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A COMPILATION OF THE MESSAGES AND PAPERS OF THE PRESIDENTS
BY JAMES D. RICHARDSON
VOLUME II
1897
Prefatory Note
The first volume of this compilation was given to Congress and the
public about May 1, 1896. I believe I am warranted in saying here that
it met with much favor by all who examined it. The press of the country
was unsparing in its praise. Congress, by a resolution passed on the 22d
day of May, ordered the printing of 15,000 additional copies, of the
entire publication.
I have inserted in this volume a steel engraving of the Treasury
building; the succeeding volumes will contain engravings of other
important public buildings.
The resolution authorizing this work required the publication of
the annual, special, and veto messages, inaugural addresses, and
proclamations of the Presidents. I have found in addition to these
documents others which emanated from the Chief Magistrats, called
Executive orders; they are in the nature of proclamations, and have like
force and effect. I have therefore included in this, and will include
in the succeeding volumes, all such Executive orders as may appear to
have national importance or to possess more than ordinary interest.
If this volume meets the same degree of favor as the first, I shall be
greatly gratified.
JAMES D. RICHARDSON.
JULY 4, 1896.
James Monroe
March 4, 1817, to March 4, 1825
James Monroe
James Monroe was born April 28, 1758, in Westmoreland County, Va. He was
the son of Spence Monroe and Elizabeth Jones, both natives of Virginia.
When in his eighteenth year he enlisted as a private soldier in the
Army to fight for independence; was in several battles, and was wounded
in the engagement at Trenton; was promoted to the rank of captain of
infantry. During 1777 and 1778 he acted as aid to Lord Stirling, and
distinguished himself. He studied law under the direction of Thomas
Jefferson, then governor of Virginia, who in 1780 appointed him to visit
the army in South Carolina on an important mission. In 1782 he was
elected to the Virginia assembly by the county of King George, and was
by that body chosen a member of the executive council. The next year
he was chosen a delegate to the Continental Congress, and remained a
member until 1786; while a member he married a Miss Kortright, of New
York City. Retiring from Congress, he began the practice of law at
Fredericksburg, Va., but was at once elected to the legislature. In 1788
was a delegate to the State convention assembled to consider the Federal
Constitution. Was a Senator from Virginia from 1790 to 1794. In May,
1794, was appointed by Washington minister to France. He was recalled
in 1796 and was again elected to the legislature. In 1799 was elected
governor of Virginia. In 1802 was appointed by President Jefferson envoy
extraordinary to France, and in 1803 was sent to London as the successor
of Rufus King. In 1805 performed a diplomatic mission to Spain in
relation to the boundary of Louisiana, returning to London the following
year; returned to the United States in 1808. In 1811 was again elected
governor of his State, but in the same year resigned that office to
become Secretary of State under President Madison. After the capture
of Washington, in 1814, he was appointed to the War Department, which
position he held until 1815, without relinquishing the office of
Secretary of State. He remained at the head of the Department of State
until the close of Mr. Madison's term. Was elected President in 1816,
and reelected in 1820, retiring March 4, 1825, to his residence in
Loudoun County, Va. In 1829 was elected a member of the convention
called to revise the constitution of the State, and was unanimously
chosen to preside over its deliberations. He was forced by ill health
to retire from office, and removed to New York to reside with his
son-in-law, Mr. Samuel L. Gouverneur. He died July 4, 1831, and was
buried in New York City, but in 1858 his remains were removed to
Richmond, Va.
LETTER FROM THE PRESIDENT ELECT.
The President of the Senate communicated the following letter from the
President elect of the United States:
CITY OF WASHINGTON, _March 1, 1817_.
Hon. JOHN GAILLARD.
_P | 628.163548 |
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Makers of History
Josephine
BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT
WITH ENGRAVINGS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1904
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and fifty-one, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District
of New York.
Copyright, 1879, by SUSAN ABBOTT MEAD.
[Illustration: JOSEPHINE.]
PREFACE.
Maria Antoinette, Madame Roland, and Josephine are the three most
prominent heroines of the French Revolution. The history of their lives
necessarily records all the most interesting events of that most fearful
tragedy which man has ever enacted. Maria Antoinette beheld the morning
dawn of the Revolution; its lurid mid-day sun glared upon Madame Roland;
and Josephine beheld the portentous phenomenon fade away. Each of these
heroines displayed traits of character worthy of all imitation. No
one can read the history of their lives without being ennobled by the
contemplation of the fortitude and grandeur of spirit they evinced. To
the young ladies of our land we especially commend the Heroines of the
French Revolution.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. LIFE IN MARTINIQUE 13
II. MARRIAGE OF JOSEPHINE 31
III. ARREST OF M. BEAUHARNAIS AND JOSEPHINE 48
IV. SCENES IN PRISON 68
V. THE RELEASE FROM PRISON 81
VI. JOSEPHINE IN ITALY 105
VII. JOSEPHINE AT MALMAISON 130
VIII. JOSEPHINE THE WIFE OF THE FIRST CONSUL 149
IX. DEVELOPMENTS OF CHARACTER 171
X. THE CORONATION 198
XI. JOSEPHINE AN EMPRESS 232
XII. THE DIVORCE AND LAST DAYS 282
ENGRAVINGS.
Page
THE SIBYL 24
THE WARNING 58
THE PANTOMIME 85
ISOLA BELLA 109
THE INTERVIEW 156
THE CORONATION 224
JOSEPHINE.
CHAPTER I.
LIFE IN MARTINIQUE.
A.D. 1760-A.D. 1775
Martinique.--Its varied beauties.--Birth of Josephine.--Her parents'
death.--M. Renaudin.--His kind treatment of his slaves.--Gratitude
of the slaves.--Josephine a universal favorite.--Hospitality of M.
Renaudin.--Society at his house.--Early education of Josephine.--Her
accomplishments.--Euphemie.--She becomes Josephine's bosom companion.
--Popularity of Josephine.--Childhood enjoyment.--Characteristic traits.
--The fortune-teller.--Predictions of the sibyl.--Credulity.--More
predictions.--Their fulfillment.--Explanations of the predictions.--
How fulfilled.--Falsity of the prediction.--Contemplated match.--
Attachment between Josephine and William.--Their separation.--Rousseau
throwing stones.--Josephine's superstition.--Mutual fidelity.--Deception
of friends.
The island of Martinique emerges in tropical luxuriance from the bosom
of the Caribbean Sea. A meridian sun causes the whole land to smile in
perennial verdure, and all the gorgeous flowers and luscious fruits
of the torrid zone adorn upland and prairie in boundless profusion.
Mountains, densely wooded, rear their summits sublimely to the skies,
and valleys charm the eye with pictures more beautiful than imagination
can create. Ocean breezes ever sweep these hills and vales, and temper
the heat of a vertical sun. Slaves, whose dusky limbs are scarcely
veiled by the lightest clothing, till the soil, while the white
inhabitants, supported by the indolent labor of these unpaid menials,
loiter away life in listless leisure and in rustic luxury. Far removed
from the dissipating influences of European and American opulence, they
dwell in their secluded island in a state of almost patriarchal
simplicity.
About the year 1760, a young French officer, Captain Joseph Gaspard
Tascher, accompanied his regiment of horse to this island. While here on
professional duty, he became attached to a young lady from France, whose
parents, formerly opulent, in consequence of the loss of property, had
moved to the West Indies to retrieve their fortunes. But little is known
respecting Mademoiselle de Sanois, this young lady, who was soon married
to M. Tascher. Josephine was the only child born of this union. In
consequence of the early death of her mother, she was, while an infant,
intrusted to the care of her aunt. Her father soon after died, and the
little orphan appears never to have known a father's or a mother's love.
Madame Renaudin, the kind aunt, who now, with maternal affection, took
charge of the helpless infant, was a lady of wealth, and of great
benevolence of character. Her husband was the owner of several estates,
and lived surrounded by all that plain and rustic profusion which
characterizes the abode of the wealthy planter. His large possessions,
and his energy of character, gave him a wide influence over the island.
He was remarkable for his humane treatment of his slaves, and for the
successful manner with which he conducted the affairs of his
plantations.
The general condition of the slaves of Martinique at this time was very
deplorable; but on the plantations of M. Renaudin there was as perfect
a state of contentment and of happiness as is consistent with the
deplorable institution of slavery. The slaves, many of them but recently
torn from their homes in Africa, were necessarily ignorant, degraded,
and superstitious. They knew nothing of those more elevated and refined
enjoyments which the cultivated mind so highly appreciates, but which
are so often also connected with the most exquisite suffering.
Josephine, in subsequent life, gave a very vivid description of the
wretchedness of the slaves in general, and also of the peace and harmony
which, in striking contrast, cheered the estates of her uncle. When the
days' tasks were done, the <DW64>s, constitutionally light-hearted and
merry, gathered around their cabins with songs and dances, often
prolonged late into the hours of the night. They had never known any
thing better than their present lot. They compared their condition with
that of the slaves on the adjoining plantations, and exulted in view of
their own enjoyments. M. and Madame Renaudin often visited their cabins,
spoke words of kindness to them in their hours of sickness and sorrow,
encouraged the formation of pure attachments and honorable marriage
among the young, and took a lively interest in their sports. The slaves
loved their kind master and mistress most sincerely, and manifested
their affection in a thousand simple ways which touched the heart.
Josephine imbibed from infancy the spirit of her uncle and aunt. She
always spoke to the slaves in tones of kindness, and became a universal
favorite with all upon the plantations. She had no playmates but the
little <DW64>s and she united with them freely in all their sports.
Still, these little ebon children of bondage evidently looked up to
Josephine as to a superior being. She was the queen around whom they
circled in affectionate homage. The instinctive faculty, which Josephine
displayed through life, of winning the most ardent love of all who
met her, while, at the same time, she was protected from any undue
familiarity, she seems to have possessed even at that early day. The
children, who were her companions in all the sports of childhood, were
also dutiful subjects ever ready to be obedient to her will.
The social position of M. Renaudin, as one of the most opulent and
influential gentlemen of Martinique, necessarily attracted to his
hospitable residence much refined and cultivated society. Strangers from
Europe visiting the island, planters of intellectual tastes, and ladies
of polished manners, met a cordial welcome beneath the spacious roof of
this abode, where all abundance was to be found. Madame Renaudin had
passed her early years in Paris, and her manners were embellished with
that elegance and refinement which have given to Parisian society such a
world-wide celebrity. There was, at that period, much more intercourse
between the mother country and the colonies than at the present day.
Thus Josephine, though reared in a provincial home, was accustomed, from
infancy, to associate with gentlemen and ladies who were familiar with
the etiquette of the highest rank in society, and whose conversation was
intellectual and improving.
It at first view seems difficult to account for the high degree of
mental culture which Josephine displayed, when, seated by the side of
Napoleon, she was the Empress of France. Her remarks, her letters, her
conversational elegance, gave indication of a mind thoroughly furnished
with information and trained by severe discipline. And yet, from all the
glimpses we can catch of her early education, it would seem that, with
the exception of the accomplishments of music, dancing, and drawing, she
was left very much to the guidance of her own instinctive tastes.
But, like Madame Roland, she was blessed with that peculiar mental
constitution, which led her, of her own accord, to treasure up all
knowledge which books or conversation brought within her reach. From
childhood until the hour of her death, she was ever improving her mind
by careful observation and studious reading. She played upon the harp
with great skill, and sang with a voice of exquisite melody. She also
read with a correctness of elocution and a fervor of feeling which ever
attracted admiration. The morning of her childhood was indeed bright and
sunny, and her gladdened heart became so habituated to joyousness, that
her cheerful spirit seldom failed her even in the darkest days of her
calamity. Her passionate love for flowers had interested her deeply in
the study of botany, and she also became very skillful in embroidery,
that accomplishment which was once deemed an essential part of the
education of every lady.
Under such influences Josephine became a child of such grace, beauty,
and loveliness of character as to attract the attention and the
admiration of all who saw her. There was an affectionateness,
simplicity, and frankness in her manners which won all hearts. Her most
intimate companion in these early years was a young mulatto girl, the
daughter of a slave, and report said, with how much truth it is
impossible to know, that she was also the daughter of Captain Tascher
before his marriage. Her name was Euphemie. She was a year or two older
than Josephine, but she attached herself with deathless affection to her
patroness; and, though Josephine made her a companion and a confidante,
she gradually passed, even in these early years, into the position of a
maid of honor, and clung devotedly to her mistress through all the
changes of subsequent life. Joseph | 628.245537 |
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. Bold text and
text in blackletter font are delimited with ‘=’.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.
KITTY ALONE
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH
KITTY ALONE
A STORY OF THREE FIRES
BY
S. BARING GOULD
AUTHOR OF
“IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA” “THE QUEEN OF LOVE”
“MEHALAH” “CHEAP JACK ZITA” ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1894
CONTENTS OF VOL. I
----------
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE 7
II. A LUSUS NATURÆ 15
III. ALL INTO GOLD 25
IV. THE ATMOSPHERIC RAILWAY 35
V. ON A MUD-BANK 44
VI. A CAPTURE 55
VII. A RELEASE 64
VIII. AN ATMOSPHERE OF LOVE 73
IX. CONVALESCENCE 83
X. THE NEW SCHOOLMASTER 90
XI. DISCORDS 101
XII. DAFFODILS 112
XIII. THE SPIRIT OF INQUIRY 122
XIV. TO THE FAIR 132
XV. A REASON FOR EVERYTHING 140
XVI. THE DANCING BEAR 150
XVII. INSURED 157
XVIII. BRAZIL NUTS 167
KITTY ALONE
CHAPTER I
THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE
With a voice like that of a crow, and singing with full lungs also like
a crow, came Jason Quarm riding in his donkey-cart to Coombe Cellars.
Jason Quarm was a short, stoutly-built man, with a restless grey eye,
with shaggy, long, sandy hair that burst out from beneath a battered
beaver hat. He was somewhat lame, wherefore he maintained a donkey, and
drove about the country seated cross-legged in the bottom of his cart,
only removed from the bottom boards by a wisp of straw, which became
dissipated from under him with the joltings of the conveyance. Then
Jason would struggle to his knees, take the reins in his teeth, scramble
backwards in his cart, rake the straw together again into a heap, reseat
himself, and drive on till the exigencies of the case necessitated his
going through the same operations once more.
Coombe Cellars, which Jason Quarm approached, was a cluster of roofs
perched on low walls, occupying a promontory in the estuary of the
Teign, in the south of Devon. A road, or rather a series of ruts, led
direct to Coombe Cellars, cut deep in the warm red soil; but they led no
farther.
Coombe Cellars was a farmhouse, a depôt of merchandise, an eating-house,
a ferry-house, a discharging wharf for barges laden with coal, a
lading-place for straw, and hay, and corn that had to be carried away on
barges to the stables of Teignmouth and Dawlish. Facing the water was a
little terrace or platform, gravelled, on which stood green benches and
a green table.
The sun of summer had blistered the green paint on the table, and
persons having leisure had amused themselves with picking the skin off
these blisters and exposing the white paint underneath, and then, with
pen or pencil, exercising their ingenuity in converting these bald
patches into human faces, or in scribbling over them their own names and
those of the ladies of their heart. Below the platform at low water the
ooze was almost solidified with the vast accumulation of cockle and
winkle shells thrown over the edge, together with bits of broken plates,
fragments of glass, tobacco-pipes, old handleless knives, and sundry
other refuse of a tavern.
Above the platform, against the wall, was painted in large letters, to
be read across the estuary--
PASCO PEPPERILL,
HOT COCKLES AND WINKLES,
TEA AND COFFEE ALWAYS READY.
Some wag with his penknife had erased the capital H from “Hot,” and had
converted the W in “Winkles” into a V, with the object of accommodating
the written language to the vernacular. One of the most marvellous of
passions seated in the human heart is that hunger after immortality
which, indeed, distinguishes man from beast. This deep-seated and awful
aspiration had evidently consumed the breasts of all the “’ot cockle and
vinkle” eaters on the platform, for there was literally not a spare
space of plaster anywhere within reach which was not scrawled over with
names by these aspirants after immortality.
Jason Quarm was merciful to his beast. Seeing a last year’s teasel by
the wall ten yards from Coombe Cellars’ door, he drew rein, folded his
legs and arms, smiled, and said to his ass--
“There, governor, enjoy yourself.”
The teasel was hard as wood, besides being absolutely devoid of
nutritious juices, which had been withdrawn six months previously. Neddy
would have nothing to say to the teasel.
“You dratted monkey!” shouted Quarm, irritated at the daintiness of the
ass. “If you won’t eat, then go on.” He knelt up in his cart and whacked
him with a stick in one hand and the reins in the other. “I’ll teach you
to be choice. I’ll make you swaller a holly-bush. And if there ain’t
relish enough in that to suit your palate, I’ll buy a job lot of old
Perninsula bayonets and make you munch them. That’ll be chutney, I
reckon, to the likes of you.”
