XI TEDDY BURKE DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF 116
XII A DISASTROUS COMBAT 122
XIII THE MEASURE OF A MAN 129
XIV THE PRICE OF HONESTY 138
XV A FATEFUL GAME OF CATCH 148
XVI ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK 158
XVII THE SINGER AND THE SONG 169
XVIII CONFIDENCES 178
XIX THE BELATED DAWN 185
XX TEDDY’S TRIUMPH 191
XXI GETTING EVEN WITH THE GOBBLER 202
XXII A DISTURBING CONVERSATION 213
XXIII HARRY PAYS HIS DEBT 224
XXIV WRITING THE WELCOME ADDRESS 239
XXV COMMENCEMENT 250
HARRY HARDING--_Messenger “45”_
CHAPTER I
A MENACE TO THE SCHOOL
“I _will_ drown and no one _shall_ help me,” announced Miss Alton
defiantly.
The first class in English accepted this remarkable statement in
absolute silence, their eyes fixed on their teacher. As she stood
high and dry on the platform, facing her class, there seemed little
possibility of such a catastrophe overtaking her, therefore, they
knitted their wise young brows, not in fear of her demise by drowning,
but in puzzled worry over the intricacies of shall and will.
“I _will_ drown,” repeated Miss Alton firmly, “and no one----”
“Oh-h-h!” a piercing shriek rent the grammar-laden air. As though
about to prove her declaration, Miss Alton made a sudden dive off the
platform that carried her half-way up an aisle toward the immediate
vicinity of that anguished voice.
The first class in grammar immediately forgot the uses of shall and
will and twisted about on their benches to view their teacher’s hurried
progress toward the scene of action.
“It’s Teddy Burke,” muttered a boy to his nearest classmate. “Wonder
what he’s done.”
Miss Alton had now brought up between two seats at the rear of the
room. In one of them sat a little girl, her head buried in her arms.
Directly opposite her sat a red-haired boy. His thin face wore an
expression of deep disgust, but his big black eyes were dancing with
mischief. As the teacher approached, he made an ineffectual dive toward
a grayish object on the floor. Miss Alton was too quick for him. She
stooped, uttered a half-horrified exclamation, then gathered the object
in. It was a most terrifying imitation of a snake, made of rubber, and
coiled realistically.
“Theodore Burke, what does this mean?” she demanded, holding out the
snake and glaring at the offender.
The little girl raised her head from her arms and eyed the culprit with
reproachful horror. “He put it on my seat,” she accused. “I thought it
was alive, and it scared me awful.” Her voice rose to a wail on the
last word.
“This is too much. You’ve gone just a little too far, young man. Come
with me.” Miss Alton stood over the red-haired lad, looking like a
grim figure of Justice.
The boy shot a glance of withering scorn at his tearful victim, then
rose from his seat.
Grasping him none too gently by the arm, Miss Alton piloted him down
the aisle and out of the door. It closed with a resounding bang.
A buzz of conversation began in the big schoolroom. Two or three
little girls left their seats and gathered about the heroine of the
disquieting adventure, while half a dozen boys of the eighth grade of
the West Park Grammar School put their heads together to discuss this
latest bit of mischief on the part of their leader and idol, Teddy
Burke.
Meanwhile, Teddy, of the black eyes and Titian hair, was being marched
rapidly toward the principal’s office.
Miss Alton flung open the door and ushered him into the august presence
of Mr. Waldron, the principal, with, “Here is an incorrigible boy, Mr.
Waldron.”
The principal, a short, stern-faced man, adjusted his eye-glasses and
stared hard at Teddy. The boy hung his head, then raising his eyes
regarded Mr. Waldron defiantly.
“So you are here again, young man, for the third time in two weeks,”
thundered the principal. “What has this bad boy done, Miss Alton?”
Miss Alton began an indignant recital of Teddy’s latest misdeed. The
principal frowned as he listened. When she had finished, he fixed Teddy
with severe eyes.
“ | 616.578713 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.5915310 | 3,688 | 9 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Paul Marshall and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Notes:
Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
A single underscore after a symbol indicates a subscript.
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
The Table of Contents was added by the transcriber, it is not part of
the original text.
THE BOSTON
SCHOOL ATLAS,
EMBRACING A COMPENDIUM OF GEOGRAPHY.
BY B. FRANKLIN EDMANDS.
Table of Contents.
PREFACE.
ELEMENTAL GEOGRAPHY. 3
EXPLANATION OF MAPS. 5
GRAND DIVISIONS OF THE EARTH. 17
CIVIL AND POLITICAL GEOGRAPHY. 17
STATE OF SOCIETY. 18
NORTH AMERICA. 21
UNITED STATES. 25
MAINE. 26
NEW HAMPSHIRE.... and... VERMONT. 31
MASSACHUSETTS, CONNECTICUT, AND RHODE ISLAND. 32
NEW YORK. 37
PENNSYLVANIA, MARYLAND, NEW JERSEY, AND DELAWARE. 38
WESTERN STATES. 43
UNITED STATES. 44
SOUTH AMERICA. 57
EUROPE. 61
BRITISH ISLES. 65
ASIA. 69
AFRICA. 73
GENERAL QUESTIONS. 74
WEST INDIA ISLANDS. 75
OCEANICA. 75
ELEMENTAL ASTRONOMY. 76
TIDES. 77
QUESTIONS IN REVIEW OF THE COMPENDIUM. 78
[Illustration]
TWELFTH EDITION; STEREOTYPED,
CONTAINING THE FOLLOWING MAPS AND CHARTS.
1. MAP OF THE WORLD.
2. CHART... MOUNTAINS.
3. CHART... RIVERS.
4. NORTH AMERICA.
5. UNITED STATES.
6. PART OF MAINE.
7. VERMONT & N. HAMPSHIRE.
8. MASSACHUSETTS, CONNECTICUT, AND R. ISLAND.
9. NEW YORK.
10. PENN. MD., N. JER. AND DEL.
11. WESTERN STATES.
12. CHART... CANALS, RAIL ROADS.
13. CHART... POLITICAL AND STATISTICAL.
14. SOUTH AMERICA.
15. EUROPE.
16. BRITISH ISLES.
17. ASIA.
18. AFRICA.
_Embellished with Instructive Engravings._
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY ROBERT S. DAVIS,
SUCCESSOR TO LINCOLN, EDMANDS, & CO.,
No. 77, Washington Street.
1840.
PREFACE.
A careful examination of Maps is a sure and at the same time the most
convenient method of acquiring a knowledge of Geography. With a view
of furnishing to young classes an _economical means_ of commencing a
course of geographical study, this work has been prepared; and it is
believed that a thorough acquaintance with its contents will impart
such general ideas, as will prepare them to enter upon a more _minute
investigation_ of the subject, when they shall have arrived at a proper
age.
The use of this work will also obviate the necessity which has
heretofore existed, of furnishing such classes with larger volumes, the
greater part of which is useless to them, till the book is literally
worn out; and although it is adapted to young students, it will be
found that the Atlas exercises are equally proper for more advanced
pupils.
The study of this work should commence with recitations of short
lessons previously explained by the instructer; and after the pupils
are well versed in the elements, the study of the maps should be
commenced. Embodied with the questions on the maps will be occasionally
found questions in _italic_, referring to the elements. These are
intended as a review, and the pupils should be made to understand, that
through the whole of the maps, the instructer will require a similar
review of the Geography. This course cannot fail to be interesting and
advantageous.
The elements of Astronomy are annexed to the work; and it is left
to the discretion of the instructer to determine the proper time to
introduce this pleasing study to his pupils.
BOSTON, AUGUST, 1830.
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SIXTH (STEREOTYPE) EDITION.
The universal approbation and liberal patronage bestowed upon the
former editions of the Boston School Atlas, have induced the publishers
to make in this edition numerous improvements. The maps have all
been re-engraved on steel, and in pursuance of hints from several
instructers, a concise compendium of descriptive Geography has been
added, while at the same time the text of the preceding edition has
not been so altered as to cause confusion in the use of the two
editions in the same class. Many engravings calculated to instruct,
rather than merely to amuse, have been interspersed, to render the
book more attractive and useful to pupils. The work, in addition to
being stereotyped, has been kept as much as possible free from subjects
liable to changes, in order that it may be a _permanent Geography_,
which may hereafter be used without the inconvenience of variations in
different reprints.
THE INDUCTIVE SYSTEM has deservedly become the most popular method
of imparting instruction to the youthful mind, and may be used with
as much advantage in the study of Geography as of any other science.
To compile treatises of Geography on this plan, with the necessary
arrangement of the maps adapted to every place, would multiply them
indefinitely. The Inductive System, however, can be used with advantage
in the study of this book by pursuing the following course. Let the
Instructer describe to the pupils the town in which they reside, and
require them to become familiar with its boundaries, rivers, ponds,
hills, &c. After this is accomplished, the map of the State should be
laid before them, and the situation of the town should be pointed out,
and they should be told what a State is, and what towns are nearest
them, &c. This plan can be carried to any extent the instructer may
think necessary to enable his pupils to acquire a correct knowledge of
their own State; and, if necessary, he should write for them additional
questions of a local nature, beside those contained in the work. If the
town be not on the map, it should be inserted with a pen on all the
maps used in the class. After the pupils shall have acquired a correct
idea of their own State, they may be taught respecting the adjoining
States, countries, &c. and the plan may be pursued as successfully as
if they possessed an Atlas with maps arranged in particular reference
to their own place of residence.
BOSTON, JUNE 17, 1833.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1832, by LINCOLN AND
EDMANDS, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
RECOMMENDATIONS TO THE
BOSTON SCHOOL ATLAS.
_From R. G. Parker, Author of “Progressive Exercises in English
Composition,” and other popular works._
I have examined a copy of the Boston School Atlas, and have no
hesitation in recommending it as the best introduction to the study of
Geography that I have seen. The compiler has displayed much judgment
in what he has _omitted_, as well as what he has selected; and has
thereby presented to the public a neat manual of the elements of the
science, unencumbered with useless matter and uninteresting detail. The
mechanical execution of the work is neat and creditable, and I doubt
not that its merits will shortly introduce it to general use.
Respectfully yours,
R. G. PARKER.
_From E. Bailey, Principal of the Young Ladies’ High School, Boston._
I was so well pleased with the plan and execution of the Boston School
Atlas, that I introduced it into my school, soon after the first
edition was published. I regard it as the best work for beginners in
the study of Geography which has yet fallen under my observation; as
such I would recommend it to the notice of parents and teachers.
Very respectfully,
E. BAILEY.
_From the Preceptors of Leicester Academy._
Among the great variety of school-books which have recently been
published, few are in our opinion more valuable than the Boston School
Atlas. As an introduction to the study of Geography, it is preferable
to any work of the kind with which we are acquainted.
JOHN RICHARDSON,
ALBERT SPOONER.
_From the Principal of New Ipswich (N. H.) Academy._
I have with much pleasure examined the copy of the Boston School Atlas,
which you politely sent to me. I think it admirably well calculated
to excite in the young mind a love of the study of Geography, and to
convey correct ideas of the rudiments of that science. I shall be happy
to recommend it wherever I have opportunity. It is, in my opinion, the
very thing that is needed in our primary schools.
Respectfully yours,
ROBERT A. COFFIN.
_From Mr. Emerson, formerly a Teacher in Boston._
I have examined the Boston School Atlas, and I assure you, I am highly
pleased with it. It appears to me to contain exactly what it should, to
render it an easy and adequate introduction to the study of Geography.
Yours, respectfully,
F. EMERSON.
_From Rev. Benj. F. Farnsworth, Principal of the New Hampton Literary
and Theological Seminary._
I have long lamented the deficiency of school-books in the elementary
parts of education. A good introduction to the study of Geography has
been much needed. The Boston School Atlas, recently published by you,
appears well; and I think it should be preferred to most other works of
the same class. I know of none that could be used with equal advantage
in its place. I hope you may succeed in making School Committees and
Teachers acquainted with this Introduction to an interesting and
important study of our primary schools; as I doubt not that, in this
case, it may obtain a very desirable patronage.
Yours, respectfully,
BENJ. F. FARNSWORTH.
_From the United States Literary Advertiser, Boston._
This is one of the most beautiful elementary works of the kind,
which has yet come within the range of our observation. The Maps are
elegantly executed, and finely —and the whole work is got up in
a style that cannot fail to insure its general introduction into our
schools, as a most valuable standard book.
_From the Principal of one of the High Schools in Portland._
I have examined the Boston School Atlas, Elements of Geography, &c.,
and think it admirably adapted to beginners in the study of the
several subjects treated on. It is what is wanted in all books for
learners,—_simple_, _philosophical_, _and practical_. I hope it will be
used extensively.
Yours respectfully,
JAS. FURBISH.
_From Mr. Emerson, Author of the Spelling and Reading Books._
I have perused your Boston School Atlas with much satisfaction. It
seems to me to be what has been needed as an introduction to the study
of Geography, and admirably adapted to that purpose.
Very respectfully, yours, &c.,
B. D. EMERSON.
_From Rev. Dr. Perry, of E. Bradford._
I received, some months since, the Boston School Atlas, and having
given it a trial among my children, I am free to say, that I think it
very happily adapted to the wants and conveniences of beginners in
Geography, and hope it may get into extensive use.
Respectfully,
GARDNER B. PERRY.
[Illustration: AN ENGLISHMAN. A SCOTCHMAN. A DUTCHMAN. AN ITALIAN.
A SPANIARD. AN INDIAN.]
ELEMENTAL GEOGRAPHY.
The Earth, on which we live, is _nearly a round body_, the distance
through the centre from north to south, being _twenty-six miles less_,
than the distance through from west to east. That it is a round body
is proved, 1st, _By having been circumnavigated, or sailed round_; 2d,
_From the appearance of a vessel approaching the land_, the top of the
masts being seen first; 3d, _By the shadow of the earth upon the moon_,
during an eclipse of the moon.
[Illustration: A VIEW OF THE EARTH’S SURFACE, VIZ. MOUNTAINS, RIVERS,
OCEAN, ISLAND, &c.
MINE. GROTTO.
This cut represents, in a striking manner, the mines and caverns as
they exist under the land and ocean. The mine here exhibited, is a
picture of a salt mine in Poland, Europe. The grotto is under the
island Antiparos in the Mediterranean Sea. A mine is a cavern made by
man, in digging for the articles found in the earth. A grotto is a
cavern formed by nature.]
PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY, or Geography of the Earth, is a description of the
earth’s structure and surface. The _surface_ consists of two elements,
viz, water and land; only one-third part being land.
CIVIL OR POLITICAL GEOGRAPHY defines the boundaries and extent of the
various countries in possession of the different nations of the earth.
Civil Geography also treats of government, religion, commerce, the
characteristic features of the principal races of men, and various
other subjects.
STATISTICAL GEOGRAPHY is a description of States, Kingdoms, Empires, or
Cities, with reference to their population and resources.
WATER.
Comprises Oceans, Seas, Lakes, Gulfs or Bays, Havens or Harbours,
Straits, Channels, Sounds, and Rivers.
An OCEAN is a large expanse of water not separated by land.
A SEA is a lesser extent of water than an ocean, almost surrounded by
land.
A LAKE is a large collection of water in the interior of a
country;—generally fresh. A salt water lake is called a _Sea_.
A GULF or BAY is a part of the sea extending up into the land.
A HAVEN or HARBOUR is a small portion of water, almost enclosed by
land, where ships may lie safely at anchor.
A STRAIT is a narrow communication between two large collections of
water. If it be so shallow as to be sounded, it is called a _Sound_.
A CHANNEL is the deepest part of a river. A Strait is also sometimes
called a _Channel_.
The _vapours_ which rise from the surface of the earth ascend to the
clouds, whence they fall in dew, snow, or rain, to water the earth, and
supply springs, and small streams or rivers.
A RIVER is an inland stream of water flowing from an elevated portion
of land into some larger stream or body of water. The commencement of a
river is called its SOURCE, or RISE; the direction to which it flows,
its COURSE; and its communication with any other water, its MOUTH.
If the mouth of a river, which flows into an ocean or sea be wide, and
is affected by tides, it is called an ESTUARY or FRITH.
A CATARACT or FALLS is formed by a sudden declivity or precipice in the
course of a river, over which the water falls with great force.
A CANAL is an artificial passage for water, supplied from an elevated
lake or river; and is constructed for the purpose of _inland
navigation_. Canals often pass under mountains and over rivers.
Standing water, and low grounds filled with water, are called MORASSES,
BOGS, and FENS; or, as in the United States, SWAMPS.
LAND.
Is divided into Continents, Islands, Peninsulas, Isthmuses | 616.611571 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.8790460 | 1,375 | 19 | THE OVERLAND ROUTE ACROSS THE PLAINS IN 1850-51***
E-text prepared by the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from digital material generously made available
by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/journaloftriptoc00ingarich
Transcriber's note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without
note. Dialect spellings and punctuation have been retained.
JOURNAL OF A TRIP TO CALIFORNIA BY THE
OVERLAND ROUTE ACROSS THE PLAINS IN 1850-51
by
E. S. INGALLS.
Waukegan:
Tobey & Co., Printers
1852
PREFACE.
In offering this Journal to the public, the publishers believe that a
benefit will be conferred on many who are desirous of visiting the
Eldorado of the nineteenth century. This is one object we have in
publishing it; but our principal object is to gratify the numerous
friends of Judge Ingalls by furnishing them with his journal in a form
easily transmitted through the mails to the different parts of the
country. Without claiming any merit as a literary production, the
author has simply given us a plain statement of incidents as he saw
them. Without further remark, we present his work to the public.
PUBLISHERS.
JOURNAL.
In offering this journal to the public, the writer makes no pretensions
to authorship, but believes that, although it be written in plain,
off-hand style, nevertheless, some portions of it may be interesting to
the public, and that if any who may chance to read it are about to
start for "Eldorado," they may derive some benefit from it, whether
they go over the Plains, or by water. The writer will only attempt to
describe objects and incidents as he saw them.
We commenced our journey from Lake county, Ill., on the 27th day of
March, (or rather I did, the team not being ready, and I having some
business to transact at Rock River.)
_March_, 28--I left Hainesville, and traveled to Franklinville, McHenry
Co., at night a distance of 30 miles.
29th. Reached Belvidere about noon, and spent the remainder of the day
with John S. Curtis, Esq. Belvidere is a thriving village in Boon co.,
situated in the midst of a fertile and beautiful country.
18 miles.
30th.--Left Belvidere about noon, after having made a very agreeable
visit with Mr. Curtis, and traveled as far as Rockford, on Rock river,
where I found E. Ford, one of our company, and several others from Lake
county. I found Ford taking care of a California emigrant from
Wisconsin, by the name of Maynard, who was very sick at the Rockford
House.
12 miles.
31st. I remained at Rockford, it being Sunday. Rockford is one of the
most active and prosperous villages on the Rock River, and when the
contemplated railroad from Chicago to Galena shall be completed, it
will double its size and population. The water power furnished by
damming the Rock River is unequaled. It is used now to some extent, but
is capable of driving six times the machinery which it now does.
_April_ 1st. Remained at Rockford. Maynard died this night about 11
o'clock. He had the satisfaction of seeing his wife before he died, she
having been sent for by the landlord of the Rockford House. How many
will be cut down by disease on this crusade to California. How many
will die where they can have no friendly hand to alleviate their
sufferings, time only will tell.
2d. Started down the Rock River--travelled thirty miles through a very
good country, and stopped over night at the house of an old townsman
and friend, L. Scott, Esq.
30 miles.
3d. Stormy and cold; went over to Mr. J. R. Merrill's, another old
townsman, and spend the day.
4th. Remained at Merrill's--visited Grand de Tour, a thriving village
on the Rock River, about four miles from the house of my friend.
5th. Remaining still with Merrill. Disagreeable, stormy weather.--This
evening J. and I. B. Ingalls came up with team which left Hainesville,
April 2d.
6th. Bought a horse of Merrill to-day. Bade Mr. M.'s family adieu, and
felt like leaving home again, so agreeably had the time passed in the
society of my friend and his accomplished family. Found one of our
horses lame with a sprained ankle; got the materials and made some
liniment (by directions of Mr. Merrill,) and I must say it proved the
most effectual remedy for sprains, galls, and other injuries to horses,
that I ever saw used, and we had good reason to be thankful to Mr.
Merrill for imparting the knowledge of making it to us, before we got
through with our trip. We traveled this day 24 miles down Rock
river--weather pleasant, and roads good.
24 miles.
7th. Sunday--traveled about 25 miles, pleasant weather, but some bad
roads.
25 miles.
8th. Traveled about 25 miles to Rock Island. Pleasant weather;
beginning to get into the track of California teams. Took in some hard
bread, visited Rock Island Lodge, of I.O.O.F., where I found a cordial
welcome as befitted brothers.
25 miles.
_April_ 9th. Crossed the Mississippi to Davenport, Iowa; took in 25
bushels of corn--paid for shelled corn 38 cts. per bushel, in the ear
30 cts. Purchased also most of our other necessaries, excepting meat
and flour. I was surprised to find Davenport and Rock Island such large
places.--They lie opposite each other on the Mississippi, and about
three miles above the mouth of Rock river. They are surrounded by a
country of fertile soil on each side | 616.899086 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.9191250 | 2,269 | 7 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: A YOUNG PRINCE WATCHING THE SCOTS GUARDS FROM
MARLBOROUGH HOUSE]
PEEPS AT MANY LANDS
ENGLAND
BY
JOHN FINNEMORE
CONTAINING TWELVE FULL-PAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
1908
CONTENTS
I. IN LONDON TOWN--I.
II. IN LONDON TOWN--II.
III. IN LONDON TOWN--III.
IV. OLD FATHER THAMES--I.
V. OLD FATHER THAMES--II.
VI. IN A CATHEDRAL CITY
VII. THROUGH WESSEX--I.
VIII. THROUGH WESSEX--II.
IX. THROUGH WESSEX--III.
X. ROUND THE TORS
XI. THE LAND OF SAINTS
XII. IN SHAKESPEARE'S COUNTRY
XIII. AN OLD ENGLISH HOUSE
XIV. BY FEN AND BROAD
XV. BY DALE AND FELL
XVI. THE PLAYGROUND OF ENGLAND--I.
XVII. THE PLAYGROUND OF ENGLAND--II.
XVIII. HEROES OF THE STORM
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS LOI A YOUNG PRINCE WATCHING THE SCOTS
GUARDS FROM MARLBOROUGH HOUSE... _Rose Barton_. _Frontispiece_
LONDON: ST. PAUL'S AND LUDGATE HILL... _Herbert Marshall_
BY AN ENGLISH RIVER... _Birket Foster_
TOMB OF THE BLACK PRINCE IN
CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL... _W. Biscombe Gardner_
IN AN ENGLISH COUNTRY TOWN... _Walter Tyndale_
IN AN ENGLISH LANE... _Birket Foster_
SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHPLACE... _Fred Whitehead_
AN ENGLISH COUNTRY HOUSE... _Walter Tyndale_
IN AN ENGLISH VILLAGE... _W. Biscombe Gardner_
AN ENGLISH COTTAGE... _Mrs. Allingham_
IN AN ENGLISH WOOD... _Stilton Palmer_
ON AN ENGLISH COMMON... _Birket Foster_ ELOI
[Illustration: SKETCH-MAP OF ENGLAND.]
ENGLAND
IN LONDON TOWN--I.
London is the greatest city in the world. How easy it is to say that
or read it! How very, very hard it is to get the least idea of what it
means! We may talk of millions of people, of thousands of streets, of
hundreds of thousands of houses, but words will give us little grasp of
what London means. And if we go to see for ourselves, we may travel up
and down its highways and byways until we are dizzy with the rush of
its hurrying crowds, its streams of close-packed vehicles, its rows
upon rows of houses, shops, banks, churches, museums, halls, theatres,
and begin to think that at last we have seen London. But alas for our
fancy! We find that all the time we have only been in one small corner
of it, and the great city spreads far and wide around the district we
have learned to know, just as a sea spreads around an islet on its
broad surface.
When we read or hear of London, we are always coming across the terms
West End and East End. West and East of what? Where is the
dividing-line? The dividing-place is the City, the heart of London,
the oldest part of the great town. Once the City was a compact little
town inside a strong wall which kept out its enemies. It was full of
narrow streets, where shops stood thickly together, and over the shops
lived the City merchants in their tall houses. The narrow streets and
the shops are still there, but the merchants have long since gone to
live elsewhere, and the walls have been pulled down.
Now the City is nothing but a business quarter. It is packed with
offices, warehouses, banks and public buildings, and it is the busiest
part of London by day and the quietest by night. It is a wonderful
sight to see the many, many thousands of people who work in the City
pour in with the morning and stream out at evening. Every road, every
bridge, leading to and from the City is packed with men and women, boys
and girls, marching like a huge army, flowing and ebbing like the tides
of the sea.
In the centre of the City there is a famous open space where seven
streets meet. It is famous for the buildings which surround it, and
the traffic which flows through it. All day long an endless stream of
omnibuses, cabs, drays, vans, carts, motor-cars, motor-buses,
carriages, and every kind of vehicle which runs on wheels, pours by.
So great is the crush of traffic that underground passages have now
been built for people to cross from side to side, and that is a very
good thing, for only the very nimble could dodge their way through the
mass of vehicles.
Upon one side of this space there stands a building with blank walls,
not very high nor very striking in appearance. But it is the Bank of
England, where the money matters of half the world are dealt with! If
we went inside we should find that the Bank is built around a
courtyard, into which the windows look. Thus there is no chance for
burglars to break in, and besides, the Bank is guarded very carefully,
for its cellars are filled with great bars of gold, and its drawers are
full of sovereigns and crisp bank-notes.
Upon the other side of the busy space stands the Mansion House, where
the Lord Mayor of London lives during his year of office. Here are
held gay feasts, and splendid processions often march up to the doors;
for if a king or great prince visits London, he is always asked to
visit the City, and he goes in state to a fine banquet.
A third great building is the Royal Exchange, adorned with its great
pillars, and here the merchants meet, and business matters affecting
every corner of the globe are dealt with.
But there are two places which we must glance at before we leave the
City, whatever else we miss, and these are the Tower and St. Paul's
Cathedral. And first of all we will go to the Tower, for it is the
oldest and most famous of all the City's many buildings. Nay, the
Tower is more than that: it is one of the famous buildings of the world.
For many hundreds of years the grey old Tower has raised its walls
beside the Thames, and in its time it has played many parts. It has
been a fortress, a palace, a treasure-house, and a prison. William the
Conqueror began it, William Rufus went on with the work, and the latter
finished the central keep, the famous White Tower, the heart of the
citadel. For many centuries the Tower was the strongest place in the
land, with its thick walls and its deep moat filled with water from the
Thames, and the rulers of England took great care to keep it in their
own hands.
To-day it is a show-place more than anything else, and everyone is free
to visit it, to see the Crown jewels stored there, and to view the
splendid collection of weapons and armour. But after all the place
itself is the finest thing to see--to wander through the rooms where
kings and queens have lived, to stand in the dungeons and
prison-chambers where some of the best and noblest of our race have
been shut up, and to climb the narrow winding stairs from floor to
floor.
Many of the prisoners of the Tower were brought into it by the
Traitor's Gate, a great gloomy archway under which the waters of the
Thames once flowed. In those days the river was the great highway of
London, and when the judges at Westminster had condemned a prisoner to
be sent to the Tower, he was carried down the river in a barge and
landed at the Traitor's Gate. Many and many a poor prisoner saw his
last glimpse of the outer world from the gloomy gate. Before him lay
nothing save a dreadful death at the hands of the headsman.
Outside the White Tower there is a garden, where once stood the block
where the greatest of the prisoners were beheaded. Outside the Tower
is Tower Hill, where those of a lesser rank suffered; we may still see
in the Tower a headsman's block whereon heads have been laid and necks
offered to the sharp, heavy axe. As for the names of those who have
been executed in the Tower, history is full of them--Lady Jane Grey,
Sir Thomas More, Anne Boleyn, Sir Walter Raleigh, Katherine Howard, the
Earl of Essex, to name but a few who have suffered there. An earlier
tragedy than any of these is the murder of the two little princes,
Edward V. and his brother, put to death by command of Richard of
Gloucester, Richard Crookback, their wicked uncle who wanted to seize
the throne.
From the upper windows of the White Tower we can see the river crowded
with ships and steamers and barges, and on a fine day it is a most
beautiful sight. But the most striking thing in the view is the Tower
Bridge. "This is a new bridge, and it has two great towers rising one
on each side, as it seems, to the sky, and the bridge lies across low
down between those towers. But when a big ship comes and wants to get
up the river under the bridge, what is to be done? The bridge is not
high enough! Well, what does happen is this--and I hope that every one
of you will see it one day, for it is one of the grandest things in
London: a man rings a bell, and the cabs, and carriages, and carts, and
| 616.939165 |
2023-11-16 18:27:20.9360140 | 89 | 7 |
Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
COLONEL CARTER'S CHRISTMAS
THE ROMANCE OF AN OLD-FASHIONED GENTLEMAN
BY
F. HOPKINSON SMITH
ILLUSTRATED BY
F. C. YOHN and A. I. KELLER
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS | 616.956054 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.0532720 | 1,280 | 8 |
Produced by KD Weeks, Charlene Taylor, Bryan Ness and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
Transcriber's Note
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_.
The footnotes have been consolidated and moved to directly follow the
paragraphs in which they are referenced. Be advised that the internal
page references made in the text are necessarily meaningless in this
version, since the printed page numbers are lost.
History of Norwegian Immigration
A History of Norwegian Immigration
to
The United States
From the Earliest Beginning down to the Year 1848
By
GEORGE T. FLOM, Ph. D. (Columbia)
Professor of Scandinavian Languages and Literatures and Acting
Professor of English Philology, State University of Iowa
[Illustration]
PRIVATELY PRINTED
IOWA CITY, IOWA
1909
COPYRIGHT 1909
GEORGE T. FLOM
THE TORCH PRESS
CEDAR RAPIDS
IOWA
TO MY MOTHER
THROUGH WHOM I HAVE COME TO UNDERSTAND SOMETHING
OF THE HEROIC WOMANHOOD EXEMPLIFIED IN THE
LIVES OF OUR PIONEER MOTHERS, THIS VOLUME IS
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
FOREWORD
This volume is intended to present the progress of immigration from
Norway to this country from the beginning down through what may be
termed the first period of settlement. It is possible that I may at
some future time return to these studies to trace the further growth of
the Scandinavian element and its place and influence in American life.
Four years ago I contributed an article to _The Iowa Journal of
History and Politics_ upon "The Scandinavian Factor in the American
Population," in which I discussed briefly the causes of emigration
from the Northern countries. This article forms the basis of chapters
VI-VIII of the present volume, much new evidence from later years
having, however, been added. In a subsequent issue of the same Journal
I published an article on "The Coming of the Norwegians to Iowa," which
is embodied in part in chapters III-V of this volume. The remaining
thirty-six chapters are new. During the last three summers I have
continued my investigation of that part of the subject which deals with
the immigration movement. This book represents the results of that
investigation down to 1848.
For invaluable assistance in the investigation I gratefully acknowledge
indebtedness to the numerous pioneers whom, from time to time, I have
interviewed and who so kindly have given the aid sought. I wish to
thank, also, several persons who generously have accepted the task of
personally gathering pioneer data for certain localities. For such help
I owe a debt of gratitude to the following persons: J. W. Johnson,
Racine, Wisconsin; Reverend A. Jacobson, Decorah, Iowa; Reverend G. A.
Larsen, Clinton, Wisconsin; Henry Natesta, Clinton, Wisconsin; Rev. O.
J. Kvale, Orfordville, Wisconsin; Rev. J. Nordby, Lee, Illinois; Dr. N.
C. Evans, Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin; M. J. Engebretson, Gratiot, Wisconsin;
Dan K. Anderson and wife, Woodford, Wisconsin; Ole Jacobson, Elk Horn,
Wisconsin; Samuel Sampson, Rio, Wisconsin; T. M. Newton, Grinnell,
Iowa; Harvey Arveson, Whitewater, Wisconsin; and Reverend Helge
Hoeverstad, Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin. My thanks are also due to Reverend
G. G. Krostu of Koshkonong Parsonage for having placed at my disposal
the Koshkonong Church Register from 1844-1850; as also for verifying
my copy of it in some cases of names and dates; for the privilege
accorded me of using these so precious documents I am most grateful.