Then, as he threw his lame leg over the side of the cart, he said,
“Steady, old man, and hold your breath whilst I’m descending.”
No sooner was he on his feet, than, swelling his breast and stretching
his shoulders, with a hand on each hip, he crowed forth--
“There was a frog lived in a well,
Crock-a-mydaisy, Kitty alone!
There was a frog lived in a well,
And a merry mouse lived in a mill,
Kitty alone and I.”
The door opened, and a man stood on the step and waved a salutation to
Quarm. This man was powerfully built. He had broad shoulders and a short
neck. What little neck he possessed was not made the most of, for he
habitually drew his head back and rested his chin behind his stock. This
same stock or muffler was thick and folded, filling the space left open
by the waistcoat, out of which it protruded. It was of blue strewn with
white spots, and it gave the appearance as though pearls dropped from
the mouth of the wearer and were caught in his muffler before they fell
and were lost. The man had thick sandy eyebrows, and very pale eyes. His
structure was disproportioned. With such a powerful body, stout nether
limbs might have been anticipated for its support. His thighs were,
indeed, muscular and heavy, but the legs were slim, and the feet and
ankles small. He had the habit of standing with his feet together, and
thus presented the shape of a boy’s kite.
“Hallo, Pasco--brother-in-law!” shouted Quarm, as he threw the harness
off the ass; “look here, and see what I have been a-doing.”
He turned the little cart about, and exhibited a plate nailed to the
backboard, on which, in gold and red on black, figured, “The Star and
Garter Life and Fire Insurance.”
“What!” exclaimed Pepperill; “insured Neddy and the cart, have you? That
I call chucking good money away, unless you have reasons for thinking
Ned will go off in spontaneous combustion.”
“Not so, Pasco,” laughed Jason; “it is the agency I have got. The Star
and Garter knows that I am the sort of man they require, that wanders
over the land and has the voice of a nightingale. I shall have a policy
taken out for you shortly, Pasco.”
“Indeed you shall not.”
“Confiscate the donkey if I don’t. But I’ll not trouble you on this
score now. How is the little toad?”
“What--Kate?”
“To be sure, Kitty Alone.”
“Come and see. What have you been about this time, Jason?”
“Bless you! I have hit on Golconda. Brimpts.”
“Brimpts? What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know Brimpts?”
“Never heard of it. In India?”
“No; at Dart-meet, beyond Ashburton.”
“And what of Brimpts? Found a diamond mine there?”
“Not that, but oaks, Pasco, oaks! A forest two hundred years old, on
Dartmoor. A bit of the primæval forest; two hundred--I bet you--five
hundred years old. It is not in the Forest, but on one of the ancient
tenements, and the tenant has fallen into difficulties with the bank,
and the bank is selling him up. Timber, bless you! not a shaky stick
among the lot; all heart, and hard as iron. A fortune--a fortune, Pasco,
is to be picked up at Brimpts. See if I don’t pocket a thousand pounds.”
“You always see your way to making money, but never get far for’ard
along the road that leads to good fortune.”
“Because I never have had the opportunity of doing more than see my way.
I’m crippled in a leg, and though I can see the road before me, I cannot
get along it without an ass. I’m crippled in purse, and though I can
discern the way to wealth, I can’t take it--once more--without an ass.
Brother-in-law, be my Jack, and help me along.”
Jason slapped Pasco on the broad shoulders.
“And you make a thousand pounds by the job?”
“So I reckon--a thousand at the least. Come, lend me the money to work
the concern, and I’ll pay you at ten per cent.”
“What do you mean by ‘work the concern’?”
“Pasco, I must go before the bank at Exeter with money in my hand, and
say, I want those wretched scrubs of oak and holm at Brimpts. Here’s a
hundred pounds. It’s worthless, but I happen to know of a fellow as will
put a five pound in my pocket if I get him some knotty oak for a bit of
fancy-work he’s on. The bank will take it, Pasco. At the bank they will
make great eyes, that will say as clear as words, Bless us! we didn’t
know there was oak grew on Dartmoor. They’ll take the money, and
conclude the bargain right on end. And then I must have some ready cash
to pay for felling.”
“Do you think that the bank will sell?”
“Sell? it would sell anything--the soil, the flesh off the moors, the
bones, the granite underneath, the water of heaven that there gathers,
the air that wafts over it--anything. Of course, it will sell the
Brimpts oaks. But, brother-in-law, let me tell you, this is but the
first stage in a grand speculative march.”
“What next?”
“Let me make my thousand by the Brimpts oaks, and I see waves of gold
before me in which I can roll. I’ll be generous. Help me to the oaks,
and I’ll help you to the gold-waves.”
“How is all this to be brought about?”
“Out of mud, old boy, mud!”
“Mud will need a lot of turning to get gold out of it.”
“Ah! wait till I’ve tied up Neddy.”
Jason Quarm hobbled off with his ass, and turned it loose in a paddock.
Then he returned to his brother-in-law, hooked his finger into the
button-hole of Pepperill, and said, with a wink--
“Did you never hear of the philosopher’s stone, that converts whatever
it touches into gold?”
“I’ve heard some such a tale, but it is all lies.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Never!” Pasco started, and turned round and stared at his
brother-in-law in sheer amazement.
“I have it. Here it is,” and he touched his head. “Believe me, Pasco,
this is the true philosopher’s stone. With this I find oaks where the
owners believed there grew but furze; with this I bid these oaks bud
forth and bear bank-notes. And with this same philosopher’s stone I
shall transform your Teign estuary mud into golden sovereigns.”
“Come in.”
“I will; and I’ll tell you how I’ll do it, if you will help me to the
Brimpts oaks. That is step number one.”
CHAPTER II
A LUSUS NATURÆ
The two men entered the house talking, Quarm lurching against his
companion in his uneven progress; uneven, partly because of his lame
leg, partly because of his excitement; and when he wished to urge a
point in his argument, he enforced it, not only by raised tone of voice
and cogency of reasoning, but also by impact of his shoulder against
that of Pepperill.
In the room into which they penetrated sat a girl in the bay window
knitting. The window was wide and low, for the ceiling was low. It had
many panes in it of a greenish hue. It commanded the broad firth of the
river Teign. The sun was now on the water, and the glittering water cast
a sheen of golden green into the low room and into the face of the
knitting girl. It illumined the ceiling, revealed all its cracks, its
cobwebs and flies. The brass candlesticks and skillets and copper
coffee-pots on the chimney-piece shone in the light reflected from the
ceiling.
The girl was tall, with a singularly broad white brow, dark hair, and
long lashes that swept her cheek. The face was pale, and when in repose
it could not be readily decided whether she were good-looking or plain,
but all hesitation vanished when she raised her great violet eyes, full
of colour and sparkling with the light of intelligence.
The moment that Quarm entered she dropped the knitting on which she was
engaged; a flash of pleasure, a gleam of colour, mounted to eyes and
cheeks; she half rose with timidity and hesitation, but as Quarm
continued in eager conversation with Pepperill, and did not notice her,
she sank back into her sitting posture, the colour faded from her cheek,
her eyes fell, and a quiver of the lips | 628.545508 |
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HARRY'S
LADDER TO LEARNING.
WITH
Two Hundred and Thirty Illustrations.
LONDON: DAVID BOGUE, 86 FLEET STREET; AND JOSEPH CUNDALL, 21 OLD BOND
STREET | 628.652272 |
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Christofaki and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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Transcriber's note
This e-book has been transcribed from the author's hand-written
manuscript, downloaded from the British Library. The original text and
the pagination have both been retained. For the reader's convenience an
edited version follows, where punctuation, capitalisation and spelling
have been normalised.
The following changes have been made to both the original and the
edited version:
Leaf numbers, as they appear in the original, are shown in [brackets].
The name "ODonell" was changed to "O'Donell".
Ampersand (&) was changed to "and".
[1] The Search after Happiness
A Tale by C
Bronte
August the seventeenth 1829
[2] THE SEARCH AFTER
HAPINESS
A TALE BY
CHARLOTTE
BRONTE
PRINTED BY HERSELF
AND
SOLD BY
NOBODY &ct &ct
AUGUST
THE
SEVENTEENTH
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED
AND on
Twenty nine
Preface
The persons meant by the Chief of the city and his Sons are the Duke of
Wellington the Marquis of Duro and Lord Wellesly the city is the Glass
town Henry O'Donell and Alexander Delancy are Captain Tarry-not-at-home
and Monsieur Like-to-live-in-lonely-places
Charlotte Bronte
August the 17
1829
[3] A TALE BY
CB July 28 1829
The search after happiness
chapter I
NOT many years ago there lived in a certain city a person of the name
of Henry O'Donell, in figure he was tall of a dark complexion and
searching black eye, his mind was strong and unbending his disposition
uncosiable and though respected by many he was loved by few. the
city where he resided was very great and magnificent it was governed
by a warior a mighty man of valour whose deeds had resounded to the
ends of the earth. this soldier had 2 son's who were at that time of
the seperate age's of 6 and 7 years Henry--O'Donell was a nobleman
of great consequence in the city and a peculiar favourite with the
governor before whose glance his stern mind would bow and at his comand
O'Donells selfwill would be overcome and while playing with the young
princes he would forget his usual sulleness of demeanour the day's of
his childhood returned upon him and he would be a merry as the youngest
who was gay indeed. one day at court a quarrel ensued between him and
another noble words came to blows and O'Donell struck his oponent a
violent blow on the left cheek at this the miliatry King started up and
commanded O'Donell to apologize this he imediatly did, but from that
hour the spell of discontent seemed to have been cast over him and he
resolved to quit the city. the evening before he put this resolution
into practise he had an interview with the King and returned quite an
altered man. before he seemed stern and intractable now he was only
meditative and sorrowful as he was passing the inner court of the
palace he perceived the 2 young princes at play he called them and they
came runing to him. I am going far from this city and shall most likely
never see you again said O'Donell. where are you going? I canot tell
then why do you go away from us why do you go from your own house and
lands from this great and splendid city to you know not where because I
am not happy here. And if you are not happy here where you have every
thing for which you can whish do you expect to be happy when you are
dying of hunger or thirst in a desert or longing for the society of men
when you are thousands of miles of miles From any human being. how do
you know that that will be my case? it is very likely that it will. and
if it was I am determined to go. take this then that you may sometimes
rememberus when you dwell with only the wild beast of the desert or
the great eagle of the mountain, said they as they each gave him a
curling lock of their hair yes I will take it my princes and I shall
rember you and the mighty warrior King your father even when the angel
of Death has stretched forth his bony arm against me and I am within
the confines of his dreary kingdom the cold damp grave replied O'Donell
as the tears rushed to his eyes and he once more embraced the little
princes and then quitted them it might be for ever----
CHAPTER. THE II
THE Dawn of the next morning found O'Donell on the sumit of a High
mountain which overlooked the city he had stopped to take a farewell
view of the place of his nativity. all along the eastern horizon there
was a rich glowing light which as it rose gradually melted into the
pale blue of the sky in which just over the light there was still
visible the silver crescent of the moon in a short time the sun began
to rise in golden glory casting his splendid radiance over all the
face of nature and illuminating the magnificent city in the midst of
which towering in silent grandeur there appeared the Palace where
dwelt the mighty Prince of that great and beautiful city. all around
the brazen gates and massive walls of which there flowed the majestic
stream of the Guadima whose Banks where bordered by splendid palaces
and magnificent gardens behind these stretching for many a league were
fruitful plains and forests whose shade seemed almost impenetrable to
a single ray of light while in the distace blue mountains were seen
raising their heads to the sky and forming a misty girdle to the plains
of Dahomey. on the whole of this grand and beautiful prospect [4]
O'Donells gaze was long and fixed but his last look was to the palace
of the King and a tear stood in his eye as he said ernestly may he be
preserved | 628.845609 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
- The book uses both Palaeologus and Palaelogus.
- The book uses both DeStreeses and De Streeses.
In both cases, both spellings have been retained as printed.
Page 304: Ramedan should possibly be Ramadan.
"_Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,
And skilled in every warlike art,
Riding through his Albanian lands,
And following the auspicious star
That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar._"
LONGFELLOW
THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES
_A STORY OF THE TIMES OF SCANDERBEG
AND
THE FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE_
BY JAMES M. LUDLOW, D.D. LITT.D
ELEVENTH EDITION
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1886, by DODD, MEAD & CO.
Copyright, 1890, by JAMES M. LUDLOW.
_Electrotyped by Dodd, Mead & Co._
PREFACE.
The story of the Captain of the Janizaries originated, not in the
author's desire to write a book, but in the fascinating interest of
the times and characters he has attempted to depict. It seems strange
that the world should have so generally forgotten George Castriot, or
Scanderbeg, as the Turks named him, whose career was as romantic as it
was significant in the history of the Eastern Mediterranean. Gibbon
assigns to him but a few brief pages, just enough to make us wonder
that he did not write more of the man who, he confessed, "with unequal
arms resisted twenty-three years the powers of the Ottoman Empire."
Creasy, in his history of the Turks, devotes less than a page to the
exploits of one who "possessed strength and activity such as rarely
fall to the lot of man," "humbled the pride of Amurath and baffled the
skill and power of his successor Mahomet." History, as we make it in
events, is an ever-widening river, but, as remembered, it is like a
stream bursting eastward from the Lebanons, growing less as it flows
until it is drained away in the desert.
Though our story is in the form of romance, it is more than "founded
upon fact." The details are drawn from historical records, such as the
chronicles of the monk Barletius--a contemporary, though perhaps a
prejudiced admirer, of Scanderbeg--the later Byzantine annals, the
customs of the Albanian people, and scenes observed while travelling
in the East.
The author takes the occasion of the publication of a new edition to
gratefully acknowledge many letters from scholars, as well as notices
from the press, which have expressed appreciation of this attempt to
revive popular interest in lands and peoples that are to reappear in
the drama of the Ottoman expulsion from Europe, upon which the curtain
is now rising.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES.
CHAPTER I
From the centre of the old town of Brousa, in Asia Minor--old even at
the time of our story, about the middle of the fifteenth
century--rises an immense plateau of rock, crowned with the fortress
whose battlements and towers cut their clear outlines high against the
sky. An officer of noble rank in the Ottoman service stood leaning
upon the parapet, apparently regaling himself with the marvellous
panorama of natural beauty and historic interest which lay before him.
The vast plain, undulating down to the distant sea of Marmora, was
mottled with fields of grain, gardens enclosed in hedges of cactus,
orchards in which the light green of the fig-trees blended with the
duskier hues of the olive, and dense forests of oak plumed with the
light yellow blooms of the chestnut. Here and there writhed the heavy
vapors of the hot sulphurous streams springing out of the base of the
Phrygian Olympus, which reared its snow-clad peak seven thousand feet
above. The lower stones of the fortress of Brousa were the mementoes
of twenty centuries which had drifted by them since they were laid by
the old Phrygian kings. The flags of many empires had floated from
those walls, not the least significant of which was that of the
Ottoman, who, a hundred years before, had consecrated Brousa as his
capital by burying in yonder mausoleum the body of Othman, the founder
of the Ottoman dynasty of the Sultans.
But the Turkish officer was thinking of neither the beauty of the
scene nor the historic impressiveness of the place. His face, shaded
by the folds of his enormous turban, wore deeper shadows which were
flung upon it from within. He was talking to himself.
"The Padishah[1] has a nobler capital now than this,--across the sea
there in Christian Europe. But by whose hands was it conquered? By
Christian hands! by Janizaries! renegades! Ay, this hand!"--he
stripped his arm bare to the shoulder and looked upon its gnarled
muscles as he hissed the words through his teeth--"this hand has cut a
wider swathe through the enemies of the Ottoman than any other man's;
a swathe down which the Padishah can walk without tripping his feet.
And this was a Christian's hand once! Well may I believe the story my
old nurse so often told me,--that, when the priest was dropping the
water of baptism upon my baby brow, this hand seized the sacred
vessel, and it fell shattered upon the pavement. Ah, well have I
fulfilled that omen!"
The man walked to and fro on the platform with quick and jarring step,
as if to shake off the grip of unwelcome thoughts. There was a majesty
in his mien which did not need the play of his partially suppressed
fury to fascinate the attention of any who might have beheld him at
the moment. He was tall of stature, immensely broad at the shoulders,
deep lunged, comparatively light and trim in the loins, as the close
drawn sash beneath the embroidered jacket revealed: arms long; hands
large. He looked as if he might wrestle with a bear without a weapon.
His features were not less notable than his form. His forehead was
high and square, with such fulness at the corners as to leave two
cross valleys in the middle. Deep-set eyes gleamed from beneath broad
and heavy brows. The lips were firm, as if they had grown rigid from
the habit of concealing, rather than expressing, thought, except in
the briefest words of authority,--Caesar-lips to summarize a campaign
in a sentence. The chin was heavy, and would have unduly protruded
were it not that there were needed bulk and strength to stand as the
base of such prominent upper features. Altogether his face would have
been pronounced hard and forbidding, had it not been relieved as
remarkably by that strange radiance with which strong intelligence and
greatness of soul sometimes transfigure the coarsest features.
These peculiarities of the man were observed and commented upon by two
officers who were sitting in the embrasure of the parapet at the
farther end of the battlement. The elder of the two, who had grown
gray in the service, addressed his comrade, a young man, though
wearing the insignia of rank equal to that of the other.
"Yes, Bashaw,[2] he is not only the right hand of the Padishah, but
the army has not seen an abler soldier since the Ottoman entered
Europe. You know his history?"
"Only as every one knows it, for in recent years he has written it
with his cimeter flashing through battle dust as the lightning through
clouds," replied the young officer.
The veteran warmed with enthusiasm as he narrated, "I well remember
him as a lad when he was brought from the Arnaout's[3] country. He was
not over nine years of age when Sultan Mahomet conquered the lands of
Epirus, where our general's father, John Castriot, was duke. As a
hostage young George Castriot was brought with his three brothers to
Adrianople."
"Are his brothers of the same metal?" asked the listener.
"Allah only knows what they would have been had not state
necessity----" The narrator completed the sentence by a significant
gesture, imitating the swirl of the executioner's sword as he takes
off the head of an offender.
"But George Castriot was a favorite of the Sultan, who fondled him as
the Roman Hadrian did his beautiful page, Antinous. And well he might,
for a lad more lithe of limb and of wit never walked the ground since
Allah bade the angels worship the goodly form of Adam.[4] Once when a
prize was offered for the best display of armor, and the provinces
were represented by their different champions in novel helmets and
corselets and shields, none of which pleased the imperial taste, it
was the whim of the Padishah to have young Castriot parade before the
judges panoplied only in his naked muscle, and to order that the prize
should be given to him, together with the title Iscanderbeg.[5] And
well he won it. In the after wrestling matches he put upon his hip the
best of them, Turcomans from Asia, and Moors from Africa, and
Giaours[6] from the West. And he was as skilful on a horse's legs as
he was on his own. His namesake, Alexander, could not have managed
Bucephalus better than he. I well remember his game with the two
Scythians. They came from far to have a joust with the best of the
Padishah's court. They were to fight singly: if one were overthrown,
the other, after the victor had breathed himself, was to redeem the
honor of his comrade. Scanderbeg sent his spear-head into the throat
of his antagonist at the first encounter, when the second barbarian
villain treacherously set upon him from the rear. The young champion
wheeled his horse as quickly as a Dervish twists his body, and with
one blow of his sword, clove him in twain from skull to saddle."
"Bravo!" cried the listener, "I believe it, for look at the arm that
he has uncovered now."
"It is a custom he has," continued the narrator. "He always fights
with his sword-arm bared to the shoulder. When he was scarce nineteen
years old he was at the siege of Constantinople, in 800 of the
Hegira,[7] with Sultan Amurath. His skill there won him a Sanjak.[8]
Since that time you know his career."
"Ay! his squadrons have shaken the world."
"He has changed of late, however; grown heavy at the brows. But he
comes this way."
As the general approached, the two bashaws bowed low to the ground,
and then stood in the attitude of profound obeisance until he
addressed them. His face gleamed with frank and genial familiarity as
he exchanged with them a few words; but it was again masked in sombre
thoughtfulness as he passed on.
Near the gate by which the fortress was entered from the lower town
was gathered a group of soldiers who were bantering a strange looking
creature with hands tied behind him--evidently some captive.
"What have you here?" said Scanderbeg, approaching them.
"That we cannot tell. It is a secret," replied the subaltern officer
in charge of the squad, making a low salam, and with a twinkle in his
eyes which took from his reply all semblance of disrespect.
"But I must have your secret," said the general good-naturedly.
"It is not our secret, Sire," replied the man, "but his. He will not
tell us who he is."
"Where does he belong? What tongue has he, Aladdin? You who were once
interpreter to the Bey of Anatolia should know any man by his tongue."
"He has no tongue, Sire. He is dumb as a toad. His beard has gone
untrimmed so long that it has sewed fast his jaws. He has not
performed his ablutions since the last shower washed him, and his ears
are so filled with dirt plugs that he could not hear a thunder clap."
The face of the captive seemed to strangely interest the general, who
said as he turned away, "Send him to our quarters. The Padishah has
taken a fancy to deaf mutes of late. They overhear no secrets and tell
no tales. We will scrape him deep enough to find if he has a soul. If
he knows his foot from his buttocks he will be as valued a present to
His Majesty as a fifth wife.[9] Send him to our quarters."
The general soon returned to the fortress. A room dimly lighted
through two narrow windows that opened into a small inner court, and
contained a divan or couch, a table, and a motley collection of arms,
was the residence of the commandant. A soldier stood by the entrance
guarding the unfortunate captive.
"You may leave him with me," said Scanderbeg approaching.
The man was thrust into the apartment, and stood with head bowed until
the guard withdrew. The general turned quickly upon him as soon as
they were alone.
"If I mistake not, man, though your tongue be tied, your eye spake to
me by the gate."
"It was heaven's blessing upon my errand reflected there," replied the
man in the Albanian language. "I bear thee a message from Moses
Goleme, of Lower Dibria, and from all the provinces of Albania, from
every valley and every heart."
"Let me hear it, for I love the very flints on the mountains and every
pebble on the shore of old Albania," replied Scanderbeg eagerly.
"Heaven be praised! Were my ears dull as the stones they would open to
hear such words," said the man with suppressed emotion. "For since the
death of thy noble father--"
"My father's death! I had not heard it. When?" exclaimed the general.
"It is four moons since we buried him beneath the holy stones of the
church at Croia, and the Sultan sent us General Sebaly to govern in
his stead."
"Do you speak true?" cried Scanderbeg, laying his hand upon the man's
shoulder and glaring into his face. "My father dead? and a stranger
appointed in his stead? and Sultan Amurath has not even told me!
Beware, man, lest you mistake."
"I cannot mistake, Sire, for these hands closed the eyes of John
Castriot after he had breathed a prayer for his land and for his
son--one prayer for both. Moses Goleme was with us, for you know he
was thy father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor, and to him thy
father gave charge that word should be sent thee that to thee he
bequeathed his lands."
"Stop! Stop!" said Scanderbeg, pacing the little room like a caged
lion. "Let me think. But go on. He did not curse me, then? Swear to
me,"--and he turned facing the man--"swear to me that my father did
not curse me with his dying breath! Swear it!"
"I swear it," said the man, "and that all Albania prays to-day for
George Castriot. These are the tidings which the noble Moses bade me
bring thee, though I found thee at the Indus or under the throne of
the Sultan himself. I have no other message. That I might tell thee
this in the free speech of Albania I have kept dumb to all others. If
it be treason to the Sultan for thee to hear it, let my head pay the
penalty. But know, Sire, that our land will rest under no other rule
than that of a Castriot."
"A Castriot!" soliloquized the general. "Well, it is a better name
than Scanderbeg. Ho, guard! Take this fellow! Let him share your
mess!"
When alone the general threw himself upon the divan for a moment, then
paced again the apartment, and muttered to himself----
"And for what has a Castriot given himself to the Turk! Yet I did not
betray my land and myself. They stole me. They seduced my judgment as
a child. They flattered my conceit as a man. Like a leopard I have
fought in the Padishah's arena, and for a leopard's pay--the meat that
makes him strong, and the gilded cage that sets off his spots. I have
led his armies, for what? For glory. But whose glory? The Padishah
cries in every emergency, 'Where is _my_ Scanderbeg? Scanderbeg to the
rescue!' But it means, 'Slave, do my bidding!' And I, the tinselled
slave, bow my head to the neck of my steed, and the empire rings with
the tramp of my squadrons, and the praise of Scanderbeg's loyalty!
Pshaw! He calls me his lightning, but he is honored as the invisible
Jove who hurls it. And I am a Castriot! A Christian! Ay, a Christian
dog,[10] indeed, to fawn and lick the hands of one who would despise
me were he not afraid of my teeth. He takes my father's lands and
gives them to another; and I--I am of too little account to be even
told 'Thy father is dead.'"
Scanderbeg paused in the light that streamed through the western
window. It was near sunset, and a ruddy gleam shot across the room.
"This light comes from the direction of Albania, and so there comes a
red gleam--blood red--from Albania into my soul."
He drew the sleeve of the left arm and gazed at a small round spot
tattooed just above the elbow--the indelible mark of the Janizary.
"They that put it there said that by it I should remember my vow to
the Padishah. And, since I cannot get thee out, my little talisman, I
swear by thee that I shall never forget my vow; no, nor them that made
my child-lips take it, and taught me to abjure my father's name, my
country's faith, and broke my will to the bit and rein of their
caprice. It may be that some day I shall wash thee out in damned
Moslem blood. But hold! that would be treason. Scanderbeg a traitor?
How they will hiss it from Brousa to Adrianople; from the lips of
Vizier and pot-carrier! But is it treason to betray treason? But
patience! Bide thy time, Castriot!"
A slight commotion in the court drew the attention of Scanderbeg. In a
moment the sentry announced:
"A courier from His Majesty!"
The message told that the Ottoman forces had been defeated in
Europe--the noted bashaw, Schehadeddin, having been utterly routed by
Hunyades. The missive called the Sultan's "always liege and invincible
servant, Scanderbeg, to the rescue!" Within an hour a splendid suite
of officers, mounted on swift and gaily caparisoned steeds, gathered
about the great general, and at the raising of the horse-tail upon the
spear-head, dashed along the road to the coast of Marmora where
vessels were in waiting to convey them across to the European side.
Scanderbeg had but a moment's interview with the dumb captive,
sufficient to whisper,
"Return our salutation to the noble Moses Goleme; and say that George
Castriot will honor his confidence better in deeds than he could in
words. I know not the future, my brave fellow, and might not tell it
if I did, even to ears as deaf as yours. But say to Goleme that
Castriot swears by his beard--by the beard of Moses--that brighter
days shall come for Albania even if they must be flashed from our
swords. Farewell!"
The man fell at the general's feet and embraced them. Then rising he
raised his hand, "By the beard of Moses! Let that be the watchword
between our people and our rightful prince. Brave men scattered from
Adria to Haemus will listen for that watchword. Farewell, Sire. By the
beard of Moses!"
Scanderbeg summoned a soldier and said sternly, "Take this fellow
away. He is daft as well as dumb and deaf. Yet treat him well. Such
creatures are the special care of Allah. Take him to the Bosphorus
that he may cross over to his kin, the Greeks, at Constantinople."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A title of the Sultan.
[2] Bashaw; an old name for pasha.
[3] Arnaout; Turkish for Albanian, a corruption of the old Byzantine
word Arvanitae.
[4] Koran, Chap. II.
[5] Iscander-Beg; or The Lord Alexander.
[6] Giaours; a term of reproach by which the Turks designate the
unbelievers in Mahomet, especially Christians.
[7] 800 of the Hegira; 1422 of the Christian era.
[8] Sanjak; a military and administrative authority giving the
possessor command of 5,000 horse.
[9] The Moslems are allowed four wives. Beyond this number their women
can be only concubines.
[10] The Moslems call Christians dogs.
CHAPTER II.
A little hamlet lay, like an eagle's nest, high on the southern <DW72>
of the Balkan mountains. The half dozen huts of which it consisted
were made of rough stones, daubed within and without thick with clay.
The roofs were of logs, overlaid with mats of brushwood woven together
by flexible withes, and plastered heavily. The inhabitants were
goatherds. Their lives were simple. If they were denied indulgence in
luxuries, they were also removed from that contact with them which
excites desire, and so were contented. They seldom saw the faces of
any from the great world, upon so large a portion of which they looked
down. Their absorbing occupation was in summer to watch the flocks
which strolled far away among the cliffs, and in winter to keep them
close to the hamlet, for then terrific storms swept the mountains and
filled the ravines with impassable snow.
Milosch and his good wife, Helena--Maika Helena, good Mother Helena,
all the hamlet called her--were blessed with two boys. Their faces
were as bright as the sky in which, from their lofty lodgings, they
might be said to have made their morning ablutions for the eleven and
twelve years of their respective lives. Yet they were not children of
the cherubic type; rather tough little knots of humanity, with big
bullet-heads thatched over with heavy growths of hair, which would
have been red, had it not been bleached to a light yellow by sunshine
and cloud-mists. Instead of the toys and indolent pastimes of the
nursery they had only the steep rocks, the thick copse, the gnarled
trees, and the wild game of the mountains for their play-things. They
thus developed compactly knit muscles, depth of lung and thickness of
frame, which gave agility and endurance. At the same time, the
associations of their daily lives, the precipitous cliff, the
trembling edge of the avalanche, the caves of strange beasts, the wild
roaring of the winds, the awful grandeur of the storms, the impressive
solitude which filled the intervals of their play like untranslatable
but mighty whispers from the unknown world taking the place of the
prattle of this,--these fostered intrepidity, self-reliance, and
balance of disposition, if not of character. For religious discipline
they had the occasional ministrations of a Greek priest or missionary
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[Illustration: A. W. Elson & Co., Boston: ANDREW JOHNSON]
Statesman Edition VOL. XIV
Charles Sumner
HIS COMPLETE WORKS
With Introduction
BY
HON. GEORGE FRISBIE HOAR
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
MCM
COPYRIGHT, 1874 AND 1875,
BY
FRANCIS V. BALCH, EXECUTOR.
COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY
LEE AND SHEPARD.
Statesman Edition.
LIMITED TO ONE THOUSAND COPIES.
OF WHICH THIS IS
No. 565
Norwood Press:
NORWOOD, MASS., U.S.A.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XIV.
PAGE
MAJORITY OR PLURALITY IN THE ELECTION OF SENATORS. Speech in
the Senate, on the Contested Election of Hon. John P. Stockton,
of New Jersey, | 628.964896 |
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[Illustration: "HIS FEEBLE GLANCE TOOK IN HER FACE WITH LIFELESS
INTEREST"]
Jane Cable
By George Barr McCutcheon
CONTENTS
I When Jane Goes Driving
II The Cables
III James Bansemer
IV The Foundling
V The Bansemer Crash
VI In Sight of the Fangs
VII Mrs. Cable Entertains
VIII The Telegram
IX The Proposal
X The Four Initials
XI An Evening with Droom
XII James Bansemer Calls
XIII Jane Sees with New Eyes
XIV The Canker
XV The Tragedy of the Sea Wall
XVI Hours of Terror
XVII David Cable's Debts
XVIII The Visit of Harbert
XIX The Crash
XX Father and Son
XXI In the Philippines
XXII The Chase of Pilar
XXIII The Fight in the Convent
XXIV Teresa Velasquez
XXV The Beautiful Nurse
XXVI The Separation of Hearts
XXVII "If They Don't Kill You"
XXVIII Homeward Bound
XXIX The Wreckage
XXX The Drink of Gall
XXXI The Transforming of Droom
XXXII Elias Droom's Dinner Party
XXXIII Droom Triumphs over Death
XXXIV To-morrow
CHAPTER I
WHEN JANE GOES DRIVING
It was a bright, clear afternoon in the late fall that pretty Miss
Cable drove up in her trap and waited at the curb for her father to
come forth from his office in one of Chicago's tallest buildings.
The crisp, caressing wind that came up the street from the lake put
the pink into her smooth cheeks, but it did not disturb the brown
hair that crowned her head. Well-groomed and graceful, she sat
straight and sure upon the box, her gloved hand grasping the yellow
reins firmly and confidently. Miss Cable looked neither to right
nor to left, but at the tips of her thoroughbred's ears. Slender
and tall and very aristocratic she appeared, her profile alone
visible to the passers-by.
After a very few moments, waiting in her trap, the smart young
woman became impatient. A severe, little pucker settled upon her
brow, and not once, but many times her eyes turned to the broad
entrance across the sidewalk. She had telephoned to her father
earlier in the afternoon; and he had promised faithfully to be
ready at four o'clock for a spin up the drive behind Spartan. At
three minutes past four the pucker made its first appearance; and
now, several minutes later, it was quite distressing. Never before
had he kept her waiting like this. She was conscious of the fact
that at least a hundred men had stared at her in the longest ten
minutes she had ever known. From the bottom of a very hot heart
she was beginning to resent this scrutiny, when a tall young fellow
swung around a near-by corner, and came up with a smile so full of
delight, that the dainty pucker left her brow, as the shadow flees
from the sunshine. His hat was off and poised gallantly above his
head, his right hand reaching up to clasp the warm, little tan one
outstretched to meet it.
"I knew it was you long before I saw you," said he warmly.
"Truly? How interesting!" she responded, with equal warmth.
"Something psychic in the atmosphere today?"