Reverend K. A. Kasberg of Spring Grove, Minnesota, has given me certain
important data on part of the immigration to East Koshkonong in 1842,
and similarly N. A. Lie of Deerfield, Wisconsin, for immigration from
Voss in 1838-1844, and Mr. Elim Ellingson and wife of Capron, Illinois,
on the founders of the Long Prairie Settlement. Many others might be
mentioned who have given valuable assistance by letter and otherwise
in the course of the investigation, and to whom I owe much. Finally,
I wish to thank Dr. N. C. Evans of Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin, for the loan
of _Cyclopedia of Wisconsin_ (1906) and _Illustreret Kirkehistorie_
(Chicago, 1898); Mr. O. N. Falk of Stoughton, Wisconsin, for loaning
me _Billed-Magazin_ for 1869-1870, and my brother, Martin O. Flom, of
Stoughton, for securing for my use several Wisconsin Atlases and a copy
of _The Biographical Review of Dane County_ (1893).
Of published works on Norwegian immigration which I have found
especially useful are to be mentioned S. Nilsen's _Billed-Magazin_ on
causes of immigration and the earliest immigrants from Telemarken and
Numedal; R. B. Anderson's _First Chapter on Norwegian Immigration_
for the sloopers of 1825, and their descendants; Strand's _History
of the Norwegians in Illinois_ (1905) for the Norwegians in Chicago;
H. L. Skavlem's sketch of _Sc | 617.073312 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.0708830 | 941 | 27 |
Produced by Gary Sandino (text), Al Haines (HTML). (This
file was created from images generously made available by
The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE
YOUNG BANK MESSENGER
BY
HORATIO ALGER, JR.
AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK SERIES," "NEW WORLD SERIES," ETC.
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,
PHILADELPHIA, CHICAGO, TORONTO.
COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY HENRY T. COATES & CO.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE LONELY CABIN, 1
II. A DEATHBED REVELATION, 10
III. A SUCCESSFUL ROBBERY, 19
IV. ALONE IN THE WORLD, 27
V. THE TRAMP TURNS UP AGAIN, 36
VI. A CRITICAL SITUATION, 44
VII. ON THE ROAD, 53
VIII. THE QUAKER DETECTIVE, 61
IX. AN ARMED ESCORT, 71
X. THE ASTONISHED OUTLAW, 77
XI. UNDER WATCH AND WARD, 88
XII. THE OUTLAW'S ESCAPE, 97
XIII. THE OUTLAW'S MISTAKE, 106
XIV. ERNEST HAS AN ADVENTURE, 115
XV. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE, 124
XVI. THE OUTLAW'S HOME, 133
XVII. IN THE ROBBER'S CAVE, 142
XVIII. THE OUTLAW AND HIS BAND, 153
XIX. A DAY IN THE CAVE, 159
XX. ERNEST EXPLORES THE CAVE, 168
XXI. OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN INTO THE FIRE, 178
XXII. A FRIEND IN NEED, 187
XXIII. GIVEN IN TRUST, 196
XXIV. STEPHEN RAY AND HIS SON, 206
XXV. A STARTLING DISCLOSURE, 216
XXVI. BOUGHT OFF, 228
XXVII. THE TOWN OF OREVILLE, 236
XXVIII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP, 246
XXIX. TOM BURNS MAKES A CALL, 256
XXX. A BURGLAR'S FAILURE, 266
XXXI. THE ADVERTISEMENT, 276
XXXII. MR. BOLTON AS A HUSTLER, 285
XXXIII. THE RESULT OF AN ADVERTISEMENT, 295
XXXIV. A STRANGE MEETING, 301
XXXV. MR. BOLTON AND HIS CLIENT, 309
XXXVI. AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW, 314
XXXVII. CONCLUSION, 320
THE
YOUNG BANK MESSENGER.
CHAPTER I.
THE LONELY CABIN.
Just on the edge of the prairie, in western Iowa, some thirty years
since, stood a cabin covering quite a little ground, but only one
story high. It was humble enough as a home, but not more so than the
early homes of some who have become great.
Let us enter.
The furniture was scanty, being limited to articles of prime
necessity. There was a stove, a table, three chairs, a row of shelves
containing a few articles of crockery and tinware, and a bed in the
far corner of the room, on which rested a man. He had a ragged gray
beard and hair, and a face long and thin, with preternaturally black
eyes.
It was evident that he was sick unto death. His parchment-<DW52> skin
was indented with wrinkles; from time to time he coughed so violently
as to rack his slight frame, and his hand, thin and wrinkled, as it
rested on the quilt that covered him, shook as with palsy.
It was hard to tell how old the man was. He looked over seventy, but
there were indications that he had | 617.090923 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.1027210 | 2,601 | 125 |
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, | 617.122761 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.1828170 | 354 | 24 |
Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Sheila Vogtmann and PG Distributed
Proofreaders
MEMOIR AND DIARY
OF
JOHN YEARDLEY,
Minister of the Gospel.
EDITED BY CHARLES TYLOR.
"Should time with me now close, I die in peace with my God, and in that
love for mankind which believes 'every nation to be our nation, and every
man our brother.'"--_Diary of J. Yeardley._.
PHILADELPHIA:
HENRY LONGSTRETH,
1336 CHESTNUT STREET.
1860.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
FROM JOHN YEARDLEY'S CONVERSION TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF HIS PUBLIC
MINISTRY, 1803-15.
Birth and occupation
Joseph Wood, of Newhouse
Anecdote of Thomas Yeardley
John Yeardley's conversion
He enters T. D. Walton's linen warehouse
Joins the Society of Friends
Marriage with Elizabeth Dunn--Commencement of his Diary
A. Clarke's "Commentary"
Enters into business on his own account
Visit of Sarah Lameley
Call to the ministry
CHAPTER II.
FROM HIS ENTRANCE ON THE MINISTRY IN 1815, TO HIS COMMISSION TO RESIDE IN
GERMANY IN 1820.
First offerings in the ministry
Is unsuccessful in business
Removes to Bentham
His views on the Christian ministry
Visit of Hannah Field
Is recorded a minister
Visits Kendal and Lancaster, in company with Joseph Wood
Visit to Friends at Barnsley
Journey to York
Letters to Thomas Yeardley
CHAPTER III.
FROM HIS COMMISSION | 617.202857 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.2531480 | 2,793 | 64 |
E-text prepared by Giovanni Fini, Shaun Pinder, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 50464-h.htm or 50464-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/50464/50464-h/50464-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/50464/50464-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/lonesometrail00neihrich
THE LONESOME TRAIL
[Illustration: _Drawn by F. E. Schoonover_
THE RACE WITH THE FIRE
_See “The Nemesis of the Deuces,” page 300_]
THE LONESOME TRAIL
by
JOHN G. NEIHARDT
“_In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud._”
New York: John Lane Company, MCMVII
London: John Lane, The Bodley Head
Copyright, 1907,
by
John G. Neihardt
TO
VOLNEY STREAMER
“_Friend of my Yester-age_”
_The stories in this volume have appeared in the following magazines:
Munsey’s, The American Magazine, The Smart Set, The Scrap Book,
The All-Story, Watson’s, Overland Monthly. The author gratefully
acknowledges permission to republish._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ALIEN 11
II. THE LOOK IN THE FACE 31
III. FEATHER FOR FEATHER 45
IV. THE SCARS 58
V. THE FADING OF SHADOW FLOWER 75
VI. THE ART OF HATE 93
VII. THE SINGER OF THE ACHE 110
VIII. THE WHITE WAKUNDA 123
IX. THE TRIUMPH OF SEHA 143
X. THE END OF THE DREAM 151
XI. THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP 168
XII. THE MARK OF SHAME 182
XIII. THE BEATING OF THE WAR DRUMS 194
XIV. DREAMS ARE WISER THAN MEN 204
XV. THE SMILE OF GOD 219
XVI. THE HEART OF A WOMAN 229
XVII. MIGNON 239
XVIII. A POLITICAL COUP AT LITTLE OMAHA 255
XIX. THE LAST THUNDER SONG 276
XX. THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES 288
_THE OLD CRY_
_O Mourner in the silence of the hills,
O Thing of ancient griefs, art thou a wolf?
I heard a cry that shook me—was it thine?_
_Low in the mystic purple of the west
The weird moon hangs, a tarnished silver slug:
Vast, vast the hollow empty night curves down,
Stabbed with the glass-like glinting of the stars,
And, save when that wild cry grows up anon,
No sound but this dull murmur of the hush—
The winter hush._
_Hark! once again thy cry!_
_Thy strange, sharp, ice-like, tenuous complaint,
As though the spirit of this frozen waste
Pinched with the cruel frost yearned summerward!_
_I know thou art a wolf that criest so:
Though hidden in the shadow, I can see
Thy four feet huddled in the numbing frost,
Thy snout, breath-whitened, pointing to the sky:
Poor pariah of the plains, I know ’tis thou._
_And yet—and yet—I heard a kinsman shout!
Down through the intricate centuries it came,
A far-blown cry! From old-world graves it grew,
Up through the tumbled walls of ancient realms,
Up through the lizard-haunted heaps of stone,
Up through the choking ashes of old fanes,
The pitiful debris where Grandeur dwelt,
Out of the old-world wilderness it grew—
The cry I know! And I have heard my Kin!_
I
THE ALIEN
THROUGH the quiet night, crystalline with the pervading spirit of the
frost, under prairie skies of mystic purple pierced with the glass-like
glinting of the stars, fled Antoine.
Huge and hollow-sounding with the clatter of the pinto’s hoofs hung the
night above and about—lonesome, empty, bitter as the soul of him who
fled.
A weary age of flight since sunset; and now the midnight saw the
thin-limbed, long-haired pony slowly losing his nerve, tottering,
rasping in the throat. With pitiless spike-spurred heels the rider
hurled the beast into the empty night.
“Gwan! you blasted cayuse! you overgrown wolf-dog! you pot-bellied
shonga! Keep up that tune; I’m goin’ somewheres. What’d I steal you
fer? Pleasure? He, he, he, ho, ho, ho! I reckon; pleasure for the
half-breed! Gwan!”
Suddenly rounding a bank of sand, the pinto sighted the broad,
ice-bound river, an elysian stream of glinting silver under the stars.
Sniffing and crouching upon its haunches at the sudden glow that
dwindled a gleaming thread into the further dusk, the jaded beast
received a series of vicious jabs from the spike-spurred heels. It
groaned and lunged forward again, taking with uncertain feet the
glaring path ahead, and awakening dull, snarling thunder in the under
regions of the ice. Slipping, struggling, doing its brute best to
overcome fatigue and the uncertainty of its path, the pinto covered the
ice.
“Doin’ a war dance, eh?” growled the man with bitter mirth, and
gouging the foaming bloody flanks of the animal. “Gwan! Set up that
tune; I want fast music, ’cause I’m goin’ somewheres—don’t know
where—somewheres out there in the shadders! Come here, will you? Take
that and that and _that_! Now will you kick the scen’ry back’ards? By
the——!”
The brutal cries of the man were cut short as he shot far over the
pommel, lunging headlong over the pinto’s head, and striking with head
and shoulders upon the glare ice. When he stopped sliding he lay very
still for a few moments. Then he groaned, sat up, and found that the
bluffs and the river and the stars and the universe in general were
whirling giddily, with himself for the dizzy centre.
With uncertain arms he reached out, endeavouring to check the sickening
motion of things with the sheer force of his powerful hands. He was
thrown down like a weakling wrestling with a giant. He lay still,
cursing in a whisper, trying to steady the universe, until the motion
passed, leaving in his nerves the sickening sensation incident to the
sudden ending of a rapid flight.
With great care Antoine raised himself upon his elbows and gazed about
with an imbecile leer. Then he began to remember; remembered that
he was hunted; that he was an outcast, a man of no race; remembered
dimly, and with a malignant grin, a portion of a long series of crimes;
remembered that the last was horse-stealing and that some of the
others concerned blood. And as he remembered, he felt with horrible
distinctness the lariat tightening about his neck—the lariat that the
men of Cabanne’s trading post were bringing on fleet horses, nearer,
nearer, nearer through the silent night.
Antoine shuddered and got to his feet, looming huge against the
star-sprent surface of the ice, as he turned a face of bestial
malevolence down trail and listened for the beat of hoofs. There was
only the dim, hollow murmur that dwells at the heart of silence.
“Got a long start,” he observed, with the chuckle of a man whom
desperation has made careless. “Hel-_lo_!”
A pale, semicircular glow, like the flare of a burning straw stack
a half day’s journey over the hills, had grown up at the horizon of
the east; and as the man stared, still in a maze from his recent
fall, the moon heaved a tarnished silver arc above the mystic rim of
sky, flooding with new light the river and the bluffs. The man stood
illumined—a big brute of a man, heavy-limbed, massive-shouldered, with
the slouching stoop and the alert air of an habitual skulker. He moved
uneasily, as though he had suddenly become visible to some lurking foe.
He glanced nervously about him, fumbled at the butt of a six-shooter
at his belt, then catching sight of the blotch of huddled dusk that was
the fallen pinto, the meaning of the situation flashed upon him.
“That cussed cayuse! Gone and done hisself like as not! Damn me! the
whole creation’s agin me!”
He made for the pony, snarling viciously as though its exhausted,
lacerated self were the visible body of the inimical universe. He
grasped the reins and jerked them violently. The brute only groaned and
let its weary head fall heavily upon the ice.
“_Get up!_”
Antoine began kicking the pony in the ribs, bringing forth great hollow
bellowings of pain.
“O, you won’t get up, eh? Agin me too, eh? Take that, and that and
_that_! I wished you was everybody in the whole world and hell to
oncet, I’d make you beller now I got you down! Take _that_!”
The man with a roar of anger fell upon the pony, snarling, striking,
kicking, but the pony only groaned. Its limbs could no longer support
its body. When Antoine had exhausted his rage, he got up, gave the pony
a parting kick on the nose, and started off at a dogtrot across the
glinting ice towards the bluffs beyond.
Ever and anon he stopped and whirled about with hand at ear. He heard
only the sullen murmur of the silence, broken occasionally by the whine
and pop of the ice and the plaintive, bitter wail of the coyotes
somewhere in the hills, like the heartbroken cry of the lonesome
prairie, yearning for the summer.
“O, I wouldn’t howl if I was you,” muttered the man to the coyotes;
“I wished I was a coyote or a grey wolf, knowin’ what I do. I’d be a
man-killer and a cattle-killer, I would. And then I’d have people of
my own. Wouldn’t be no cur of a half-breed runnin’ from his kind. O, I
wouldn’t howl if I was you!”
He proceeded at a swinging trot across the half mile of ice and halted
under the bluffs. He listened intently. A far sound had grown up in the
hollow night—vague, but unmistakable. It was the clatter of hoofs far
away, but clear in faintness, for the cold snap had made the prairie
one vast sounding-board. A light snow had fallen the night before, and
the trail of the refugee was traced in the moonlight, distinct as a
wagon track.
Antoine felt the pitiless pinch of the approaching lariat as he
listened. Then his accustomed bitter weariness of life came upon the
pariah.
“What’s the use of me runnin’? What am I runnin’ to? Nothin’—only more
of the same thing I’m runnin’ from; lonesomeness and hunger and the
like of that. Gettin’ awake stiff and cold and half starved and cussin’
the daylight ’cause it’s agin me like everything else, and gives me
away. Sneakin’ around in the brush till dark, eatin’ when I can like
a damned wolf, then goin’ to sleep hopin’ it’ll never get day. But
it always does. It’s all night somewheres | 617.273188 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.3589210 | 2,277 | 40 |
Produced by Paul Dring 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.)
[Illustration: W. A. ALLEN, AUTHOR]
THE SHEEP EATERS
BY
W. A. ALLEN, D.D.S.
[Illustration]
THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS,
114-116 EAST 28TH STREET,
NEW YORK.
1913.
COPYRIGHT, 1913,
_by_
W. A. ALLEN
_This Book Is Affectionately
Dedicated To My Friend_
MRS. CLARA DALLAS.
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I AN EXTINCT MOUNTAIN TRIBE 7
II THE OLD SQUAW'S TALE 12
III THE GOLD SEEKER IN THE MOUNTAINS 21
IV STARTING FOR THE PAINT ROCKS 30
V A TALK WITH LITTLE BEAR 35
VI CURIOSITIES AROUND PAINT ROCK 45
VII THE STORY OF AGGRETTA AND THE RED ARROW 51
VIII CLOSING WORDS 72
THE SHEEP EATERS
CHAPTER I
AN EXTINCT MOUNTAIN TRIBE
The Sheep Eaters were a tribe of Indians that became extinct about fifty
years ago, and what remaining history there is of this tribe is
inscribed upon granite walls of rock in Wyoming and Montana, and in a
few defiles and canyons, together with a few arrows and tepees remaining
near Black Canyon, whose stream empties into the Big Horn River. Bald
Mountain still holds the great shrine wheel, where the twenty-eight
tribes came semi-annually to worship the sun, and in the most
inaccessible places may still be found the remains of a happy people.
Small in stature and living among the clouds, this proud race lived a
happy life far removed from all other Indians.
The Shoshones seem to be a branch of the Sheep Eaters who afterwards
intermarried with the Mountain Crows, a tall race of people who gave to
the Shoshones a taller and better physique. From what can be gleaned,
the Sheep Eater women were most beautiful, but resembled the Alaskan
Indians in their shortness of stature.
These people drew their name from their principal article of food,
Mountain Sheep, although, when winter set in, elk and deer were often
killed when coming down before a driving snow storm.
Their home life was simple. They lived in the grassy parks of the
mountains which abounded in springs of fresh water, and were surrounded
by evergreens and quaking asps and sheltered by granite walls rising
from fifty to a thousand feet high. Their tepees were different from
those of all other tribes, and were not covered with rawhide but
thatched with quaking asp bark, and covered with a gum and glue made
from sheep's hoofs. Another variety were covered with pitch pine gum.
[Illustration: WHEEL OF THE HOLY SHRINE, BALD MOUNTAIN, WYO.]
In this manner lived the twenty-eight tribes of Sheep Eaters, carving
their history on granite walls, building their homes permanently among
the snowy peaks where they held communion with the sun, and worshipping
at their altar on Bald Mountain, which seems likely to remain until the
Sheep Eaters are awakened by Gabriel's trumpet on the morning of the
resurrection.
Never having been taught differently, they believed in gods, chief of
which was the sun, and consecrated their lives to them; and their
eternal happiness will be complete in the great Happy Region where all
is bright and warm. The great wheel, or shrine, of this people is eighty
feet across the face, and has twenty-eight spokes, representing the
twenty-eight tribes of their race. At the center or hub there is a house
of stone, where Red Eagle held the position of chief or leader of all
the tribes. Facing the north-east was the house of the god of plenty,
and on the south-east faced the house of the goddess of beauty; and due
west was the beautifully built granite cave dedicated to the sun god,
and from this position the services were supposed to be directed by him.
Standing along the twenty-eight spokes were the worshippers, chanting
their songs of praise to the heavens, while their sun dial on earth was
a true copy of the sun.
A short time ago I learned that among the Mountain Crows there lived an
old woman, who was the very last of her tribe, and who was so old she
seemed like a spirit from another world. She had outlived her people and
had wandered away from her home on the mountains into the valleys,
living on berries and wild fruit as she wandered. She alone could read
the painted rocks and tell their meaning, and could relate the past
glories of the tribe and the methods of the arrow makers, who
transformed the obsidian into the finished arrows ready to kill the
mountain ram.
I was very anxious to see this creature, who had outlived her race and
her usefulness, and so one day I saddled my horse, Billie, put on my
cartridge belt, took my rifle in my hand, and set out for the mountains
where I knew a small band of Mountain Crows were hunting buffalo on Wind
River.
After a long ride I passed Bovay Creek and struck the Buffalo Trail,
which led directly toward the mountains. It soon headed toward the south
and I crossed a mountain stream and headed toward the Big Horn Canyon. I
had gone about two miles when I discovered something to my right sitting
on the remains of a mountain cedar, and in a moment I was on the scene.
I pulled up my horse and dismounted and discovered that I had found the
object of my search, the Sheep Eater squaw.
CHAPTER II
THE OLD SQUAW'S TALE
Passing the Big Horn Canyon, where the rushing waters were beaten into
spray, and where granite walls were shining like great sapphires
reflected in the sun's bright rays, I wondered how many centuries it
took to chisel that mighty water way fifty-two miles through this
tortuous mountain. Perpendicular walls of fully 2000 feet are standing
sentinels above this silvery water which goes roaring and foaming
through the narrow abyss.
The golden eagle closes its wings and falls through space like a rocket
from some unknown world, uttering a scream that resounds like a crash of
lightning. The Big Horn, proudly perched on yonder crag, bids defiance
to all living creatures. For fifteen miles this box canyon has cut
through the backbone of the mountains and holds the clear waters as in
the palm of one's hand. At the mouth of the canyon, where the waters
flow calm as a summer lake, as though tired from their terrible journey,
the rounded boulders, the white sands and quartz that have passed
through, are resting, peaceful as the wild rose which waves to and fro
in the spring zephyrs.
In the sand lies a dead cedar. Torn from the mountain top and crashing
down the canyon, it was carried by the rushing waters out on to the
beach and deposited in the sand. Sitting on a branch of this cedar is an
old woman. Her white locks hang crisp and short on her bony shoulders;
her face is covered with a semi-parchment, brown as the forest leaves,
and drawn tight over her high cheek bones; her eyes are small and sunken
in her head, but the fire has not yet gone out. An old elk skin robe,
tattered and torn, is thrown across her shoulders, with its few
porcupine quills still hanging by the sinew threads where they were
placed a century ago. The last of her race! Yes, long ago her people
have become extinct, passed away leaving her to die. But alas, death
does not claim her, and she wanders alone until picked up by the
mountain Absarokees.
I sat down by her side and asked her by sign talk: "Are you a Sioux?"
She shook her head. "Are you a Blackfoot?" Again she shook her head, and
the effort seemed to tire her. I made many signs of the different
tribes, but in the Crow sign she said "No" to them all. Her form seemed
to be of rawhide, and on her fingers were still a few old rings made
from the horn of the bighorn ram.
I gave her some of my lunch, as I ate, and she munched it with a set of
old teeth worn to the gums. She ate in silence until all was gone; then
I told her I was a medicine man, and asked her how old she was. She held
up ten stubs of fingers, all of which had been partly cut off while
mourning for dead relatives, then took them down until she had counted
one hundred and fifteen years. Her eyes brightened, and she fronted away
to the main range to a towering crag of granite, facing the north,
where Bull Elk Canyon empties into the Big Horn. She held her withered
arm high above her head and said in sign language:
"My people lived among the clouds. We were the Sheep Eaters who have
passed away, but on those walls are the paint rocks, where our
traditions are written on their face, chiseled with obsidian arrow
heads. Our people were not warriors. We worshipped the sun, and the sun
is bright and so were our people. Our men were good and our women were
like the sun. The Great Spirit has stamped our impressions on the rocks
by His lightnings; there are many of our people who were outlined on
those smooth walls years ago; then our people painted their figures, or
traced them with beautiful colored stones, and the pale face calls them
"painted rocks." Our people never came down into the valleys, but always
lived among the clouds, eating the mountain sheep and the goats, and
sometimes the elk when they came high on the mountains. Our tepees were
made of the cedar, thatched with grey moss and cemented with the gum
from the pines, carpeted with the mountain sheep-skins, soft as down.
Our garments were made from the skins of the gazelle, and ornamented
with eagle feathers and ermine and otter skins.
"We chanted our songs to | 617.378961 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.3599470 | 1,143 | 43 |
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
A LEGEND OF MONTROSE
by
Sir Walter Scott
CONTENTS.
I. Introduction to A LEGEND OF MONTROSE.
II. Introduction (Supplement). Sergeant More M'Alpin.
III. Main text of A LEGEND OF MONTROSE.
IV. Appendix No. I Clan Alpin's Vow.
No. II The Children of the Mist.
V. Notes Note I Fides et Fiducia sunt relativa.
Note II Wraiths.
Note: Footnotes in the printed book have been inserted in the
etext in square brackets ("[]") close to the place where
they were referenced by a suffix in the original text.
I. INTRODUCTION TO A LEGEND OF MONTROSE.
The Legend of Montrose was written chiefly with a view to place before
the reader the melancholy fate of John Lord Kilpont, eldest son of
William Earl of Airth and Menteith, and the singular circumstances
attending the birth and history of James Stewart of Ardvoirlich, by
whose hand the unfortunate nobleman fell.
Our subject leads us to talk of deadly feuds, and we must begin with
one still more ancient than that to which our story relates. During
the reign of James IV., a great feud between the powerful families
of Drummond and Murray divided Perthshire. The former, being the most
numerous and powerful, cooped up eight score of the Murrays in the kirk
of Monivaird, and set fire to it. The wives and the children of the
ill-fated men, who had also found shelter in the church, perished by the
same conflagration. One man, named David Murray, escaped by the humanity
of one of the Drummonds, who received him in his arms as he leaped from
amongst the flames. As King James IV. ruled with more activity than most
of his predecessors, this cruel deed was severely revenged, and several
of the perpetrators were beheaded at Stirling. In consequence of the
prosecution against his clan, the Drummond by whose assistance David
Murray had escaped, fled to Ireland, until, by means of the person whose
life he had saved, he was permitted to return to Scotland, where he and
his descendants were distinguished by the name of Drummond-Eirinich, or
Ernoch, that is, Drummond of Ireland; and the same title was bestowed on
their estate.
The Drummond-ernoch of James the Sixth's time was a king's forester in
the forest of Glenartney, and chanced to be employed there in search of
venison about the year 1588, or early in 1589. This forest was adjacent
to the chief haunts of the MacGregors, or a particular race of them,
known by the title of MacEagh, or Children of the Mist. They considered
the forester's hunting in their vicinity as an aggression, or perhaps
they had him at feud, for the apprehension or slaughter of some of their
own name, or for some similar reason. This tribe of MacGregors were
outlawed and persecuted, as the reader may see in the Introduction to
ROB ROY; and every man's hand being against them, their hand was of
course directed against every man. In short, they surprised and slew
Drummond-ernoch, cut off his head, and carried it with them, wrapt in
the corner of one of their plaids.
In the full exultation of vengeance, they stopped at the house of
Ardvoirlich and demanded refreshment, which the lady, a sister of the
murdered Drummond-ernoch (her husband being absent), was afraid or
unwilling to refuse. She caused bread and cheese to be placed before
them, and gave directions for more substantial refreshments to be
prepared. While she was absent with this hospitable intention, the
barbarians placed the head of her brother on the table, filling the
mouth with bread and cheese, and bidding him eat, for many a merry meal
he had eaten in that house.
The poor woman returning, and beholding this dreadful sight, shrieked
aloud, and fled into the woods, where, as described in the romance,
she roamed a raving maniac, and for some time secreted herself from all
living society. Some remaining instinctive feeling brought her at length
to steal a glance from a distance at the maidens while they milked the
cows, which being observed, her husband, Ardvoirlich, had her conveyed
back to her home, and detained her there till she gave birth to a child,
of whom she had been pregnant; after which she was observed gradually to
recover her mental faculties.
Meanwhile the outlaws had carried to the utmost their insults against
the regal authority, which indeed, as exercised, they had little reason
for respecting. They bore the same bloody trophy, which they had so
savagely exhibited to the lady of Ardvoirlich, into the old church of
Balquidder, nearly in the centre of their country, where the Laird of
MacGregor and all his clan being convened for the | 617.379987 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.3823970 | 1,693 | 9 |
E-text prepared by Michael Gray ([email protected])
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 27951-h.htm or 27951-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/9/5/27951/27951-h/27951-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/9/5/27951/27951-h.zip)
POLICEMAN BLUEJAY
by
LAURA BANCROFT
Author of
The Twinkle Tales, Etc.
With Illustrations by Maginel Wright Enright
[Frontispiece: "GO, BOTH OF YOU, AND JOIN THE BIRD THAT WARNED YOU"]
Chicago
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Publishers
Copyright, 1907
by
The Reilly & Britton Co.
The Lakeside Press
R. R. Donnelley & Sons Company
Chicago
To the Children
I MUST admit that the great success of the "TWINKLE TALES" has
astonished me as much as it has delighted the solemn-eyed, hard working
publishers. Therefore I have been encouraged to write a new "TWINKLE
BOOK," hoping with all my heart that my little friends will find it
worthy to occupy a place beside the others on their pet bookshelves.
And because the children seem to especially love the story of "Bandit
Jim Crow," and bird-life is sure to appeal alike to their hearts and
their imaginations, I have again written about birds.
The tale is fantastical, and intended to amuse rather than instruct;
yet many of the traits of the feathered folk, herein described, are in
strict accordance with natural history teachings and will serve to
acquaint my readers with the habits of birds in their wildwood homes.
At the same time my birds do unexpected things, because I have written
a fairy tale and not a natural history.
The question is often asked me whether Twinkle and Chubbins were asleep
or awake when they encountered these wonderful adventures; and it
grieves me to reflect that the modern child has been deprived of fairy
tales to such an extent that it does not know--as I did when a girl--
that in a fairy story it does not matter whether one is awake or not.
You must accept it as you would a fragrant breeze that cools your brow,
a draught of sweet water, or the delicious flavor of a strawberry, and
be grateful for the pleasure it brings you, without stopping to
question too closely its source.
For my part I am glad if my stories serve to while away a pleasant hour
before bedtime or keep one contented on a rainy day. In this way they
are sure to be useful, and if a little tenderness for the helpless
animals and birds is acquired with the amusement, the value of the
tales will be doubled.
LAURA BANCROFT.
LIST OF CHAPTERS
I LITTLE ONES IN TROUBLE
II POLICEMAN BLUEJAY
III THE CHILD-LARKS
IV AN AFTERNOON RECEPTION
V THE ORIOLE'S STORY
VI A MERRY ADVENTURE
VII THE BLUEJAY'S STORY
VIII MRS. HOOTAWAY
IX THE DESTROYERS
X IN THE EAGLE'S NEST
XI THE ORPHANS
XII THE GUARDIAN
XIII THE KING BIRD
XIV A REAL FAIRYLAND
XV THE LAKE OF DRY WATER
XVI THE BEAUTY DANCE
XVII THE QUEEN BEE
XVIII GOOD NEWS
XIX THE REBELS
XX THE BATTLE
XXI THE TINGLE-BERRIES
XXII THE TRANSFORMATION
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"GO, BOTH OF YOU, AND JOIN THE BIRD THAT WARNED YOU"
THE MAN STOLE THE EGGS FROM THE NEST
THE TRIAL OF THE SHRIKE
"PEEP! PEEP! PEEP!" CRIED THE BABY GOLDFINCHES
SAILING ON THE DRY WATER
IN THE HONEY PALACE
THE BATTLE
"IT'S ALMOST DARK. LET'S GO HOME"
[CHAPTER I] _Little Ones in Trouble_
"SEEMS to me, Chub," said Twinkle, "that we're lost."
"Seems to me, Twink," said Chubbins, "that it isn't _we_ that's lost.
It's the path."
"It was here a minute ago," declared Twinkle.
"But it isn't here now," replied the boy.
"That's true," said the girl.
It really _was_ queer. They had followed the straight path into the
great forest, and had only stopped for a moment to sit down and rest,
with the basket between them and their backs to a big tree. Twinkle
winked just twice, because she usually took a nap in the afternoon, and
Chubbins merely closed his eyes a second to find out if he could see
that long streak of sunshine through his pink eyelids. Yet during this
second, which happened while Twinkle was winking, the path had run away
and left them without any guide or any notion which way they ought to
go.
Another strange thing was that when they jumped up to look around them
the nearest trees began sliding away, in a circle, leaving the little
girl and boy in a clear space. And the trees continued moving back and
back, farther and farther, until all their trunks were jammed tight
together, and not even a mouse could have crept between them. They made
a solid ring around Twinkle and Chubbins, who stood looking at this
transformation with wondering eyes.
"It's a trap," said Chubbins; "and we're in it."