"Oh, no," he said, reluctantly releasing her hand. "I can't see
through these huge buildings, you know---it's impossible to look
over their tops--I simply knew you were here, that's all."
"You're romantic, even though you are a bit silly," she cried gaily.
"Pray, how could you know?"
"Simplest thing in the world. Rigby told me he had seen you, and
that you seemed to be in a great rage. He dared me to venture into
your presence, and--that's why I'm here."
"What a hopelessly, commonplace explanation! Why did you not leave
me to think that there was really something psychic about it? Logic
is so discouraging to one's conceit. I'm in a very disagreeable
humour to-day," she said, in fine despair.
"I don't believe it," he disputed graciously.
"But I am," she insisted, smiling brightly. His heart was leaping
high--so high, that it filled his eyes. "Everything has gone wrong
with me to-day. It's pretty trying to have to wait in front of a
big office building for fifteen minutes. Every instant, I expect
a policeman to come up and order me to move on. Don't they arrest
people for blocking the street?"
"Yes, and put them in awful, rat-swarming dungeons over in Dearborn
Avenue. Poor Mr. Cable, he should be made to suffer severely for
his wretched conduct. The idea of--"
"Don't you dare to say anything mean about dad," she warned.
"But he's the cause of all the trouble--he's never done anything
to make you happy, or--"
"Stop!--I take it all back--I'm in a perfectly adorable humour.
It was dreadfully mean of me to be half-angry with him, wasn't it?
He's in there, now, working his dear old brain to pieces, and I'm
out here with no brain at all," she said ruefully.
To the ingenuous youth, such an appeal to his gallantry was well-nigh
irresistible, and for a moment it seemed as if he would yield to
the temptation to essay a brilliant contradiction; but his wits
came to his rescue, for quickly realising that not only were the
frowning rocks of offence to be avoided, but likewise the danger of
floundering helplessly about in the inviting quicksands of inanity, he
preserved silence--wise young man that he was, and trusted to his
eyes to express an eloquent refutation. At last, however, something
seemed to occur to him. A smile broke on his face.
"You had a stupid time last night?" he hazarded.
"What makes you think so?"
"I know who took you in to dinner."
The eyes of the girl narrowed slightly at the corners.
"Did he tell you?"
"No, I have neither seen nor heard from anyone present." She opened
her eyes wide, now.
"Well, Mr. S. Holmes, who was it?"
"That imbecile, Medford."
Miss Cable sat up very straight in the trap; her little chin went
up in the air; she even went so far as to make a pretence of curbing
the impatience of her horse.
"Mr. Medford was most entertaining--he was the life of the dinner,"
she returned somewhat severely.
"He's a professional!"
"An actor!" she cried incredulously.
"No, a professional diner-out. Wasn't that rich young Jackson
there?"
"Why, yes; but do tell me how you knew?" The girl was softening a
little, her curiosity aroused.
"Of course I will," he said boyishly, at once pleased with himself
and his sympathetic audience. "About five-thirty I happened to be
in the club. Medford was there, and as usual catering to Jackson,
when the latter was called to the 'phone. Naturally, I put two
and two together." He paused to more thoroughly enjoy the look of
utter mystification that hovered on the girl's countenance. It was
very apparent that this method of deduction through addition was
unsatisfying. "What Jackson said to Medford, on his return," the
young man continued, "I did not hear; but from the expression on
the listener's face I could have wagered that an invitation had been
extended and accepted. Oh, we boys have got it down fine! Garrison
is---"
"And who is Garrison?"
"Garrison is the head door man at the club. It's positively amazing
the number of telephone calls he receives every afternoon from
well-known society women!"
"What about? And what's that got to do with Mr. Medford taking me
in to dinner?"
"Just this: Suppose Mrs. Rowden..."
"Mrs. Rowden!" The girl was nonplussed.
"Yes--wants to find out who's in the club? She 'phones Garrison.
Instantly, after ascertaining which set--younger or older is wanted,
from a small card upon which he has written a few but choice names
of club members, he submits a name to her."
"Really, you don't mean to tell me that such a thing is actually
done?" exclaimed Miss Cable, who as yet was socially so unsophisticated
as to be horrified; "you're joking, of course!"
"But nine time out of ten," ignoring the interruption; "it is met
with: 'Don't want him!' Another: 'Makes a bad combination!' A third:
'Oh, no, my dear, not a dollar to his name--hopelessly ineligible!'
This last exclamation though intended solely for the visitor at
her home, elicits from Garrison a low chuckle of approval of the
speaker's discrimination; and presently, he hears: 'Goodness me,
Garrison, there must be someone else!' Then, to her delights she
is informed that Mr. Jackson has just come in; and he is requested
to come to the 'phone, Garrison being dismissed with thanks and
the expectation of seeing her butler in the morning."
"How perfectly delicious!" came from the girl. "I can almost hear
Mrs. Rowden telling Jackson that he will be the dearest boy in the
world if he will dine with her."
"And bring someone with him, as she is one man short," laughed
Graydon, as he wound up lightly; "and here is where the professional
comes in. We're all onto Medford! Why, Garrison has half a dozen
requests a night--six times five--thirty dollars. Not bad--but
then the man's a 'who's who' that never makes mistakes. I won't be
positive that he does not draw pay from both ends. For, men like
Medford, outside of the club, probably tip him to give them the
preference. It would be good business."
There was so much self-satisfaction in the speaker's manner
of uttering these last words, that it would not have required the
wisdom of one older than Miss Cable to detect that he was thoroughly
enjoying his pose of man of the world. He was indeed young! For, he
had yet to learn that not to disillusion the girl, but to conform
as much as possible to her ideals, was the surest way to win her
favour; and his vanity surely would have received a blow had not David
Cable at that moment come out of the doorway across the sidewalk,
pausing for a moment to converse with the man who accompanied him.
The girl's face lighted with pleasure and relief; but the young
man regarding uneasily the countenance of the General Manager of
the Pacific, Lakes & Atlantic R.R. Company, saw that he was white,
tired and drawn. It was not the keen, alert expression that had been
the admiration of everyone; something vital seemed to be missing,
although he could not have told what it was. A flame seemed to have
died somewhere in his face, leaving behind a faint suggestion of
ashes; and through the young man's brain there flashed the remark
of his fair companion: 'He's in there now, working his dear, old
brain to pieces.'
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Jane," said Cable, crossing
to the curb. "Hello, Graydon; how are you?" His voice was sharp,
crisp, and louder than the occasion seemed to demand, but it was
natural with him. Years of life in an engine cab do not serve to
mellow the tone of the human voice, and the habit is too strong to
be overcome. There was no polish to the tones as they issued from
David Cable's lips. He spoke with more than ordinary regard for the
Queen's English, but it was because he never had neglected it. It
was characteristic of the man to do a thing as nearly right as he
knew how in the beginning, and to do it the same way until a better
method presented itself.
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Cable, except that Jane has been abusing
me because you were not here to---"
"Don't you believe a word he says, dad," she cried.
"Oh, if the truth isn't in me, I'll subside," laughed Graydon.
"Nevertheless, you've kept her waiting, and it's only reasonable
that she should abuse somebody."
"I am glad you were here to receive it; it saves my grey hairs."
"Rubbish!" was Miss Cable's simple comment, as her father took his
place beside her.
"Oh, please drive on, Jane," said the young man, his admiring eyes
on the girl who grasped the reins afresh and straightened like a
soldier for inspection. "I must run around to the University Club
and watch the score of the Yale-Harvard game at Cambridge. It looks
like Harvard, hang it all! Great game, they say---"
"There he goes on football. We must be off, or it will be dark
before we get away from him. Good-bye!" cried Miss Cable.
"How's your father, Gray? He wasn't feeling the best in the world,
yesterday," said Cable, tucking in the robe.
"A case of liver, Mr. Cable; he's all right to-day. Good-bye!"
As Jane and her father whirled away, the latter gave utterance
to a remark that brought a new brightness to her eyes and a proud
throbbing to her heart; but he did not observe the effect.
"Bright, clever chap--that Graydon Bansemer," he said comfortably.
CHAPTER II
THE CABLES
The General Manager of the Pacific, Lakes & Atlantic Railroad
System had had a hard struggle of it. He who begins his career with
a shovel in a locomotive cab usually has something of that sort
to look back upon. There are no roses along the pathway he has
traversed. In the end, perhaps, he wonders if it has been worth
while. David Cable was a General Manager; he had been a fireman.
It had required twenty-five years of hard work on his part to break
through the chrysalis. Packed away in a chest upstairs in his house
there was a grimy, greasy, unwholesome suit of once-blue overalls.
The garments were just as old as his railroad career, for he had worn
them on his first trip with the shovel. When his wife implored him
to throw away the "detestable things," he said, with characteristic
humour, that he thought he would keep them for a rainy day. It was
much simpler to go from General Manager to fireman than vice versa,
and it might be that he would need the suit again. It pleased him
to hear his wife sniff contemptuously.
David Cable had been a wayward, venturesome youth. His father and
mother had built their hopes high with him as a foundation, and he
had proved a decidedly insecure basis; for one night, in the winter
of 1863, he stole away from his home in New York; before spring
he was fighting in the far Southland, a boy of sixteen carrying a
musket in the service of his country.
At the close of the Civil War Private Cable, barely eighteen, returned
to his home only to find that death had destroyed its happiness:
his father had died, leaving his widowed mother a dependant upon
him. It was then, philosophically, he realised that labour alone
could win for him; and he stuck to it with rigid integrity. In
turn, he became brakeman and fireman; finally his determination
and faithfulness won him a fireman's place on one of the fast New
York Central "runs." If ever he was dissatisfied with the work, no
one was the wiser.
Railroading in those days was not what it is in these advanced times.
Then, it meant that one was possessed of all the evil habits that
fall to the lot of man. David Cable was more or less contaminated
by contact with his rough, ribald companions of the rail, and
he glided moderately into the bad habits of his kind. He drank
and "gamboled" with the rest of the boys; but by nature not being
vicious and low, the influences were not hopelessly deadening to
the better qualities of his character. To his mother, he was always
the strong, good-hearted, manly boy, better than all the other
sons in the world. She believed in him; he worshipped her; and it
was not until he was well up in the twenties that he stopped to
think that she was not the only good woman in the world who deserved
respect.
Up in Albany lived the Widow Coleman and her two pretty daughters.
Mrs. Coleman's husband died on the battlefield, and she, like many
women in the North and the South, after years of moderate prosperity,
was compelled to support herself and her family. She had been
a pretty woman, and one readily could see where her daughters got
their personal attractiveness. Not many doors from the boisterous
little eating-house in which the railroad men snatched their meals
as they went through, the widow opened a book and newsstand. Her
home was on the floor above the stand, and it was there she brought
her little girls to womanhood. Good-looking, harum-scarum Dave
Cable saw Frances Coleman one evening as he dropped in to purchase
a newspaper. It was at the end of June, in 1876, and the country
was in the throes of excitement over the first news of the Custer
massacre on the Little Big Horn River.
Cable was deeply interested, for he had seen Custer fighting at
the front in the sixties. Frances Coleman, the prettiest girl he
had ever seen, sold him the newspaper. After that, he seldom went
through Albany without visiting the little book shop.
Tempestuous, even arrogant in love, Cable, once convinced that he
cared for her, lost no time in claiming her, whether or no. In less
than three months after the Custer massacre they were married.
Defeated rivals unanimously and enviously observed that the
handsomest fireman on the road had conquered the mo&t outrageous
little coquette between New York and Buffalo. As a matter of fact,
she had loved him from the start; the others served as thorns with
which she delightedly pricked his heart into subjection.
The young husband settled down, renounced all of his undesirable
habits and became a new man with such surprising suddenness that
his friends marvelled and--derided. A year of happiness followed.
He grew accustomed to her frivolous ways, overlooked her merry
whimsicalities and gave her the "full length of a free rope," as he
called it. He was contented and consequently careless. She chafed
under the indifference, and in her resentment believed the worst
of him. Turmoil succeeded peace and contentment, and in the end,
David Cable, driven to distraction, weakly abandoned the domestic
battlefield and fled to the Far West, giving up home, good wages,
and all for the sake of freedom, such as it was. He ignored her
letters and entreaties, but in all those months that he was away
from her he never ceased to regret the impulse that had defeated
him. Nevertheless, he could not make up his mind to go back and
resume the life of torture her jealousy had begotten.
Then, the unexpected happened. A letter was received containing
the command to come home and care for his wife and baby. At once,
David Cable called a halt in his demoralising career and saw the
situation plainly. He forgot that she had "nagged" him to the point
where endurance rebelled; he forgot everything but the fact that
he cared for her in spite of all. Sobered and conscience-stricken,
he knew only that she was alone and toiling; that she had suffered
uncomplainingly until the babe was some months old before appealing
to him for help. In abject humiliation, he hastened back to New
York, reproaching himself every mile of the way. Had he but known
the true situation, he would have been spared the pangs of remorse,
and this narrative never would have been written.
CHAPTER III
JAMES BANSEMER
In the City of New York there was practising, at that time, a
lawyer by the name of Bansemer. His office, on the topmost floor
of a dingy building in the lower section of the city, was not
inviting. On leaving the elevator, one wound about through narrow
halls and finally peered, with more or less uncertainty and misgiving,
at the half-obliterated sign which said that James Bansemer held
forth on the other side of the glass panel.
It was whispered in certain circles and openly avowed in others
that Bansemer's business was not the kind which elevates the law;
in plain words, his methods were construed to debase the good and
honest statutes of the land. Once inside the door of his office--and
a heavy spring always closed it behind one--there was quick evidence
that the lawyer lamentably disregarded the virtues of prosperity,
no matter how they had been courted and won. Although his transactions
in and out of the courts of that great city bore the mark of
dishonour, he was known to have made money during the ten years
of his career as a member of the bar. Possibly he kept his office
shabby and unclean that it might be in touch with the transactions
which had their morbid birth inside the grimy walls. There was no
spot or corner in the two small rooms that comprised his "chambers | 629.02135 |
2023-11-16 18:27:40.0151450 | 5,047 | 202 |
Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)
SUCH IS LIFE
A Play in Five Acts
By
FRANK WEDEKIND
Author of
"The Awakening of Spring," etc.
English Version by
FRANCIS J. ZIEGLER
PHILADELPHIA
BROWN BROTHERS
MCMXII
CHARACTERS
Nicola, King of Umbria.
Princess Alma, his daughter.
Pietro Folchi, Master Butcher. }
Filipo Folchi, his soil. }
Andrea Valori } Citizens of Perugia.
Benedetto Nardi }
Pandolfo, Master Tailor. }
A Soldier.
A Farmer.
A Vagabond.
Michele }
Battista } Journeymen Tailors.
Noe }
The Presiding Judge.
The King's Attorney General.
The Advocate.
The Clerk of the Court,
The Jailer.
A Circus Rider.
An Actor.
A Procuress.
First Theatre Manager.
Second Theatre Manager.
A Page.
First Servant.
Second Servant.
Artisans, judges, townspeople, strollers, theatre audience,
theatre servants, soldiers and halberdiers.
ACT I
SUCH IS LIFE
Scene One--The Throne Room.
FIRST SERVANT.
(_Leaning out of the window._) They are coming! It will overtake us
like the day of judgment!
SECOND SERVANT.
(Rushing in through the opposite door.) Do you know that the King is
taken?
FIRST SERVANT.
Our King a captive?
SECOND SERVANT.
Since early yesterday! The dogs have thrown him into prison!
FIRST SERVANT.
Then we had better scamper away, or they will treat us as if we were
the beds upon which he has debauched their children!
(_The servants rush out. The room becomes filled with armed workmen of
various trades, heated and blood-splashed from combat._)
PIETRO FOLCHI.
(_Steps from their midst_.) Fellow-citizens!--The byways of Perugia are
strewn with the corpses of our children and our brothers. Many of you
have a pious wish to give your beloved dead a fitting resting
place.--Fellow-citizens! First we must fulfill a higher duty. Let us do
our part as quickly as possible, so that the dead shall have perished,
not solely for their bravery, but for the lasting welfare of their
native-land! Let us seize the moment! Let us give our state a
constitution which, in future, will protect her children from the
assassin's weapons and insure her citizens the just reward of their
labors!
THE CITIZENS.
Long live Pietro Folchi!
ANDREA VALORI.
Fellow-citizens! Unless we decide at once upon our future form of
government, we shall only be holding this dearly captured place for our
enemies until we lose it again. We are holding the former King in
custody in prison; the patricians, who supported themselves in idleness
by the sweat of our brows, are in flight toward neighboring states.
Now, I ask you, fellow-citizens, shall we proclaim our state the
Umbrian Republic, as has been done in Florence, in Parma, and in Siena?
THE CITIZENS.
Long live Freedom! Long live Perugia! Long live the Umbrian Republic!
PIETRO FOLCHI.