"It looks that way," replied Twinkle, thoughtfully. "Isn't it lucky,
Chub, we have the basket with us? If it wasn't for that, we might
starve to death in our prison."
"Oh, well," replied the little fellow, "the basket won't last long.
There's plenty of starve in the bottom of it, Twinkle, any way you can
fix it."
"That's so; unless we can get out. Whatever do you suppose made the
trees behave that way, Chubbins?
"Don't know," said the boy.
Just then a queer creature dropped from a tree into the ring and began
moving slowly toward them. It was flat in shape, like a big turtle;
only it hadn't a turtle's hard shell. Instead, its body was covered
with sharp prickers, like rose thorns, and it had two small red eyes
that looked cruel and wicked. The children could not see how many legs
it had, but they must have been very short, because the creature moved
so slowly over the ground.
When it had drawn near to them it said, in a pleading tone that sounded
soft and rather musical:
"Little girl, pick me up in your arms, and pet me!"
Twinkle shrank back.
"My! I couldn't _think_ of doing such a thing," she answered.
Then the creature said:
"Little boy, please pick me up in your arms, and pet me!"
"Go 'way!" shouted Chubbins. "I wouldn't touch you for anything."
The creature turned its red eyes first upon one and then upon the
other.
"Listen, my dears," it continued; "I was once a beautiful maiden, but a
cruel tuxix transformed me into this awful shape, and so must I remain
until some child willingly takes me in its arms and pets me. Then, and
not till then, will I be restored to my proper form."
"Don't believe | 617.402437 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.7264860 | 2,782 | 10 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Melissa McDaniel and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
Transcriber's note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Words printed in italics in the original document are represented|
here between underscores, as in _text_;
THE STORY
OF LOUIE
BY
OLIVER ONIONS
Author of "In Accordance With the Evidence,"
"The Debit Account," etc.
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
_Publishers in America for Hodder & Stoughton_
TO
GWLADYS
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROLOGUE 9
PART ONE
RAINHAM PARVA 25
PART TWO
SUTHERLAND PLACE 109
PART THREE
MORTLAKE ROAD 175
PART FOUR
PILLAR TO POST 213
PART FIVE
THE CONSOLIDATION 259
ENVOI 356
PROLOGUE
I
In an old number of _Punch_, under the heading "Society's New Pet: The
Artist's Model," is to be found a drawing by Du Maurier, of which the
descriptive text runs:
"And how did you and Mr. Sopley come to quarrel, dear Miss
Dragon?"
"Well, your Grace, it was like this: I was sitting to him in a
cestus for 'The Judgment of Paris,' when someone called as wished
to see him most particular; so he said: 'Don't move, Miss Dragon,
or you'll disturb the cestus.' 'Very good, sir,' I said, and off
he went; and when he come back in an hour and a 'alf or so he
said: 'You've moved, Miss Dragon!' 'I 'aven't!' I said. 'You
'_ave_!' he said. 'I 'AVEN'T!' I said--and no more I 'adn't, your
Grace. And with that I off with his cestus an' wished him
good-morning, an' I never been near him since!"
Du Maurier may or may not have been wrong about the newness of this
craze of "Society's." If he was right, the Honourable Emily
Scarisbrick becomes at once a pioneer. Let there be set down, here in
the beginning, the plain facts of how, a good ten years before the
indignant Miss Dragon "offed with" Mr. Sopley's cestus, the Honourable
Emily found a way to bridge the gulf that lies between Bohemia and
Mayfair.
Except in the case of one person not yet born into these pages, the
report that the lady had engaged herself, early in the year 1869, to
"Mr. Buckley, her drawing-master," had only a short currency. It was
probably devised by the Honourable Emily herself in order to soften
the blow for her brother, Lord Moone. The real name of the man to whom
she engaged herself was James Buckley Causton. Under this name he
appears on the rolls of the 4th Dragoon Guards as a trooper in the
years 1862-1867; and as "Buck" Causton he attained some celebrity
when, in the last-named year, he vanquished one Piker Betteridge in
the prize ring, in a battle which, beginning with gloves and ending
with bare knuckles, lasted for nearly nine hours.
For all we know, it may have been Miss Dragon's Mr. Sopley who, seeing
the magnificent Buck in the ring, first put it into the ex-trooper's
head to become an artists' model. However it was, an artists' model he
did become, and, as such, the rage. No doubt Sopley, if it were he,
would gladly have kept his discovery to himself; but a neck like a
sycamore and a thorax capable of containing nine-hours-contest lungs
cannot be hid when Academy time comes round. Sopley's measure was
known. If Sopley painted an heroic picture it was certain he had had a
hero as model. The Academy opens in May; before June was out Sopley's
find was no longer his own. Sir Frederick Henson, the artist who moved
so in the world that in him the tradition of the monarch who picked up
the painter's brush for him might almost have been said to live again,
saw Buck, marked Buck down as his own, and presently had sole
possession of Buck.
The Honourable Emily Scarisbrick already had possession of Sir
Frederick. To be sure, it neither needed a Sir Frederick Henson to
teach her the stippling of birds' eggs and the copying of castles for
the albums of her friends, nor was the great Academician accustomed to
stooping to the office of salaried drawing-master; but--the Honourable
Emily was a Scarisbrick, of Mallard Bois.
In Henson's studio the Honourable Emily first saw Buck Causton.
To say that she fell in love with him would demand a definition of the
term. Certainly she fell in something with him. Perhaps that something
was the something that at the last thrusts baronies and Mallard Boises
aside as hindrances to a design even larger than that in which they
play so important a part; but we have nothing to do with large designs
here. Call it what you will: something proper enough to legend, but of
little enough propriety in a modern lady's life; a feeble echo of
Romance, perhaps, but never itself to become Romance unless, of it or
present scandal, it should prove the stronger. At any rate, it was a
very different thing from anything she felt, or ever had felt, for
Captain Cecil Chaffinger, of the White Hussars, her brother's nominee
for her hand.
It was a word dropped by the gallant Captain, himself a follower of
the fancy, that led her to the discovery that the hero of some feat or
other of extraordinary skill and endurance, and the young Ajax, all
chest and grey eyes and brown curls, who did odd jobs about the studio
in the intervals of posing for Henson's demigodlike canvases, were one
and the same person. Her already throbbing pulse bounded. She herself
was twenty-eight, a small, dark, febrile woman, given over to
discontents based on nothing save on an irremediably spoiled
childhood, and perhaps hankering after an indiscretion in the
conviction that indiscretions were of two kinds--indiscretions, and
the indiscretions of the Scarisbricks. Naturally she became conscious
of a quickened interest in her art.
The first indication that this interest passed beyond birds eggs and
castles was that she began "Lessons in Drapery." If here for a few
moments her story becomes a little technical, it may be none the less
interesting on that account.
The study of Drapery _as_ Drapery has not much interest for anybody
unless perhaps for a student of mechanics. For all that, it is, or
then was, regarded by drawing-masters as a self-contained subject, to
be tackled, ticked off, and thenceforward possessed. To the study of
Drapery in this unrelated sense the Honourable Emily apparently
inclined. Seeing her therefore, in this fundamental error, Sir
Frederick, a master of Drapery, took from her the "copies" which had
already supplanted the "copies" of castles in her portfolio, and
good-humouredly began to tell her what she really wanted. What she
really wanted, he said, was to rid her mind of the idea that folds
existed for their own sake, and to endeavour to realise that their
real significance lay in the thing enfolded. Miss Scarisbrick thanked
him.
So, at first from the lay figure, and then from Henson's model, she
began to draw Drapery with special reference to the thing draped.
About this time she gave Captain Chaffinger for an answer a "No" which
he refused to take. His devotion, he said, forbade him. If by his
devotion he meant his devotion to his creditors, his constancy
remained at their service. In the meantime he was still able to pay
his old debts by contracting new ones.
The Honourable Emily's studies became diligent.
There is little to be said about these things except that they do
happen. A word now about Buck's attitude.
Had the Honourable Emily's maid thrown herself at his head he would
have known what to do. His sense of the holiness of social degrees
would have received no shock. But the Honourable Emily, who could
command her maid, could not command what in all probability her maid
would not have had to ask twice for. The most she got (when after much
that is omitted here, it did at last dawn on the bashful Buck that she
had any will in the matter at all) was a blush so sudden and violent
that it compelled an embarrassed reddening of her own cheeks also.
Buck was not personally outraged. It was his sense of Order that was
outraged. He remembered the lady's station for her, and, stammeringly
but reverentially, put her back into it.
Now to be merely reverential to a woman who is in love with you is to
provoke impatience, anger and tears. On the other hand, to see a woman
in tears because you will not permit her to humiliate herself is to
have the other half of an impossible situation. It was one
luncheon-time (the Honourable Emily now lunched frequently at the
studio) that the tears came.
"Oh, you don't care for me--you don't care for me!" she sobbed.
Buck could not truthfully have said that he did care for her; but
there she was before him, in tears.
"If it were that Dragon girl, now----"
Buck, while not failing to see the force of this, could only make
imploring movements for the Honourable Emily to calm herself.
Presently she did calm herself, sufficiently to change her tone to one
of irony.
"Do you read your Bible?" she shot over her shoulder.
"Yes, miss," said Buck--"that is--I mean----"
The reason for Buck's hesitation was that he had suddenly doubted
whether the Honourable Emily would know a Racing Calendar by the name
she had just used.
"Do you mean _The_ Bible, miss?" he said, fidgeting.
She snapped: "Yes--the one with the story of Joseph in it----"
She burst into tears anew.
"Oh, that I should have to beg a man to marry me! I hate myself--I
hate you!"
Her hatred, however, did not prevent repetitions of the scene. At the
last repetition that need trouble us here her tears conquered. The
helpless Buck comforted her after the only fashion he knew anything
about--the fashion he would have used towards her maid--on his knee.
He still, however, called her "Miss."
They were privately married in the June of 1869.
* * * * *
"_Don't_ call me 'Miss'!" she broke out petulantly one day in the
middle of the honeymoon. "And you are _not_ to have your meals with
the servants! I shall lunch in my room to-day, and you are to be ready
to take me out at three o'clock."
"Yes, m'm," said Buck.
* * * * *
Probably Lord Moone had less to do than he supposed with the
separation that took place in the September of the same year. We may
assume that a much more potent factor was the Honourable Mrs.
Causton's remembrance of her own words, "That I should have to beg a
man to marry me! I hate myself--I hate you!" She did very soon hate
both herself and him. Poor Buck merely hated the whole subversive
anomaly.
He accepted the proposal that they should separate with perfect
docility. It seemed to him entirely right. Indeed the only thing he
had not accepted with docility had been his introduction to Lord
Moone, on the only occasion on which the two men ever met, as "Mr.
Buckley, the drawing-master." Buck hadn't liked that much. He had made
himself Buck Ca | 617.746526 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.7417730 | 2,157 | 8 |
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
THE JUNGLE BOOK
By Rudyard Kipling
Contents
Mowgli's Brothers
Hunting-Song of the Seeonee Pack
Kaa's Hunting
Road-Song of the Bandar-Log
"Tiger! Tiger!"
Mowgli's Song
The White Seal
Lukannon
"Rikki-Tikki-Tavi"
Darzee's Chant
Toomai of the Elephants
Shiv and the Grasshopper
Her Majesty's Servants
Parade Song of the Camp Animals
Mowgli's Brothers
Now Rann the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free--
The herds are shut in byre and hut
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call!--Good hunting all
That keep the Jungle Law!
Night-Song in the Jungle
It was seven o'clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when
Father Wolf woke up from his day's rest, scratched himself, yawned, and
spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling
in their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her
four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the
cave where they all lived. "Augrh!" said Father Wolf. "It is time to
hunt again." He was going to spring down hill when a little shadow with
a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: "Good luck go with you, O
Chief of the Wolves. And good luck and strong white teeth go with noble
children that they may never forget the hungry in this world."
It was the jackal--Tabaqui, the Dish-licker--and the wolves of India
despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling
tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village
rubbish-heaps. But they are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more
than anyone else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets
that he was ever afraid of anyone, and runs through the forest biting
everything in his way. Even the tiger runs and hides when little Tabaqui
goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake
a wild creature. We call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee--the
madness--and run.
"Enter, then, and look," said Father Wolf stiffly, "but there is no food
here."
"For a wolf, no," said Tabaqui, "but for so mean a person as myself a
dry bone is a good feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log [the jackal people],
to pick and choose?" He scuttled to the back of the cave, where he
found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end
merrily.
"All thanks for this good meal," he said, licking his lips. "How
beautiful are the noble children! How large are their eyes! And so young
too! Indeed, indeed, I might have remembered that the children of kings
are men from the beginning."
Now, Tabaqui knew as well as anyone else that there is nothing so
unlucky as to compliment children to their faces. It pleased him to see
Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable.
Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then
he said spitefully:
"Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting grounds. He will hunt
among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me."
Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Waingunga River, twenty
miles away.
"He has no right!" Father Wolf began angrily--"By the Law of the Jungle
he has no right to change his quarters without due warning. He will
frighten every head of game within ten miles, and I--I have to kill for
two, these days."
"His mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing," said
Mother Wolf quietly. "He has been lame in one foot from his birth. That
is why he has only killed cattle. Now the villagers of the Waingunga are
angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry.
They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our
children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very
grateful to Shere Khan!"
"Shall I tell him of your gratitude?" said Tabaqui.
"Out!" snapped Father Wolf. "Out and hunt with thy master. Thou hast
done harm enough for one night."
"I go," said Tabaqui quietly. "Ye can hear Shere Khan below in the
thickets. I might have saved myself the message."
Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little
river he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger who has
caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it.
"The fool!" said Father Wolf. "To begin a night's work with that noise!
Does he think that our buck are like his fat Waingunga bullocks?"
"H'sh. It is neither bullock nor buck he hunts to-night," said Mother
Wolf. "It is Man."
The whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to come
from every quarter of the compass. It was the noise that bewilders
woodcutters and gypsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run
sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger.
"Man!" said Father Wolf, showing all his white teeth. "Faugh! Are there
not enough beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat Man, and on
our ground too!"
The Law of the Jungle, which never orders anything without a reason,
forbids every beast to eat Man except when he is killing to show his
children how to kill, and then he must hunt outside the hunting grounds
of his pack or tribe. The real reason for this is that man-killing
means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men on elephants, with
guns, and hundreds of brown men with gongs and rockets and torches.
Then everybody in the jungle suffers. The reason the beasts give among
themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenseless of all living
things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him. They say too--and it is
true--that man-eaters become mangy, and lose their teeth.
The purr grew louder, and ended in the full-throated "Aaarh!" of the
tiger's charge.
Then there was a howl--an untigerish howl--from Shere Khan. "He has
missed," said Mother Wolf. "What is it?"
Father Wolf ran out a few paces and heard Shere Khan muttering and
mumbling savagely as he tumbled about in the scrub.
"The fool has had no more sense than to jump at a woodcutter's campfire,
and has burned his feet," said Father Wolf with a grunt. "Tabaqui is
with him."
"Something is coming uphill," said Mother Wolf, twitching one ear. "Get
ready."
The bushes rustled a little in the thicket, and Father Wolf dropped
with his haunches under him, ready for his leap. Then, if you had been
watching, you would have seen the most wonderful thing in the world--the
wolf checked in mid-spring. He made his bound before he saw what it was
he was jumping at, and then he tried to stop himself. The result was
that he shot up straight into the air for four or five feet, landing
almost where he left ground.
"Man!" he snapped. "A man's cub. Look!"
Directly in front of him, holding on by a low branch, stood a naked
brown baby who could just walk--as soft and as dimpled a little atom
as ever came to a wolf's cave at night. He looked up into Father Wolf's
face, and laughed.
"Is that a man's cub?" said Mother Wolf. "I have never seen one. Bring
it here."
A Wolf accustomed to moving his own cubs can, if necessary, mouth an egg
without breaking it, and though Father Wolf's jaws closed right on the
child's back not a tooth even scratched the skin as he laid it down
among the cubs.
"How little! How naked, and--how bold!" said Mother Wolf softly. The
baby was pushing his way between the cubs to get close to the warm hide.
"Ahai! He is taking his meal with the others. And so this is a man's
cub. Now, was there ever a wolf that could boast of a man's cub among
her children?"
"I have heard now and again of such a thing, but never in our Pack or in
my time," said Father Wolf. "He is altogether without hair, and I
could kill him with a touch of my foot. But see, he looks up and is not
afraid."
The moonlight was blocked out of the mouth of the cave, for Shere Khan's
great square head and shoulders were thrust into the entrance. Tabaqui,
behind him, was squeaking: "My lord, my lord, it went in here!"
"Shere Khan does us great honor," said Father Wolf, but his eyes were
very angry. "What does Shere Khan need?"
"My quarry. A man's cub went this way," said Shere Khan. "Its parents
have run off. Give it to me."
Shere Khan had jumped at a woodcutter's campfire, as Father Wolf had
said, and was furious | 617.761813 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.7733810 | 2,269 | 12 |
Produced by Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed.
Words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_.
The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is
hereby placed in the public domain.
PEREGRINE IN FRANCE.
A Lounger's Journal,
IN FAMILIAR LETTERS TO HIS FRIEND.
"And in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation--the which he vents
In _mangled forms_."
AS YOU LIKE IT.
_LONDON:_
_Printed by Thomas Davison, Whitefriars_,
FOR JAMES HARPER AND CO., 46, FLEET-STREET.
1816.
PREFACE.
The friend who has ventured to send these letters to the press feels
it necessary to state, in apology for the insufficiency of such a
trifle to meet the public eye, that they are actually published
without the knowledge of Peregrine (who is still abroad) and chiefly
with the view of giving copies to the numerous friends by whom he is
so justly regarded. The editor, therefore, relying on the indulgence
of those friends, humbly also deprecates the stranger critic's
censure, both for poor Peregrine and himself.
LETTER I.
Paris, December 14, 1815.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
Arrived safely at this interesting metropolis, I take the earliest
opportunity of relieving the affectionate anxiety you expressed over
our parting glass, by the assurance that I have happily escaped all
the evils prognosticated by some of our acquaintance from a journey at
this inclement season.
Those indeed of the inquisitive family of John Bull, who look only
for luxury and convenience in travelling, will do well never to
leave the comforts of their own happy island from motives of
expected pleasure, as they will be sure to be fretted by a series
of petty disappointments and vexations which fall to the lot of every
traveller. A little forethought may occasionally be necessary, but I
am convinced that he alone will truly enjoy a continental trip who
knows how at once to reconcile himself to the chances of the moment,
derive from them all the good he can, thank God for it,--and be
satisfied.
Without more prosing I will endeavour to comply with Mrs. ----'s
request, and, trying to overcome my propensity to lounging indolence,
send you, from time to time, such crude observations as may suggest
themselves in my peregrinations through some of the towns and
provinces of France, and during my short stay in the capital; although
I fear all novelty on this subject has already met your eye, from the
abler pens of more accomplished tourists.
At Dover I repaired immediately to the York Hotel, where the host and
hostess justified all you had told me of their attention and civility.
I found that the mail packet would attempt to get out of harbour on
Saturday afternoon; the captain had in vain endeavoured to put to sea
that morning: however, we succeeded on a second trial, and held one
course to Boulogne, which we reached in about four hours. The vessel
was very much crowded, having the mails of four days on board, and the
accumulation of four days' passengers. It was very cold, and I was, as
usual, sea-sick. I went on shore about eleven o'clock that night, and
was conducted to an hotel in the upper town, all those of the lower
town, which are the best, being full. I took under my protection an
English lady proceeding to her husband at Havre-de-Grace. We knocked
up the host, hostess, and drowsy servants, who, however, soon cooked
us some broiled whitings and lean mutton-chops (_coutelets de
mouton_); and after having taken a little _eau de vie_ and warm
Burgundy, I was conducted to my bed-room, having first seen my fellow
traveller safely lodged in hers. The waiter, "_garcon_," was an
Englishman, with all the obliging willingness of the French. I was
surprised to find my dormitory so comfortable, having supped in a
dirty _un_comfortable apartment, in which I believe slept mine host
and his wife, whom we had routed out of their snug quarters from an
alcove at one corner of it. My said bed-chamber was large, and on the
ground floor; at one end was a good wood fire blazing on the hearth,
and at the other a comfortable bed in a recess, with clean sheets,
&c.; over the fire-place a very fine chimney-glass, and upon a large
clumsy deal table stood a basin and ewer of thick French earthenware
and of peculiar form, the basin having that of an English salad-bowl
with a flat bottom,--of course it is inconvenient for its purpose.
Soap is only brought when you ask for it, and is an extra charge. All
the bed-chambers I have yet seen answer this description, which
perhaps you will think tedious; but every thing at the moment, with
the warm colouring of first impressions in a foreign country, was
interesting to me.
On going to the custom-house next morning, I found all my baggage,
except my drawing table, camera, and apparatus; I hope to regain them,
as I gave directions to Mrs. Parker, an Englishwoman, who keeps the
Hotel d'Angleterre, to forward them to me at Paris in case they were
left on board the packet; but there are so many porters (women
principally) who attend upon the landing of a boat, and, like as many
harpies, seize upon your packages, _malgre vous_, that it is more
than probable I shall never see them again; in which case you must not
expect very accurate sketching.
_A propos_, talking of female porters, let me inform you that, in
spite of the boasted gallantry of the French nation, some of the most
laborious part of the work, agricultural as well as commercial, is
performed by women. This may, however, be in a degree owing to the
exhaustion of male population, occasioned by the continued wars in
which unhappy France has been so long involved by the insatiate
ambition of her late ruler.
After managing, as well as I could, the affair of my missing drawing
utensils, I took a cursory view of the town and environs, attended by
a gay, obsequious droll, of the old French school, who hung about me
with such an assiduous importunity it was not possible to shake him
off; he stuck to me like a _burr_, and would fain have accompanied
"_Mi-lord Anglois_" to Paris, or any where else: he brought Sterne's
La Fleur so strongly to my mind, and amused me so exceedingly by his
singing, and skipping about at all calls with such unaffected
sprightliness, that I own I parted with him very reluctantly: but a
poor philosophic lounger, likely soon to be on half pay, had little
occasion for a valet of his qualifications. An accident afforded me a
proof of this good-humoured fellow's honesty, which I cannot deny
myself the pleasure of relating. I had a considerable quantity of
silver pieces in a bag, which, coming untied, the contents rolled on
the bed and floor; I thought I had picked up the whole, but on
returning to my chamber he presented me with several which had fallen
into a fold of the blankets, and which I had overlooked. I afterwards
also recovered a five franc piece from the _fille de chambre_. I
believe, indeed, that the lower orders in France are generally honest,
as well as sober and obliging; and that, although they make no scruple
of outwitting, they will not actually rob John Bull.
Boulogne sur Mer is divided into an higher and lower town; the
intermediate street, in which the church is situated, and which
ascends gradually to the former, is wide and cheerful, and looking
from the top of it, towards the opposite southern hills, an
interesting view presented itself,--the remains of the hut encampments
of Bonaparte's army of England. On the heights, to the northward of
the town, are also the ruins of long streets of soldiers' huts,
mess-houses, &c. Near this encampment Napoleon had begun to build a
noble column, of a species of marble found in a neighbouring quarry:
we saw a very beautiful model of it; the base and part of the shaft,
already built, are about fifty feet from the ground, but the
scaffolding around it runs to the projected height of the capital,
viz. 150 feet, and is strongly bolted with iron. This column, intended
as a trophy of imperial grandeur, would have been, when finished, a
handsome object on the coast, and probably useful to the coasting
mariner as a land-mark; it is now a striking monument of disappointed
ambition, and may afford a salutary moral lesson both to princes and
their subjects!
There are some striking views about Boulogne, which English travellers
hurrying to and from the capital rarely stop to look at. The heights
were every where bristled with cannon and mortars during the war, and
the forts are very strong by art and nature: the approach to the
harbour was therefore truly formidable when the republican flag waved
on this iron-bound coast. This port is very ancient: it was here the
Romans are said to have embarked for Britain, and the remains of a
tower, built by them in the reign of Caligula, are still shewn. The
harbour is also interesting from having been the rendezvous for the
flotilla, which idly threatened to pour the imperial legions on our
happy shores. Of this vaunted flotilla, consisting once of 2000
vessels, scarcely a wreck remains!
| 617.793421 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.7871200 | 1,693 | 9 |
Produced by David Widger
SHIP'S COMPANY
By W.W. Jacobs
FOR BETTER OR WORSE
Mr. George Wotton, gently pushing the swing doors of the public bar of
the "King's Head" an inch apart, applied an eye to the aperture, in the
hope of discovering a moneyed friend. His gaze fell on the only man in
the bar a greybeard of sixty whose weather-beaten face and rough clothing
spoke of the sea. With a faint sigh he widened the opening and passed
through.
"Mornin', Ben," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
"Have a drop with me," said the other, heartily. "Got any money about
you?"
Mr. Wotton shook his head and his face fell, clearing somewhat as the
other handed him his mug. "Drink it all up, George," he said.
His friend complied. A more tactful man might have taken longer over the
job, but Mr. Benjamin Davis, who appeared to be labouring under some
strong excitement, took no notice.
"I've had a shock, George," he said, regarding the other steadily. "I've
heard news of my old woman."
"Didn't know you 'ad one," said Mr. Wotton calmly. "Wot's she done?"
"She left me," said Mr. Davis, solemnly--"she left me thirty-five years
ago. I went off to sea one fine morning, and that was the last I ever
see of er.
"Why, did she bolt?" inquired Mr. Wotton, with mild interest.
"No," said his friend, "but I did. We'd been married three years--three
long years--and I had 'ad enough of it. Awful temper she had. The last
words I ever heard 'er say was: 'Take that!'"
Mr. Wotton took up the mug and, after satisfying himself as to the
absence of contents, put it down again and yawned.
"I shouldn't worry about it if I was you," he remarked. "She's hardly
likely to find you now. And if she does she won't get much."
Mr. Davis gave vent to a contemptuous laugh. "Get much!" he repeated.
"It's her what's got it. I met a old shipmate of mine this morning what
I 'adn't seen for ten years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only a
month ago. After she left me--"
"But you said you left her!" exclaimed his listening friend.
"Same thing," said Mr. Davis, impatiently. "After she left me to work
myself to death at sea, running here and there at the orders of a pack
o'lazy scuts aft, she went into service and stayed in one place for
fifteen years. Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er money. For
twenty years, while I've been working myself to skin and bone, she's been
living in comfort and idleness."
"'Ard lines," said Mr. Wotton, shaking his head. "It don't bear thinking
of."
"Why didn't she advertise for me?" said Mr. Davis, raising his voice.
"That's what I want to know. Advertisements is cheap enough; why didn't
she advertise? I should 'ave come at once if she'd said anything about
money."
Mr. Wotton shook his head again. "P'r'aps she didn't want you," he said,
slowly.
"What's that got to do with it?" demanded the other. "It was 'er dooty.
She'd got money, and I ought to have 'ad my 'arf of it. Nothing can make
up for that wasted twenty years--nothing."
"P'r'aps she'll take you back," said Mr. Wotton.
"Take me back?" repeated Mr. Davis. "O' course she'll take me back.
She'll have to. There's a law in the land, ain't there? What I'm
thinking of is: Can I get back my share what I ought to have 'ad for the
last twenty years?"
"Get 'er to take you back first," counselled his friend. "Thirty-five
years is along time, and p'r'aps she has lost 'er love for you. Was you
good-looking in those days?"
"Yes," snapped Mr. Davis; "I ain't altered much--. 'Sides, what about
her?"
"That ain't the question," said the other. "She's got a home and money.
It don't matter about looks; and, wot's more, she ain't bound to keep
you. If you take my advice, you won't dream of letting her know you run
away from her. Say you was cast away at sea, and when you came back
years afterwards you couldn't find her."
Mr. Davis pondered for some time in sulky silence.
"P'r'aps it would be as well," he said at last; "but I sha'n't stand no
nonsense, mind."
"If you like I'll come with you," said Mr. Wotton. "I ain't got nothing
to do. I could tell 'er I was cast away with you if you liked. Anything
to help a pal."
Mr. Davis took two inches of soiled clay pipe from his pocket and puffed
thoughtfully.
"You can come," he said at last. "If you'd only got a copper or two we
could ride; it's down Clapham way."
Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets
shook his head and followed his friend outside.
"I wonder whether she'll be pleased?" he remarked, as they walked slowly
along. "She might be--women are funny creatures--so faithful. I knew
one whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died she
was so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again."
Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over
London Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham.
"Never mind," said Mr. Wotton, as his friend uttered an exclamation.
"You'll have money in your pocket soon."
Mr. Davis's face brightened. "And a watch and chain too," he said.
"And smoke your cigar of a Sunday," said Mr. Wotton, "and have a easy-
chair and a glass for a friend."
Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twenty
years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to
easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it
about. More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.
At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after following
the road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint but
bloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.
A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemen
eyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight. It was a road of
trim semi-detached villas, each with a well-kept front garden and neatly-
curtained windows. At the gate of a house with the word "Blairgowrie"
inscribed in huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davis paused for a
moment uneasily, and then, walking up the path, followed by Mr. Wotton,
knocked at the door.
He retired a step in disorder before the apparition of a maid in cap and
apron. A sharp "Not to-day!" sounded in his ears and the door closed
again. He faced his friend | 617.80716 |
2023-11-16 18:27:21.9532080 | 1,597 | 7 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Books by Mr. Story.
POEMS. I. PARCHMENTS AND PORTRAITS. II. MONOLOGUES AND LYRICS. 2
vols. 16mo, $2.50.
HE AND SHE; or, A POET’S PORTFOLIO. 18mo, illuminated vellum, $1.00.
FIAMMETTA. A Novel. 16mo, $1.25.
ROBA DI ROMA. New Revised Edition, from new plates. With Notes. 2
vols. 16mo, $2.50.
CONVERSATIONS IN A STUDIO. 2 vols. 16mo, $2.50.
EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. 16mo, $1.25.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
EXCURSIONS IN ART
AND LETTERS
BY
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
D.C.L. (OXON.)
COMM. CORONA ITALIA, OFF. LEG. D’HONNEUR, ETC.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1893
Copyright, 1891,
BY WILLIAM WETMORE STORY.
_All rights reserved._
THIRD EDITION.
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
MICHEL ANGELO 1
PHIDIAS, AND THE ELGIN MARBLES 49
THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER AMONG THE ANCIENT GREEKS AND ROMANS 115
A CONVERSATION WITH MARCUS AURELIUS 190
DISTORTIONS OF THE ENGLISH STAGE AS INSTANCED IN “MACBETH” 232
EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS.
MICHEL ANGELO.
The overthrow of the pagan religion was the deathblow of pagan Art. The
temples shook to their foundations, the statues of the gods shuddered,
a shadow darkened across the pictured and sculptured world, when
through the ancient realm was heard the wail, “Pan, great Pan is dead.”
The nymphs fled to their caves affrighted. Dryads, Oreads, and Naiads
abandoned the groves, mountains, and streams that they for ages had
haunted. Their voices were heard no more singing by shadowy brooks,
their faces peered no longer through the sighing woods; and of all the
mighty train of greater and lesser divinities and deified heroes to
whom Greece and Rome had bent the knee and offered sacrifice, Orpheus
alone lingered in the guise of the Good Shepherd.
Christianity struck the deathblow not only to pagan Art, but for a time
to all Art. Sculpture and Painting were in its mind closely allied
to idolatry. Under its influence the arts slowly wasted away as with
a mortal disease. With ever-declining strength they struggled for
centuries, gasping as it were for breath, and finally, almost in utter
atrophy, half alive, half dead,—a ruined, maimed, deformed presence,
shorn of all their glory and driven out by the world,—they found a
beggarly refuge and sufferance in some Christian church or monastery.
The noble and majestic statues of the sculptured gods of ancient Greece
were overthrown and buried in the ground, their glowing and pictured
figures were swept from the walls of temples and dwellings, and in
their stead only a crouching, timid race of bloodless saints were seen,
not glad to be men, and fearful of God. Humanity dared no longer to
stand erect, but groveled in superstitious fear, and lashed its flesh
in penance, and was ashamed and afraid of all its natural instincts.
How then was it possible for Art to live? Beauty, happiness, life, and
joy were but a snare and a temptation, and Religion and Art, which can
never be divorced, crouched together in fear.
The long black period of the Middle Ages came to shroud everything in
ignorance. Literature, art, poetry, science, sank into a nightmare of
sleep. Only arms survived. The world became a battlefield, simply for
power and dominion, until religion, issuing from the Church, bore in
its van the banner of chivalry.
But the seasons of history are like the seasons of the year. Nothing
utterly dies. And after the long apparently dead winter of the Middle
Ages the spring came again—the spring of the Renaissance—when liberty
and humanity awoke, and art, literature, science, poesy, all suddenly
felt a new influence come over them. The Church itself shook off
its apathy, inspired by a new spirit. Liberty, long downtrodden and
tyrannized over, roused itself, and struck for popular rights. The
great contest of the Guelphs and Ghibellines began. There was a ferment
throughout all society. The great republics of Italy arose. Commerce
began to flourish; and despite all the wars, contests, and feuds of
people and nobles, and the decimations from plague and disease, art,
literature, science, and religion itself, burst forth into a new and
vigorous life. One after another there arose those great men whose
names shine like planets in history—Dante, with his wonderful “Divina
Commedia,” written, as it were, with a pen of fire against a stormy
background of night; Boccaccio, with his sunny sheaf of idyllic tales;
Petrarca, the earnest lover of liberty, the devoted patriot, the
archæologist and philosopher as well as poet, whose tender and noble
spirit is marked through his exquisitely finished canzone and sonnets,
and his various philosophical works; Villari, the historian; and all
the illustrious company that surrounded the court of Lorenzo the
Magnificent—Macchiavelli, Poliziano, Boiardo, the three Pulci, Leon
Battista Alberti, Aretino, Pico della Mirandola, and Marsilio Ficino;
and, a little later, Ariosto and Tasso, whose stanzas are still sung
by the gondoliers of Venice; and Guarini and Bibbiena and Bembo,—and
many another in the fields of poesy and literature. Music then also
began to develop itself; and Guido di Arezzo arranged the scale and
the new method of notation. Art also sent forth a sudden and glorious
coruscation of genius, beginning with Cimabue and Giotto, to shake off
the stiff cerements of Byzantine tradition in which it had so long been
swathed, and to stretch its limbs to freer action, and spread its wings
to higher flights of power, invention, and beauty. The marble gods,
which had lain deth | 617.973248 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.1574820 | 3,569 | 12 |
Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy
of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
[Illustration: _Bolax, Imp or Angel Which?_]
[Illustration: JE SUIS MOI, LE GENERALE BOOME.
I AM THE GREAT GENERAL BOOME.
[From Fun in Dormitory. page 166.]]
BOLAX
IMP OR ANGEL--WHICH?
BY MRS. JOSEPHINE CULPEPER
[Illustration]
JOHN MURPHY COMPANY.
Baltimore: New York:
200 W. Lombard Street. 70 Fifth Avenue.
1907.
_Copyright 1907, by_
Mrs. Josephine Culpeper
PRINTED BY JOHN MURPHY COMPANY
_"Bolax: Imp or Angel--Which?" Being favorably criticised by priests of
literary ability, is hereby recommended most heartily by me to all
Catholics._
_As a study in child-life and as a rational object lesson in the
religious and moral training of children, Mrs. Culpeper's book should
become popular and the jolly little Bolax be made welcome in many
households._
_Faithfully yours in Xt,_
[Illustration: Signature]
_Dedicated to my best beloved pupils, especially the children of
the Late Dr. William V. Keating, and those of Joseph R. Carpenter,
by their old governess._
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I.
AMY'S COMPANY, 1
CHAPTER II.
THE WONDERFUL RIDE, 9
CHAPTER III.
THE PARTY, 19
CHAPTER IV.
PLEASANT CONTROVERSY, 29
CHAPTER V.
THE PICNIC, 38
CHAPTER VI.
A TALK ABOUT OUR BOYS, 52
CHAPTER VII.
THE FIGHT, 61
CHAPTER VIII.
THE COAL MAN, 78
CHAPTER IX.
AMY'S TRIP TO THE SEASHORE, 89
CHAPTER X.
CHRISTMAS AND "LITTLE CHRISTMAS," OR KING'S
DAY, 100
CHAPTER XI.
PRACTISING, 116
CHAPTER XII.
FIRST COMMUNION, 130
CHAPTER XIII.
UNFORSEEN EVENTS, 146
CHAPTER XIV.
BOLAX GOES TO COLLEGE, 157
CHAPTER XV.
LETTER FROM A FRIEND, 174
CHAPTER XVI.
BOLAX LEAVES COLLEGE FOR VACATION, 196
ONLY A BOY.
Only a boy with his noise and fun,
The veriest mystery under the sun;
As brimful of mischief and wit and glee
As ever a human frame can be,
And as hard to manage as--ah! ah, me!
'Tis hard to tell,
Yet we love him well.
Only a boy, with his fearful tread,
Who cannot be driven, but must be led;
Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats,
And tears more clothes, and spoils more hats,
Loses more tops and kites and bats
Than would stock a store,
For a year or more.
Only a boy, with his wild, strange ways,
With his idle hours on busy days;
With his queer remarks and his odd replies,
Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise,
Often brilliant for one of his size,
As a meteor hurl'd,
From the pleasant world.
Only a boy, who will be a man
If Nature goes on with her first great plan--
If water, or fire, or some fatal snare
Conspire not to rob us of this our heir,
Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care,
Our torment, our joy,
"Our only boy."
--_Anonymous_.
BOLAX IMP OR ANGEL--WHICH?
CHAPTER I.
AMY'S COMPANY
"Come children," said Mrs. Allen, "Mamma wants to take you for a nice
walk."
"Oh, please, dear Mamma, wait awhile! Bolax and I have company!" This
from little Amy, Bo's sister.
Mrs. Allen looked around the room, and saw several chairs placed before
the fire; but seeing no visitors, was about to sit in the large arm
chair.
"Oh, dear Mamma," said Amy, "please do not take that chair! That's for
poor old St. Joseph; he will be here presently."
Turning toward the chair nearest the fire, the child bowed down to the
floor, saying: "Little Jesus I love you! When will St. Joseph be here?"
Then bowing before the next chair: "Blessed Mother, are you comfortable?
Here is a footstool."
Mrs. Allen went into the hall, and was about to close the door, when
Bolax called out: "Oh, Ma dear, please don't shut the door. Here comes
St. Joseph and five beautiful angels."
Mrs. Allen was rather startled at the positive manner in which this was
said, and unconsciously stepped aside, as if really to make way for the
celestial visitors. Then leaving the children to amuse themselves, she
listened to them from an adjoining room. This is what she heard:
Amy--Dear St. Joseph please sit down; blessed angels, I am sorry that I
haven't enough chairs, but you can rest on your beautiful wings.
Bolax--Little Jesus, I'm so glad you've come. Mamma says you are very
powerful, even if you are so little. I want to ask you lots of things.
Do you see these round pieces of tin? Well, won't you please change them
all into dollars, so we can have money for the poor, and sister Amy
won't be crying in the street when she has no money to give all the
blind and the lame people we meet. And dear Jesus, let me whisper--I
want a gun.
Amy--Dear Blessed Mother please make poor Miss Ogden well. I heard her
tell my Mamma she was afraid to die; and she is very sick. She has such
a sad face, and she looks mis'able.
Bolax--Sister, won't you ask lots of things for me? I'm afraid to ask
'cause I was naughty this morning. I dyed pussy's hair with Papa's red
ink.
Amy--No, I won't ask any more favors; Mamma says we must be thankful for
all we get, so let us sing a hymn of thanks.
Here Papa came upstairs calling for his babies. Mrs. Allen not wishing
to disturb the children, beckoned him into her room, hoping he would
listen to the innocent prattle of his little ones. All unconscious of
being observed, the children continued to entertain their heavenly
guests.
Mr. Allen not being a Catholic, was more shocked than edified at what he
thought the hallucination of the children, and spoke rather sternly to
his wife. "All this nonsense comes from your constant talk on subjects
beyond the comprehension of children. Amy is an emotional child; she
will become a dreamer, a spiritualist; it will affect her nervous system
and you will have yourself to blame.
"As for Bolax, I have no fear for him. He'll never be too pious. I'm
willing to----" Here they were startled by a most unearthly yell, and
Master Bo rushed into the room, saying that Amy would not let him play
with her.
"Why won't she?" asked Papa.
"Oh, because I upset St. Joseph; I wanted to take the chairs for a train
of cars."
Papa broke into a fit of laughter, and said: "Bo, Bo, you're the
funniest youngster I ever heard of."
Poor Little Amy came into the room, looking as if ready to cry, telling
her mother she would never again have that boy when her company came.
"Just think, dear Ma, Bo said he liked monkeys better than angels."
The serious face of the little girl caused her mother to wonder if the
child really saw the holy spirits.
Mrs. Allen consoled her little daughter, telling her Bo would be more
thoughtful and better behaved when he should be a few years older.
"Come now," said she, "we will go to see poor little Tommie Hoden. I am
sure from the appearance of the boy, the family must be in very great
distress."
It was a beautiful day. The hyacinths were in bloom, and there were
daffodils, tulips, and forget-me-nots, almost ready to open; the cherry
trees were white with blossoms, and the apple trees covered with buds.
The glad beautiful spring had fully come with its lovely treasures and
everything seemed delighting in the sweet air and sunshine.
Miss Beldon, a neighbor, was digging her flower-beds, and asked where
they were going.
"I want to visit that poor little fellow, Tommy Hoden, who comes here so
often," said Mrs. Allen.
"You're not going to Hoden's," cried Miss Beldon; "why the father is an
awful man!"
"So much the more need of helping him, and that poor neglected boy of
his," answered Mrs. Allen. "Can you tell me exactly where they live?"
"Yes, in a horrid old hut, near Duff Mills. You can't miss it, for it is
the meanest of all those tumble-down shanties. I do wish you wouldn't
go, it won't do any good."
"Our Lord will take care of that," said Mrs. Allen. "I am only going to
do the part of the work He assigns me, and take food to the hungry."
"Well," said Miss Beldon, "I wouldn't go for fifty dollars. The man is
never sober, and he won't like to be interfered with. I shouldn't wonder
if he would shoot at you."
Mrs. Allen laughed, and said anything so tragic was not likely to
happen, and then went to get a basket of food to take to Tommy Hoden.
They set forth on their walk, Bo holding fast to his mother's hand while
Amy loitered on the way, gathering wild flowers. "Do you really, truly
think Tom's father would shoot at us?" asked Bo.
"No, indeed, dear. I hope you are not afraid."
"Well--no--dear Ma, not very afraid;" and the little fellow drew a deep
sigh; "only I--I--hope he won't shoot you, dear Ma."
"Well I am afraid!" said Amy, in a somewhat shamefaced manner.
"Please, Ma dear, let me go back and I will kneel before our Blessed
Lady's picture and pray for the poor man all the time you are away."
"That is very sweet of you, dear. Now Bo, perhaps you had better return
with Amy. I can go alone."
"No; no; I won't go back. I want to take care of my own dear Mamma. I'm
not a bit afraid now."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Allen, "I will tell you what I want to do for
Tom and his father. I will try to get Tom to go to school every day and
to catechism class on Sundays. I think that would make a better boy of
him. Then I hope to persuade his father to sign the temperance pledge
and go to work."
Bolax understood what his mother meant by this, for Mrs. Allen made a
constant companion of the child; and although only five, she taught him
to recite a piece on Temperance.
The walk to the mills was very pleasant, with the exception of about
half a mile of the distance, just as the road turned off from the
village; here were a number of wretched old buildings, occupied by very
poor and, for the most part, very wicked people.
Somewhat removed from the others stood a hovel more dilapidated, if
possible, than the rest. Towards this Mrs. Allen, still holding Bolax by
the hand, bent her steps, and gently rapped at the door.
No one answered, but something that sounded like the growl of a beast
proceeded from within. After repeating the rap twice or three times,
she pushed the door wider open and walked in. The room upon which it
opened was small and low, and lighted by a single window, over which
hung a thick network of spider webs; the dingy walls were festooned in
like manner; the clay floor was so filthy, that, for a moment, Mrs.
Allen shrunk from stepping upon it.
In a corner of the wretched room sat Tom's father, smoking an old pipe.
He was a rough, bad-looking man with shaggy hair hanging over his face
and bleared eyes that glared at his visitors with no gentle expression.
"What do you want?" he growled.
"Your little boy sometimes comes to our place," answered Mrs. Allen, "so
I thought I would come to see him, and bring him some cakes; children
are so fond of sweets."
"Very kind of you, I'm sure, ma'am, though I don't know why you should
take the trouble," and the glare of his eyes softened a little; "you're
the first woman that's crossed that ere threshold since Molly was
carried out. I ha'n't got no chair."
"Oh, never mind. I did not come to make a long call," said Mrs. Allen.
The lady looked around the wretched room in vain, for a shelf or table
on which to deposit the contents of her basket. At last she saw a
closet, and while placing the articles of food in it, talked to old
Hoden as if he had been the most respectable man in the county.
"Is Tom at home, Mr. Hoden?"
"What d'ye want of him? I never know where he is."
"I heard you ought to be a Catholic," continued Mrs. Allen, "and I
thought you would not object to Tom's coming to my catechism class on
Sunday."
"He ain't got no clothes fit to go; besides I reckon it wouldn't do no
good to send him, for he ain't never seen the inside of a church."
"Well, Mr. Hoden, couldn't you come yourself?"
"It is me, ma'am? I haven't been near a church or priest for twenty-five
years. Poor Molly tried to make me go, but she gave it up as a bad job.
You may try your hand on Tom for all I care."
"I am much obliged to you for giving me leave to try," said Mrs. Allen,
smiling; "I should not have asked Tom to come without your permission,
Mr. Hoden. Good-bye, sir."
The poor wretch seemed dazed, and did not reply to the lady's polite
leave-taking.
After she was gone, he said to himself "I wonder what that one is up to.
I never heard such smooth talk in my life. Well it do make me feel good
to be spoke to like I were a gentleman. I'd give a good bit to know who
sent her here, and why she come."
Ah, poor soul, it was the charity of Jesus Christ that prompted the lady
to go to you; and many a fervent prayer she and her children will say
for your conversion.
"Mamma," said Bolax, on the way home, "that man is not so dreadful bad."
"Why do you think that, dear?"
"Because I saw a picture of the Sacred Heart pasted on the wall inside
the closet; it is all over grease and flyspecks, but you know you told
me Jesus gave a blessing to any house that had a picture of His Sacred
Heart in it."
CHAPTER II.
THE WONDERFUL RIDE.
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted Bolax, "Amy where are you? 'Want to tell you
something fine." Amy was watering her flower-bed, and did not pay much
attention to the little brother who was always having something "fine"
to tell.
"What is it now, Bo dear?" "Oh something real splendid this time."
"Please tell me then," said Amy getting a little impatient.
"You'll be so glad, Amy. Mamma and auntie say they are going | 618.177522 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.2532770 | 184 | 15 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE TOWER OF LONDON
AGENTS
AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
AUSTRALASIA THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS, MELBOURNE
CANADA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.
27 RICHMOND STREET WEST, TORONTO
INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.
MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY
309 BOW BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA
[Illustration: THE WHITE TOWER (KEEP), WITH | 618.273317 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.4290810 | 51 | 8 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Paul Marshall and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration] | 618.449121 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.4292920 | 1,703 | 13 |
Produced by David Gil, Lisa Reigel, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
produced from images hosted by the University of Wisconsin's
Digital Collections.)
Transcriber's Notes: Words in italics in the original are surrounded by
_underscores_. A row of asterisks represents either an ellipsis in a
poetry quotation or a place where the original Greek text was too
corrupt to be read by the translator. Other ellipses match the original.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the
original.
There are numerous long quotations in the original, many missing the
closing quotation mark. Since it is often difficult to determine where a
quotation begins or ends, the transcriber has left quotation marks as
they appear in the original.
A few typographical errors have been corrected. A complete list follows
the text. Other notes also follow the text.
THE
DEIPNOSOPHISTS
OR
BANQUET OF THE LEARNED
OF
ATHENÆUS.
LITERALLY TRANSLATED
BY C. D. YONGE, B.A.
WITH AN APPENDIX OF POETICAL FRAGMENTS,
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE BY VARIOUS AUTHORS,
AND A GENERAL INDEX.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
MDCCCLIV.
LONDON:
R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.
PREFACE.
The author of the DEIPNOSOPHISTS was an Egyptian, born in Naucratis, a
town on the left side of the Canopic Mouth of the Nile. The age in which
he lived is somewhat uncertain, but his work, at least the latter
portion of it, must have been written after the death of Ulpian the
lawyer, which happened A.D. 228.
Athenæus appears to have been imbued with a great love of learning, in
the pursuit of which he indulged in the most extensive and multifarious
reading; and the principal value of his work is, that by its copious
quotations it preserves to us large fragments from the ancient poets,
which would otherwise have perished. There are also one or two curious
and interesting extracts in prose; such, for instance, as the account of
the gigantic ship built by Ptolemæus Philopator, extracted from a lost
work of Callixenus of Rhodes.
The work commences, in imitation of Plato's Phædo, with a dialogue, in
which Athenæus and Timocrates supply the place of Phædo and Echecrates.
The former relates to his friend the conversation which passed at a
banquet given at the house of Laurentius, a noble Roman, between some of
the guests, the best known of whom are Galen and Ulpian.
The first two books, and portions of the third, eleventh, and fifteenth,
exist only in an Epitome, of which both the date and author are unknown.
It soon, however, became more common than the original work, and
eventually in a great degree superseded it. Indeed Bentley has proved
that the only knowledge which, in the time of Eustathius, existed of
Athenæus, was through its medium.
Athenæus was also the author of a book entitled, "On the Kings of
Syria," of which no portion has come down to us.
The text which has been adopted in the present translation is that of
Schweighäuser.
C. D. Y.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.--EPITOME.
The Character of Laurentius--Hospitable and Liberal Men--
Those who have written about Feasts--Epicures--The Praises
of Wine--Names of Meals--Fashions at Meals--Dances--Games
--Baths--Partiality of the Greeks for Amusements--Dancing
and Dancers--Use of some Words--Exercise--Kinds of Food--
Different kinds of Wine--The Produce of various places--
Different Wines 1-57
BOOK II.--EPITOME.
Wine--Drinking--The evils of Drunkenness--Praises of Wine
--Water--Different kinds of Water--Sweetmeats--Couches and
Coverlets--Names of Fruits--Fruit and Herbs--Lupins--Names
of--Plants--Eggs--Gourds--Mushrooms--Asparagus--Onions--
Thrushes--Brains--The Head--Pickle--Cucumbers--Lettuce--
The Cactus--The Nile 57-121
BOOK III.
Cucumbers--Figs--Apples--Citrons--Limpets--Cockles--
Shell-fish--Oysters--Pearls--Tripe--Pigs' Feet--Music at
Banquets--Puns on Words--Banquets--Dishes at Banquets--
Fish--Shell-fish--Fish--Cuttle-fish--Bread--Loaves--Fish--
Water Drinking--Drinking Snow--Cheesecakes--Χόνδοος 121-210
BOOK IV.
Feast of Caranus--Supper of Iphicrates--Cooks--Dancing at
Banquets--The Attic Banquet--Athenian Feasts--The Copis--
The Phiditia--Cleomenes--Persian Banquets--Alexander the
Great--Cleopatra--Banquets at Phigalea--Thracian Banquets
--Celtic Banquets--Roman Banquets--Gladiatorial Combats--
Temperance of the Lacedæmonians--The Theory of Euxitheus--
Lentils--Spare Livers--Persæus--Diodorus--Extravagance--
Luxury of the Tarentines--Extravagance of Individuals--
Cooks' Apparatus--Use of Certain Words--Tasters--The
Delphians--Musical Instruments--Kinds of Flutes--Wind
Instruments 210-287
BOOK V.
Banquets--Baths--Banquets--The Banquets described by Homer
--Banquets--The Palaces of Homer's Kings--Conversation at
Banquets--Customs in Homer's Time--Attitudes of Guests--
Feast given by Antiochus--Extravagance of Antiochus--
Ptolemy Philadelphus--Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus--
A large Ship built by Ptolemy--The Ship of Ptolemy
Philopator--Hiero's Ship--Banquet given by Alexander--
Athenio--The Valour of Socrates--Plato's account of
Socrates--Socrates--The Gorgons 287-352
BOOK VI.
Tragedy--Fishmongers--Misconduct of Fishmongers--Use of
particular Words--Use of Silver Plate--Silver Plate--
Golden Trinkets--Use of Gold in different Countries--
Parasites--Gynæconomi--Parasites--Flatterers of Dionysius
--Flatterers of Kings--Flattery of the Athenians--
Flatterers--The Tyrants of Chios--The Conduct of Philip--
Flatterers and Parasites--The Mariandyni--Slaves--Drimacus
--Condition of Slaves--Slaves--Banquets--The Effects of
Hunger--The Mothaces--Slaves under the Romans--The Fannian
Law 353-432
BOOK VII.
The Phages | 618.449332 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.5255950 | 90 | 6 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (University of California Library--Los Angeles)
Transcriber's Notes:
1.Page scan source:
https://books.google.com/books?id=Rm9LAQAAMAAJ
(University of California Library--Los Angeles)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
THE PEACOCK OF
J | 618.545635 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.7716150 | 4,795 | 9 |
E-text prepared by Sandra Eder and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/gasolinemotor00slaurich
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text in small capital letters has been changed to upper case.
THE GASOLINE MOTOR
by
HAROLD WHITING SLAUSON, M. E.
Author of "The Motor Boat"
Outing Handbooks
New York
Outing Publishing Company
MCMXIII
Copyright, 1913, by
Outing Publishing Company
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
I. TYPES OF MOTORS 9
II. VALVES 24
III. BEARINGS 43
IV. THE IGNITION SYSTEM 62
V. MAGNETOS 83
VI. CARBURETORS AND THEIR FUEL 90
VII. LUBRICATION 112
VIII. COOLING 130
IX. TWO CYCLE MOTORS 148
THE GASOLINE MOTOR
THE GASOLINE MOTOR
CHAPTER I
TYPES OF MOTORS
There are certain events that must happen in a gasoline motor before
the engine will run of its own accord. For instance, to obtain
successive power impulses, the charge must first be admitted to the
cylinder and compressed; it must then be ignited to form the explosion
that creates the force at the flywheel; and the burned gases resulting
from this explosion must be ejected in order to clear the cylinder
for the new charge. To accomplish this series of events, some motors
require four strokes, while others do the business in two. These are
popularly called four-cycle and two-cycle motors, respectively.
A cycle, of course, can be any round of events, such as a cycle of
years--at the end of which time the previous happenings are scheduled
to repeat themselves. But in gas engine parlance a cycle is taken to
mean the round of events from, say, the explosion of one charge to the
ignition of the next. Thus, it will be seen that the four-cycle motor
requires four strokes of the piston to accomplish its round of events,
and is, properly, a four-_stroke_ cycle motor. Likewise, the so-called
two-cycle motor requires two strokes to complete its cycle and should
therefore be termed a two-_stroke_ cycle motor.
If this longer terminology could be adhered to, there would be less
misunderstanding of the meanings of two- and four-cycle, for when taken
literally, these abbreviated forms signify absolutely nothing. Usage
seems to have made them acceptable, however, and if the reader will but
remember that four-cycle, for instance, means four _strokes per cycle_,
the term becomes almost as simple as does "four-cylinder."
It is evident that there are two strokes for each revolution of the
flywheel--one when the crank is forced down and the other when the
crank moves up. As the piston is attached to the crank through the
medium of the connecting rod, the strokes are measured by the motion
of the piston. Thus, since it requires four strokes of the piston to
complete the round of events in the four-cycle motor, the explosions
occur only at every second revolution of the flywheel. In this
connection it must be remembered that we are dealing with but one
cylinder at a time, for a four-cycle engine is practically a collection
of four single-cylinder units.
But even though the explosion in a four-cycle motor occurs only every
other revolution, the engine is by no means idle during the interval
between these power impulses, for each stroke has its own work to do.
The explosion exerts a force similar to a "hammer blow" of several tons
on the piston, and the latter is pushed down, thus forming the first
stroke of the cycle. The momentum of the flywheel carries the piston
back again to the top of its travel, and during this second stroke all
of the burned, or exhaust, gases are forced out and the cylinder is
cleaned, or "scavenged." The piston is then carried down on its third
stroke, which tends to create a partial vacuum and sucks in the charge
for the next explosion.
On the fourth, and final, stroke of the cycle the piston, still
actuated by the momentum of the flywheel, is pushed up against the
recently-admitted charge and compresses this to a point five or six
times greater than that of the atmosphere. At the extreme top of this
last stroke, the spark is formed, causing the next explosion, and the
events of this cycle are repeated.
Now, inasmuch as on one up-stroke of the piston the charge must be held
tightly in place in order that it may be compressed, and on the next
up-stroke a free passage must be offered so that the exhaust gases may
be forced out, it is evident that a valve must be used as a sentry
placed at the openings to restrain the desirable gas from escaping
and also to facilitate the retreat of the objectionable exhaust.
Likewise, the force of the explosion must be confined to the piston on
one down-stroke in order that all of the energy may be concentrated
at the crank, while on the succeeding down-stroke a free passage must
be afforded to the charge so that it may be sucked in through the
carburetor. Consequently a second valve must be used to control the
inlet passage on the down-strokes and prevent the escape of the force
of the explosion through an opening that was intended as an entrance
for the fresh charge. Thus valves are a necessity on all motors in
which successive similar strokes of the piston do not perform the same
operations.
As quadrupeds and bipeds form the two great divisions of the
animal kingdom, so is the motor separated into the two main
classes of four-cycle and two-cycle engines. Even though to all
exterior appearances, the two types of motors may be identical,
the distinction, to the engineer, at least, is as marked as is the
difference between a stork and an elephant. The difference is somewhat
reversed, however, in that, while the elephant has double the number of
legs of the stork, the four-cycle motor has but one-half the number of
power impulses of its two-cycle cousin at the same speed.
In other words, there is an explosion in each cylinder of the two-cycle
motor with every revolution of the flywheel,--instead of with alternate
revolutions, as is the case with the four-cycle type. But the number
of events necessary to produce each explosion must be the same in both
types of motors, and consequently it is only by "doubling up" and
performing several operations with each stroke that the two-cycle motor
can obtain a power impulse with each revolution of the flywheel.
Starting with the ignition of the charge, as in the four-cycle motor,
let us see how the events are combined in the two-cycle type so that
all will occur within the allotted two strokes. Directly after the
explosion there is but one event that can happen if this force has been
properly harnessed, and that is the violent downward travel of the
piston. Just before the bottom of this downward stroke is reached,
however, an opening is uncovered through which the exhaust gases can
expend the remainder of their energy--which by this time has become
greatly reduced. Immediately after this another passage is uncovered
and the charge is forced into the cylinder under pressure, thus helping
to clear the cylinder of the remainder of the exhaust gases.
All of this takes place near the end of the down-stroke; and at the
beginning of its return, the piston closes the openings previously
uncovered for the passage of the exhaust gases and incoming charge, and
then compresses the mixture during the remainder of its up-stroke. Thus
the suction stroke and the "scavenging" stroke of the four-cycle motor
are dispensed with in the two-cycle type and every downward thrust of
the piston is a power stroke.
The two-cycle motor has been used in several notable instances with
great success on motor cars, but by far the larger majority of
automobile power plants are of the four-cycle type. In view of the
wonderful simplicity of the two-cycle motor, its small number of moving
parts, and its more frequent power impulses, it may well be asked:
"Why is this not in more popular use on the motor car?" The four-cycle
motor has but one power stroke out of every four, while only alternate
strokes of the two-cycle motor consume power without producing any.
This would seem to indicate that, for equal sizes and weights, the
two-cycle motor would produce twice as much power as the four-cycle
type--and this is true theoretically. But the four-cycle motor devotes
an entire stroke to forcing out the exhaust gases, or scavenging, and
another entire stroke to drawing in a fresh charge, and it is evident
that these operations can be done much more effectively in this manner
than when combined with several other events following each other in
such rapid succession as is the case with the two-cycle motor. In
the two-cycle motor the incoming charge must be diluted to a certain
extent with the exhaust gases which have not been entirely expelled,
and the intake valve port is uncovered for so short a time that unless
there has been very high compression in the base, the cylinder cannot
be entirely filled with the explosive mixture at high speeds. This
is described in greater detail in the last chapter of this volume.
Thus, while admittedly simpler in construction and operation than the
four-cycle, the two-cycle motor in its ordinary forms does not obtain
quite as high an efficiency from the fuel as does its more complicated
cousin. Each type has its distinct use, however, and in many instances
in which low initial cost and simplicity of design are more desirable
than are economy of fuel and high efficiency of operation, the
two-cycle motor stands supreme.
The sentries that stand guard over the passages through which the
gases make their entrance and exit may appear in a variety of guises,
but they determine the shape of the cylinders of a motor and divide
the four-cycle engine into a number of classes. For instance, if the
valves controlling the admission of the explosive mixture are placed on
one side of the cylinders and those officiating over the exit of the
exhaust gases are located on the opposite side, the motor is known as
the "T-head" type because of the shape of its cylinders.
All valves that are placed at the side of the cylinder must operate
in pockets so as not to interfere with the movement of the piston.
These pockets are cast with the cylinder and form a projection at its
side near the top. When these projections are cast on opposite sides,
a cylinder having the shape of the letter "T" is formed, while if the
valves operate on the same side, the single projection forms a cylinder
having the shape of the inverted letter "L." Hence cylinders having
valves on opposite sides are called "T"-head motors, while "L"-head
motor is synonymous for an engine having "valves on the same side."
When the valves are placed in the head, there is no need of separate
pockets, for these valves operate from above and do not interfere
with the movement of the piston. There may be a combination of these
positions, one set of valves being placed in the head and the others
at the side. This is known as the "inlet in head, exhaust at side"
type--or vice versa, as the case may be.
The valve that has been in almost universal use in motor cars is known
as the "poppet" type, as distinguished from the sliding and rotary
styles. As evidenced by its name, the poppet valve is pushed or lifted
from its seat, and thus the full area of the opening to the passage is
made available almost immediately. The poppet valve is lifted by a cam,
the shape of which determines the relative speed of operation of the
valve, and is returned to its seat by a stiff spring. The nature of the
contact that the valve makes with its seat depends upon the condition
of the surfaces and is the deciding factor as to whether the joint is
completely air-tight or not.
When the exhaust valve is opened, its head is thrust directly in the
path of the hot, out-rushing gases; these same gases also swirl around
the edge of the seat. The excessive heat and the particles of carbon
that are often found in the exhaust gases tend to corrode and build
a deposit on the edges of the valve and its seat, thus eventually
preventing perfect contact from taking place. This makes necessary the
grinding of the valves--an operation that is familiar to the majority
of motor car owners and drivers.
While the poppet valve motor is still used on the majority of
automobiles, a new and radical type of valve mechanism has been giving
successful results. This is known as the sliding sleeve type of motor,
and while it has been used for several seasons in Europe, 1912 saw
its adoption for the first time in America. The sleeve motor, it must
be understood, is of the four-cycle type, the events occurring in the
same order as on any ordinary automobile motor, and the only difference
lies in the nature of the valves that control the openings of the
exhaust and inlet passages. That this difference is great, however,
will be realized when it is understood that the valves consist of two
concentric shells, in the inner one of which the piston reciprocates.
In other words, two hollow cylinders line the interior of the cylinder
casting and replace the poppet valves and pockets of the more familiar
type of motor.
These sleeves, or shells, or hollow cylinders--or whatever name it is
chosen to give them--slide up and down in the same line of action as
that of the piston. A port, or slot, is cut near the top on opposite
sides of each of the shells. These four ports are so arranged that one
set opens directly opposite the intake passage, while the other opens
by the exhaust manifold entrance. When it is said that these ports
open, it is meant that similar slots in the two sleeves come opposite
each other, or "register," so that an unobstructed passage for the gas
is offered. The port in one sleeve may be opposite the intake pipe
entrance, but if the slot in the other sleeve does not correspond with
this, the passage is effectively closed.