Let us proceed without delay to elect a podesta! Here are tables and
styles in plenty. Let each one write the name of the man whom he
considers best fitted to guide the destiny of the state and to defend
the power we have gained from our enemies.
THE CITIZENS.
Long live our podesta, Pietro Folchi! Long live the Republic of Perugia!
ANDREA VALORI.
Fellow-citizens! Let there be no precipitate haste at this hour! It is
necessary to strengthen so the power we have won that they cannot
prevail against us as long as we live. Would we succeed if we made
Umbria a republic? Under the shelter of republican liberty, the sons of
the banished nobles would use the vanity of our daughters to bind us
again in chains while we slept unsuspectingly at night! Look at
Florence! Look at Siena! Is not liberty in those states only the cloak
of the most dissolute despotism, which is turning their citizens to
beggars? Perugia grew in power and prosperity under her kings, until
the sceptre passed into the hands of a fool and a wastrel. Let us raise
the worthiest of us up to his throne. Then we who stand here exhausted
from the conflict, will become the future aristocracy and the lords of
the land; only then can we enjoy in lasting peace our hard won
prerogatives.
THE CITIZENS.
Long live the king! Long live Pietro Folchi!
A FEW VOICES.
Long live Freedom!
THE CITIZENS.
(Louder.) Long live our king, Pietro Folchi! Long live King Pietro!
A FEW CITIZENS.
(_Leaving the room angrily._) We did not shed our blood for this. Down
with slavery! Long live Freedom!
THE CITIZENS.
Hurrah for King Pietro!
PIETRO FOLCHI.
(_Mounting the throne._) Called to it by your choice, I mount this
throne and name myself King of Umbria! The dissatisfied who have
separated from our midst with the cry of "freedom" are no less our
enemies than the idle nobles who have turned their backs to our walls.
I shall keep a watchful eye on them, as they fought on our side only in
the hope of plundering in the ruins of our beloved city. Where is my
son Filipo?
FILIPO FOLCHI.
(_Stepping from out the press._) What is your will, my father?
KING PIETRO.
From the wounds above your eyes, I see that you did not shun death
yesterday or today! I name you commander of our war forces. Post our
loyal soldiers at the ten gates of the city, and order the drum to beat
in the market place for recruits. Perugia must be armed for an
expedition to its frontiers in the shortest possible time. You will be
answerable to me for the life of every citizen and responsible for the
inviolate safety of all property. Now bring the former king of Umbria
forth from his prison. It is proper that none save I announce to him
his sentence.
FILIPO.
Your commands shall be observed punctually. Long live King Pietro!
(_Exit._)
KING PIETRO.
Where is my son-in-law, Andrea Valori?
ANDREA VALORI.
(_Stepping forward._) Here, my king, at your command!
KING PIETRO.
I name you treasurer of the Kingdom of Umbria. You and my cousin,
Giullio Diaceto, together with our celebrated jurist, Bernardo
Ruccellai, whose persuasive words abroad have more than once preserved
our city from bloodshed; you three shall be my advisors in the
discharge of affairs of state. (_After the three summoned have come
forward._) Seat yourselves beside me. (_They do so._) I can only
fulfill the high duty of ruling others if the most able men in the
state will enlist their lives in my service. And now, let the others go
to bury the victims of this two days' conflict. To show that they did
not die in vain for the welfare of their brothers and children, let
this be a day of mourning and earnest vigilance.
(_All leave the room save King Pietro, the Councillors and several
guards. Then the captive King is led in by Filipo Folchi and several
armed men._)
THE KING.
Who is bold enough to dare bring us here at the bidding of these
disloyal knaves?!
KING PIETRO.
According to the provision of our laws, the royal power in Umbria fell
to you as eldest son of King Giovanni. You have used your power to
degrade the name of a king with roisterers and courtesans. You chose
banquets, masquerades and hunting parties, by which you have dissipated
the treasures of the state and made the country poor and defenseless,
in preference to every princely duty. You have robbed us of our
daughters, and your deeds have been the most corrupting example to our
sons. You have lived as little for the state's welfare as for your own.
You accomplished only the downfall of your own and our native land.
THE KING.
To whom is the butcher speaking?
FILIPO FOLCHI.
Silence!
THE KING.
Give me back my sword!
ANDREA VALORI.
Put him in chains! He is raving!
THE KING.
Let the butcher speak further.
KING PIETRO.
Your life is forfeited and lies in my hands. But I will suspend
sentence of death if in legal document you will relinquish in my favor,
and in favor of my heirs, your claim and that of your kin to the
throne, and acknowledge me as your lord, your rightful successor and as
the ruler of Umbria.
THE KING.
(_Laughs boisterously._) Ha, ha, ha! Ask of a carp lying in the pan to
cease to be a fish! That this worm has our life in his power proves
indeed that princes are not gods, because, like other men, they are
mortal. The lightning, too, can kill; but he who is born a king does
not die like an ordinary mortal! Let one of these artisans lay hands
upon us, if his blood does not first chill in his veins. Then he shall
see how a king dies!
KING PIETRO.
You are a greater enemy to yourself than your deadliest foes can
possibly be. Although you will not abdicate, we will be mild, in
thankful remembrance of the blessed rule of King Giovanni, whose own
son you are, and banish you now and forever from the confines of the
Umbrian States, under penalty of death.
THE KING.
Banish! Ha, ha, ha! Who in the world will banish the King! Shall fear
of death keep him from the land of which Heaven appointed him the
ruler? Only an artisan could hold life so dear and a crown so
cheap!----Ha, ha, ha! These pitiable fools seem to imagine that when a
crown is placed upon a butcher he becomes a king! See how the
paunch-belly grows pale and shivers up there, like a cheese flung
against the wall! Ha, ha, ha! How they stare at us, the stupid
blockheads, with their moist dogs' eyes, as if the sun had fallen at
their feet!
PRINCESS ALMA.
(_Rushes in, breaking through the guards at the door. She is fifteen
years old, is clad in rich but torn garments and her hair is
disheveled._) Let me pass! Let me go to my father! Where is my father?
(_Sinking down before the King and embracing his knees._) Father! Have
I you again, my dearly beloved father?
THE KING.
(_Raising her._) So I hold you unharmed in my arms once more, my
dearest treasure! Why must you come to me with your heartrending grief
just at this moment when I had almost stamped these bloodthirsty hounds
beneath my feet again!
ALMA.
Then let me die with you! To share death with you would be the greatest
happiness, after what I have lived through in the streets of Perugia
these last two days! They would not let me come to you in prison, but
now you are mine again! Remember, my father, I have no one else in the
world but you!
THE KING.
My child, my dear child, why do you compel me to confess before my
murderers how weak I am! Go! I have brought my fate upon myself, let me
bear it alone. These men will confirm it that you may expect more
compassion and better fortune from my bitterest enemies than if you
cling now to your father, broken by fate.
ALMA.
(_With greatest intensity._) No, do not say that! I beseech you do not
speak so again! (_Caressingly._) Only remember that it is not yet
decided that they murder us. And if we had rather die together than be
parted who in the world can harm us then!
KING PIETRO.
(_Who during this scene has quietly come to an agreement with his
councillors, turning to the King._) The city of Perugia will give your
daughter the most careful education until her majority; and then bestow
upon her a princely dower; if she will promise to give her hand in
marriage to my son, Filipo Folchi, who will be my successor upon this
throne.
THE KING.
You have heard, my child? The throne of your father is open to you!
ALMA.
O my God, how can you so scoff at your poor child!
KING PIETRO.
(_To the King._) As for you, armed men under the command of my son
shall conduct you, within this hour, to the confines of this country.
Have a care that you do not take so much as a step within our land
hereafter, or your head shall fall by the hand of the executioner in
the market place of Perugia!
(_Filipo Folchi has the King and the Princess, clinging close to her
father, led off by men-at-arms. He is about to follow them, when his
arm is seized by Benedetto Nardi, who rushes in breathless with rage._)
BENEDETTO NARDI.
Have I caught you, scoundrel! (_To King Pietro._) This son of yours,
Pietro Folchi, in company with his drunken comrades, chased my helpless
child through the streets of the city yesterday evening, and was about
to lay hands on her when two of my journeymen, attracted by her cries,
put the scoundrels to flight with their clubs. The wretch still carries
the bloody mark above his eyes!
KING PIETRO.
(_In anger._) Defend yourself, my son!
FILIPO FOLCHI.
He speaks the truth.
KING PIETRO.
Back to the shop with you! Must I see my rule disgraced on its first
day by my own son in most impious fashion! The law shall work its
greatest hardship upon you! Afterward you shall stay in the butcher
shop until the citizens of Perugia kneel before me and beg me to have
pity on you! Put him in chains!
(_The mercenaries who led out the King return with Alma. Their leader
throws himself on his knees before the throne._)
THE MERCENARY.
O Sire, do not punish your servants for this frightful misfortune! As
we were leading the King just here before the portal across the bridge
of San Margherita, a company of our comrades marched past and pressed
us against the coping. The prisoner seized that opportunity to leap
into the flood swollen by the rain. We needed all our strength to
prevent this maiden from doing likewise, and when I was about to leap
after the prisoner, the raging waves had long engulfed him.
KING PIETRO.
His life is not the most regrettable sacrifice of these bloody days!
Hundreds of better men have fallen for him. (_To the Councillors._) Let
the child be taken to the Urseline nuns and kept under most careful
guard. (_Rising._) The sitting of the counsel is closed.
ALL PRESENT.
Long live King Pietro!
SECOND SCENE
_A highway along the edge of a forest._
(_The King and Princess Alma, both clad as beggars._)
THE KING.
How long have I been dragging you from place to place while you begged
for me?
ALMA.
Rest yourself, Father; you will be in better spirits afterward.
THE KING.
(_Sits down by the wayside._) Why did not the raging waves swallow me
that evening! Then everything would have been over long ago!
ALMA.
Did you leap over the side of the bridge to put an end to your life? I
thought what strength resided in your arms and that the rushing waters
would help you to liberty. Without this faith how should I have had the
courage to escape from the convent and from the city?
THE KING.
Below us here lies the rich hunting grounds where I have often ridden
hawking with my court. You were too young to accompany us.
ALMA.
Why will you not leave this little land of Umbria, my father! The world
is so large! In Siena, in Modena, your friends dwell. They would
welcome you with joy, and at last your dear head would be safe.
THE KING.
You offer me much, my child! Still, I beg of you not to keep repeating
this question. Just in this lies my fate: If I were able to leave this
land, I should not have lost my crown. But my soul is ruled by desires
which I cannot relinquish, even to save my life. As king, I believed
myself safe enough from the world to live my dreams without danger. I
forgot that the king, the peasant and every other man, must live only
to preserve his station and to defend his estate, unless he would lose
both.
ALMA.
Now you are scoffing at yourself, my father!
THE KING.
That is the way of the world!----You think I am scoffing at
myself?----That, at least, might be something for which men would
contribute to our support. As I offer myself to them now I am of no
use. Either I offend them by my arrogance and pride, which are in
ridiculous contrast to my beggar's rags, or my courteous demeanor makes
them mistrustful, as none of them succeeds by simple modesty. How my
spirit has debased itself during these six months, in order to fit
itself to their ways and methods! But everything I learned as
hereditary prince of Umbria is valueless in their world, and everything
which is of worth in their world I did not learn as a prince. But if I
succeed in jesting at my past, my child, who knows but what we may find
again a place at a richly decked table! When the pork butcher is raised
to the throne there remains no calling for the king save that of court
fool.
ALMA.
Do not enrage yourself so in your fatigue, my father. See, you must
take a little nap! I will look for fresh water to quench your thirst
and cool your fevered brow.
THE KING.
(_Laying down his head._) Thank you, my child.
ALMA.
(_Kissing him._) My dear father! (_Exit._)
THE KING.
(_Rises._) How I have grown to love this beautiful land since I have
slunk about it at the risk of my life! ----Even the worst disaster
always brings good with it. Had I not cared so little for my brave
people of Perugia and Umbria, had I not shown myself to them only at
carnivals and in fancy dress, God knows, but I might have been
recognized long ago! Here comes one of them now!
(_A landed proprietor comes up the road._)
THE KING.
God greet you, sir! Can you not give me work on your estate?
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
You might find much to recompense your work on my estate, but, thank
God, my house is guarded by fierce wolf hounds. And here, you see, I
carry a hunting knife, which I can use so well that I should not advise
you to come a step nearer me!
THE KING.
Sir, you have no guarantee from Heaven that you may not be compelled at
some time to beg for work in order not to go hungry.
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
Ha, ha, ha! He who works in order not to go hungry, he is the right
kind of worker for me! First comes work and then the hunger. Let him
who can live without work starve rather today than tomorrow!
THE KING.
Sir, you must have had wiser teachers than I!
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
I should hope so! What have you learned?
THE KING.
The trade of war.
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
Thank God, under the rule of King Pietro, whom Heaven long preserve to
us, there is little use for that in Umbria any longer. City and country
enjoy peace, and at last we live in concord with neighboring states.
THE KING.
Sir, you will find me of use for any work on your estate.
THE LANDED PROPRIETOR.
I will think over the matter. You appear a harmless fellow. I am on my
way to my nephew, who has a large house and family at Todi. I am coming
back this afternoon. Wait for me here at this spot. Possibly I will
take you with me then. (_Exit._)
THE KING.
"Let him who can live without work starve." What old saws this vermin
cherished to endure his miserable existence! And I?----I cannot even
feed my child! A lordship was given me by Heaven such as only one in a
million can have! And I cannot even give my child food!----My kind
father made every hour of the day a festival for me by means of joyous
companions, by the wisest, teachers, by a host of devoted servants, and
my child must shiver with cold and sleep under the hedges by the
highway! Have pity on her, O God, and blot her love for miserable me
out of her heart! Let happen to me then whatever will, I will bear it
lightly!
ALMA.
(_Rushes out of the bushes with her hair tumbling down._) Father! Jesu
Maria! My father! Help!
THE KING.
(_Clasping her in his arms._) What is it, child?
A VAGABOND.
(_Who has followed the maiden, comes forward and stops._) Ah!--How
could I know another had her!
THE KING.
(_Rushes upon him with uplifted stick._) Hence, you dirty dog!
THE VAGABOND.
I a dirty dog! What are you, then?
THE KING.
(_Striking him._) That am I!--And that!--And that!
(_The vagabond seeks refuge in flight._)
ALMA.
(_Trembling in her father's arms._) O Father, I was leaning over the
spring when that man sprang at me!
THE KING.
(_Breathing hard._) Calm yourself, my child
ALMA.
My poor father! That I, instead of being able to help you, must still
need your help!
THE KING.
Today I shall take you back to Per | 636.035185 |
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Produced by Judith Boss
PELLUCIDAR
By
Edgar Rice Burroughs
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PROLOGUE
I LOST ON PELLUCIDAR
II TRAVELING WITH TERROR
III SHOOTING THE CHUTES--AND AFTER
IV FRIENDSHIP AND TREACHERY
V SURPRISES
VI A PENDENT WORLD
VII FROM PLIGHT TO PLIGHT
VIII CAPTIVE
IX HOOJA'S CUTTHROATS APPEAR
X THE RAID ON THE CAVE-PRISON
XI ESCAPE
XII | 636.352642 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
John Burnet of Barns
_A Romance_
BY
JOHN BUCHAN
TORONTO:
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED.
1899.
Copyright, 1898
BY JOHN LANE
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, by THE COPP CLARK
COMPANY, LIMITED, Toronto, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY SISTER
VIOLET KATHARINE STUART
[Greek: Aster prin men elampes eni zooisin Heoos,
nun de oanon lampeis Hesperos en phthimenois.]
[Transcriber's note: the above Greek was transcribed
from a poor-quality scan, so may not be quite correct]
Contents
BOOK I--TWEEDDALE
CHAPTER
I. THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK
II. THE HOUSE OF BARNS
III. THE SPATE IN TWEED
IV. I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW
V. COUSINLY AFFECTION
VI. HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAME AND WAS CHECKMATED
VII. THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER RETURNED FROM THE
WARS
VIII. I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS
IX. I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION
BOOK II--THE LOW COUNTRIES
I. OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES
II. I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART
III. THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY
IV. OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD
V. THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH
VI. THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH
VII. I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS
VIII. THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW
IX. AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING
BOOK III--THE HILLMEN
I. THE PIER O' LEITH
II. HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH
III. THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK
IV. HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END
V. I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS
VI. THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER
VII. HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS MET WITH THEIR DESERTS
VIII. OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE
IX. I PART FROM MARJORY
X. OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN
CLEUCH
XI. HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL
XII. I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING
XIII. I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE
XIV. I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS
XV. THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN'S LAND
XVI. HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR
XVII. OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR
XVIII. SMITWOOD
BOOK IV--THE WESTLANDS
I. I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS O' CLYDE
II. AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND
III. THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES
IV. UP HILL AND DOWN DALE
V. EAGLESHAM
VI. I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET
VII. OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE
VIII. HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE
IX. THE END OF ALL THINGS
John Burnet of Barns
BOOK I--TWEEDDALE
CHAPTER I
THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE W | 636.439301 |
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Produced by D Alexander 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 Missioner
BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Author of "Anna, the Adventuress," "A Prince of
Sinners," "The Master Mummer," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY | 636.737325 |
2023-11-16 18:27:40.9246830 | 2,628 | 10 |
Produced by Ron Burkey
LIFE OF JOHN STERLING
By Thomas Carlyle
Transcriber's Note: Italics in the text are indicated by the use of an
underscore as delimiter, _thusly_. All footnotes have been collected at
the end of the text, and numbered sequentially in brackets, [thusly].
One illustration has been omitted. The "pound" symbol has been replaced
by the word "pounds". Otherwise, all spelling, punctuation, etc., have
been left as in the printed text.
Taken from volume 2 of Carlyle's Complete Works, which additionally
contains the Latter-Day Pamphlets, to be provided as a separate etext.
PART I.
CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY.
Near seven years ago, a short while before his death in 1844, John
Sterling committed the care of his literary Character and printed
Writings to two friends, Archdeacon Hare and myself. His estimate of the
bequest was far from overweening; to few men could the small sum-total
of his activities in this world seem more inconsiderable than, in those
last solemn days, it did to him. He had burnt much; found much unworthy;
looking steadfastly into the silent continents of Death and Eternity, a
brave man's judgments about his own sorry work in the field of Time are
not apt to be too lenient. But, in fine, here was some portion of his
work which the world had already got hold of, and which he could not
burn. This too, since it was not to be abolished and annihilated, but
must still for some time live and act, he wished to be wisely settled,
as the rest had been. And so it was left in charge to us, the survivors,
to do for it what we judged fittest, if indeed doing nothing did not
seem the fittest to us. This message, communicated after his decease,
was naturally a sacred one to Mr. Hare and me.
After some consultation on it, and survey of the difficulties and
delicate considerations involved in it, Archdeacon Hare and I agreed
that the whole task, of selecting what Writings were to be reprinted,
and of drawing up a Biography to introduce them, should be left to him
alone; and done without interference of mine:--as accordingly it was, [1]
in a manner surely far superior to the common, in every good quality of
editing; and visibly everywhere bearing testimony to the friendliness,
the piety, perspicacity and other gifts and virtues of that eminent and
amiable man.
In one respect, however, if in one only, the arrangement had been
unfortunate. Archdeacon Hare, both by natural tendency and by his
position as a Churchman, had been led, in editing a Work not free from
ecclesiastical heresies, and especially in writing a Life very full of
such, to dwell with preponderating emphasis on that part of his subject;
by no means extenuating the fact, nor yet passing lightly over it (which
a layman could have done) as needing no extenuation; but carefully
searching into it, with the view of excusing and explaining it; dwelling
on it, presenting all the documents of it, and as it were spreading it
over the whole field of his delineation; as if religious heterodoxy had
been the grand fact of Sterling's life, which even to the Archdeacon's
mind it could by no means seem to be. _Hinc illae lachrymae_. For the
Religious Newspapers, and Periodical Heresy-hunters, getting very lively
in those years, were prompt to seize the cue; and have prosecuted
and perhaps still prosecute it, in their sad way, to all lengths and
breadths. John Sterling's character and writings, which had little
business to be spoken of in any Church-court, have hereby been carried
thither as if for an exclusive trial; and the mournfulest set of
pleadings, out of which nothing but a misjudgment _can_ be formed,
prevail there ever since. The noble Sterling, a radiant child of the
empyrean, clad in bright auroral hues in the memory of all that knew
him,--what is he doing here in inquisitorial _sanbenito_, with nothing
but ghastly spectralities prowling round him, and inarticulately
screeching and gibbering what they call their judgment on him!
"The sin of Hare's Book," says one of my Correspondents in those years,
"is easily defined, and not very condemnable, but it is nevertheless
ruinous to his task as Biographer. He takes up Sterling as a clergyman
merely. Sterling, I find, was a curate for exactly eight months; during
eight months and no more had he any special relation to the Church. But
he was a man, and had relation to the Universe, for eight-and-thirty
years: and it is in this latter character, to which all the others were
but features and transitory hues, that we wish to know him. His battle
with hereditary Church formulas was severe; but it was by no means his
one battle with things inherited, nor indeed his chief battle;
neither, according to my observation of what it was, is it successfully
delineated or summed up in this Book. The truth is, nobody that had
known Sterling would recognize a feature of him here; you would never
dream that this Book treated of _him_ at all. A pale sickly shadow in
torn surplice is presented to us here; weltering bewildered amid
heaps of what you call 'Hebrew Old-clothes;' wrestling, with impotent
impetuosity, to free itself from the baleful imbroglio, as if that
had been its one function in life: who in this miserable figure would
recognize the brilliant, beautiful and cheerful John Sterling, with
his ever-flowing wealth of ideas, fancies, imaginations; with his frank
affections, inexhaustible hopes, audacities, activities, and general
radiant vivacity of heart and intelligence, which made the presence of
him an illumination and inspiration wherever he went? It is too bad.
Let a man be honestly forgotten when his life ends; but let him not be
misremembered in this way. To be hung up as an ecclesiastical scarecrow,
as a target for heterodox and orthodox to practice archery upon, is no
fate that can be due to the memory of Sterling. It was not as a ghastly
phantasm, choked in Thirty-nine-article controversies, or miserable
Semitic, Anti-Semitic street-riots,--in scepticisms, agonized
self-seekings, that this man appeared in life; nor as such, if the world
still wishes to look at him should you suffer the world's memory of him
now to be. Once for all, it is unjust; emphatically untrue as an image
of John Sterling: perhaps to few men that lived along with him could
such an interpretation of their existence be more inapplicable."
Whatever truth there might be in these rather passionate
representations, and to myself there wanted not a painful feeling of
their truth, it by no means appeared what help or remedy any friend of
Sterling's, and especially one so related to the matter as myself, could
attempt in the interim. Perhaps endure in patience till the dust
laid itself again, as all dust does if you leave it well alone? Much
obscuration would thus of its own accord fall away; and, in Mr. Hare's
narrative itself, apart from his commentary, many features of Sterling's
true character would become decipherable to such as sought them.
Censure, blame of this Work of Mr. Hare's was naturally far from my
thoughts. A work which distinguishes itself by human piety and candid
intelligence; which, in all details, is careful, lucid, exact; and which
offers, as we say, to the observant reader that will interpret facts,
many traits of Sterling besides his heterodoxy. Censure of it, from me
especially, is not the thing due; from me a far other thing is due!--
On the whole, my private thought was: First, How happy it comparatively
is, for a man of any earnestness of life, to have no Biography written
of him; but to return silently, with his small, sorely foiled bit of
work, to the Supreme Silences, who alone can judge of it or him; and not
to trouble the reviewers, and greater or lesser public, with attempting
to judge it! The idea of "fame," as they call it, posthumous or
other, does not inspire one with much ecstasy in these points of
view.--Secondly, That Sterling's performance and real or seeming
importance in this world was actually not of a kind to demand an express
Biography, even according to the world's usages. His character was not
supremely original; neither was his fate in the world wonderful. What
he did was inconsiderable enough; and as to what it lay in him to have
done, this was but a problem, now beyond possibility of settlement. Why
had a Biography been inflicted on this man; why had not No-biography,
and the privilege of all the weary, been his lot?--Thirdly, That such
lot, however, could now no longer be my good Sterling's; a tumult having
risen around his name, enough to impress some pretended likeness of him
(about as like as the Guy-Fauxes are, on Gunpowder-Day) upon the minds
of many men: so that he could not be forgotten, and could only be
misremembered, as matters now stood.
Whereupon, as practical conclusion to the whole, arose by degrees this
final thought, That, at some calmer season, when the theological dust
had well fallen, and both the matter itself, and my feelings on it, were
in a suitabler condition, I ought to give my testimony about this friend
whom I had known so well, and record clearly what my knowledge of him
was. This has ever since seemed a kind of duty I had to do in the world
before leaving it.
And so, having on my hands some leisure at this time, and being bound to
it by evident considerations, one of which ought to be especially
sacred to me, I decide to fling down on paper some outline of what
my recollections and reflections contain in reference to this most
friendly, bright and beautiful human soul; who walked with me for a
season in this world, and remains to me very memorable while I continue
in it. Gradually, if facts simple enough in themselves can be narrated
as they came to pass, it will be seen what kind of man this was; to what
extent condemnable for imaginary heresy and other crimes, to what
extent laudable and lovable for noble manful _orthodoxy_ and other
virtues;--and whether the lesson his life had to teach us is not much
the reverse of what the Religious Newspapers hitherto educe from it.
Certainly it was not as a "sceptic" that you could define him, whatever
his definition might be. Belief, not doubt, attended him at all points
of his progress; rather a tendency to too hasty and headlong belief.
Of all men he was the least prone to what you could call scepticism:
diseased self-listenings, self-questionings, impotently painful
dubitations, all this fatal nosology of spiritual maladies, so rife
in our day, was eminently foreign to him. Quite on the other side lay
Sterling's faults, such as they were. In fact, you could observe, in
spite of his sleepless intellectual vivacity, he was not properly a
thinker at all; his faculties were of the active, not of the passive or
contemplative sort. A brilliant _improvisatore_; rapid in thought, in
word and in act; everywhere the promptest and least hesitating of | 636.944723 |
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Produced by Pat Castevens and David Widger
THE CAXTONS
(Complete)
A FAMILY PICTURE
By Edward Bulwer Lytton
(Lord Lytton)
PREFACE.
If it be the good fortune of this work to possess any interest for the
Novel reader, that interest, perhaps, will be but little derived from
the customary elements of fiction. The plot is extremely slight, the
incidents are few, and with the exception of those which involve the
fate of Vivian, such as may be found in the records of ordinary life.
Regarded as a Novel, this attempt is an experiment somewhat apart from
the previous works of the author. It is the first of his writings in
which Humor has been employed, less for the purpose of satire than in
illustration of amiable characters; it is the first, too, in which man
has been viewed, less in his active relations with the world, than in
his repose at his own hearth,--in a word, the greater part of the canvas
has been devoted to the completion of a simple Family Picture. And thus,
in any appeal to the sympathies of the human heart, the common household
affections occupy the place of those livelier or larger passions
which usually (and not unjustly) arrogate the foreground in Romantic
composition.
In the Hero whose autobiography connects the different characters and
events of the work, it has been the Author's intention to imply the
influences of Home upon the conduct and career of youth; and in the
ambition which estranges Pisistratus for a time from the sedentary
occupations in which the man of civilized life must usually serve his
apprenticeship to Fortune or to Fame, it is not designed to describe
the fever of Genius conscious of superior powers and aspiring to high
destinies, but the natural tendencies of a fresh and buoyant mind,
rather vigorous than contemplative, and in which the desire of action is
but the symptom of health.
Pisistratus in this respect (as he himself feels and implies) becomes
the specimen or type of a class the numbers of which are daily
increasing in the inevitable progress of modern civilization. He is
one too many in the midst of the crowd; he is the representative of the
exuberant energies of youth, turning, as with the instinct of nature for
space and development, from the Old World to the New. That which may be
called the interior meaning of the whole is sought to be completed by
the inference that, whatever our wanderings, our happiness will
always be found within a narrow compass, and amidst the objects more
immediately within our reach, but that we are seldom sensible of this
truth (hackneyed though it be in the Schools of all Philosophies) till
our researches have spread over a wider area. To insure the blessing of
repose, we require a brisker excitement than a few turns up and down our
room. Content is like that humor in the crystal, on which Claudian has
lavished the wonder of a child and the fancies of a Poet,--
"Vivis gemma tumescit aquis."
E. B. L.
October, 1849.
THE CAXTONS.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
"Sir--sir, it is a boy!"
"A boy," said my father, looking up from his book, and evidently much
puzzled: "what is a boy?"
Now my father did not mean by that interrogatory to challenge
philosophical inquiry, nor to demand of the honest but unenlightened
woman who had just rushed into his study, a solution of that mystery,
physiological and psychological, which has puzzled so many curious
sages, and lies still involved in the question, "What is man?" For as we
need not look further than Dr. Johnson's Dictionary to know that a boy
is "a male child," | 637.057964 |
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Produced by Chuck Greif and The Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available by The Internet Archive)
JOSEPH PENNELL’S PICTURES
OF WAR WORK IN AMERICA
* * * * *
JOSEPH PENNELL’S PICTURES OF WAR WORK IN ENGLAND
Reproductions of a Series of Drawings and Lithographs of the Munition
Works made by him with the permission and authority of the British
Government. With notes by the Artist and with an Introduction by H. G.
Wells. 51 Plates. Octavo. $1.50 net.
JOSEPH PENNELL’S PICTURES OF THE WONDER OF WORK
Reproductions of a Series of Drawings, Etchings, Lithographs made by him
about the World, 1881-1915. With impressions and notes by the Artist. 33
plates. $2.00 net.
JOSEPH PENNELL’S PICTURES IN THE LAND OF TEMPLES
Reproductions of a Series of Lithographs made by him in the Land of
Temples, March-June, 1913, together with impressions and notes by the
Artist. 40 plates. $1.50 net.
JOSEPH PENNELL’S PICTURES OF THE PANAMA CANAL
Reproductions of a Series of Lithographs made by him on the Isthmus of
Panama, January-March, 1912, together with impressions and notes by the
Artist. 28 Plates. $1.50 net.
OUR PHILADELPHIA
BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL
ILLUSTRATED BY JOSEPH PENNELL
_Regular Edition._ Containing one hundred and five reproductions of
Lithographs by Joseph Pennell. Quarto, 7½ by 10 ins. xiv + 552 pages.
Handsomely bound in red buckram, boxed $7.50 net.
_Autograph Edition._ Limited to 289 copies (now very scarce). Contains
ten drawings reproduced by a new lithographic process in addition to the
illustrations that appear in the regular edition. Quarto, xiv + 552
pages. Specially bound in genuine English linen buckram in City colors,
in cloth-covered box. $18.00 net.
THE LIFE OF JAMES MCNEILL WHISTLER
BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL
AND JOSEPH PENNELL
_New and Revised Edition_
The Authorized Life, with much new matter added which was not available
at the time of issue of the elaborate two-volume edition, now out of
print. Fully illustrated with 97 plates reproduced from Whistler’s
works. Crown 4to, xx + 450 pp. Whistler binding, deckle edge. $4.00 net.
Three-quarter levant morocco. $8.50 net.
NIGHTS
ROME--VENICE
In the Æsthetic Eighties
LONDON--PARIS
In the Fighting Nineties
BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL
Large Crown 8vo, 16 illustrations. $3.00 net
PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO.
* * * * *
JOSEPH PENNELL’S PICTURES
OF WAR WORK IN AMERICA
REPRODUCTIONS OF A SERIES OF LITHOGRAPHS
OF MUNITION WORKS MADE BY HIM
WITH THE PERMISSION AND AUTHORITY OF
THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT, WITH
NOTES AND AN INTRODUCTION BY THE ARTIST
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1918
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY JOSEPH PENNELL
PUBLISHED JANUARY, 1918
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
INTRODUCTION--MY LITHOGRAPHS OF WAR WORK
I have come back from the Jaws of Death--back from the Mouth of Hell--to
my own land, my own people. I have never passed such an exciting year in
my life--and beside, I hope I have been able to accomplish something in
my work which shall show one phase of the Wonder of the World’s Work of
to-day. I was honoured a year ago by being permitted by the Rt. Hon.
David Lloyd George, then Minister of Munitions in England, to make
drawings in the various factories and works and shipyards which were
engaged in war work in that country--and the records of what I saw were
published as lithographs of War Work in England and in a previous volume
in this series. Now, though I do not believe in war, I do not see why
some pictorial record of what is being done to carry on the war should
not be made--made from an artist’s standpoint--for we are in it--being
in the world--but I am not of it.
When my work--or as much of it as I was allowed to do--was finished and
exhibited and published--I was invited by the French Minister of
Munitions, M. Albert Thomas, to visit the front and make studies of
similar subjects in France, but--owing to a combination of unfortunate
circumstances--though I went to France twice during the Summer of this
year, I was unable to get anything of importance. This was my fault, or
my misfortune--I failed--and the memory of my failure will haunt me, and
be a cause of regret to me, all my life--unless I am able to wipe out my
failure--in another visit to France. But though I failed to make any
drawings--any records of the subjects I was so freely shown--I was shown
on my two visits many subjects, which were supremely interesting, could
I have but drawn them--had I been able to do so they would have been
worth doing. Not only was I taken to the front, which was not the part I
saw, picturesque, but I was also taken to see some of those parts of
France which have been fought over, some of the towns which have been
destroyed, some of the land which is desolate, and I have also seen some
of the French munition factories. Then I came home, for I believe the
place for an American at the present time is at home. And on my arrival
I was authorized to make records by our Government similar to those I
had made in England, and had failed to make in France--what I have done
in the United States is shown in this book.