Thus it will be seen that the ports are opened and closed by the
movement of the sleeves in opposite directions. For example, just
before the opening of the intake port, the inner sleeves will be
traveling upward while the outer shell moves downward, and the slots
in the two shells will be opposite each other at the instant that they
pass the inlet pipe. This gives a much quicker opening than would be
the case if one shell stood still while the other moved downward, and
it is because the slots approach each other from opposite directions
that this motor can be run efficiently at high speeds.
Inasmuch as this is a four-cycle motor and the explosions occur in each
cylinder but once during every two revolutions of the flywheel, each
sleeve makes but one stroke for every two of the piston. The sleeves
are operated by eccentrics attached to a shaft driven at a two-to-one
speed by the crank shaft of the motor, and as they are well lubricated
there is but very little friction generated between them and the
piston. In fact, it has been shown that the power required to operate
the sleeves, when well lubricated, is considerably less than that
consumed by the springs and valve mechanism of the poppet valve motor,
for the reason that the former type of valve does not open against the
pressure of the exhaust, as is the case with the ordinary gas engine
valve.
Besides the two- and four-cycle divisions, a motor is known by the
arrangement of its cylinders and is classified as "cylinders cast
separately," "cast in pairs," or "triple cast," according to whether
there are one, two or three cylinders to a unit. The last-named type
is not as common as are the "pair-cast" cylinders and of course can
only be used on six-cylinder motors.
When all of the cylinders of a motor are cast in one piece, the engine
is known as a "bloc" motor. This is a type that has come into popular
use for small and medium-sized power plants during the past few years
on account of the simplicity of its construction and the smooth and
compact design that is rendered possible. Of course it may be argued
that, with such a design, the entire set must be replaced if a single
cylinder is damaged, but castings have been so improved that an
accident or imperfection requiring the renewal of a cylinder is very
rare.
It is evident that, beyond a certain size of cylinder, a bloc casting
becomes too bulky to be handled conveniently, and as the entire casting
must be removed when it is desired to reach the connecting rods, crank
shaft, or piston rings, a motor so designed will seldom be found that
develops more than forty or fifty horsepower. This type of casting is
found on some six-cylinder cars, however, but it is naturally only the
"light sixes" that will use such a motor.
Above six-cylinders, a motor is usually arranged with its power units
set at an angle on either side of the vertical, thus forming the
V-shaped motor. Several eight-cylinder motors are so constructed, the
units being arranged four on a side and each set placed at an angle
of about thirty degrees from the vertical. This gives the effect of
two four-cylinder motors placed side by side and operating on the same
crank shaft.
In order to make the motor as compact as possible, the cylinders are
"staggered;" or, in other words, the cylinders of one set are placed
opposite the spaces between the units of the other. It will be seen
that the V-shaped design of motor shortens the power plant and enables
it to be set in a much smaller space under the bonnet than would be the
case were the cylinders placed one in front of the other, as in the
four- and six-cylinder types.
As a rule, the two-cylinder, four-cycle motor is of a different type
from its four- and six-cylinder cousins, and is known as a "horizontal
opposed" engine. In such a motor, the cylinders are set lengthwise
and the pistons operate opposite each other in such a manner that a
"long, narrow, and thin" power plant is obtained that is especially
well-suited for a location under the body of the car. In fact, this
horizontal motor, which may, of course, be of the four-cylinder type,
is the only shape that can well be used under the body or seat of a
touring car. In some small runabouts, however, the "double-opposed"
motor is used to good advantage under the forward bonnet, as in the
"big fellows."
There are, of course, many other features of design that serve to
differentiate one automobile power plant from another, but these are
details that do not serve to classify the motor, and the man who knows
whether his machine is two- or four-cycle; poppet or sleeve valve;
separate, pair, or en bloc cylinder castings; and "T"- or "L"-head
shape will have at his fingers' ends distinctions that would have
"floored" the salesman of a few years ago.
CHAPTER II
VALVES
It has been stated in the preceding chapter that the valves of the
gasoline motor are the sentinels placed on guard at the entrance to and
exit from each cylinder to make certain that the mixture follows its
proper course at the proper time.
Therefore, if we accept the definition that a valve is a mechanical
appliance for controlling the flow of a liquid or a gas, strictly
speaking no such thing as a "valveless" motor exists. Two-cycle
motors are sometimes said to be valveless because of the fact that
the movement of the piston automatically regulates the flow of the
exhaust and intake gases, but in this case the piston is in reality
the valve. On the four-cycle motor, however, like events take place
only on alternate strokes in the same direction, and consequently some
controlling mechanism that operates but once for every four strokes of
the piston is needed to time the flow of the gases.
As has been stated in the previous chapter, the most common form of
valve is known as the poppet type from the fact that its action is
a lifting one. Such a valve may be located in a projection cast on
either side of the top of each cylinder, or it may be inverted from
this position and placed in the cylinder head. When in the former
location, the valve is opened by an upward push on the rod to which it
is attached at its center, while a valve placed in the cylinder head is
forced down to allow the escape or entrance of the exhaust or intake
gases. The ordinary type of poppet valve is somewhat similar in shape
to a mushroom, having a very thin and flat head and a slender stem. The
disc portion of the valve is known as its head, while the rod forged
with the valve and by which the head is raised and lowered is called
the stem.
The projections cast in the cylinders of a "T"-head or "L"-head motor,
and in which the valves are placed, are known as the valve pockets.
Valves so located are lifted by a direct upward push caused by the
rotation of a cam and are returned to their closed position by means of
the extension of a stiff spiral spring surrounding each valve stem. It
is only the outer edge of the lower side of the valve head that comes
in contact with the surrounding surfaces of the opening which is closed
when the valve is returned to its ordinary position by the spring.
This surface of contact surrounding the opening is known as the valve
seat, and it is | 618.791655 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.7857760 | 2,159 | 6 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Emmy and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic
text by _underscores_.]
THOUGHTS
FOR
THE QUIET HOUR
Edited By D. L. Moody
[Illustration]
Fleming H. Revell Company
CHICAGO : NEW YORK : TORONTO
_Publishers of Evangelical Literature_
Copyrighted 1900
by
Fleming H. Revell Company
TO THE READER
One of the brightest signs of the times is that many Christians in our
Young People's Societies and churches are observing a "Quiet Hour"
daily. In this age of rush and activity we need some special call to go
apart and be alone with God for a part of each day. Any man or woman who
does this faithfully and earnestly cannot be more than twenty-four hours
away from God.
The selections given in this volume were first published in the monthly
issues of the "_Record of Christian Work_," and were found very helpful
for devotional purposes. They are also a mine of thoughts, to light up
the verses quoted. Being of permanent value, it has been thought
desirable to transfer them from the pages of the magazine to this
permanent volume.
May they have a helpful ministry, leading many into closer communion
with God!
[Illustration: D. L. Moody]
Index of Texts Quoted in This Volume.
=Genesis=
1: 4, 34
2: 7, 36
3: 3, 71
9, 5
24, 109
4:15, 105
6: 8, 128
12: 1, 18
13:12, 124
15, 37
16: 9, 94
18:17, 96
25: 8, 18, 28
11, 68
28:12, 102
15, 60
16, 69, 102
32: 1, 24
32, 119
33: 1, 111
=Exodus=
2: 3, 32
4:13, 32
14:13, 6
19, 112
20: 3, 81
24:18, 11
28: 2, 12
33:14, 88
34: 2, 25
=Numbers=
9:23, 20
11:14, 51
13:27, 38
28, 38
=Deuteronomy=
1: 2, 26
4: 1, 102
18:14, 80
33:25, 63, 69
=Joshua=
4:21, 20
5:14, 26
23:11, 7
24:15, 114
=Judges=
6:14, 78
8:18, 38
=I. Samuel=
1:10, 128
13, 128
27, 50
28, 50
2: 3, 23
12:24, 43
=II. Samuel=
5:19, 57
22:36, 24
=I. Kings=
2:34, 106
8:12, 94
13, 94
17: 3, 52
10, 113
=II. Kings=
6:17, 11
10: 5, 74
25:30, 39, 113
=I. Chronicles=
4:23, 92
=Job=
5:17, 100
=Psalms=
5: 3, 12
16:11, 110
19:12, 74, 124
21: 4, 90
23: 2, 38
3, 31
25: 4, 12
32: 8, 93
34: 1, 51
19, 6
39: 3, 52
55:22, 58
62: 5, 40
63: 1, 45
65: 3, 112
78:14, 91
90: 1, 114
12, 96
91: 3, 104
9, 119
11, 98
100:2, 95
103:2, 122
4, 122
19, 53
118:14, 6
119:117, 72
134: 1, 17
3, 17
145: 2, 9
16, 17
=Proverbs=
4:18, 34
23, 53
11:25, 121
13:25, 47
16:32, 50
27: 1, 21
=Ecclesiastes=
9:10, 78
=Song of Solomon=
1: 5, 57
6, 37
2: 3, 13
15, 35
3: 1, 30
4:16, 70
7:10, 57
=Isaiah=
6: 5, 51
30:18, 19
32:20, 72
40: 8, 104
31, 10, 31,
42, 80
41:13, 43
14, 21
43: 2, 112
48:10, 94
49: 5, 14
23, 44
50:10, 105
56: 2, 72
=Jeremiah=
18: 4, 113
22:21, 104
=Ezekiel=
12: 8, 36
34:26, 85
36:37, 88
37: 3, 101
=Daniel=
5: 1, 122
6:20, 15
9: 9, 89
10: 8, 109
=Hosea=
6: 3, 18
=Jonah=
1:11, 125
=Micah=
7: 8, 100
=Zechariah=
4:10, 64, 116
13: 1, 56
=Malachi=
3: 6, 85
18, 123
=Matthew=
2:10, 100
13, 106
5:14, 45, 55
16, 106
45, 35
48, 65
6: 6, 95
32, 75
33, 30
8: 6, 72
10: 8, 68
42, 52
14:14, 81
23, 81
22, 59
15:28, 44
20:18, 92
28, 93
25:21, 59
26, 59
24-26, 44
26:39, 15
40, 40
27:32, 54
28:16, 107
18, 107
19, 107
20, 41
=Mark=
2: 3, 122
5:36, 99
6:41, 123
7:34, 46
10:17, 120 | 618.805816 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.8971910 | 1,723 | 10 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
[Illustration: PRESIDENT WILSON
The first portrait of President Wilson since America entered the war,
taken at the White House March 19, 1918
((C) _Sun Printing and Publishing Association_)]
[Illustration: FERDINAND FOCH
Generalissimo of the allied armies on the western front]
CURRENT HISTORY
_A Monthly Magazine of_ =The New York Times=
Published by The New York Times Company, Times Square, New York, N. Y.
Vol. VIII.} No. 2 25 Cents a Copy
Part I. } May, 1918 $3.00 a Year
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
CURRENT HISTORY CHRONICLED 191
THE BATTLE OF PICARDY: A Military Review 197
The British Reverses and Their Causes By a Military Observer 205
FOUR EPIC WEEKS OF CARNAGE By Philip Gibbs 209
How General Carey Saved Amiens 219
Battle Viewed From the French Front By G. H. Perris 221
Caring for Thousands of Refugees 228
PROGRESS OF THE WAR: Chronology to April 18 231
RUSSIA UNDER GERMAN DOMINATION 235
The Czar's Loyalty to the Allies: An Autograph Letter 239
PERSHING'S ARMY UNDER GENERAL FOCH 240
Our War Machine in New Phases 243
Shortage in Aircraft Production 245
AMERICA'S FIRST YEAR OF WAR 247
War Department's Improved System By Benedict Crowell 254
The Surgeon General's Great Organization By Caswell A. Mayo 256
WAR WORK OF THE AMERICAN RED CROSS 258
GREAT BRITAIN FACES A CRISIS By David Lloyd George 263
RUSSIA AND THE ALLIES By Arthur J. Balfour 272
PRESIDENT WILSON ON THE RUSSIAN TREATIES 275
AMERICAN LIBERTY'S CRUCIAL HOUR By William E. Borah 278
_Contents Continued on Next Page_
Copyright, 1918, by The New York Times Company. All Rights Reserved.
Entered at the Post Offices in New York and in Canada as Second Class
Matter.
DEFENDING THE WORLD'S RIGHT TO DEMOCRACY By J. Hamilton Lewis 281
Messenger Dogs in the German Army 283
FULL RECORD OF SINKINGS BY U-BOATS By Sir Eric Geddes 284
Admiralty Summary of Shipping Losses 286
The Month's Submarine Record 289
TYPICAL U-BOAT METHODS: British Admiralty Records 290
The Story of an Indomitable Captain By Joseph Conrad 292
THE NAVAL DEFENSE OF VENICE 293
Venice Under the Grim Shadow 299
TAKING OVER THE DUTCH SHIPS 303
AIR RAIDS ON PARIS AND LONDON 305
The Tale of Zeppelin Disasters 309
PARIS BOMBARDED BY LONG-RANGE GUNS 310
THE IRISH GUARDS By Rudyard Kipling 313
THE GUILT OF GERMANY: Prince Lichnowsky's Memorandum 314
Reply of Former Foreign Minister von Jagow 320
COUNT CZERNIN ON PEACE TERMS 323
Great Britain's Reply to Count Czernin 327
AUSTRO-FRENCH "PEACE INITIATIVE" CONTROVERSY 328
A REVIEW OF THE BATTLE OF JUTLAND By Thomas G. Frothingham 334
Charts of Battle of Jutland 332
GERMAN CHURCHMAN'S DEFENSE OF POISON GAS 343
GREAT BRITAIN'S WAR WORK IN 1917 344
THE BATTLE OF CAMBRAI: Official Report By Field Marshal Haig 349
THE EUROPEAN WAR AS SEEN BY CARTOONISTS: 42 Cartoons 361
ROTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
PRESIDENT WILSON _Frontis_
FERDINAND FOCH, GENERALISSIMO "
BENEDICT CROWELL 204
AMERICAN ARMY CHIEFS 205
BRITISH COMMANDERS IN FRANCE 220
GERMAN COMMANDERS IN FRANCE 221
UNITED STATES CONGRESS 236
AMERICAN FIRST AID STATION 237
REPRESENTATIVES OF CENTRAL POWERS 268
PANORAMA OF VENICE 269
HENRY P. DAVISON 284
ACTUAL SURRENDER OF JERUSALEM 285
CAMP ZACHARY TAYLOR 316
VIEW OF CAMP SHERMAN 317
GRAVES OF TUSCANIA VICTIMS 332
LIBERTY LOAN POSTER 333
CURRENT HISTORY CHRONICLED
[PERIOD ENDED APRIL 19, 1918.]
AN EPOCH-MAKING MONTH
The month covered by this issue of CURRENT HISTORY MAGAZINE was the most
fateful in a military way since the beginning of the war. The most
desperate and sanguinary battle in history, begun with the great German
offensive in France March 21, 1918, was at its most furious phase when
these pages were printed. No less than 4,000,000 men were engaged in
deadly combat on a front of 150 miles.
General Foch, by agreement of the Allies, was made Commander in Chief of
the allied armies in France, March 28. This decision, long regarded as
of supreme importance, was hastened by the new emergency. The United
States on April 16 officially approved the appointment. The result of
the change was to co-ordinate all the allied forces in France into one
army. Early fruits of this new unity were apparent in the news of April
19, when it was announced that heavy French reinforcements had come that
day to the relief of the hard-pressed and weary British troops in
Flanders, and had halted the Germans; the same day the French
counterattacked in the Amiens region and thrust the Germans back, thus
giving a brighter aspect to the entire situation in France. The story of
the battle of Picardy up to April 18 is told elsewhere in detail.
The separation of Russian provinces from the old Russian Empire
continued during the month; the resistance of the Bolsheviki in Finland,
the Ukraine, Lithuania, the Caucasus, and other provinces that had been
alienated either by secession or by German acquisition grew feebler as
the weeks elapsed, and the stability of the new republics under German
suzerainty was correspondingly strengthened.
The chief political events were the exposure by France of Austria's
duplicity in seeking a separate peace, which caused the downfall of the
Austrian Premier, and the application of conscription to Ireland, to be
followed by home rule. On April 18 Lord Derby was appointed British
Ambassador to France, succeeding Lord Bertie, and was succeeded as
Secretary of State for War by Viscount Milner. Austen Chamberlain, son
of the late Joseph Chamberlain, was made a member of the War Cabinet.
Secretary of War Baker, who had left for England, France, and Italy
early in March, returned on April 17 and spoke in enthusiastic terms of
the American forces abroad. He expressed firm confidence | 618.917231 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.9254800 | 13 | 30 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
| 618.94552 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.9532260 | 1,145 | 44 |
Produced by Stuart E. Thiel
THE COMMON LAW
By Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Conventions:
Numbers in square brackets (e.g. [245]) refer to original page
numbers. Original footnotes were numbered page-by-page, and are
collected at the end of the text. In the text, numbers in slashes
(e.g./1/) refer to original footnote numbers. In the footnote
section, a number such as 245/1 refers to (original) page 245,
footnote 1. The footnotes are mostly citations to old English law
reporters and to commentaries by writers such as Ihering, Bracton
and Blackstone. I cannot give a source for decrypting the
notation.
There is quite a little Latin and some Greek in the original
text. I have reproduced the Latin. The Greek text is omitted; its
place is marked by the expression [Greek characters]. Italics and
diacritical marks such as accents and cedillas are omitted and
unmarked.
Lecture X has two subheads--Successions After Death and
Successions Inter Vivos. Lecture XI is also titled Successions
Inter Vivos. This conforms to the original.
LECTURE I. -- EARLY FORMS OF LIABILITY.
[1] The object of this book is to present a general view of the
Common Law. To accomplish the task, other tools are needed
besides logic. It is something to show that the consistency of a
system requires a particular result, but it is not all. The life
of the law has not been logic: it has been experience. The felt
necessities of the time, the prevalent moral and political
theories, intuitions of public policy, avowed or unconscious,
even the prejudices which judges share with their fellow-men,
have had a good deal more to do than the syllogism in determining
the rules by which men should be governed. The law embodies the
story of a nation's development through many centuries, and it
cannot be dealt with as if it contained only the axioms and
corollaries of a book of mathematics. In order to know what it
is, we must know what it has been, and what it tends to become.
We must alternately consult history and existing theories of
legislation. But the most difficult labor will be to understand
the combination of the two into new products at every stage. The
substance of the law at any given time pretty nearly [2]
corresponds, so far as it goes, with what is then understood to
be convenient; but its form and machinery, and the degree to
which it is able to work out desired results, depend very much
upon its past.
In Massachusetts today, while, on the one hand, there are a great
many rules which are quite sufficiently accounted for by their
manifest good sense, on the other, there are some which can only
be understood by reference to the infancy of procedure among the
German tribes, or to the social condition of Rome under the
Decemvirs.
I shall use the history of our law so far as it is necessary to
explain a conception or to interpret a rule, but no further. In
doing so there are two errors equally to be avoided both by
writer and reader. One is that of supposing, because an idea
seems very familiar and natural to us, that it has always been
so. Many things which we take for granted have had to be
laboriously fought out or thought out in past times. The other
mistake is the opposite one of asking too much of history. We
start with man full grown. It may be assumed that the earliest
barbarian whose practices are to be considered, had a good many
of the same feelings and passions as ourselves.
The first subject to be discussed is the general theory of
liability civil and criminal. The Common Law has changed a good
deal since the beginning of our series of reports, and the search
after a theory which may now be said to prevail is very much a
study of tendencies. I believe that it will be instructive to go
back to the early forms of liability, and to start from them.
It is commonly known that the early forms of legal procedure were
grounded in vengeance. Modern writers [3] have thought that the
Roman law started from the blood feud, and all the authorities
agree that the German law begun in that way. The feud led to the
composition, at first optional, then compulsory, by which the
feud was bought off. The gradual encroachment of the composition
may be traced in the Anglo-Saxon laws, /1/ and the feud was
pretty well broken up, though not extinguished, by the time of
William the Conqueror. The killings and house-burnings of an
earlier day became the appeals of mayhem and arson. The appeals
de pace et plagis and of mayhem became, or rather were in
substance, the action of trespass which is still familiar to
lawyers. /2/ But as the compensation recovered in the appeal was
the alternative of vengeance, we might expect to find its scope
limited to the scope of vengeance. Vengeance imports a feeling of
blame, and an opinion, however distorted by passion, that a wrong
has been done. It can hardly go very far beyond the case of a
harm intentionally inflicted: | 618.973266 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.9533250 | 2,271 | 10 |
Produced by David Edwards, Barry Abrahamsen and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
TOM TEMPLE’S
CAREER
By HORATIO ALGER, JR.
Author of “Tom Thatcher’s Fortune,”
“Tom Turner’s Legacy,” “The Train Boy,”
“Ben Bruce,” Etc.
[Illustration: Decoration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1888. BY A. L. BURT.
-------
TOM TEMPLE’S CAREER.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TOM TEMPLE’S CAREER.
-------
CHAPTER I
NATHAN MIDDLETON.
ON THE main street, in the town of Plympton, stood a two-story house,
with a narrow lawn in front. It had a stiff, staid look of decorum, as
if no children were ever allowed to create disorder within its
precincts, or interfere with its settled regularity. It appeared to be a
place of business as well as a residence, for there was a thin plate on
one side of the front door, bearing the name of
NATHAN MIDDLETON,
INSURANCE AGENT.
Some people might object to turning even a part of their dwellings into
a business office, but then it saved rent, and Mr. Middleton was one of
the saving kind. He had always been saving from the first time he
received a penny at the mature age of five, and triumphing over the
delusive pleasures of an investment in candy, put it in a tin
savings-bank to the present moment. He didn’t marry until the age of
forty, not having dared to undertake the expense of maintaining two
persons. At that time, however, he fortunately encountered a maiden lady
of about his own age, whose habits were equally economical, who
possessed the sum of four thousand dollars. After a calculation of some
length he concluded that it would be for his pecuniary benefit to marry.
He proposed, was accepted, and in due time Miss Corinthia Carver became
Mrs. Nathan Middleton.
Their married life had lasted eight years, when they very unexpectedly
became the custodian of my hero.
One day Mr. Middleton sat in his office, drawing up an application for
insurance, when a stranger entered.
“Wants to insure his life, I hope,” thought Nathan, in the hope of a
commission.
“Take a chair, sir. What can I do for you?” he asked urbanely. “Have you
been thinking of insuring your life? I represent some of the best
companies in the country.”
“That isn’t my business,” said the visitor decisively.
Nathan looked disappointed, and waited for the business to be announced.
“You had a school-mate named Stephen Temple, did you not, Mr.
Middleton?”
“Yes; we used to go to school together. What has become of him?”
“He is dead.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Any family?”
“One son, a boy of sixteen. That is why I am here.”
“Really, I don’t understand you.”
“He has left his son to you,” said the stranger.
“What!” exclaimed Nathan, in dismay.
“Having no other friends, for he has been away from home nearly all his
life, he thought you would be willing to give the boy a home.”
Instantly there rose in the economical mind of Mr. Middleton an
appalling array of expenses, including board, washing, clothes, books
and so on, which would be likely to be incurred on behalf of a
well-grown boy, and he actually shuddered.
“Stephen Temple had no right to expect such a thing of me,” he said.
“The fact that we went to school together doesn’t give him any claim
upon me. If the boy hasn’t got any relations willing to support him he
should be sent to the poor-house.”
The visitor laughed heartily, much to Nathan Middleton’s bewilderment.
“I don’t see what I have said that is so very amusing,” he said stiffly.
“You talk of a boy worth forty thousand dollars going to the
poor-house!”
“What!” exclaimed Nathan, in open-eyed wonder.
“As his father directs that his guardian shall receive a thousand
dollars a year for his care, most persons would not refuse so hastily.”
“My dear sir!” said Nathan persuasively, feeling as if he had suddenly
discovered a gold mine, “is this really true?”
“I can show you a copy of the will, if you are in doubt.”
“I believe you implicitly, my dear sir; and so poor Stephen is dead!”
and the insurance agent took out his handkerchief and placed it before
his eyes to wipe away the imaginary tears. “We were _very_ intimate when
we were boys—like brothers, in fact. Excuse my tears, I shall soon
recover the momentary shock of your sad announcement.”
“I hope so,” said the visitor dryly. “As you are not willing to take the
boy, I will look elsewhere.”
“My dear sir,” hastily exclaimed Nathan, alarmed at the prospect of
losing a thousand dollars a year, “you are quite mistaken. I have not
refused.”
“You suggested his being cared for by some relative.”
“It was a misapprehension, I assure you. I will gladly receive my poor
friend’s son into my happy home circle. I will be his second father. I
have no sons of my own. I will lavish upon him the tenderness of a
parent.”
The visitor laughed shortly.
“I am afraid you have very little idea of what Tom Temple is.”
“He is the son of my early friend.”
“That may be, but that don’t make him a model, or a very desirable
boarder.”
“Is he a bad boy?”
“He is known among us as ‘The Bully of the Village.’ He is fond of
teasing and domineering over other boys, and is full of mischief. He is
sure to give you trouble.”
“I’d rather he was a good boy,” thought Nathan, “but a thousand dollars
will make up for a good deal of trouble.”
“Does my description frighten you?” said the visitor.
“No,” said Nathan. “Out of regard for the lamented friend of my early
days, I will receive this misguided boy, and try to correct his faults
and make him steady and well-behaved.”
“You’ll find it a hard job, my friend.”
“I shall have the co-operation of Mrs. Middleton, an admirable lady,
whose precepts and example will have a most salutary effect upon my
young charge.”
“Well, I hope so, for your sake. When shall I send Tom to you?”
“As soon as you like,” said Nathan, who desired that the allowance of
twenty dollars a week should commence at once. “To whom am I to send my
bills?”
“To me. I am a lawyer, and the executor of Mr. Temple’s will.”
“I wonder this lawyer didn’t try to secure the thousand dollars a year
for himself,” thought Nathan, and he inwardly rejoiced that he had not
done so.
“Am I expected to provide the boy’s clothes?” he asked anxiously, the
thought suddenly occurring to him. “Is that to come out of the thousand
dollars?”
“No; not at all. You will furnish the clothes, however, and send the
bills to me. Here is my card.”
“I believe my business is at an end,” he said rising; “at least for the
present. The boy will be forwarded at once. He will probably present
himself to you day after to-morrow.”
The card which he placed in the hand of Nathan contained the name of
EPHRAIM SHARP,
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW,
CENTERVILLE
“Very well, Mr. Sharp. We will be ready to receive him. Good-morning,
sir.”
“Good-morning, Mr. Middleton. I hope you will not repent your decision.”
“That isn’t likely,” said Nathan to himself gleefully, when he was left
alone. “A thousand dollars a year, and the boy’s board won’t probably
cost me more’n a hundred. We don’t pamper ourselves with luxurious
living. It is wrong. Besides, it is wasteful. I must go and acquaint
Mrs. Middleton with the news.”
“Corinthia, my dear, we are about to have a boarder,” he said, on
reaching the presence of his fair partner.
Corinthia’s eyes flashed, not altogether amiably.
“Do you mean to say, Mr. Middleton, you have agreed to take a boarder
without consulting me?”
“I knew you would consent, my dear.”
“How did you know?”
“You would be crazy to refuse a boarder that is to pay a thousand
dollars a year.”
“What!” ejaculated the lady incredulously.
“Listen, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
He told the story, winding up with:
“Now wasn’t it right to say ‘yes?’”
“How much of this money am I going to receive?” asked his wife abruptly.
Mr. Middleton was taken aback.
“What do you mean, my dear?”
“What I say. Do you expect me to have the care of a boy—I always hated
boys—and all for your benefit?”
“We two are one, my dear.”
“Not in money matters. I repeat it. I won’t take him unless you give me
three hundred dollars of the money every year for my own use.”
Mr. Middleton didn’t like it, but he was finally compelled to give in.
After all, it would leave him seven hundred, and at least five hundred
would be clear profit.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER II
INTRODUCES TOM TEMPLE.
THE STAGE stopped in front of the Plympton Hotel two days afterward.
There were several inside passengers, but with these we have nothing to
do. Beside the driver sat a stout boy, with a keen, expressive face, who
looked full of life and activity.
“Here you are,” said the driver, with a final flourish of the whip.
“I see that, old chap,” said the boy; “but I don’t stop here.”
“Where are you goin’ to put up?”
“The man’s name is Middleton. He is to have the honor of feeding and
lodging me for the present.”
“I suppose you mean Nathan Middleton. I don’t envy you. He keeps the
meanest table in town.”
“Does he? Then I shall take the liberty | 618.973365 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.9533610 | 776 | 10 |
Produced by John Bickers; Dagny
RED EVE
by H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1911.
DEDICATION
Ditchingham, May 27, 1911. My dear Jehu:
For five long but not unhappy years, seated or journeying side by side,
we have striven as Royal Commissioners to find a means whereby our
coasts may be protected from "the outrageous flowing surges of the
sea" (I quote the jurists of centuries ago), the idle swamps turned to
fertility and the barren hills clothed with forest; also, with small
success, how "foreshore" may be best defined!
What will result from all these labours I do not know, nor whether grave
geologists ever read romance save that which the pen of Time inscribes
upon the rocks. Still, in memory of our fellowship in them I offer to
you this story, written in their intervals, of Red Eve, the dauntless,
and of Murgh, Gateway of the Gods, whose dreadful galley still sails
from East to West and from West to East, yes, and evermore shall sail.
Your friend and colleague, H. Rider Haggard. To Dr. Jehu, F.G.S., St.
Andrews, N.B.
RED EVE
MURGH THE DEATH
They knew nothing of it in England or all the Western countries in those
days before Crecy was fought, when the third Edward sat upon the throne.
There was none to tell them of the doom that the East, whence come light
and life, death and the decrees of God, had loosed upon the world. Not
one in a multitude in Europe had ever even heard of those vast lands of
far Cathay peopled with hundreds of millions of cold-faced yellow
men, lands which had grown very old before our own familiar states and
empires were carved out of mountain, of forest, and of savage-haunted
plain. Yet if their eyes had been open so that they could see, well
might they have trembled. King, prince, priest, merchant, captain,
citizen and poor labouring hind, well might they all have trembled when
the East sent forth her gifts!
Look across the world beyond that curtain of thick darkness. Behold! A
vast city of fantastic houses half buried in winter snows and reddened
by the lurid sunset breaking through a saw-toothed canopy of cloud.
Everywhere upon the temple squares and open spaces great fires burning a
strange fuel--the bodies of thousands of mankind. Pestilence was king
of that city, a pestilence hitherto unknown. Innumerable hordes had died
and were dying, yet innumerable hordes remained. All the patient East
bore forth those still shapes that had been theirs to love or hate, and,
their task done, turned to the banks of the mighty river and watched.
Down the broad street which ran between the fantastic houses advanced a
procession toward the brown, ice-flecked river. First marched a company
of priests clad in black robes, and carrying on poles lanterns of black
paper, lighted, although the sun still shone. Behind marched another
company of priests clad in white robes, and bearing white lanterns, also
lighted. But at these none looked, nor did they listen to the dirges
that they sang, for all eyes were fixed upon him who filled the centre
space and upon his two companions.
The first companion was a lovely woman, jewel-hung, wearing false
flowers in her streaming hair, and beneath her bared breasts a kirtle of
| 618.973401 |
2023-11-16 18:27:22.9922920 | 2,633 | 70 |
Produced by JC Byers, Carrie Lorenz, and Gaston Picard
THE PINK FAIRY BOOK
By Various
Edited by Andrew Lang
Preface
All people in the world tell nursery tales to their children. The
Japanese tell them, the Chinese, the Red Indians by their camp fires,
the Eskimo in their dark dirty winter huts. The Kaffirs of South Africa
tell them, and the modern Greeks, just as the old Egyptians did, when
Moses had not been many years rescued out of the bulrushes. The Germans,
French, Spanish, Italians, Danes, Highlanders tell them also, and the
stories are apt to be like each other everywhere. A child who has read
the Blue and Red and Yellow Fairy Books will find some old friends with
new faces in the Pink Fairy Book, if he examines and compares. But the
Japanese tales will probably be new to the young student; the Tanuki is
a creature whose acquaintance he may not have made before. He may remark
that Andersen wants to 'point a moral,' as well as to 'adorn a tale; '
that he is trying to make fun of the follies of mankind, as they exist
in civilised countries. The Danish story of 'The Princess in the Chest'
need not be read to a very nervous child, as it rather borders on a
ghost story. It has been altered, and is really much more horrid in the
language of the Danes, who, as history tells us, were not a nervous or
timid people. I am quite sure that this story is not true. The other
Danish and Swedish stories are not alarming. They are translated by
Mr. W. A. Craigie. Those from the Sicilian (through the German) are
translated, like the African tales (through the French) and the Catalan
tales, and the Japanese stories (the latter through the German), and an
old French story, by Mrs. Lang. Miss Alma Alleyne did the stories from
Andersen, out of the German. Mr. Ford, as usual, has drawn the monsters
and mermaids, the princes and giants, and the beautiful princesses, who,
the Editor thinks, are, if possible, prettier than ever. Here, then, are
fancies brought from all quarters: we see that black, white, and yellow
peoples are fond of just the same kinds of adventures. Courage, youth,
beauty, kindness, have many trials, but they always win the battle;
while witches, giants, unfriendly cruel people, are on the losing hand.
So it ought to be, and so, on the whole, it is and will be; and that is
all the moral of fairy tales. We cannot all be young, alas! and pretty,
and strong; but nothing prevents us from being kind, and no kind man,
woman, or beast or bird, ever comes to anything but good in these oldest
fables of the world. So far all the tales are true, and no further.
Contents
The Cat's Elopement.
How the Dragon was Tricked
The Goblin and the Grocer
The House in the Wood
Uraschimataro and the Turtle
The Slaying of the Tanuki
The Flying Trunk
The Snow Man.
The Shirt-Collar
The Princess in the Chest
The Three Brothers
The Snow-queen
The Fir-Tree
Hans, the Mermaid's Son
Peter Bull
The Bird 'Grip'
Snowflake
I know what I have learned
The Cunning Shoemaker
The King who would have a Beautiful Wife
Catherine and her Destiny
How the Hermit helped to win the King's Daughter
The Water of Life
The Wounded Lion
The Man without a Heart
The Two Brothers
Master and Pupil
The Golden Lion
The Sprig of Rosemary
The White Dove
The Troll's Daughter
Esben and the Witch
Princess Minon-Minette
Maiden Bright-eye
The Merry Wives
King Lindorm
The Jackal, the Dove, and the Panther
The Little Hare
The Sparrow with the Slit Tongue
The Story of Ciccu
Don Giovanni de la Fortuna.
The Cat's Elopement
[From the Japanische Marchen und Sagen, von David Brauns (Leipzig:
Wilhelm Friedrich).]
Once upon a time there lived a cat of marvellous beauty, with a skin as
soft and shining as silk, and wise green eyes, that could see even in
the dark. His name was Gon, and he belonged to a music teacher, who
was so fond and proud of him that he would not have parted with him for
anything in the world.
Now not far from the music master's house there dwelt a lady who
possessed a most lovely little pussy cat called Koma. She was such a
little dear altogether, and blinked her eyes so daintily, and ate her
supper so tidily, and when she had finished she licked her pink nose so
delicately with her little tongue, that her mistress was never tired of
saying, 'Koma, Koma, what should I do without you?'
Well, it happened one day that these two, when out for an evening
stroll, met under a cherry tree, and in one moment fell madly in love
with each other. Gon had long felt that it was time for him to find a
wife, for all the ladies in the neighbourhood paid him so much attention
that it made him quite shy; but he was not easy to please, and did not
care about any of them. Now, before he had time to think, Cupid had
entangled him in his net, and he was filled with love towards Koma. She
fully returned his passion, but, like a woman, she saw the difficulties
in the way, and consulted sadly with Gon as to the means of overcoming
them. Gon entreated his master to set matters right by buying Koma, but
her mistress would not part from her. Then the music master was asked to
sell Gon to the lady, but he declined to listen to any such suggestion,
so everything remained as before.
At length the love of the couple grew to such a pitch that they
determined to please themselves, and to seek their fortunes together.
So one moonlight night they stole away, and ventured out into an unknown
world. All day long they marched bravely on through the sunshine, till
they had left their homes far behind them, and towards evening they
found themselves in a large park. The wanderers by this time were very
hot and tired, and the grass looked very soft and inviting, and the
trees cast cool deep shadows, when suddenly an ogre appeared in this
Paradise, in the shape of a big, big dog! He came springing towards them
showing all his teeth, and Koma shrieked, and rushed up a cherry tree.
Gon, however, stood his ground boldly, and prepared to give battle, for
he felt that Koma's eyes were upon him, and that he must not run away.
But, alas! his courage would have availed him nothing had his enemy once
touched him, for he was large and powerful, and very fierce. From her
perch in the tree Koma saw it all, and screamed with all her might,
hoping that some one would hear, and come to help. Luckily a servant of
the princess to whom the park belonged was walking by, and he drove off
the dog, and picking up the trembling Gon in his arms, carried him to
his mistress.
So poor little Koma was left alone, while Gon was borne away full of
trouble, not in the least knowing what to do. Even the attention paid
him by the princess, who was delighted with his beauty and pretty ways,
did not console him, but there was no use in fighting against fate, and
he could only wait and see what would turn up.
The princess, Gon's new mistress, was so good and kind that everybody
loved her, and she would have led a happy life, had it not been for a
serpent who had fallen in love with her, and was constantly annoying her
by his presence. Her servants had orders to drive him away as often as
he appeared; but as they were careless, and the serpent very sly, it
sometimes happened that he was able to slip past them, and to frighten
the princess by appearing before her. One day she was seated in her
room, playing on her favourite musical instrument, when she felt
something gliding up her sash, and saw her enemy making his way to kiss
her cheek. She shrieked and threw herself backwards, and Gon, who had
been curled up on a stool at her feet, understood her terror, and with
one bound seized the snake by his neck. He gave him one bite and one
shake, and flung him on the ground, where he lay, never to worry the
princess any more. Then she took Gon in her arms, and praised and
caressed him, and saw that he had the nicest bits to eat, and the
softest mats to lie on; and he would have had nothing in the world to
wish for if only he could have seen Koma again.
Time passed on, and one morning Gon lay before the house door, basking
in the sun. He looked lazily at the world stretched out before him,
and saw in the distance a big ruffian of a cat teasing and ill-treating
quite a little one. He jumped up, full of rage, and chased away the big
cat, and then he turned to comfort the little one, when his heart nearly
burst with joy to find that it was Koma. At first Koma did not know him
again, he had grown so large and stately; but when it dawned upon her
who it was, her happiness knew no bounds. And they rubbed their heads
and their noses again and again, while their purring might have been
heard a mile off.
Paw in paw they appeared before the princess, and told her the story of
their life and its sorrows. The princess wept for sympathy, and promised
that they should never more be parted, but should live with her to the
end of their days. By-and-bye the princess herself got married, and
brought a prince to dwell in the palace in the park. And she told him
all about her two cats, and how brave Gon had been, and how he had
delivered her from her enemy the serpent.
And when the prince heard, he swore they should never leave them, but
should go with the princess wherever she went. So it all fell out as
the princess wished; and Gon and Koma had many children, and so had the
princess, and they all played together, and were friends to the end of
their lives.
How the Dragon Was Tricked
From Griechtsche und Albanesische Marchen, von J. G. von Hahn. (Leipzig:
Engelmann. 1864.)
Once upon a time there lived a man who had two sons but they did not
get on at all well together, for the younger was much handsomer than his
elder brother who was very jealous of him. When they grew older, things
became worse and worse, and at last one day as they were walking through
a wood the elder youth seized hold of the other, tied him to a tree, and
went on his way hoping that the boy might starve to death.
However, it happened that an old and humpbacked shepherd passed the tree
with his flock, and seeing the prisoner, he stopped and said to him,
'Tell me, my son why are you tied to that tree?'
'Because I was so crooked,' answered the young man; 'but it has quite
cured me, and now my back is as straight as can be.'
'I wish you would bind me to a tree,' exclaimed the shepherd,'so that
my back would get straight.'
'With all the pleasure in life,' replied the youth. 'If you will loosen
these cords | 619.012332 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.0255500 | 6,422 | 14 |
Produced by Anne Storer 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 JINGLE BOOK
* * * * *
The Tutor
A tutor who tooted the flute
Tried to teach two young tooters to toot.
Said the two to the tutor,
"Is it harder to toot, or
To tutor two tooters to toot?"
[Illustration]
* * * * *
THE JINGLE BOOK
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
Pictured by
OLIVER HERFORD
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1901
_All rights reserved_
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT, 1899,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped October, 1899.
Reprinted November, 1899; June, 1901.
* * * * *
To Hilda's Child
* * * * *
CONTENTS
THE TUTOR _Frontispiece_
PAGE
A SERIOUS QUESTION 1
TWO OLD KINGS 2
A DAY DREAM 5
OUR CLUB 7
PUZZLED 9
AN INTERCEPTED VALENTINE 11
A LONG-FELT WANT 13
THE MUSICAL CARP 14
THE INTELLIGENT HEN 15
THE HAPPY HYENA 17
A GREAT LADY 18
OPULENT OLLIE 20
THE TWO BEARS 21
THE MACARONI MAN 24
THE 4.04 TRAIN 29
A VALUABLE GIFT 30
THE GRANDILOQUENT GOAT 32
HOW THE CAT WAS BELLED 33
TRIANGULAR TOMMY 40
A MODERN INVENTION 45
AN APRIL JOKE 46
AN ALICE ALPHABET 48
THE FUNNY KITTENS 57
THE STRIKE OF THE FIREWORKS 60
THE ARCH ARMADILLO 63
A DREAM LESSON 64
THE RIVALS 68
THE NEW CUP 70
A PHOTOGRAPHIC FAILURE 71
CHRISTMAS GIFTS 73
YOUNG AMERICA 74
A BICYCLE BUILT FOR TWO 75
DOROTHY'S OPINION 77
ROLY POLY ROY 79
MY BAROMETER 85
THE BUTTER BETTY BOUGHT 86
A MARVEL 87
AN ALPHABET ZOO 88
FOUND WANTING 94
A TRAGIC TALE OF TEA 96
THE ERRATIC RAT 97
THE TWO FRIENDS 99
THE SMILING SHARK 102
THE MERCURY'S PLAINT 103
THE PIRATE POODLE 105
AN OLD LOVE 107
BOBBY'S POCKET 109
THE INSTRUCTIPHONE 112
THE LAY OF THE LADY LORRAINE 115
* * * * *
The Jingle Book
* * * * *
A Serious Question
[Illustration]
A kitten went a-walking
One morning in July,
And idly fell a-talking
With a great big butterfly.
The kitten's tone was airy,
The butterfly would scoff;
When there came along a fairy
Who whisked his wings right off.
And then--for it is written
Fairies can do such things--
Upon the startled kitten
She stuck the yellow wings.
[Illustration]
The kitten felt a quiver,
She rose into the air,
Then flew down to the river
To view her image there.
With fear her heart was smitten,
And she began to cry,
"Am I a butter-kitten?
Or just a kitten-fly?"
Two Old Kings
[Illustration]
Oh! the King of Kanoodledum
And the King of Kanoodledee,
They went to sea
In a jigamaree--
A full-rigged jigamaree.
And one king couldn't steer,
And the other, no more could he;
So they both upset
And they both got wet,
As wet as wet could be.
[Illustration]
And one king couldn't swim
And the other, he couldn't, too;
So they had to float,
While their empty boat
Danced away o'er the sea so blue.
Then the King of Kanoodledum
He turned a trifle pale,
And so did he
Of Kanoodledee,
But they saw a passing sail!
And one king screamed like fun
And the other king screeched like mad,
And a boat was lowered
And took them aboard;
And, my! but those kings were glad!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A Day Dream
Polly's patchwork--oh, dear me!--
Truly is a sight to see.
Rumpled, crumpled, soiled, and frayed--
Will the quilt be ever made?
See the stitches yawning wide--
Can it be that Polly _tried_?
Some are right and some are wrong,
Some too short and some too long,
Some too loose and some too tight;
Grimy smudges on the white,
And a tiny spot of red,
Where poor Polly's finger bled.
Strange such pretty, dainty blocks--
Bits of Polly's summer frocks--
Should have proved so hard to sew,
And the cause of so much woe!
One day it was _very_ hot,
And the thread got in a knot,
Drew the seam up in a heap--
Polly calmly fell asleep.
Then she had a lovely dream;
Straight and even was the seam,
Pure and spotless was the white;
All the blocks were finished quite--
Each joined to another one.
Lo, behold! the quilt was done,--
Lined and quilted,--and it seemed
To cover Polly as she dreamed!
Our Club
We're going to have the mostest fun!
It's going to be a club;
And no one can belong to it
But Dot and me and Bub.
[Illustration]
We thought we'd have a Reading Club,
But couldn't 'cause, you see,
Not one of us knows how to read--
Not Dot nor Bub nor me.
And then we said a Sewing Club,
But thought we'd better not;
'Cause none of us knows how to sew--
Not me nor Bub nor Dot.
And so it's just a Playing Club,
We play till time for tea;
And, oh, we have the bestest times!
Just Dot and Bub and me.
Puzzled
There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,
Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.
He'd written treatises and themes till, "For a change," he said,
"I think I'll write a children's book before I go to bed."
[Illustration]
He pulled down all his musty tomes in Latin and in Greek;
Consulted cyclopaedias and manuscripts antique,
Essays in Anthropology, studies in counterpoise--
"For these," he said, "are useful lore for little girls and boys."
He scribbled hard, and scribbled fast, he burned the midnight oil,
And when he reached "The End" he felt rewarded for his toil;
He said, "This charming Children's Book is greatly to my credit."
And now he's sorely puzzled that no child has ever read it.
[Illustration]
An Intercepted Valentine
Little Bo-Peep, will you be mine?
I want you for my Valentine.
You are my choice of all the girls,
With your blushing cheeks and your fluttering curls,
With your ribbons gay and your kirtle neat,
None other is so fair and sweet.
Little Bo-Peep, let's run away,
And marry each other on Midsummer Day;
And ever to you I'll be fond and true,
Your faithful Valentine,
LITTLE BOY BLUE.
A Long-Felt Want
[Illustration]
One day wee Willie and his dog
Sprawled on the nursery floor.
He had a florist's catalogue,
And turned the pages o'er,
Till all at once he gave a spring,
"Hurrah!" he cried with joy;
"Mamma, here's just the very thing
To give your little boy!
"For when we fellows go to school,
We lose our things, you know;
And in that little vestibule
They do get mixed up so.
"And as you often say you can't
Take care of 'em for me,
Why don't you buy a _rubber plant_,
And an _umbrella tree_?"
The Musical Carp
There once was a corpulent carp
Who wanted to play on a harp,
But to his chagrin
So short was his fin
That he couldn't reach up to C sharp.
[Illustration]
The Intelligent Hen
[Illustration]
'Twas long ago,--a year or so,--
In a barnyard by the sea,
That an old hen lived whom you may know
By the name of Fiddle-de-dee.
She scratched around in the sand all day,
For a lively old hen was she.
And then do you know, it happened this way
In that barnyard by the sea;
A great wise owl came down one day,
And hooted at Fiddle-de-dee,
Just hooted at Fiddle-de-dee.
And he cried, "Hi! Hi! old hen, I say!
You're provincial, it seems to me!"
"Why, what do you mean?" cried the old red hen,
As mad as hops was she.
"Oh, I've been 'round among great men,
In the world where the great men be.
And none of them scratch with their claws like you,
They write with a quill like me."
Now very few people could get ahead
Of that old hen, Fiddle-de-dee.
She went and hunted the posy-bed,
And returned in triumphant glee.
And ever since then, that little red hen,
She writes with a jonquil pen, quil pen,
She writes with a jonquil pen.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Happy Hyena
There once was a happy Hyena
Who played on an old concertina.
He dressed very well,
And in his lapel
He carelessly stuck a verbena.
[Illustration]
A Great Lady
This is the Queen of Nonsense Land,
She wears her bonnet on her hand;
She carpets her ceilings and frescos her floors,
She eats on her windows and sleeps on her doors.
Oh, ho! Oh, ho! to think there could be
A lady so silly-down-dilly as she!
She goes for a walk on an ocean wave,
She fishes for cats in a coral cave;
She drinks from an empty glass of milk,
And lines her potato trees with silk.
I'm sure that fornever and never was seen
So foolish a thing as the Nonsense Queen!
She ordered a wig for a blue bottle fly,
And she wrote a note to a pumpkin pie;
She makes all the oysters wear emerald rings,
And does dozens of other nonsensible things.
Oh! the scatterbrained, shatterbrained lady so grand,
Her Royal Skyhighness of Nonsense Land!
Opulent Ollie
One Saturday opulent Ollie
Thought he'd go for a ride on the trolley;
But his pennies were few,--
He only had two,--
So he went and made mud-pies with Polly.
[Illustration]
The Two Bears
Prince Curlilocks remarked one day
To Princess Dimplecheek,
"I haven't had a real good play
For more than'most a week."
Said Princess Dimplecheek, "My dear,
Your majesty forgets--
This morning we played grenadier
With grandpa's epaulets.
"And yesterday we sailed to Spain--
We both were pirates bold,
And braved the wild and raging main
To seek for hidden gold."
"True," said the prince; "I mind me well--
Right hardily we fought,
And stormed a massive citadel
To gain the prize we sought.
"But if your ladyship agrees,
Methinks we'll go upstairs
And build a waste of arctic seas,
And we'll be polar bears."
"Yes, if you'll promise not to bite,"
Fair Dimplecheek replied,
Already half-way up the flight,
His highness by her side.
"Princess, on that far window-seat,
Go, sit thee down and wait,
While I ask nursie for a sheet,
Or maybe six or eight."
A pile of sheets his highness brought.
"Dear princess, pray take these;
Although our path with danger's fraught,
We'll reach the polar seas."
Two furry rugs his lordship bore,
Two pairs of mittens white;
He threw them on the nursery floor
And shouted with delight.
He spread those sheets--the funny boy--
O'er table, floor, and chair.
"Princess," said he, "don't you enjoy
This frosty, bracing air?
"These snowy sheets are fields of ice,
This is an iceberg grim."
"Yes, dear, I think it's very nice,"
She said, and smiled at him.
And then they donned the rugs of fur,
The mittens, too, they wore;
And Curlilocks remarked to her,
"Now you must roar and roar."
[Illustration]
Dimplecheek looked out from the cowl
Formed by her furry rug.
"I'm 'fraid of bears that only growl--
I like the kind that hug."
The Very Merry Voyage of the Macaroni Man
This figure here before you is a Macaroni Man,
Who is built, as you may notice, on a most ingenious plan.
His skeleton, I beg to state, is made of hairpins three,
Which are bent and curved and twisted to a marvellous degree.
His coat-sleeves and his trouser-legs, his head and eke his waist
Are made of superfine imported macaroni paste.
And if you care to listen, you may hear the thrilling tale
Of the merry Macaroni Man's extraordinary sail.
One sunny day he started for a voyage in his yacht,
His anxious mother called to him, and said, "You'd better not!
Although the sun is shining bright, I fear that it may rain;
And don't you think, my darling boy, you'd better take the train?"
"Oh, no," said he, "no clouds I see,--the sky is blue and clear,
I will return in time for tea--good-by, my mother dear."
[Illustration]
Full merrily he started off, the day was fine and fair,
And to his great delight he found no dampness in the air.
You know if he gets wet, a Macaroni Man is spoiled,
And if he stands too near the steam, of course he may get boiled.
But our hero used precautions,--carefully he shunned the spray,--
And when the steam blew toward him, he just steered the other way.
Now, as the breeze was from the land, his course lay out to sea;
He sailed so far that he felt sure he would be late for tea.
He sailed, and sailed, and sailed, and sailed,--
he feared the dew would fall--
He tried to turn,--but oh, that steam! it would not do at all!
[Illustration]
A single puff blew toward him, and it nearly cooked his face!
The mournful Macaroni Man felt sadly out of place.
But a happy thought occurred to him, "Ha, ha,--ho, ho!" said he,--
"I'll just sail on around the world,--and then, it seems to me,
I'll reach my home (according to a careful estimate)
In time for tea, although I'll be perhaps a trifle late."
Then merrily his gallant ship sped o'er the bounding main,
Quickly he crossed the ocean wide, he flew by France and Spain;
Covered the Mediterranean, spanned the Suez Canal,--
"I'll reach my home to-night," he thought, "oh, yes, I'm sure I shall."
He skimmed the Red Sea like a bird,--the Indian Ocean crossed
(But once, in Oceanica, he feared that he was lost).
[Illustration]
He passed Australia on the fly,--cut over Capricorn,
And as the sunset gun he heard, he swung around Cape Horn.
Still at full speed, he sailed due north, he rounded Cape St. Roque,
Crossed the equator, and found out the Gulf Stream was no joke.
He coasted by the seaboard States. Hurrah! all danger past,
Quickly he sailed the last few miles and reached his home at last;
His mother welcomed him, and said, "I'm glad there was no shower;
But hurry in, my bonny boy, I've waited tea an hour."
[Illustration]
The 4.04 Train
"There's a train at 4.04," said Miss Jenny;
"Four tickets I'll take. Have you any?"
Said the man at the door:
"Not four for 4.04,
For four for 4.04 is too many."
[Illustration]
A Valuable Gift
Old Father Time, one day
In his study, so they say,
Was indulging in a surreptitious nap,
When from his drowsy dreams
He was wakened, as it seems,
By a timid but persistent little rap.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes
In indolent surprise,
Then slowly he arose from where he sat;
He opened wide his door,
And nearly tumbled o'er
The figure that stood waiting on the mat.
A tiny little dog,
With excitement all agog,
And angry eyes that seemed to flash and glower.
His manner was polite,
But he said, "I claim my right!
And I've called, sir, to demand of you my hour."
"Your what?" the old man said,
As he shook his puzzled head;
And the pertinacious puppy spoke with force:
"Well, sir, they often say,
'Every dog must have his day,'
So a puppy ought to have an hour, of course!"
[Illustration]
The old man shook with glee,
But he said obligingly,
"The dog days are all gone, I grieve to say;
But since you've come so far,
And so mannerly you are,
I'll give you just an hour--to get away."
[Illustration]
The Grandiloquent Goat
A very grandiloquent Goat
Sat down to a gay table d'hote;
He ate all the corks,
The knives and the forks,
Remarking: "On these things I dote."
Then, before his repast he began,
While pausing the menu to scan,
He said: "Corn, if you please,
And tomatoes and pease,
I'd like to have served in the can."
How the Cat was Belled
A fable told by La Fontaine,
Two centuries or more ago,
Describes some rats who would arraign
A cat, their direst foe,
Who killed so many rats
And caused the deepest woe,
This Catiline of cats.
The poor rats were at their wits' end
Their homes and families to defend;
And as a last resort
They took the case to court.
It seems they called a caucus wise
Of rats of every age and size,
And then their dean,
With sapient mien,
A very Solon of a rat,
Said it was best to bell the cat.
The quaint old tale goes on to tell
How this plan would have worked quite well,
But, somehow, flaws
Appeared, because
No one would hang the bell.
Though there the ancient fable ends,
Later report the tale extends,
No longer is the truth withheld;
Developments appear,
And so you have it here.
For the first time
Set down in rhyme
Just how that cat was belled.
The council, as 'twas getting late,
Was just about to separate,
When suddenly a rat arose
Who said he could a plan propose
Which would, he thought, succeed
And meet their urgent need.
Now as this rat was very small,
And had no dignity at all,
Although his plan was well advised,
We really need not be surprised
That all the rats of riper years
Expressed the gravest doubts and fears;
Till suddenly
He said, said he,
"If you will leave it all to me,
I will avow
Three days from now
That you shall all be free."
The solemn council then adjourned.
Each rat to home and fireside turned;
But each shook his wise head
And to his neighbor said:
"It is a dangerous job, in truth,
Though it seems naught to headstrong youth."
Now young Sir Rat we next behold,
With manner brave and visage bold,
Go marching down
To London town,
Where wondrous things are sold.
We see him stop
At a large shop,
And with the bland clerk's courteous aid
This was the purchase that he made:
A bicycle of finest make,
With modern gear and patent brake,
Pedometer, pneumatic tire,
And spokes that looked like silver wire,
A lantern bright
To shine at night,
Enamel finish, nickel plate,
And all improvements up to date.
Said sly Sir Rat: "It suits me well,
Especially that sweet-toned _bell_."
[Illustration]
The shades of night were falling fast
When Sir Rat turned toward home at last.
The neighbors watched him as he passed
And said: "What is that queer-shaped thing?
Surely that can't be made to ring."
Sir Rat went on, nor stayed
To hear the jests they made;
And just outside the old cat's gate
He stopped and boldly braved his fate,
For if that cat
Should smell a rat
How quickly he'd come out and catch him,
And with what gusto he'd despatch him!
Sir Rat, against the picket-fence
Leaned the machine, then hurried hence,
And hid himself with glee,
And waited breathlessly
To see what that
Cantankerous cat
Would say, when in the twilight dim
He saw that brightly shining rim.
Sir Rat, though hidden quite,
And safely out of sight,
Had scarcely time to wink his eye,
When Mr. Cat came sauntering by.
"Ha! Ha!" said he,
"What's this I see,
A bicycle! and just my size!
Well, this, indeed, is a surprise!
I'll confiscate
This treasure great;
How quickly I'll fly o'er the ground
When I pursue my hunting round!"
He mounted it with eager haste,
It suited well his sporting taste;
He guided it at will,
And used the brake with skill,
He grasped the handle-bars, and then--
You see it was his custom when
He did a thing, to do it well--
Of course he used the clear-toned bell!
[Illustration]
Victory now! the deed is done!
No longer at the set of sun
The rats fly shrieking to their nests,
They saunter round with merry jests
And ne'er a thought of fear,
Knowing full well
They'll hear the bell
When Mr. Cat draws near.
[Illustration]
And young Sir Rat who did the deed,
Whose cleverness relieved their need,
His wondrous enterprise
Was lauded to the skies.
And everywhere his name
Was hailed with shouts of fame.
In difficulties, oft we see
Modern improvements frequently
Will prove a happy remedy.
The Rhyme of Triangular Tommy
[Illustration]
Triangular Tommy, one morning in May,
Went out for a walk on the public highway.
Just here I will say,
'Twas a bright sunny day,
And the sky it was blue, and the grass it was green,
The same sky and grass that you've all of you seen;
And the birds in the trees sang their usual song,
And Triangular Tommy went trudging along.
But I can tell you
He cared naught for the view.
He did just what small boys of his age always do:
He shouted out "Scat!"
At a wandering cat,
And he picked a big daisy to stick in his hat;
The clovers he topped,
And the toadstools he cropped,
And sometimes he scuffled and sometimes he hopped.
[Illustration]
He took an old stick and poked at a worm,
And merrily chuckled to see the thing squirm;
When he chanced to look up, and in gorgeous array
Triangular Tilly was coming his way.
Triangular Tom straightened up in a jiff,
And put on his best manner--exceedingly stiff;
And as far as his angular shape would allow
Triangular Tom made a beautiful bow.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Triangular Tilly went smilingly by,
With a glance that was friendly, but just a bit shy.
And Tom so admired her that after she passed,
A backward look over his shoulder he cast.
And he said, "Though I think many girls are but silly,
I really admire that Triangular Tilly."
[Illustration]
But soon all such thoughts were put out of his head,
For who should come by but Triangular Ted,
The very boy Tom had been wishing to see!
"Hello!" said Triangular Tommy, said he.
"Hello!" said Triangular Ted, and away
Those two children scooted to frolic and play.
And they had, on the green,
Where 'twas all dry and clean,
The best game of leap-frog that ever was seen.
Triangular Tom beat down this way, you know,
And Triangular Ted stood beside him, just so,
When one, two, three--go!
With the greatest gusto,
Ted flew over Tom in a manner not slow.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
They played hide-and-seek, they played marbles and tag,
They played they were soldiers, and each waved a flag;
Till at last they confessed,
They wanted to rest;
So they sat down and chatted with laughter and jest;
[Illustration]
When Schoolmaster Jones they suddenly spied,
Come clumping along with his pedagogue stride,
As usual, with manner quite preoccupied;
With his hat on one side,
And his shoe-lace untied--
A surly old fellow, it can't be denied;
And each wicked boy
Thought that he would enjoy
An occasion the thoughtful old man to annoy,
And all of his wise calculations destroy.
So they thought they'd employ
A means known to each boy.
And across the wide pavement they fastened a twine
Exceedingly strong but exceedingly fine;
And Triangular Tommy laughed out in his glee,
To think how upset the old master would be!
[Illustration]
Although very wicked, their mischievous scheme
Was a perfect success; and with a loud scream,
A horrible clash,
A thump and a smash,
Old Schoolmaster Jones came down with a crash.
His hat rolled away, and his spectacles broke,
And those dreadful boys thought it a howling good joke.
And they just doubled up in immoderate glee,
Saying, "Look at the Schoolmaster!
Tee-hee! tee-hee!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Tom gave a guffaw,
And Ted roared a "haw-haw";
But soon their diversion was turned into awe,
For old Schoolmaster Jones was angry, they saw.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Triangular Ted
Turned swiftly and fled,
And far down the street like a reindeer he sped,
Leaving Tommy to face the old gentleman's rage,
Who quickly jumped up,--he was brisk for his age,--
And with just indignation portrayed on his face,
To Triangular Tommy he quickly gave chase.
[Illustration]
And hearing his squeals
And his frantic appeals,
Triangular Tommy fast took to his heels.
Now Tommy was agile and Tommy was spry;
He whizzed through the air--he just seemed to fly;
He rushed madly on, until, dreadful to say!
He came where the railroad was just in his way--
And alas! and alack!
He tripped on the track
And then with a terrible, sudden ker-thwack!
Triangular Tommy sprawled flat on his back--
And the train came along with a crash, and a crack,
A din, and a clatter, a clang, and a clack,
A toot, and a boom, and a roar, and a hiss,
And chopped | 619.04559 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.0255570 | 1,376 | 13 |
The Freedom of Science
By
Joseph Donat, S.J., D.D.
Professor Innsbruck University
New York
Joseph F. Wagner
1914
CONTENTS
Imprimatur.
Author's Preface To The English Edition.
Translator's Note.
First Section. The Freedom of Science and its Philosophical Basis.
Chapter I. Science And Freedom.
Chapter II. Two Views Of The World And Their Freedom.
Chapter III. Subjectivism And Its Freedom.
Second Section. Freedom of Research and Faith.
Chapter I. Research And Faith In General.
Chapter II. The Authority Of Faith And The Free Exercise Of Research.
Chapter III. Unprepossession Of Research.
Chapter IV. Accusations And Objections.
Chapter V. The Witnesses of the Incompatibility Of Science And Faith.
Third Section. The Liberal Freedom of Research.
Chapter I. Free From The Yoke Of The Supernatural.
Chapter II. The Unscientific Method.
Chapter III. The Bitter Fruit.
Fourth Section. Freedom of Teaching.
Chapter I. Freedom Of Teaching And Ethics.
Chapter II. Freedom Of Teaching And The State.
Fifth Section. Theology.
Chapter I. Theology And Science.
Chapter II. Theology And University.
Index.
Footnotes
IMPRIMATUR.
Nihil Obstat
REMIGIUS LAFORT, D.D.
_Censor_
Imprimatur
JOHN CARDINAL FARLEY
_Archbishop of New York_
NEW YORK, January 22, 1914.
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY JOSEPH F. WAGNER, NEW YORK
AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.
The present work has already secured many friends in German Europe. An
invitation has now been extended for its reception among the
English-speaking countries, with the object that there, too, it may seek
readers and friends, and communicate to them its thoughts--the ideas it has
to convey and to interpret. While wishing it heartfelt success and good
fortune on its journey, the Author desires it to convey his greetings to
its new readers.
This book has issued from the throes of dissension and strife, seeing the
light at a time when, in Austria and Germany, the bitter forces of
opposition, that range themselves about the shibboleth _Freedom of
Science_, were seen engaging in a combat of fiercer intensity than ever.