I have had more opportunities of seeing what is being done in war work
in England, France and the United States than any one else--and in a
fashion that no one else has been permitted to see. I have seen war in
the making. Yet I did not do these drawings with any idea of helping to
win the war, but because for years I have been at work--from my earliest
drawings--trying to record The Wonder of Work, and work never was so
wonderful as it is to-day. And never had any one such help--such aid,
such encouragement given him to record its wonder--and by the
Governments of the three great countries which are engaged in “this
incredibly horrible, absolutely unnecessary war, easily avoided war,” to
quote a British Statesman.
Not only have I seen the Wonder of Work in these three lands--but before
the war I saw it in Belgium, Germany and Italy. I have drawn it
everywhere, save in Luxembourg, and there, too, I have seen it--but made
no drawings--for it was so easy to get to that land--and so that country
was put off for a more convenient season--a season I fear which will
never come again. I am not going to make comparisons--but I am going to
say that the Wonder of Work is more wonderful in the United States than
anywhere else in the world to-day. True, we are not working with that
unbelievable energy which the French and English--yes, the English--have
put at last into their work--but we do so much more--with so much
less--appearance of work--we are working for the Allies--but they are
not working for us. And we are doing for them what they cannot do for
themselves. In Europe the war worker works all day and every day in the
year. Here most of the great industrial works have only added war work
to their peace work, in Europe scarce anything else but war work is
being done.
And also in America the women have not to any extent gone into the
factories, mills and shipyards of the country. And I hope they never
will. I have never seen a woman shell maker here, yet I know of
factories in France and England where there are scarce any work people,
save women, one where there are ten thousand women. Here they are only
making fuses and doing other light work, but I have not seen a woman at
a lathe as I have seen them in France and England. I have never seen a
woman ship builder here--yet I have seen women in shipyards abroad doing
work that men would have grumbled at when put to it--because it was
thought hard work--before the war.
And I am glad that our women are not forced to undertake such work, and
hope they never may be, for I have seen the black side of this work,
which already has led to strikes and labour troubles in Europe--and when
the war is over, will lead to greater trouble--for the Captains of
Industry in Europe tell me that women run machines better than men--they
devote themselves to the machine--never try to improve it--to make
changes in it--only to keep it going and in good order, while the man is
always trying to improve it, to make it do more, so that he can do less.
“Stick matches in it,” one manager said--while the women just run the
machines as they are shown how.
But making shells is more interesting than washing dishes, or waving
flags and marching in parades--and more exciting--but there will be an
end to that some day; and the lathes--which have been turned to war
work--will be turned back to peace work--and the question is, will the
women go back to their dishes?--and if they do not there will be more
trouble. I have seen a women’s strike--or a little of it--for with the
manager who was showing me around, I left at once. It was not an
orderly, peaceful, or womanly strike. That shop was no place for me.
Those women were not lady-like.
But just as the greatest human energy has been given to war work, given
to make things to explode, to kill, to destroy; so the greatest machines
have been turned to do this work with the greatest skill and accuracy
and the greatest speed--the workers are but a necessary detail--and it
is the working of the great machinery in the great mills which I find so
inspiring--so impressive--for the mills are shrines of war. The mills
are the modern temples and in them do the people worship. And if only
the engines turned out were engines of peace--how much better would the
world be--but everything made in a war factory is made to destroy and to
be destroyed. But one must not think of that, for if one did the war
would stop, and not every one wants it to stop--or it would stop
to-day--a universal demand for peace would make peace,--really would
have prevented war. But war work in America is the most wonderful work
in the world and that is the reason why I have drawn some of the work I
have seen--seen in these endless looms of time--where history is being
woven. The attitude of the workman toward the artist is curious; in
France he understands, in England he looks down on you as a poor thing
who has to work--in America you are regarded as a fellow workman, as an
artist is!
I want to thank the Secretaries of the Navy and of War, Messrs. Daniels
and Baker, Mr. Creel and the other members of the Board and staff of the
Committee on Public Information, and the various heads of the various
sub-departments of the Army and Navy, who stood my pestering and
querying and obtained for me permission to visit every industrial
establishment I wanted. In every plant, camp, yard, works, field, which
I wanted to work in--I was taken to, and treated with courtesy. I should
like to thank and mention by name the various officials, government and
civilian, who gave me every facility to see and to draw everything I
wished in the War Works they directed--but we are at war--and I am not
permitted to say where these drawings were made, and if I mentioned the
names of some of the directors of these works the places in which I made
the drawings would be known. As it is, I imagine many of them are pretty
well known already.
Finally I wish to thank my life-long friend, Dr. F. P. Keppel--who
suggested, directed, arranged, calmed down and cheered up all those with
whom I was brought in most interesting contact. He knows what he did and
I know--and I shall not forget.
PHILADELPHIA, THANKSGIVING DAY, 1917 JOSEPH PENNELL
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE KEEL I
UNDER THE SHED II
THE ARMOR PLATE PRESS III
IN THE LAND OF BROBDIGNAG: THE ARMOR PLATE BENDING PRESS IV
BUILDING THE BATTLE SHIP V
MAKING A TURBINE ENGINE VI
MAKING PROPELLER BLADES VII
THE PROW VIII
READY TO START IX
THE COLLIER X
BUILDING SUBMARINE CHASERS XI
BUILDING DESTROYERS. NO. ONE XII
BUILDING DESTROY | 637.151019 |
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SOCIETY AS I HAVE FOUND IT.
[Illustration: very truly yours, handwritten:
Ward Mc Allister]
_Society_
_As I Have Found It_
BY
WARD McALLISTER
NEW YORK
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT,
1890,
BY WARD McALLISTER.
_All rights reserved._
THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
RAHWAY, N. J.
“This book is intended to be miscellaneous, with a noble disdain of
regularity.”--_Obiter Dicta._
“How then does a man, be he good or bad, big or little, make his
Memoirs interesting? To say that the one thing needful is
individuality, is not quite enough. To have an individuality is no
sort of distinction, but to be able to make it felt in writing is
not only distinction, but under favorable circumstances,
immortality.”--_The Same._
AUTHOR’S NOTE.
One who reads this book through will have as rough a mental journey as
his physical nature would undergo in riding over a corduroy road in an
old stage-coach. It makes no pretension to either scholarship or elegant
diction.
W. McA.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
My Family--My Mother an Angel of Beauty and Charity--My Father’s
Nobleness of Character--Building Bonfires on Paradise Rocks and flying
Kites from Purgatory with Uncle Sam Ward--My Brother the Lawyer, 3
CHAPTER II.
My New York Life--A Penurious Aunt who fed me on Turkey--My First Fancy
Ball--Spending One Thousand Dollars for a Costume--The Schermerhorns
give a ball in Great Jones Street--Sticking a Man’s Calf and Drawing
Blood--A Craze for Dancing--I Study Law--Blackstone has a Rival in
lovely Southern Maidens--I go to San Francisco in ’50--Fees Paid in Gold
Dust--Eggs at $2--My First Housekeeping--A faux pas at a
Reception, 13
CHAPTER III.
Introduction to London Sports--A Dog Fight in the Suburbs--Sporting
Ladies--The Drawing of the Badger--My Host gets Gloriously Drunk--Visit
to Her Majesty’s Kitchen--Dinner with the Chef of Windsor Castle--I
taste Montilla Sherry for the First Time--“A Shilling to pay for the
Times,” 31
CHAPTER IV.
A Winter in Florence and Rome--Cheap Living and Good Cooking--Walnut-fed
Turkeys--The Grand Duke of Tuscany’s Ball--An American Girl who Elbowed
the King--What a Ball Supper should be--Ball to the Archduke of
Tuscany--“The Duke of Pennsylvania”--Following the Hounds on the
Campagna--The American Minister Snubs American Gentlemen, 41
CHAPTER V.
Summer in Baden-Baden--The Late Emperor William no Judge of Wine--My
Irish Doctor--His Horror of Water--How an American Girl tried to
Captivate Him--The Louisiana Judge--I win the Toss and get the Mule--The
Judge “fixes” his Pony--The “Pike Ballet,” 55
CHAPTER VI.
Winter in Pau--I hire a perfect Villa for $800 a year--Luxury at Small
Cost--I Learn how to give Dinners--Fraternizing with the Bordeaux Wine
Merchants--The Judge’s Wild Scheme--I get him up a Dinner--General
Bosquet--The Pau Hunt--The Frenchmen wear beautiful Pink Coats, but
their Horses wont Jump--Only the General took the Ditch, 65
CHAPTER VII.
My Return to New York--Dinner to a well-known Millionaire--Visit of Lord
Frederick Cavendish, Hon. E. Ashley, and G. W. des Voeux to the United
States--I Entertain them at my Southern Home--My Father’s Old Friends
resent my Manner of Entertaining--Her Majesty’s Consul
disgruntled--Cedar Wash-tubs and Hot Sheets for my English
Guests--Shooting Snipe over the Rice Lands--Scouring the Country for
Pretty Girls, 77
CHAPTER VIII.
A Southern Deer Park--A Don Quixote Steed--We Hunt for Deer and Bag a
Turkey--Getting a Dinner by Force--The French Chef and the <DW52> Cook
Contrasted--One is Inspired, the Other follows Tradition--Making a Sauce
of Herbs and Cream--Shooting Ducks across the Moon--A Dawfuskie
Pic-nic, 89
CHAPTER IX.
I Leave the South--A Typical British Naval Officer--An Officer of the
Household Troops--Early Newport Life--A Country Dinner--The Way I got up
Pic-nics--Farmers throw their Houses Open to Us--A Bride receives us in
her Bridal Array--My Newport Farm--My Southdowns and my Turkeys--What an
English Lady said of our Little Island--Newport a place to take Social
Root in, 107
CHAPTER X.
Society’s Leaders--A Lady whose Dinners were Exquisite and whose Wines
were Perfect--Her “Blue Room Parties”--Two Colonial Beauties--The
Introduction of the Chef--The Prince of Wales in New York--The Ball in
his Honor at the Academy of Music--The Fall of the Dancing
Platform--Grotesque Figures cut by the Dancers--The Prince dances
Well--Admirable Supper Arrangements--A Light Tea and a Big Appetite--The
Prince at West Point--I get a Snub from General Scott, 123
CHAPTER XI.
A Handsome, Courtly Man--A Turkey Chase--A Visit to Livingston Manor--An
Ideal Life--On Horseback from Staatsburg to New York--Village Inn
Dinners--I entertain a Fashionable Party at the Gibbons Mansion--An Old
House Rejuvenated--The Success of the Party--Country Life may be enjoyed
here as well as in England if one has the Money and the Inclination for
it--It means Hard Work for the Host, though, 139
CHAPTER XII.
John Van Buren’s Dinner--I spend the Entire Day in getting my
Dress-coat--Lord Harrington criticises American Expressions--Contrast in
our way of Living in 1862 and 1890--In Social Union is Social
Strength--We band together for our Common Good--The organization of the
“Cotillion Dinners”--the “Smart” Set, and the “Solid” Set--A Defense of
Fashion, 155
CHAPTER XIII.
Cost of Cotillion Dinners--My delicate Position--The Début of a
Beautiful Blonde--Lord Roseberry’s mot--We have better Madeira than
England--I am dubbed “The Autocrat of Drawing-rooms”--A Grand Domino
Ball--Cruel Tricks of a fair Mask--An English Lady’s Maid takes a
Bath--The first Cotillion Dinners given at Newport--Out-of-Door
Feasting--Dancing in the Barn, 165
CHAPTER XIV.
The first private Balls at Delmonico’s--A Nightingale who drove
Four-in-hand--Private Theatricals in a Stable--A Yachting Excursion
without wind and a Clam-bake under difficulties--A Poet describes the
Fiasco--Plates for foot-stools and parboiled Champagne for the
thirsty--The Silver, Gold, and Diamond Dinners--Giving Presents to
guests, 181
CHAPTER XV.
The Four-in-hand Craze--Postilions and Outriders follow--A
Trotting-horse Courtship--Cost of Newport Picnics Then and Now--Driving
off a Bridge--An Accident that might have been Serious--A Dance at a
Tea-house--The Coachmen make a Raid on the Champagne--They are all
Intoxicated and Confusion reigns--A Dangerous Drive Home, 191
CHAPTER XVI.
Grand Banquet to a Bride elect--She sat in a bank of Roses with
Fountains playing around her--An Anecdote of Almack’s--The way the Duke
of Wellington introduced my Father and Dominick Lynch to the Swells--I
determine to have an American Almack’s--The way the “Patriarchs’” was
founded--The One-man Power Abolished--Success of the Organization, 207
CHAPTER XVII.
A Lady who has led Society for many years--A Grand Dame indeed--The
Patriarchs a great social Feature--Organizing the F. C. D. C.--Their
Rise and Fall--The Mother Goose Ball--My Encounters with socially
ambitious Workers--I try to Please all--The Famous “Swan Dinner”--It
cost $10,000--A Lake on the Dinner-table--The Swans have a mortal
Combat, 221
CHAPTER XVIII.
How to | 637.151721 |
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MISSIONARY ANNALS.
(A SERIES.)
LIFE OF HENRY MARTYN, MISSIONARY TO INDIA AND PERSIA, 1781 to 1812
ABRIDGED FROM THE MEMOIR.
BY
MRS. SARAH J. RHEA.
CHICAGO:
WOMAN'S PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF FOREIGN MISSIONS OF THE NORTHWEST,
Room 48, McCormick Block.
COPYRIGHT, 1888,
BY WOMAN'S PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF MISSIONS OF THE NORTHWEST.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
EDUCATION AND PREPARATION,........ | 637.235328 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
In the Early Days Along the Overland Trail in
Nebraska Territory, in 1852.
BY
GILBERT L. COLE,
1905.
COMPILED BY MRS. A. HARDY.
Press of
FRANKLIN HUDSON PUBLISHING COMPANY,
KANSAS CITY, MO.
[Illustration: GILBERT L. COLE.]
COPYRIGHT, 1905,
BY GILBERT L. COLE,
BEATRICE, NEB.
TESTIMONIALS.
A true story plainly told, of immense historical value and fascinating
interest from beginning to end.
DR. GEO. W. CROFTS,
Beatrice, Nebraska.
I have read every word of "In the Early Days," written by Mr. Gilbert L.
Cole, with great interest and profit. The language is well chosen, the
word-pictures are vivid, and the subject-matter is of historic value.
The story is fascinating in the extreme, and I only wished it were
longer. The story should be printed and distributed for the people in
general to read.
July 27, 1905.
C. A. FULMER,
_Superintendent of Public Schools_,
Beatrice, Neb.
At a single sitting, with intense interest, I have read the manuscript
of "In the Early Days." It is a very entertaining narrative of
adventure, a vivid portrayal of conditions and an instructive history of
events as they came into the personal experience and under the
observation of the writer fifty-three years ago. An exceedingly valuable
contribution to the too meager literature of a time so near in years,
but so distant in conditions as to make the truth about it seem
stranger than fiction.
REV. N. A. MARTIN,
_Pastor, Centenary M. E. Church_,
Beatrice, Neb.
NEBRASKA STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY.
LINCOLN, Nebraska, July 28, 1905.
_To whom it may concern_: The manuscript account of the overland trip by
Mr. Gilbert L. Cole of Beatrice, Nebraska, in my opinion is a very
carefully written story of great interest to the whole public, and
particularly to Nebraskans. It reads like a novel, and the succession of
adventures holds the interest of the reader to the end. The records of
trips across the Nebraska Territory as early as this one are very
incomplete, and Mr. Cole has done a real public service in putting into
print so complete a record of these experiences. I predict that it will
find a wide circulation among lovers of travel and of Nebraska history.
Very sincerely,
JAY AMOS BARRETT,
_Curator and Librarian Nebraska
State Historical Society_,
Author of "Nebraska and the Nation";
"Civil Government of Nebraska."
EXECUTIVE CHAMBER,
LINCOLN, Nebraska, July 28, 1905.
_To whom it may concern_: It gives me great pleasure to say that the
publication, "In the Early Days," written by Mr. Gilbert L. Cole, of
Beatrice, Nebraska, is a very interesting and profitable work to read.
It bears upon many subjects of great historical value and no doubt will
prove a very interesting book to all who read it and I take pleasure in
recommending the same.
Very respectfully,
JOHN H. MICKEY,
_Governor_.
_To whom it may concern_: It is with pleasure I write a few words of
commendation for the book written by Mr. Gilbert L. Cole, of Beatrice,
Nebraska, entitled "In the Early Days." It is well prepared and full of
interest from beginning to the end. It is of great value to every
Nebraskan.