Yet, notwithstanding, this Child of Strife has learned the language of
Peace only. It speaks the language of an impartial objectivity which
endeavours, in a spirit of unimpassioned, though earnest, calm, to range
itself over the burning questions of the day--over those great
_Weltanschauung_ questions, that stand in such close relation with the
compendious motto: _Freedom of Science_. Yes, _Freedom_ and _Science_
serve, in our age and on both sides of the Atlantic, as trumpet-calls, to
summon together--often indeed to pit in deadly combat--the rival forces of
opposition. They are catch-words that tend to hold at fever-pitch the
intellectual life of modern civilization--agents as they are of such mighty
and far-reaching influences. On the one hand, Science, whence the moving
and leading ideas of the time take shape and form to go forth in turn and
subject to their sway the intellect of man; on the other, Freedom--that
Freedom of sovereign emancipation, that Christian Freedom of well-ordered
self-development, which determine the actions, the strivings of the human
spirit, even as they control imperceptibly the march of Science. While the
present volume is connected with this chain of profound problems, it
becomes, of itself, a representation of the intellectual life of our day,
with its far-reaching philosophical questions, its forces of struggle and
opposition, its dangers, and deep-seated evils.
The Author has a lively recollection of an expression which he heard a few
years ago, in a conversation with an American professor, then journeying
in Europe. "Here, they talk of tolerance," he observed, "while in America
we put it into practice." The catch-word _Freedom of Science_ will not,
therefore, in _every_ quarter of the world, serve as a call to arms,
causing the opposing columns to engage in mutual conflict, as is the case
in many portions of Europe. But certain it is that everywhere alike--in the
new world of America, as well as in the old world of Europe--the human
spirit has its attention engaged with the same identical questions--those
topics of nerve-straining interest that sway and surge about this same
catch-word like so many opposing forces. Everywhere we shall have those
tense oppositions between sovereign Humanity and Christianity, between
Knowledge and Faith, between Law and Freedom; everywhere those questions
on the Rights and Obligations of Science, on Catholic Thought, and on
Catholic Doctrinal Beliefs and Duties.
May it fall to the lot of this book to be able to communicate to many a
reader, interested in such topics, words of enlightenment and
explanation--to some for the strengthening of their convictions, to others
for the correction, perhaps, of their erroneous views. At home, while
winning the sympathy of many readers, it has not failed to encounter also
antagonism. This was to be expected. The resolute championing of the
principles of the Christian view of the world, as well as many a candid
expression of views touching the intellectual impoverishment and the
ever-shifting position of unshackled Freethinking, must necessarily arouse
such antagonism. May the present volume meet on the other side of the
Atlantic with a large share of that tolerance which is put into actual
practice there, and is there not merely an empty phrase on the lips of
men! May it contribute something to the better and fuller understanding of
the saying of that great English scientist, WILLIAM THOMSON: "Do not be
afraid of being free-thinkers! If you think strongly enough, you will be
forced by science to the belief in God, which is the foundation of all
religion."
Finally, I may be allowed to express my sincere thanks to the publisher
for undertaking the work of this translation.
May it accomplish much good.
J. Donat.
UNIVERSITY INNSBRUCK,
CHR | 619.045597 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.0542220 | 1,763 | 51 |
Produced by David Widger
MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY
By Albert Bigelow Paine
VOLUME III, Part 2: 1907-1910
CCLVI
HONORS FROM OXFORD
Clemens made a brief trip to Bermuda during the winter, taking Twichell
along; their first return to the island since the trip when they had
promised to come back so soon-nearly thirty years before. They had been
comparatively young men then. They were old now, but they found the
green island as fresh and full of bloom as ever. They did not find their
old landlady; they could not even remember her name at first, and then
Twichell recalled that it was the same as an author of certain
schoolbooks in his youth, and Clemens promptly said, "Kirkham's Grammar."
Kirkham was truly the name, and they went to find her; but she was dead,
and the daughter, who had been a young girl in that earlier time, reigned
in her stead and entertained the successors of her mother's guests. They
walked and drove about the island, and it was like taking up again a
long-discontinued book and reading another chapter of the same tale. It
gave Mark Twain a fresh interest in Bermuda, one which he did not allow
to fade again.
Later in the year (March, 1907) I also made a journey; it having been
agreed that I should take a trip to the Mississippi and to the Pacific
coast to see those old friends of Mark Twain's who were so rapidly
passing away. John Briggs was still alive, and other Hannibal
schoolmates; also Joe Goodman and Steve Gillis, and a few more of the
early pioneers--all eminently worth seeing in the matter of such work as
I had in hand. The billiard games would be interrupted; but whatever
reluctance to the plan there may have been on that account was put aside
in view of prospective benefits. Clemens, in fact, seemed to derive joy
from the thought that he was commissioning a kind of personal emissary to
his old comrades, and provided me with a letter of credentials.
It was a long, successful trip that I made, and it was undertaken none
too soon. John Briggs, a gentle-hearted man, was already entering the
valley of the shadow as he talked to me by his fire one memorable
afternoon, and reviewed the pranks of those days along the river and in
the cave and on Holliday's Hill. I think it was six weeks later that he
died; and there were others of that scattering procession who did not
reach the end of the year. Joe Goodman, still full of vigor (in 1912),
journeyed with me to the green and dreamy solitudes of Jackass Hill to
see Steve and Jim Gillis, and that was an unforgetable Sunday when Steve
Gillis, an invalid, but with the fire still in his eyes and speech, sat
up on his couch in his little cabin in that Arcadian stillness and told
old tales and adventures. When I left he said:
"Tell Sam I'm going to die pretty soon, but that I love him; that I've
loved him all my life, and I'll love him till I die. This is the last
word I'll ever send to him." Jim Gillis, down in Sonora, was already
lying at the point of death, and so for him the visit was too late,
though he was able to receive a message from his ancient mining partner,
and to send back a parting word.
I returned by way of New Orleans and the Mississippi River, for I wished
to follow that abandoned water highway, and to visit its presiding
genius, Horace Bixby,--[He died August 2, 1912, at the age of 86]--still
alive and in service as pilot of the government snagboat, his
headquarters at St. Louis.
Coming up the river on one of the old passenger steam boats that still
exist, I noticed in a paper which came aboard that Mark Twain was to
receive from Oxford University the literary doctor's degree. There had
been no hint of this when I came away, and it seemed rather too sudden
and too good to be true. That the little barefoot lad that had played
along the river-banks at Hannibal, and received such meager advantages in
the way of schooling--whose highest ambition had been to pilot such a
craft as this one--was about to be crowned by the world's greatest
institution of learning, to receive the highest recognition for
achievement in the world of letters, was a thing which would not be
likely to happen outside of a fairy tale.
Returning to New York, I ran out to Tuxedo, where he had taken a home for
the summer (for it was already May), and walking along the shaded paths
of that beautiful suburban park, he told me what he knew of the Oxford
matter.
Moberly Bell, of the London Times, had been over in April, and soon after
his return to England there had come word of the proposed honor. Clemens
privately and openly (to Bell) attributed it largely to his influence. He
wrote to him:
DEAR MR. BELL,--Your hand is in it & you have my best thanks.
Although I wouldn't cross an ocean again for the price of the ship
that carried me I am glad to do it for an Oxford degree. I shall
plan to sail for England a shade before the middle of June, so that
I can have a few days in London before the 26th.
A day or two later, when the time for sailing had been arranged, he
overtook his letter with a cable:
I perceive your hand in it. You have my best thanks. Sail on
Minneapolis June 8th. Due in Southampton ten days later.
Clemens said that his first word of the matter had been a newspaper
cablegram, and that he had been doubtful concerning it until a cablegram
to himself had confirmed it.
"I never expected to cross the water again," he said; "but I would be
willing to journey to Mars for that Oxford degree."
He put the matter aside then, and fell to talking of Jim Gillis and the
others I had visited, dwelling especially on Gillis's astonishing faculty
for improvising romances, recalling how he had stood with his back to the
fire weaving his endless, grotesque yarns, with no other guide than his
fancy. It was a long, happy walk we had, though rather a sad one in its
memories; and he seemed that day, in a sense, to close the gate of those
early scenes behind him, for he seldom referred to them afterward.
He was back at 21 Fifth Avenue presently, arranging for his voyage.
Meantime, cable invitations of every sort were pouring in, from this and
that society and dignitary; invitations to dinners and ceremonials, and
what not, and it was clear enough that his English sojourn was to be a
busy one. He had hoped to avoid this, and began by declining all but two
invitations--a dinner-party given by Ambassador Whitelaw Reid and a
luncheon proposed by the "Pilgrims." But it became clear that this would
not do. England was not going to confer its greatest collegiate honor
without being permitted to pay its wider and more popular tribute.
Clemens engaged a special secretary for the trip--Mr. Ralph W. Ashcroft,
a young Englishman familiar with London life. They sailed on the 8th of
June, by a curious coincidence exactly forty years from the day he had
sailed on the Quaker City to win his great fame. I went with him to the
ship. His first elation had passed by this time, and he seemed a little
sad, remembering, I think, the wife who would have enjoyed this honor
with him but could not share it now.
CCLVII
A TRUE ENGLISH WELCOME
Mark Twain's trip across the Atlantic would seem to have been a pleasant
one. The Minneapolis is a | 619.074262 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.2103930 | 1,047 | 28 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?"]
[Illustration: title page art]
A MAID
OF
MANY
MOODS
_By_ VIRNA SHEARD
Toronto, THE COPP, CLARK
COMPANY, Ltd. MCMII
Copyright, 1902, By James Pott & Co.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
_First Impression, September, 1902_
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?"... _Frontispiece_
"Thou'lt light no more"
She followed the tragedy intensely
"I liked thee as a girl, Deb; but I love thee as a lad"
"It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick"
Darby went lightly from one London topic to another
CHAPTER I
[Illustration: Chapter I headpiece]
I
It was Christmas Eve, and all the small diamond window panes of One
Tree Inn, the half-way house upon the road from Stratford to Shottery,
were aglitter with light from the great fire in the front room
chimney-place and from the many candles Mistress Debora had set in
their brass candlesticks and started a-burning herself. The place,
usually so dark and quiet at this time of night, seemed to have gone
off in a whirligig of gaiety to celebrate the Noel-tide.
In vain had old Marjorie, the housekeeper, scolded. In vain had Master
Thornbury, who was of a thrifty and saving nature, followed his
daughter about and expostulated. She only laughed and waved the
lighted end of the long spill around his broad red face and bright
flowered jerkin.
"Nay, Dad!" she had cried, teasing him thus, "I'll help thee save thy
pennies to-morrow, but to-night I'm of another mind, and will have such
a lighting up in One Tree Inn the rustics will come running from
Coventry to see if it be really ablaze. There'll not be a candle in
any room whatever without its own little feather of fire, not a dip in
the kitchen left dark! So just save thy breath to blow them out later."
"Come, mend thy saucy speech, thou'lt light no more, I tell thee,"
blustered the old fellow, trying to reach the spill which the girl held
high above her head. "Give over thy foolishness; thou'lt light no
more!"
[Illustration: "Thou'lt light no more"]
"Ay, but I will, then," said she wilfully, "an' 'tis but just to
welcome Darby, Dad dear. Nay, then," waving the light and laughing,
"don't thou dare catch it. An' I touch thy fringe o' pretty hair,
dad--thy only ornament, remember--'twould be a fearsome calamity! I'
faith! it must be most time for the coach, an' the clusters in the long
room not yet lit. Hinder me no more, but go enjoy thyself with old
Saddler and John Sevenoakes. I warrant the posset is o'erdone, though
I cautioned thee not to leave it."
"Thou art a wench to break a man's heart," said Thornbury, backing away
and shaking a finger at the pretty figure winding fiery ribbons and
criss-crosses with her bright-tipped wand. "Thou art a provoking
wench, who doth need locking up and feeding on bread and water. Marry,
there'll be naught for thee on Christmas, and thou canst whistle for
the ruff and silver buckles I meant to have given thee. Aye, an' for
the shoes with red heels." Then with dignity, "I'll snuff out some o'
the candles soon as I go below."
"An' thou do, dad, I'll make thee a day o' trouble on the morrow!" she
called after him. And well he knew she would. Therefore, it was with
a disturbed mind that he entered the sitting-room and went towards the
hearth to stir the simmering contents of the copper pot on the crane.
John Sevenoakes and old Ned Saddler, his nearest neighbours and
friends, sat one each side of the fire in their deep rush-bottomed
chairs, as they sat at least five nights out of the week, come what
weather would. Sevenoakes held a small child, whose yellow, curly head
nodded with sleep. The hot wine bubbled up as the inn-keeper stirred | 619.230433 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.3326160 | 90 | 6 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Haviland's Chum, by Bertram Mitford.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
HAVILAND'S CHUM, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE NEW BOY.
"Hi! Blacky! Here--hold hard. D'you hear, Snowball?"
The last peremptorily. He thus addressed, paused | 619.352656 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.5534040 | 1,478 | 145 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: "HE MAY GET LOST IN THE STORM."]
The Works of E. P. Roe
VOLUME FIVE
BARRIERS BURNED AWAY
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington
COPYRIGHT, 1882
COPYRIGHT, 1885
COPYRIGHT, 1892
COPYRIGHT, 1900,
This Book
IS REVERENTLY DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
I shall say but few words in regard to this first child of my
imagination.
About one year ago our hearts were in deepest sympathy with our
fellow-citizens of Chicago, and it occurred to me that their losses,
sufferings, and fortitude might teach lessons after the echoes of the
appalling event had died away in the press; and that even the lurid
and destructive flames might reveal with greater vividness the need
and value of Christian faith.
I spent some days among the smouldering ruins, and then began the
following simple story, which has grown into larger proportions than
I at first intended. But comparatively a small part of the narrative
is occupied with the fire, for its scenes are beyond description, and
too strange and terrible to be dwelt upon. Therefore the thread of my
story is carried rapidly through that period of unparalleled excitement
and disaster.
Nearly all the scenes introduced are historical, and are employed to
give their terrible emphasis to that which is equally true in the
serenest and securest times.
E. P. R.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
LOVE UNKNOWN
CHAPTER II
LOVE KNOWN
CHAPTER III
LAUNCHED
CHAPTER IV
COLD WATER
CHAPTER V
A HORNET'S NEST
CHAPTER VI
"STARVE THEN!"
CHAPTER VII
A GOOD SAMARITAN
CHAPTER VIII
YAHCOB BUNK
CHAPTER IX
LAND AT LAST
CHAPTER X
THE NEW BROOM
CHAPTER XI
TOO MUCH ALIKE
CHAPTER XII
BLUE BLOOD
CHAPTER XIII
VERY COLD
CHAPTER XIV
SHE SPEAKS TO HIM
CHAPTER XV
PROMOTED
CHAPTER XVI
JUST IN TIME
CHAPTER XVII
RESCUED
CHAPTER XVIII
MISS LUDOLPH MAKES A DISCOVERY
CHAPTER XIX
WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH HIM?
CHAPTER XX
IS HE A GENTLEMAN?
CHAPTER XXI
CHRISTINE'S IDEA OF CHRISTIANS
CHAPTER XXII
EQUAL TO AN EMERGENCY
CHAPTER XXIII
THE REVELATION
CHAPTER XXIV
NIGHT THOUGHTS
CHAPTER XXV
DARKNESS
CHAPTER XXVI
MISS LUDOLPH COMMITS A THEFT
CHAPTER XXVII
A MISERABLE TRIUMPH
CHAPTER XXVIII
LIFE WITHOUT LOVE
CHAPTER XXIX
DENNIS'S LOVE PUT TO PRACTICAL USE
CHAPTER XXX
THE TWO HEIGHTS
CHAPTER XXXI
BEGUILED
CHAPTER XXXII
BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE TWO PICTURES
CHAPTER XXXIV
REGRET
CHAPTER XXXV
REMORSE
CHAPTER XXXVI
AN APPARITION
CHAPTER XXXVII
IF HE KNEW!
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE GATES OPEN
CHAPTER XXXIX
SUSIE WlNTHROP APPEARS AGAIN
CHAPTER XL
SUGGESTIVE PICTURES AND A PRIZE
CHAPTER XLI
FIRE! FIRE!
CHAPTER XLII
BARON LUDOLPH LEARNS THE TRUTH
CHAPTER XLIII
"CHRISTINE, AWAKE! FOR YOUR LIFE!"
CHAPTER XLIV
ON THE BEACH
CHAPTER XLV
"PRAYER IS MIGHTY." CHRISTINE A CHRISTIAN
CHAPTER XLVI
CHRISTINE'S GRAVE
CHAPTER XLVII
SUSIE WINTHROP
CHAPTER XLVIII
DR. ARTEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING
CHAPTER XLIX
BILL CRONK'S TOAST
CHAPTER L
EVERY BARRIER BURNED AWAY
CHAPTER I
LOVE UNKNOWN
From its long sweep over the unbroken prairie a heavier blast than
usual shook the slight frame house. The windows rattled in the
casements, as if shivering in their dumb way in the December storm.
So open and defective was the dwelling in its construction, that eddying
currents of cold air found admittance at various points--in some
instances carrying with them particles of the fine, sharp, hail-like
snow that the gale was driving before it in blinding fury.
Seated at one of the windows, peering out into the gathering gloom of
the swiftly coming night, was a pale, faded woman with lustrous dark
eyes. An anxious light shone from them, as she tried in vain to catch
a glimpse of the darkening road that ran at a distance of about fifty
yards from the house. As the furious blast shook the frail tenement,
and circled round her in chilly currents from many a crack and crevice,
she gave a short, hacking cough, and drew a thin shawl closer about
her slight frame.
The unwonted violence of the wind had its effect upon another occupant
of the room. From a bed in the corner near the stove came a feeble,
hollow voice--"Wife!"
In a moment the woman was bending over the bed, and in a voice full
of patient tenderness answered, "Well, dear?"
"Has he come?"
"Not yet; but he MUST be here soon."
The word MUST was emphasized in such a way as to mean doubt rather
than certainty, as if trying to assure her own mind of a matter about
which painful misgivings could not be banished. The quick ear of the
sick man caught the tone, and in a querulous voice he said, "Oh! if
he should not get here in time, it would be the last bitter drop in
my cup, now full and running over."
"Dear husband, if human strength and love can accomplish it, he will
be here soon. But the storm is indeed frightful, and were the case
less urgent, I could almost wish he would not try to make his way
through it. But then we know what Dennis is; he never stops to consider
difficulties, but pushes right on; and if--if he doesn't--if it is
possible, he will be here before very long."
In spite of herself, the mother's heart showed its anxiety, and, too
late for remedy, she saw the effect upon her husband. He raised himself
in bed with sudden and unwonted strength. His eyes grew wild and almost
| 619.573444 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.5547630 | 4,301 | 7 |
Produced by Winston Smith. Images provided by The Internet Archive.
OSCAR WILDE
This Edition consists of 500 copies.
Fifty copies have been printed on
hand-made paper.
[Illustration: 'HOW UTTER.']
Oscar Wilde
A STUDY
FROM THE FRENCH OF
ANDRÉ GIDE
WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY
BY
STUART MASON
Oxford
THE HOLYWELL PRESS
MCMV
* * * * *
TO
DONALD BRUCE WALLACE,
OF NEW YORK,
IN MEMORY OF A VISIT LAST SUMMER TO
BAGNEUX CEMETERY,
A PILGRIMAGE OF LOVE WHEN WE
WATERED WITH OUR TEARS THE ROSES AND LILIES
WITH WHICH WE COVERED
THE POET'S GRAVE.
Oxford,
September, 1905.
[The little poem on the opposite page first saw the light in the pages
of the _Dublin University Magazine_ for September, 1876. It has not
been reprinted since. The Greek quotation is taken from the _Agamemnon_
of Æschylos, l. 120. ]
Αἴλινον, αἴινον εἰπὲ,
Τὸ δ᾽ ευ̉ νικάτω
O well for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain,
Nor heeds the plashing of the rain,
The crashing down of forest trees.
O well for him who ne'er hath known
The travail of the hungry years,
A father grey with grief and tears,
A mother weeping all alone.
But well for him whose feet hath trod
The weary road of toil and strife,
Yet from the sorrows of his life
Builds ladders to be nearer God.
Oscar F. O'F. Wills Wilde.
_S. M. Magdalen College,_
_Oxford._
NOTE.
M. Gide's Study of Mr. Oscar Wilde (perhaps the best account yet
written of the poet's latter days) appeared first in _L'Ermitage_, a
monthly literary review, in June, 1902. It was afterwards reprinted
with some few slight alterations in a volume of critical essays,
entitled _Prétextes_, by M. Gide. It is now published in English for
the first time, by special arrangement with the author.
S. M.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Poem by Oscar Wilde.................................... xi
Introductory........................................... 1
Inscription on Oscar Wilde's Tombstone................. 11
Letters from M. André Gide............................. 12
Oscar Wilde: from the French of André Gide............. 15
Sonnet 'To Oscar Wilde,' by Augustus M. Moore.......... 89
List of Published Writings of Oscar Wilde.............. 93
Bibliographical Notes on The English Editions.......... 107
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Cartoon: 'How Utter'.......................... Frontispiece
(From a Cartoon published by Messrs. Shrimpton at
Oxford about 1880. By permission of Mr. Hubert
Giles, 23 Broad St., Oxford).
Oscar Wilde at Oxford, 1878............................ 16
(By permission of Mr. Hubert Giles).
Oscar Wilde in 1893.................................... 48
(From a Photograph by Messrs. Gillman & Co., Oxford).
The Grave at Bagneux................................... 80
(By permission of the Proprietors of _The Sphere_
and _The Tatler_).
Reduced Facsimile of the Cover of _'The Woman's World'_ 96
* * * * *
Oscar Wilde
Introductory.
Oscar Fingall O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born at 1 Merrion Square,
North, Dublin, on October 16th, 1854. He was the second son of Sir
William Robert Wilde, Knight, a celebrated surgeon who was President
of the Irish Academy and Chairman of the Census Committee. Sir William
Wilde was born in 1799, and died at the age of seventy-seven years.
Oscar Wilde's mother was Jane Francesca, daughter of Archdeacon Elgee.
She was born in 1826, and married in 1851. She became famous in
literary circles under the pen-names of 'Speranza' and 'John Fenshawe
Ellis,' among her published writings being _Driftwood from Scandinavia_
(1884), _Legends of Ireland_ (1886), and _Social Studies_ (1893). Lady
Wilde died at her residence in Chelsea on February 3rd, 1896[1].
Oscar Wilde received his early education at Portora Royal School,
Enniskillen, which he entered in 1864 at the age of nine years. Here he
remained for seven years, and, winning a Royal scholarship, he entered
Trinity College, Dublin, on October 19th, 1871, being then seventeen
years of age. In the following year he obtained First Class Honours in
Classics in Hilary, Trinity and Michaelmas Terms; he also won the Gold
Medal for Greek[2] and other distinctions. The Trinity College Magazine
_Kottabos_, for the years 1876-9, contains some of his earliest
published poems. In 1874 he obtained a classical scholarship[3], and
went up to Oxford, where, as a demy, he matriculated at Magdalen
College on October 17th, the day after his twentieth birthday. His
career at Oxford was one unbroken success. In Trinity Term (June),
1876, he obtained a First Class in the Honour School of Classical
Moderations (_in literis Græcis et Latinis_), which he followed up two
years later by a similar distinction in 'Greats' or 'Honour Finals'
(_in literis humanioribus_). In this same Trinity Term[4], 1878, he
further distinguished himself by gaining the Sir Roger Newdigate Prize
for English Verse with his poem, 'Ravenna[5],' which he recited at
the Encænia or Annual Commemoration of Benefactors in the Sheldonian
Theatre on June 26th. He proceeded to the degree of B. A. in the
following term[6]. He is described in Foster's _Alumni Oxonienses_ as a
'Professor of Æsthetics and Art critic.'
He afterwards lectured on Art in America[7], 1882, and in the provinces
on his return to England. About this time he wrote his poems, _The
Sphinx_ and _The Harlot's House_ (1883), and his tragedy in blank
verse, _The Duchess of Padua_. The latter was written specially for
Miss Mary Anderson, but she did not produce it. This was, however,
played in America by the late Lawrence Barrett in 1883, as was also
another play in blank verse, entitled _Vera, or the Nihilists_, during
the previous year. He had already published in America and England a
volume of _Poems_, which went through several editions in a few months.
In 1884 Oscar Wilde married[8] Miss Constance Mary Lloyd, a daughter
of the well-known Q. C., by whom he had two sons, born in June, 1885,
and November, 1886, respectively. Mrs. Wilde died in 1898, and his only
brother, William, in March of the following year.
During the next five or six years after his marriage, articles
from his pen appeared in several of the leading reviews, notably
'The Portrait of Mr. W. H.' in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_ for
July, 1889, and those brilliant essays afterwards incorporated in
_Intentions_, in _The Nineteenth Century_ and _The Fortnightly Review_.
In 1888 he was the editor of a monthly journal called _The Woman's
World_. In July, 1890,_ The Picture of Dorian Gray_ appeared in
_Lippincott's Monthly Magazine_. It was the only novel he ever wrote,
and was published in book form with seven additional chapters in the
following year, and is one of the most remarkable books in the English
language.
With the production and immediate success of _Lady Windermere's Fan_
early in 1892, he was at once recognised as a dramatist of the first
rank. This was followed a year later by _A Woman of No Importance_,
and after brief intervals by _An Ideal Husband_ and _The Importance of
Being Earnest_[9]. The two latter were being played in London at the
time of the author's arrest and trial.
Into the melancholy story of his trial it is not proposed to enter here
beyond mentioning the fact that he was condemned by the newspapers,
and, consequently, by the vast majority of the British public, several
weeks before a jury could be found to return a verdict of 'guilty.' On
Saturday, May 25th, 1895, he was sentenced to two years' imprisonment
with hard labour, most of which period was passed at Wandsworth and
Reading.
On his release from Reading on Wednesday, May 19th, 1897, he at once
crossed to France with friends, and a few days later penned that
pathetic letter, pregnant with pity, in which he pleaded for the
kindlier treatment of little children lying in our English gaols. This
letter, with his own name attached, filled over two columns in _The
Daily Chronicle_ of May 28th. It created considerable sensation--a
well-known Catholic weekly comparing it 'in its crushing power to the
letter with which Stevenson shamed the shameless traducer of Father
Damien.' A second letter on the subject of the cruelties of the English
Prison system appeared in the same paper on March 24th, 1898. It was
headed: 'Don't Read This if You Want to be Happy To-day,' and was
signed 'The Author of _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_.' _The Ballad of
Reading Gaol_ was published early in this same year under the _nom
de plume_ 'C.3.3.,' Oscar Wilde's prison number. Its authorship was
acknowledged shortly afterwards in an autograph edition. Since that
time countless editions of this famous work have been issued in England
and America, and translations have appeared in French, German and
Spanish. Of this poem a reviewer in a London journal said,--'The whole
is awful as the pages of Sophocles. That he has rendered with his
fine art so much of the essence of his life and the life of others in
that _inferno_ to the sensitive, is a memorable thing for the social
scientist, but a much more memorable thing for literature. This is a
simple, a poignant, a great ballad, one of the greatest in the English
language.'
Of the sorrows and sufferings of the last few years of his life, his
friend Mr. Robert Harborough Sherard has written in _The Story of an
Unhappy Friendship_, and M. Gide refers to them in the following pages.
After several weeks of intense suffering 'Death the silent pilot' came
at last, and the most brilliant writer of the nineteenth century passed
away on the afternoon of November 30th, 1900, in poverty and almost
alone. The little hotel in Paris--Hotel d'Alsace, 13 rue des Beaux
Arts,--where he died, has become a place of pilgrimage from all parts
of the world for those who admire his genius or pity his sorrows. He
was buried, three days later, in the cemetery at Bagneux, about four
miles out of Paris.
STUART MASON.
[1] In 1890 Lady Wilde received a pension of £50 from the Civil List.
[2] The subject for this year, 1874, was 'The Fragments of the Greek
Comic Poets, as edited by Meineke.' The medal was presented annually,
from a fund left for the purpose by Bishop Berkeley.
[3] The demyship was of the annual value of £95, and was tenable for
five years. Oscar Wilde's success was announced in the _University
Gazette_ (Oxford), July 11, 1874.
[4] On Wednesday, May 1st, Oscar Wilde, dressed as Prince Rupert, was
present at a fancy dress ball given by Mrs. George Herbert Morrell at
Headington Hill Hall.
[5] 'The Newdigate was listened to with rapt attention and frequently
applauded.'--_Oxford and Cambridge Undergraduates' Journal_, June 27,
1878.
[6] The degree of B. A. was conferred upon him on Thursday, Novemher
28, 1878.
[7] Amongst the places he visited were New York, Louisville (Kentucky),
Omaha City and California. In the autumn of this same year, 1882, after
leaving the States, Mr. Wilde went to Canada and thence to Nova Scotia,
arriving at Halifax about October 8th.
[8] The announcement in _The Times_ of May 31, 1884, was as
follows:--'May 29, at S. James's Church, Paddington, by the Rev. Walter
Abbott, Vicar, Oscar, younger son of the late Sir William Wilde, M. D.,
of Dublin, to Constance Mary, only daughter of the late Horace Lloyd,
Esq., Q. C.'
[9] Of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ the author is reported to have
said, 'The first act is ingenious, the second beautiful, the third
abominably clever.' It was revived by Mr. George Alexander at the St.
James's Theatre on January 7, 1902; and _Lady Windermere's Fan_ on
November 19, 1904.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A cross.]
Oscar Wilde
OCT. 16TH, 1854--NOV. 30TH, 1900.
VERBIS MEIS ADDERE NIHIL AUDEBANT
ET SUPER ILLOS STILLABAT ELOQUIUM
MEUM.
JOB XXIX, 22
R. I. P.
_Inscription on Oscar Wilde's Tombstone._
* * * * *
_Letters from M. André Gide._
I.
CHÂTEAU DE CUVERVILLE,
PAR CRIQUETOT L'ESNEVAL,
SNE. INFERIEURE.
Monsieur,
Quelque plaisir que j'aurai de voir mon étude sur Wilde traduite en
anglais, je ne puis vous répondre avant d'avoir correspondu avec mon
éditeur. L'article en question, après avoir paru dans 'l'Ermitage,'
a été réunie à d'autres études dans un volume, _Prétextes_, que le
_Mercure de France_ édita l'an dernier. Un traité me lie à cette
maison et je ne suis pas libre de décider seul.
Votre lettre a mis quelque temps à me parvenir ici, où pourtant
j'habite. Dès que j'aurai la réponse du _Mercure de France_ je
m'empresserai de vous la faire savoir.
Veuillez croire, Monsieur, à l'assurance de mes meilleurs sentiments.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
_Septembre 9, 1904._
II.
Monsieur,
Je laisse à mon éditeur le soin de vous écrire au sujet des conditions
de la publication en anglais de mon étude..... Je désire, comme je
vous le disais, que la traduction que vous proposez de faire se
reporte au texte donné par le _Mercure de France_ dans mon volume
_Prétextes_, et non à celui, fautif, de 'l'Ermitage.'....
Le texte des contes de Wilde que je cite s'éloigne, ainsi que vous
pouvez le voir, du texte anglais que Wilde lui-même en a donné. Il
importe que ce _texte oral_ reste différent du texte écrit de ces
'poems in prose.' Je crois, si ridicule que cela puisse paraître
d'abord, qu'il faut retraduire en anglais le texte francais que j'en
donne (et que j'ai écrit presque sous la dictée de Wilde) et non pas
citer simplement le texte anglais tel que Wilde le rédigea plus tard.
L'effet en est très différent.
Veuillez croire, Monsieur, à l'assurance de mes sentiments les
meilleurs.
ANDRÉ GIDE.
_Septembre 14th, 1904._
* * * * *
Oscar Wilde
I was at Biskra in December, 1900, when I learned through the
newspapers of the lamentable end of Oscar Wilde. Distance, alas!
prevented me from joining in the meagre procession which followed his
body to the cemetery at Bagneux. It was of no use reproaching myself
that my absence would seem to diminish still further the small number
of friends who remained faithful to him--at least I wanted to write
these few pages at once, but for a considerable period Wilde's name
seemed to become once more the property of the newspapers.
Now that every idle rumour connected with his name, so sadly famous,
is hushed; now that the mob is at last wearied after having praised,
wondered at, and then reviled him, perhaps, a friend may be allowed
to lay, like a wreath on a forsaken grave, these lines of affection,
admiration, and respectful pity.
When the trial, with all its scandal, which so excited the public mind
in England threatened to wreck his life, certain writers and artists
attempted to carry out, in the name of literature and art, a kind of
rescue. It was hoped that by praising the writer the man would be
excused. Unfortunately, there was a misunderstanding here, for it must
be acknowledged that Wilde was not a great writer. The leaden buoy
which was thrown to him helped only to weigh him down; his works, far
from keeping him up, seemed to sink with him. In vain were some hands
stretched out: the torrent of the world overwhelmed him--all was over.
[Illustration: OSCAR WILDE AT OXFORD, 1878.]
It was not possible at that time to think of defending him in any other
way. Instead of trying to shelter the man behind his work, it was
necessary to show forth first the man as an object of admiration--as
I am going to try to do now--and then the work itself illuminated by
his personality. 'I have put all my genius into my life; I have put
only my talent into my works,' said Wilde once. Great writer, no, but
great _viveur_, yes, if one may use the word in the fullest sense of
the French term. Like certain Greek philosophers of old, Wilde did not
write his wisdom, but spoke and lived it, entrusting it rashly to the
fleeting memory of man, thereby writing it as it were on water.
Let those | 619.574803 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.5548410 | 2,111 | 343 |
Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
POLLY
OF LADY GAY COTTAGE
BY
EMMA C. DOWD
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY EMMA C. DOWD
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[Illustration: HAROLD WESTWOOD!]
TO
MY CRITIC, COUNSELOR
AND COMRADE
CONTENTS
I. THE ROSEWOOD BOX 1
II. LEONORA'S WONDERFUL NEWS 12
III. A WHIFF OF SLANDER 20
IV. COUSINS 36
V. A MONOPOLIST AND A FANFARON 46
VI. "NOT FOR SALE" 66
VII. THE BLIZZARD 73
VIII. THE INTERMEDIATE BIRTHDAY PARTY 89
IX. THE EIGHTH ROSE 105
X. A VISIT FROM ERASTUS BEAN 119
XI. UNCLE MAURICE AT LADY GAY COTTAGE 125
XII. LITTLE CHRIS 138
XIII. ILGA BARRON 152
XIV. POLLY IN NEW YORK 165
XV. AN UNEXPECTED GUEST 175
XVI. ROSES AND THORNS 184
XVII. A SUMMER NIGHT MYSTERY 194
XVIII. AT MIDVALE SPRINGS 212
XIX. TWO LETTERS 237
XX. MRS. JOCELYN'S DINNER-PARTY 250
POLLY OF LADY GAY COTTAGE
CHAPTER I
THE ROSEWOOD BOX
The telephone bell cut sharp into Polly's story.
She was recounting one of the merry hours that Mrs. Jocelyn had given
to her and Leonora, while Dr. Dudley and his wife were taking their
wedding journey. Still dimpling with laughter, she ran across to the
instrument; but as she turned back from the message her face was
troubled.
"Father says I am to come right over to the hospital," she told her
mother. "Mr. Bean--you know, the one that married Aunt Jane--has got
hurt, and he wants to see me. I hope he isn't going to die. He was
real good to me that time I was there, as good as he dared to be."
"I will go with you," Mrs. Dudley decided.
And, locking the house, they went out into the early evening darkness.
The physician was awaiting them in his office.
"Is he badly hurt?" asked Polly anxiously. "What does he want to see
me for?"
"We are afraid of internal injury," was the grave answer. "He was on
his way to you when the car struck him."
"To me?" Polly exclaimed.
"He was fetching a little box that belonged to your mother. Do you
recollect it--a small rosewood box?"
"Oh, yes!" she cried. "I'd forgotten all about it--there's a wreath of
tiny pearl flowers on the cover!"
The Doctor nodded.
"Mr. Bean seems to attach great value to the box or its contents."
"Oh, what is in it?"
"I don't know. But he kept tight hold of it even after he was knocked
down, and it was the first thing he called for when he regained
consciousness. I thought he had better defer seeing you until
to-morrow morning; but he wouldn't hear to it. So I let him have his
own way."
"Have you sent word to Aunt Jane?" inquired Polly, instinctively
shrinking from contact with the woman in whose power she had lived
through those dreadful years.
Dr. Dudley gave a smiling negative. "He begged me not to let her
know."
"I don't blame him!" Polly burst out. "I guess he's glad to get away
from her, if he did have to be hurt to do it."
"Probably he wishes first to make sure that the box is in your hands,"
observed the Doctor, rising. "She will have to be notified. Come, we
will go upstairs. The sooner the matter is off Mr. Bean's mind, the
better."
Polly was dismayed at sight of the little man's face. In their
whiteness his pinched features seemed more wizen than ever. But his
smile of welcome was eager.
"How do you do, my dear? My dear!" the wiry hand was extended with
evident pain.
Polly squeezed it sympathetically, and told him how sorry she was for
his accident.
Mr. Bean gazed at her with tender, wistful eyes.
"My little girl was'most as big as you," he mused. "Not quite; she
wasn't but six when she--went. But you look consider'ble like
her--wish't I had a picture o' Susie! I wish't I had!" He drew his
breath hard.
Polly patted the wrinkled hand, not knowing what to say.
"But I've got a picture here you'll like," the little man brightened.
"Yer'll like it first-rate."
His hand moved gropingly underneath the bed covers, and finally
brought out the little box that Polly instantly recognized.
"Oh, thank you! How pretty it is!" She received it with a radiant
smile.
Mr. Bean's face grew suddenly troubled.
"Yer mustn't blame Jane too much," he began pleadingly. "I guess she
kind o' dassent give it to yer, so long afterwards. It's locked,"--as
Polly pulled at the cover,--"and there ain't no key," he mourned. "I
do' know what Jane's done with it. Yer'll have to git another,--there
wa'n't no other way." His voice was plaintive.
"That's all right," Polly reassured him.
The pleasure of once more holding the little box in her hand was
enough for the moment.
"I see it in her bureau drawer the day we was first married," he went
on reminiscently, "an' she opened it and showed me what was in it.
Ther''s a picture of yer mother--"
"Oh!" Polly interrupted excitedly, "of mamma?"
"Yis, so she said. Looks like you, too,--same kind o' eyes. It was
goin' to be for your birthday--that's what she had it took for, Jane
said."
Polly had been breathlessly following his words, and now broke out in
sudden reproach:--
"Oh! why didn't Aunt Jane let me have it! How could she keep it, when
I wanted a picture of mamma so!"
The reply did not come at once. A shadow of pain passed over the man's
face, leaving it more drawn and pallid.
"It's too bad!" he lamented weakly. "I tol' Jane so then; but she
thought 'twould kind o' upset yer, likely, and so--" His voice
faltered. He began again bravely. "You mustn't blame Jane too much, my
dear! Jane's got some good streaks, real good streaks."
Polly looked up from the little box. Her eyes were wet, but she smiled
cheerfully into the anxious face.
"I ought not to blame her, now she's sent it," she said sweetly; "and
I thank you ever so much for bringing it."
A hint of a smile puckered the thin lips.
"Guess if I'd waited f'r her to send it," he murmured, "'t 'ud been
the mornin' Gabriel come! But Jane's got her good streaks," he
apologized musingly.
Then he lay silent for a moment, feeling after courage to go on.
"Ther''s a letter, too," he finally hazarded. "Jane said it was about
some rich relations o' yours some'er's--I forgit where. She said
likely they wouldn't care nothin' 'bout you, seein''s they never'd
known yer, and it would only put false notions into yer head, and so
she didn't"--he broke off, his eyes pleading forgiveness for the woman
whose "good streaks" needed constant upholding.
But Polly was quite overlooking Aunt Jane. This astonishing bit of
news had thrown her mind into a tumult, and she breathlessly awaited
additional items.
They were slow in coming, and she grew impatient.
"What relatives are they?" she prodded. "Papa's, or mamma's?"
Mr. Bean could not positively say. He had not read the letter, and
recollected little that his wife had told him.
"Seems kind o''s if they was Mays," he mused; "but I ain't noways
sure. Anyhow they was millionaires, Jane said she guessed, and she was
afraid 't 'ud spile yer to go and live with 'em,--"
At this juncture Dr. Dudley interposed, his fingers trying his
patient's pulse.
"No more visiting to-night," he smiled, yet the smile was grave and of
short life.
Polly went away directly, carrying the little rosewood box, after
again expressing her grateful thanks to Mr. Bean.
Down in the office her tongue ran wild, until her mother was quite as
excited as she. But there was a difference; Polly's wondering thoughts
flew straight to her lips, Mrs. Dudley | 619.574881 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.6283570 | 6,424 | 13 |
Produced by Richard Tonsing, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: AT THE FOOT OF THE CHILKOOT PASS]
ALONG
ALASKA'S GREAT RIVER
A POPULAR ACCOUNT OF THE TRAVELS OF AN ALASKA
EXPLORING EXPEDITION ALONG THE GREAT
YUKON RIVER, FROM ITS SOURCE TO ITS
MOUTH, IN THE BRITISH NORTH-WEST
TERRITORY, AND IN
THE TERRITORY OF
ALASKA.
BY
FREDERICK SCHWATKA,
LAURENTE OF THE PARIS GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY AND OF THE IMPERIAL
GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY OF RUSSIA; HONORARY MEMBER
BREMEN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY, ETC., ETC., COMMANDER
OF THE EXPEDITION.
TOGETHER WITH THE LATEST INFORMATION ON THE
KLONDIKE COUNTRY.
_FULLY ILLUSTRATED._
CHICAGO NEW YORK
GEORGE M. HILL COMPANY
MDCCCC
COPYRIGHT, 1898,
GEO. M. HILL CO.
PREFACE.
These pages narrate the travels, in a popular sense, of an Alaskan
exploring expedition. The expedition was organized with seven members
at Vancouver Barracks, Washington, and left Portland, Oregon, ascending
through the inland passage to Alaska, as far as the Chilkat country. At
that point the party employed over three score of the Chilkat Indians,
the hardy inhabitants of that ice-bound country, to pack its effects
across the glacier-clad pass of the Alaskan coast range of mountains to
the headwaters of the Yukon. Here a large raft was constructed, and on
this primitive craft, sailing through nearly a hundred and fifty miles
of lakes, and shooting a number of rapids, the party floated along the
great stream for over thirteen hundred miles; the longest raft journey
ever made on behalf of geographical science. The entire river, over two
thousand miles, was traversed, the party returning home by Bering Sea,
and touching the Aleutian Islands.
The opening up of the great gold fields in the region of the upper
Yukon, has added especial interest to everything pertaining to the
great North-west. The Klondike region is the cynosure of the eyes
of all, whether they be in the clutches of the gold fever or not.
The geography, the climate, the scenery, the birds, beasts, and even
flowers of the country make fascinating subjects. In view of the new
discoveries in that part of the world, a new chapter, Chapter XIII, is
given up to a detailed description of the Klondike region. The numerous
routes by which it may be reached are described, and all the details as
to the possibilities and resources of the country are authoritatively
stated.
CHICAGO, March, 1898.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. INTRODUCTORY 9
II. THE INLAND PASSAGE TO ALASKA 12
III. IN THE CHILKAT COUNTRY 36
IV. OVER THE MOUNTAIN PASS 53
V. ALONG THE LAKES 90
VI. A CHAPTER ABOUT RAFTING 131
VII. THE GRAND CAÑON OF THE YUKON 154
VIII. DOWN THE RIVER TO SELKIRK 175
IX. THROUGH THE UPPER RAMPARTS 207
X. THROUGH THE YUKON FLAT-LANDS 264
XI. THROUGH THE LOWER RAMPARTS AND END OF RAFT JOURNEY 289
XII. DOWN THE RIVER AND HOME 313
XIII. THE KLONDIKE REGIONS 346
XIV. DISCOVERY AND HISTORY 368
XV. The People and Their Industries 386
XVI. GEOGRAPHICAL FEATURES 413
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
FRONTISPIECE (DRAWN BY WM. SCHMEDTGEN)
THE INLAND PASSAGE 12
SCENES IN THE INLAND PASSAGE 19
SITKA, ALASKA 29
CHILKAT BRACELET 36
PYRAMID HARBOR, CHILKAT INLET 43
CHILKAT INDIAN PACKER 53
METHODS OF TRACKING A CANOE UP A RAPID 64
CANOEING UP THE DAYAY 65
DAYAY VALLEY, NOURSE RIVER 73
SALMON SPEARS 76
DAYAY VALLEY, FROM CAMP 4 77
WALKING A LOG 80
CHASING A MOUNTAIN GOAT 82
ASCENDING THE PERRIER PASS 85
SNOW SHOES 87
IN A STORM ON THE LAKES 90
LAKE LINDEMAN 93
LAKE BENNETT 101
PINS FOR FASTENING MARMOT SNARES 112
LAKE BOVE 116
LAKE MARSH 121
"STICK" INDIANS 127
"SNUBBING" THE RAFT 131
AMONG THE "SWEEPERS" 134
BANKS OF THE YUKON 135
SCRAPING ALONG A BANK 140
PRYING THE RAFT OFF A BAR 145
COURSE OF RAFT AND AXIS OF STREAM 152
WHIRLPOOL AT LOWER END OF ISLAND 153
GRAYLING 154
GRAND CAÑON 163
THE CASCADES 169
ALASKA BROWN BEAR FIGHTING MOSQUITOS 174
IN THE RINK RAPIDS 175
CLAY BLUFFS ON THE YUKON 176
OUTLET OF LAKE KLUK-TAS-SI 184
THE RINK RAPIDS 191
LORING BLUFF 193
KITL-AH-GON INDIAN VILLAGE 197
INGERSOLL ISLANDS 201
THE RUINS OF SELKIRK 205
IN THE UPPER RAMPARTS 207
MOUTH OF PELLY RIVER 209
LOOKING UP YUKON FROM SELKIRK 213
AYAN GRAVE AT SELKIRK 217
AYAN INDIANS IN CANOES 221
AYAN AND CHILKAT GAMBLING TOOLS 227
PLAN OF AYAN SUMMER HOUSE 229
KON-IT'L AYAN CHIEF 230
AYAN MOOSE ARROW 231
AYAN WINTER TENT 233
A GRAVEL BANK 236
MOOSE-SKIN MOUNTAIN 243
ROQUETTE ROCK 250
KLAT-OL-KLIN VILLAGE 253
FISHING NETS 258
SALMON KILLING CLUB 259
BOUNDARY BUTTE 261
A MOOSE HEAD 264
MOSS ON YUKON RIVER 267
STEAMER "YUKON" 276
INDIAN "CACHE" 289
LOWER RAMPARTS RAPIDS 295
MOUTH OF TANANA 303
NUKLAKAYET 307
THE RAFT, AT END OF ITS JOURNEY 312
INDIAN OUT-DOOR GUN COVERING 313
FALLING BANKS OF YUKON 319
ANVIK 330
OONALASKA 344
THE KLONDIKE GOLD DISCOVERIES 348
AT THE FOOT OF CHILKOOT PASS 350
THE DESCENT OF CHILKOOT PASS 354
A MID-DAY MEAL 358
AT THE HEAD OF LAKE LA BARGE 360
INDIAN PACKERS FORDING A RIVER 364
THE WHITE HORSE RAPIDS 366
ALONG ALASKA'S GREAT RIVER.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
This Alaskan exploring expedition was composed of the following
members: Lieut. Schwatka, U.S.A., commanding; Dr. George F. Wilson,
U.S.A., Surgeon; Topographical Assistant Charles A. Homan, U.S.
Engineers, Topographer and Photographer; Sergeant Charles A. Gloster,
U.S.A., Artist; Corporal Shircliff, U.S.A., in charge of stores;
Private Roth, assistant, and Citizen J. B. McIntosh, a miner, who had
lived in Alaska and was well acquainted with its methods of travel.
Indians and others were added and discharged from time to time as
hereafter noted.
The main object of the expedition was to acquire such information of
the country traversed and its wild inhabitants as would be valuable to
the military authorities in the future, and as a map would be needful
to illustrate such information well, the party's efforts were rewarded
with making the expedition successful in a geographical sense. I
had hoped to be able, through qualified subordinates, to extend our
scientific knowledge of the country explored, especially in regard
to its botany, geology, natural history, etc.; and, although these
subjects would not in any event have been adequately discussed in a
popular treatise like the present, it must be admitted that little was
accomplished in these branches. The explanation of this is as follows:
When authority was asked from Congress for a sum of money to make such
explorations under military supervision and the request was disapproved
by the General of the Army and Secretary of War. This disapproval,
combined with the active opposition of government departments which
were assigned to work of the same general character and coupled with
the reluctance of Congress to make any appropriations whatever that
year, was sufficient to kill such an undertaking. When the military
were withdrawn from Alaska by the President, about the year 1878, a
paragraph appeared at the end of the President's order stating that
no further control would be exercised by the army in Alaska; and this
proviso was variously interpreted by the friends of the army and its
enemies, as a humiliation either to the army or to the President,
according to the private belief of the commentator. It was therefore
seriously debated whether any military expedition or party sent into
that country for any purpose whatever would not be a direct violation
of the President's proscriptive order, and when it was decided to
waive that consideration, and send in a party, it was considered too
much of a responsibility to add any specialists in science, with
the disapproval of the General and the Secretary hardly dry on the
paper. The expedition was therefore, to avoid being recalled, kept as
secret as possible, and when, on May 22d, it departed from Portland,
Oregon, upon the _Victoria_, a vessel which had been specially put on
the Alaska route, only a two or three line notice had gotten into
the Oregon papers announcing the fact; a notice that in spreading
was referred to in print by one government official as "a junketing
party," by another as a "prospecting" party, while another bitterly
acknowledged that had he received another day's intimation he could
have had the party recalled by the authorities at Washington. Thus the
little expedition which gave the first complete survey to the third[1]
river of our country stole away like a thief in the night and with far
less money in its hands to conduct it through its long journey than was
afterward appropriated by Congress to publish its report.
[1] The largest river on the North American continent so far as this
mighty stream flows within our boundaries.... The people of the United
States will not be quick to take to the idea that the volume of water
in an Alaskan river is greater than that discharged by the mighty
Mississippi; but it is entirely within the bounds of honest statement
to say that the Yukon river... discharges every hour one-third more
water than the "Father of Waters."--Petroff's Government Report on
Alaska.
Leaving Portland at midnight on the 22d, the _Victoria_ arrived at
Astoria at the mouth of the Columbia the forenoon of the 23d, the
remaining hours of daylight being employed in loading with supplies for
a number of salmon canneries in Alaska, the large amount of freight for
which had necessitated this extra steamer. That night we crossed the
Columbia River bar and next morning entered the Strait of Juan de Fuca,
the southern entrance from the Pacific Ocean which leads to the inland
passage to Alaska.
CHAPTER II.
THE INLAND PASSAGE TO ALASKA.
[Illustration]
"The Inland Passage" to Alaska is the fjörd-like channel, resembling a
great river, which extends from the north-western part of Washington
Territory, through British Columbia, into south-eastern Alaska.
Along this coast line for about a thousand miles, stretches a vast
archipelago closely hugging the mainland of the Territories named
above, the southernmost important island being Vancouver, almost a
diminutive continent in itself, while to the north Tchichagoff Island
limits it on the seaboard.
From the little town of Olympia at the head of Puget Sound, in
Washington Territory, to Chilkat, Alaska, at the head of Lynn Channel,
or Canal, one sails as if on a grand river, and it is really hard to
comprehend that it is a portion of the ocean unless one can imagine
some deep fjörd in Norway or Greenland, so deep that he can sail on its
waters for a fortnight, for the fjörd-like character is very prominent
in these channels to which the name of "Inland Passage" is usually
given.
These channels between the islands and mainland are strikingly uniform
in width, and therefore river-like in appearance as one steams or
sails through, them. At occasional points they connect with the Pacific
Ocean, and if there be a storm on the latter, a few rolling swells may
enter at these places and disturb the equilibrium of sensitive stomachs
for a brief hour, but at all other places the channel is as quiet as
any broad river, whatever the weather. On the south we have the Strait
of Juan de Fuca and to the north Cross Sound as the limiting channels,
while between the two are found Dixon Entrance, which separates Alaska
from British Columbia, Queen Charlotte Sound, and other less important
outlets.
On the morning of the 24th of May we entered the Strait of Juan de
Fuca, named after an explorer--if such he may be called--who never
entered this beautiful sheet of water, and who owes his immortality
to an audacious guess, which came so near the truth as to deceive the
scientific world for many a century. To the left, as we enter, i.e.,
northward, is the beautiful British island of Vancouver, the name of
which commemorates one of the world's most famous explorers. Its high
rolling hills are covered with shaggy firs, broken near the beach into
little prairies of brighter green, which are dotted here and there with
pretty little white cottages, the humblest abodes we see among the
industrious, British or American, who live in the far west.
The American side, to the southward, gives us the same picture backed
by the high range of the Olympian Mountains, whose tops are covered
with perpetual snow, and upon whose cold sides drifting clouds are
condensed.
Through British Columbia the sides of this passage are covered with
firs and spruce to the very tops of the steep mountains forming them,
but as Northing is gained and Alaska is reached the summits are covered
with snow and ice at all months of the year, and by the time we cast
anchor in Chilkat Inlet, which is about the northernmost point of this
great inland salt-water river, we find in many places these crowns of
ice debouching in the shape of glaciers to the very water's level, and
the tourist beholds, on a regular line of steamboat travel, glaciers
and icebergs, and many of the wonders of arctic regions, although upon
a reduced scale. Alongside the very banks and edges of these colossal
rivers of ice one can gather the most beautiful of Alpine flowers and
wade up to his waist in grasses that equal in luxuriance the famed
fields of the pampas; while the singing of the birds from the woods and
glens and the fragrance of the foliage make one easily imagine that the
Arctic circle and equator have been linked together at this point.
Entering Juan de Fuca Strait a few hours were spent in the pretty
little anchorage of Neah Bay, the first shelter for ships after
rounding Cape Flattery, and here some merchandise was unloaded in the
huge Indian canoes that came alongside, each one holding at least a ton.
Victoria, the metropolis of British Columbia, was reached the same
day, and as it was the Queen's birthday we saw the town in all its
bravery of beer, bunting and banners. Our vessel tooted itself hoarse
outside the harbor to get a pilot over the bar, but none was to be
had till late in the day, when a pilot came out to us showing plainly
by his condition that he knew every bar in and about Victoria. With
the bar pilot on the bridge, as to save insurance should an accident
occur, we entered the picturesque little harbor in safety, despite the
discoveries of our guide that since his last visit all the buoys had
been woefully misplaced, and even the granite channel had changed its
course. But Victoria has many embellishments more durable than bunting
and banners, and most conspicuous among them are her well arranged and
well constructed roads, in which she has no equal on the Pacific coast
of North America, and but few rivals in any other part of the world.
On the 26th we crossed over to Port Townsend, the port of entry for
Puget sound, and on the 27th we headed for Alaska by way of the Inland
Passage.
For purposes of description this course should have been designated
the "inland passages," in the plural, for its branches are almost
innumerable, running in all directions like the streets of an irregular
city, although now and then they are reduced to a single channel or
fjörd which the steamer is obliged to take or put out to sea. At one
point in Discovery Passage leading from the Gulf of Georgia toward
Queen Charlotte Sound, the inland passage is so narrow that our long
vessel had to steam under a slow bell to avoid accidents, and at this
place, called Seymour Narrows, there was much talk of bridging the
narrow way in the grand scheme of a Canadian Pacific Railway, which
should have its western terminus at Victoria. Through this contracted
way the water fairly boils when at its greatest velocity, equaling
ten miles an hour in spring tides, and at such times the passage is
hazardous even to steamers, while all other craft avoid it until slack
water. Jutting rocks increase the danger, and on one of these the
United States man-of-war _Saranac_ was lost just eight years before
we passed through. At the northern end of this picturesque Discovery
Passage you see the inland passage trending away to the eastward,
with quite a bay on the left around Chatham Point, and while you are
wondering in that half soliloquizing way of a traveler in new lands
what you will see after you have turned to the right, the great ship
swings suddenly to the left, and you find that what you took for a
bay is after all the inland passage itself, which stretches once more
before you like the Hudson looking upward from West Point, or the
Delaware at the Water Gap. For all such little surprises must the
tourist be prepared on this singular voyage.
The new bend now becomes Johnstone Strait and so continues to Queen
Charlotte Sound, with which it connects by one strait, two passages
and a channel, all alike, except in name, and none much over ten miles
long. At nearly every point where a new channel diverges both arms take
on a new name, and they change as rapidly as the names of a Lisbon
street, which seldom holds the same over a few blocks. The south side
of Johnstone Strait is particularly high, rising abruptly from the
water fully 5,000 feet, and in grandeur not unlike the Yellowstone
Cañon. These summits were still covered with snow and probably on
northern <DW72>s snow remains the summer through. One noticeable valley
was on the Vancouver Island side, with a conspicuous conical hill in
its bosom that may have been over a thousand feet in height. These
cone-like hills are so common in flat valleys in north-western America
that I thought it worth while to mention the fact in this place. I
shall have occasion to do so again at a later point in my narrative.
Occasionally windrows occur through the dense coniferous forests of
the inland passage, where the trees have been swept or leveled in a
remarkable manner. Such as were cut vertically had been caused by an
avalanche, and in these instances the work of clearing had been done as
faithfully as if by the hands of man. Sometimes the bright green moss
or grass had grown up in these narrow ways, and when there was more
than one of about the same age there was quite a picturesque effect of
stripings of two shades of green, executed on a most colossal plan.
These windrows of fallen trees sometimes stretched along horizontally
in varying widths, an effect undoubtedly produced by heavy gales
rushing through the contracted "passage."
One's notice is attracted by a species of natural beacon which
materially assists the navigator. Over almost all the shoals and
submerged rocks hang fields of kelp, a growth with which the whole
"passage" abounds, thus affording a timely warning badly needed where
the channel has been imperfectly charted. As one might surmise the
water is very bold, and these submerged and ragged rocks are in general
most to be feared. Leaving Johnstone Strait we enter Queen Charlotte
Sound, a channel which was named, lacking only three years, a century
ago. It widens into capacious waters at once and we again felt the
"throbbing of old Neptune's pulse," and those with sensitive stomachs
perceived a sort of flickering of their own.
One who is acquainted merely in a general way with the history and
geography of this confusing country finds many more Spanish names than
he anticipates, and to his surprise, a conscientious investigation
shows that even as it is the vigorous old Castilian explorers have
not received all the credit to which they are entitled, for many of
their discoveries in changing hands changed names as well: the Queen
Charlotte Islands, a good day's run to the north-westward of us, were
named in 1787 by an Englishman, who gave the group the name of his
vessel, an appellation which they still retain, although as Florida
Blanca they had known the banner of Castile and Leon thirteen years
before. Mount Edgecumbe, so prominent in the beautiful harbor of Sitka,
was once Monte San Jacinto, and a list of the same tenor might be given
that would prove more voluminous than interesting. American changes in
the great north-west have not been so radical. Boca de Quadra Inlet
has somehow become Bouquet Inlet to those knowing it best. La Creole
has degenerated into Rickreall, and so on: the foreign names have been
mangled but not annihilated. We sail across Queen Charlotte Sound as
if we were going to bump right into the high land ahead of us, but a
little indentation over the bow becomes a valley, then a bay, and in
ample time to prevent accidents widens into another salt-water river,
about two miles wide and twenty times as long, called Fitzhugh Sound.
Near the head of the sound we turn abruptly westward into the Lama
Passage, and on its western shores we see nearly the first sign of
civilization in the inland passage, the Indian village of Bella Bella,
holding probably a dozen native houses and a fair looking church, while
a few cattle grazing near the place had a still more civilized air.
[Illustration: SCENES IN THE INLAND PASSAGE.]
As we steamed through Seaforth Channel, a most tortuous affair, Indians
were seen paddling in their huge canoes from one island to another
or along the high, rocky shores, a cheering sign of habitation not
previously noticed.
The great fault of the inland passage as a resort for tourists is in
the constant dread of fogs that may at any time during certain months
of the year completely obscure the grand scenery that tempted the
travelers thither. The waters of the Pacific Ocean on the seaboard of
Alaska are but a deflected continuation of the warm equatorial current
called the Kuro Siwo of the Japanese; from these waters the air is
laden with moisture, which being thrown by the variable winds against
the snow-clad and glacier-covered summits of the higher mountains,
is precipitated as fog and light rain, and oftentimes every thing
is wrapped for weeks in these most annoying mists. July, with June
and August, are by far the most favorable months for the traveler.
The winter months are execrable, with storms of rain, snow and sleet
constantly occurring, the former along the Pacific frontage, and the
latter near the channels of the mainland.
Milbank Sound gave us another taste of the ocean swells which spoiled
the flavor of our food completely, for although we were only exposed
for less than an hour that hour happened to come just about dinner
time; after which we entered Finlayson Passage, some twenty-five miles
long. This is a particularly picturesque and bold channel of water, its
shores covered with shaggy conifers as high as the eye can reach, and
the mountains, with their crowns of snow and ice, furnishing supplies
of spray for innumerable beautiful waterfalls. At many places in the
inland passage from here on, come down the steep timbered mountains
the most beautiful waterfalls fed from the glaciers hidden in the fog.
At every few miles we pass the mouths of inlets and channels, leading
away into the mountainous country no one knows whither. There are no
charts which show more than the mouths of these inlets. Out of or into
these an occasional canoe speeds its silent way perchance in quest of
salmon that here abound, but the secrets of their hidden paths are
locked in the savage mind. How tempting they must be for exploration,
and how strange that, although so easy of access, they still remain
unknown. After twisting around through a few "reaches," channels and
passages, we enter the straightest of them all, Grenville Channel, so
straight that it almost seems to have been mapped by an Indian. As you
steam through its forty or fifty miles of mathematically rectilinear
exactness you think the sleepy pilot might tie his wheel, put his heels
up in the spokes, draw his hat over his eyes and take a quiet nap. In
one place it seems to be not over two or three hundred yards wide, but
probably is double that, the high towering banks giving a deceptive
impression. The windrows through the timber of former avalanches of
snow or landslides, now become thicker and their effects occasionally
picturesque in the very devastation created. Beyond Grenville Channel
the next important stretch of salt water is Chatham Sound, which is
less like a river than any yet named. Its connection with Grenville
Channel is by the usual number of three or four irregular water-ways
dodging around fair sized islands, which had at one time, however, a
certain importance because it was thought that the Canadian Pacific
Railway might make Skeena Inlet off to our right its western terminus.
On the 29th of May, very early in the morning, we crossed Dixon
Entrance, and were once more on American soil, that is, in a commercial
sense, the United States having drawn a check for its value of
$7,200,000, and the check having been honored; but in regard to
government the country may be called no man's land, none existing in
the territory. Dixon Entrance bore once a Spanish name in honor of
its discoverer, a name which is heard no more, although a few still
call the channel by its Indian name, Kaiganee. Broad Dixon Entrance
contracts into the narrow Portland Inlet, which, putting | 619.648397 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.8272270 | 90 | 6 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison, MFR and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
JANUS IN MODERN LIFE
JANUS
IN
MODERN LIFE
BY
W. M. FLINDERS PETRIE
D.C.L., LL.D., F | 619.847267 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.8351730 | 166 | 9 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE
OR
THE RIGHT ROAD AND THE WRONG
BY
ARTHUR M. WINFIELD
Author of "The Rover Boys at School," "The Rover Boys on the Ocean,"
"The Rover Boys on Treasure Isle," Etc.
MCMX
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
* * * * *
THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN, THE ROVER BOYS ON
LAND AND SEA, THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS, THE
ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS, THE ROVER BOYS | 619.855213 |
Subsets and Splits
No saved queries yet
Save your SQL queries to embed, download, and access them later. Queries will appear here once saved.