_July 28, 1905._
D. L. THOMAS,
_Pastor Grace M. E. Church_,
Lincoln, Neb.
An interesting, thrilling and delightful bit of prairie history hitherto
unwritten and unsung, which most opportunely and completely supplies a
missing link in the stories of the great Westland.
MRS. A. HARDY,
_President Beatrice Woman's Club_,
Beatrice, Neb.
BEATRICE, NEB., July 30, 1905.
I have just read "In the Early Days," by Col. G. L. Cole, and I find it
an interesting and instructive narrative, clothed in good diction and
pleasing style. Few of the Argonauts took time or trouble to make note
of the events of their journey and our California gold episode is
remarkably barren of literature, a fact which makes Col. Cole's book
doubly interesting and valuable.
M. T. CUMMINGS
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.--Setting up Altars of Remembrance, 13
CHAPTER II.--"God Could Not Be Everywhere,
and so He Made Mothers," 23
CHAPTER III.--"But Somewhere the Master
Has a Counterpart of Each," 32
CHAPTER IV.--Our Prairies are a Book
Whose Pages Hold Many Stories, 41
CHAPTER V.--A Worthy Object Reached For
and Missed is a First Step Toward Success, 51
CHAPTER VI.--"'Tis Only a Snowbank's Tears, I Ween," 58
CHAPTER VII.--We Stepped Over the Ridge
and Courted the Favor of New and Untried Waters, 67
CHAPTER VIII.--We Had No Flag to Unfurl,
but Its Sentiment Was Within Us, 77
CHAPTER IX.--We Listened to Each Other's
Rehearsals, and Became Mutual Sympathizers
and Encouragers, 87
CHAPTER X.--Boots and Saddles Call, 98
CHAPTER XI.--"But All Comes Right in the End," 108
CHAPTER XII.--Each Day Makes Its Own
Paragraphs and Punctuation Marks, 123
INTRODUCTORY.
If one is necessary, the only apology I can offer for presenting this
little volume to the public is that it may serve to record for time to
come some of the adventures of that long and wearisome journey, together
with my impressions of the beautiful plains, mountains and rivers of the
great and then comparatively unknown Territory of Nebraska. They were
presented to me fresh from the hand of Nature, in all their beauty and
glory. And by reference to the daily journal I kept along the trail, the
impressions made upon my mind have remained through these long years,
bright and clear.
THE AUTHOR.
IN THE EARLY DAYS ALONG THE OVERLAND TRAIL IN NEBRASKA TERRITORY,
IN 1852.
CHAPTER I.
SETTING UP ALTARS OF REMEMBRANCE.
It has been said that once upon a time Heaven placed a kiss upon the
lips of Earth and therefrom sprang the fair State of Nebraska.
It was while the prairies were still dimpling under this first kiss that
the events related in this little volume became part and parcel of my
life and experience, as gathered from a trip made across the continent
in the morning glow of a territory now occupying high and honorable
position in the calendar of States and nations.
On the 16th day of March, 1852, a caravan consisting of twenty-four men,
one woman (our captain, W. W. Wadsworth being accompanied by his wife),
forty-four head of horses and mules and eight wagons, gathered itself
together from the little | 637.705088 |
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THE ILLUSTRATED SELF-INSTRUCTOR
IN PHRENOLOGY AND PHYSIOLOGY,
WITH ONE HUNDRED ENGRAVINGS,
AND A CHART OF THE CHARACTER
____________________________________________
AS GIVEN BY
____________________________________________
BY O. S. AND L. N. FOWLER,
PRACTICAL PHRENOLOGISTS.
Your head is the type of your mentality.
Self-knowledge is the essence of all knowledge.
NEW YORK:
FOWLER AND WELLS, PUBLISHERS
308 BROADWAY.
Boston: } 1857. {Philadelphia:
No. 142 Washington St.} {No. 234 Arch Street
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 18__ by
FOWLERS AND WELLS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern
District of New York.
STEREOTYPED BY
BANER & PALMER
261 William st., cor. of Frankfort, N. Y.
Conditions Large Very Full Aver- Moder- Small Culti- Re-
Large age ate vate strain
Vital Temperament 17 17 17 17 17 17 165
Powerful or Motive 18 18 18 18 18 18 137
Active or Mental 19 19 19 19 19 19
Excitability of ditto 20 20 20 20 20 20 157 175
Constitution 34 34 34 34 34 34
Organic Quality 47 47 47 47 47 47
Present state 47 47 47 47 47 47
Size of head 48 49 49 49 49 50
DOMESTIC GROUP
1. Amativeness 52 52 53 53 53 54 218
2. Parental Love 55 55 56 56 56 56 220
3. Adhesiveness 57 57 58 58 58 58 226
4. Inhabitiveness 60 60 61 61 61 61 232
5. Continuity 62 62 62 62 62 62 234
SELFISH PROPENSITIES 63 64 64 64 64 64
E. Vitativeness 64 65 65 65 65 65 236 237
6. Combativeness 66 66 66 66 67 67 239 240
7. Destructiveness 67 68 69 69 69 69 242 243
8. Alimentiveness 70 70 70 71 71 71 245 246
9. Acquisitiveness 72 73 73 73 74 74 249 250
10. Secretiveness 75 75 76 76 76 77 252 253
11. Cautiousness 78 78 78 78 79 79 255 256
12. Approbativeness 79 80 80 80 80 81 258 259
13. Self-Esteem 82 82 82 83 83 83 261 262
14. Firmness 84 85 85 85 85 85 265 266
MORAL FACULTIES 86 86 86 86 86 86 268 270
15. Conscientiousness 87 88 88 88 89 89 268 270
16. Hope 89 90 90 90 90 91 272 273
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American Indians
By
Frederick Starr
D. C. Heath & Co., Publishers
Boston, New York, Chicago
1898
CONTENTS
Preface.
I. Some General Facts About Indians.
II. Houses.
III. Dress.
IV. The Baby And Child.
V. Stories Of Indians.
VI. War.
VII. Hunting And Fishing.
VIII. The Camp-Fire.
IX. Sign Language On The Plains.
X. Picture Writing.
XI. Money.
XII. Medicine Men And Secret Societies.
XIII. Dances And Ceremonials.
XIV. Burial And Graves.
XV. Mounds And Their Builders.
XVI. The Algonkins.
XVII. The Six Nations.
XVIII. Story Of Mary Jemison.
XIX. The Creeks.
XX. The Pani.
XXI. The Cherokees.
XXII. George Catlin And His Work.
XXIII. The Sun Dance.
XXIV. The Pueblos.
XXV. The Snake Dance.
XXVI. Cliff Dwellings And Ruins Of The Southwest.
XXVII. Tribes Of The Northwest Coast.
XXVIII. Some Raven Stories.
XXIX. Totem Posts.
XXX. Indians Of California.
XXXI. The Aztecs.
XXXII. The Mayas And The Ruined Cities Of Yucatan And Central America.
XXXIII. Conclusion.
Glossary Of Indian And Other Foreign Words Which May Not Readily Be Found
In The English Dictionary.
Index.
Footnotes
[Illustration.]
Map Showing Former Location of Important Indian Groups of North America,
North of Mexico: North.
[Illustration.]
Map Showing Former Location of Important Indian Groups of North America,
North of Mexico: South.
This Little Book About
American Indians
Is Dedicated To
Bedros Tatarian
PREFACE.
This book about American Indians is intended as a reading book for boys
and girls in school. The native inhabitants of America are rapidly dying
off or changing. Certainly some knowledge of them, their old location, and
their old life ought to be interesting to American children.
Naturally the author has taken material from many sources. He has himself
known some thirty different Indian tribes; still he could not possibly
secure all the matter herein presented by personal observation. In a
reading book for children it is impossible to give reference
acknowledgment to those from whom he has drawn. By a series of brief notes
attention is called to those to whom he is most indebted: no one is
intentionally omitted.
While many of the pictures are new, being drawn from objects or original
photographs, some have already appeared elsewhere. In each case, their
source is indicated. Special thanks for assistance in illustration are due
to the Bureau of American Ethnology and to the Peabody Museum of Ethnology
at Cambridge, Mass.
While intended for young people and written with them only in mind, the
author will be pleased if the book shall interest some older readers.
Should it do so, may it enlarge their sympathy with our native Americans.
[Illustration.]
Mandan Chief in Full Dress. (After Catlin.)
I. SOME GENERAL FACTS ABOUT INDIANS.
We all know how the native Americans found here by the whites at their
first arrival, came to be called _Indians_. Columbus did not realize the
greatness of his discovery. He was seeking a route to Asia and supposed
that he had found it. Believing that he had really reached the Indies, for
which he was looking, it was natural that the people here should be called
Indians.
The American Indians are often classed as a single type. They are
described as being of a coppery or reddish-brown color. They have
abundant, long, straight, black hair, and each hair is found to be almost
circular when cut across. They have high cheek-bones, unusually prominent,
and wide faces. This description will perhaps fit most Indians pretty
well, but it would be a great mistake to think that there are no
differences between tribes: there are many. There are tribes of tall
Indians and tribes of short ones; some that are almost white, and others
that are nearly black. There are found among them all shades of brown,
some of which are reddish, others yellowish. There are tribes where the
eyes appear as oblique or slanting as in the Chinese, and others where
they are as straight as among ourselves. Some tribes have heads that are
long and narrow; the heads of others are relatively short and wide. A
little before the World's Columbian Exposition thousands of Indians of
many different tribes were carefully measured. Dr. Boas, on studying the
figures, decided that there were at least four different types in the
United States.
There are now living many different tribes of Indians. Formerly the number
of tribes was still greater. Each tribe has its own language, and several
hundred different Indian languages were spoken. These languages sometimes
so much resemble each other that they seem to have been derived from one
single parent language. Thus, when what is now New York State was first
settled, it was largely occupied by five tribes--the Mohawks, Oneidas,
Onondagas, Cayugas, Senecas--called "the Five Nations." While they were
distinct and each had its own language, these were so much alike that all
are believed to have grown from one. When languages are so similar that
they may be believed to have come from one parent language, they are said
to belong to the same _language family_ or _stock_.
The Indians of New England, the lower Hudson region, Pennsylvania, New
Jersey, and Virginia, formed many different tribes, but they all spoke
languages of one family. These tribes are called Algonkins. Indians
speaking languages belonging to one stock are generally related in blood.
Besides the area already named, Algonkin tribes occupied New Brunswick,
Nova Scotia, a part of Canada, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, and
other districts farther west. The Blackfeet, who were Algonkins, lived
close to the Rocky Mountains. So you see that one linguistic family may
occupy a great area. On the other hand, sometimes a single tribe, small in
numbers and occupying only a little space, may have a language entirely
peculiar. Such a tribe would stand quite alone and would be considered as
unrelated to any other. Its language would have to be considered as a
distinct family or stock.
A few years ago Major Powell published a map of America north of Mexico,
to show the distribution of the Indian language families at the time of
the white settlement of this country. In it he represented the areas of
fifty-eight different families or stocks. Some of these families, like the
Algonquian and Athapascan, occupied great districts and contained many
languages; others, like the Zunian, took up only a few square miles of
space and contained a single tribe. At the front of this book is a little
map partly copied from that of Major Powell. The large areas are nearly as
he gave them; many smaller areas of his map are omitted, as we shall not
speak of them. The Indians of the Pueblos speak languages of at least four
stocks, which Major Powell indicates. We have covered the whole Pueblo
district with one color patch. We have grouped the many Californian tribes
into one: so, too, with the tribes of the Northwest Coast. There are many
widely differing languages spoken in each of these two regions. This map
will show you where the Indians of whom we shall speak lived.
Many persons seem to think that the Indian was a perpetual rover,--always
hunting, fishing, and making war,--with no settled villages. This is a
great mistake: most tribes knew and practiced some agriculture. Most of
them had settled villages, wherein they spent much of their time. Sad
indeed would it have been for the early settlers of New England, if their
Indian neighbors had not had supplies of food stored away--the result of
their industry in the fields.
The condition of the woman among Indians is usually described as a sad
one. It is true that she was a worker--but so was the man. Each had his or
her own work to do, and neither would have thought of doing that of the
other; with us, men rarely care to do women's work. The man built the
house, fortified the village, hunted, fished, fought, and conducted the
religious ceremonials upon which the success and happiness of all
depended. The woman worked in the field, gathered wood, tended the fire,
cooked, dressed skins, and cared for the children. When they traveled, the
woman carried the burdens, of course: the man had to be ready for the
attack of enemies or for the killing of game in case any should be seen.
Among us hunting, fishing, and dancing are sport. They were not so with
the Indians. When a man had to provide food for a family by his hunting
and fishing, it ceased to be amusement and was hard work. When Indian men
danced, it was usually as part of a religious ceremony which was to
benefit the whole tribe; it was often wearisome and difficult--not fun.
Woman was much of the time doing what we consider work; man was often
doing what _we_ consider play; there was not, however, really much to
choose between them.
The woman was in most tribes the head of the house. She exerted great
influence in public matters of the tribe. She frequently decided the
question of peace and war. To her the children belonged. If she were
dissatisfied with her husband, she would drive him from the house and bid
him return to his mother. If a man were lazy or failed to bring in plenty
of game and fish, he was quite sure to be cast off.
While he lived his own life, the Indian was always hospitable. The
stranger who applied for shelter or food was never refused; nor was he
expected to pay. Only after long contact with the white man, who always
wanted pay for everything, did this hospitality disappear. In fact, among
some tribes it has not yet entirely gone. One time, as we neared the
pueblo of Santo Domingo, New Mexico, the old governor of the pueblo rode
out to meet us and learn who we were and what we wanted. On explaining
that we were strangers, who only wished to see the town, we were taken
directly to his house, on the town square. His old wife hastened to put
before us cakes and coffee. After we had eaten we were given full
permission to look around.
We shall consider many things together. Some chapters will be general
discussions of Indian life; others will discuss special tribes; others
will treat of single incidents in customs or belief. Some of the things
mentioned in connection with one particular tribe would be equally true of
many others. Thus, the modes of hunting buffalo and conducting war,
practiced by one Plains tribe, were much the same among Plains tribes
generally. Some of the things in these lessons will seem foolish; others
are terrible. But remember that foreigners who study _us_ find that _we_
have many customs which they think strange and even terrible. The life of
the Indians was not, on the whole, either foolish or bad; in many ways it
was wise and beautiful and good. But it will soon be gone. In this book we
shall try to give a picture of it.
FRANZ BOAS.--Anthropologist. German, living in America. Has made
investigations among Eskimo and Indians. Is now connected with the
American Museum of Natural History, New York.
JOHN WESLEY POWELL.--Teacher, soldier, explorer, scientist.
Conducted the first exploration of the Colorado River Canon;
Director of the U. S. Geological Survey and of the Bureau of
American Ethnology. Has written many papers: among them _Indian
Linguistic Families of America North of Mexico_.
II. HOUSES.
The houses of Indians vary greatly. In some tribes they are large and
intended for several families; in others they are small, and occupied by
few persons. Some are admirably constructed, like the great Pueblo houses
of the southwest, made of stone and adobe mud; others are frail structures
of brush and thatch. The material naturally varies with the district.
[Illustration.]
Iroquois Long House. (After Morgan.)
An interesting house was the "long house" of the Iroquois. From fifty to
one hundred or more feet in length and perhaps not more than fifteen in
width, it was of a long rectangular form. It consisted of a light
framework of | 638.012372 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: HE THREW HIMSELF UPON THE GROUND. _See page 136_]
ROGER DAVIS
LOYALIST
BY
FRANK BAIRD
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS
Toronto
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY LIMITED
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE OUTBREAK
II. AMONG ENEMIES
III. MADE PRISONER
IV. PRISON EXPERIENCES
V. THE TRIAL AND ESCAPE
VI. KING OR PEOPLE?
VII. THE DIE CAST
VIII. OFF TO NOVA SCOTIA
IX. IN THE 'TRUE NORTH'
X. THE TREATY
XI. HOME-MAKING BEGUN
XII. FACING THE FUTURE
XIII. THE GOVERNOR'S PERIL
XIV. VICTORY AND REWARD
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
HE THREW HIMSELF UPON THE GROUND......... _Frontispiece_
SHE MOTIONED ME TO MY FATHER'S EMPTY CHAIR
'THAT MAN,' I SAID, TURNING AND FACING THE 'COLONEL,'
WHO SAT PALE AND SHIVERING
'THIS IS NOVA SCOTIA,' HE SAID, POINTING TO THE MAP
Roger Davis, Loyalist
Chapter I
The Outbreak
It was Duncan Hale, the schoolmaster, who first brought us the news.
When he was half-way from the gate to the house, my mother met him. He
bowed very low to her, and then, standing with his head uncovered--from
my position in the hall--I heard him distinctly say, 'Your husband,
madam, has been killed, and the British who went out to Lexington under
Lord Percy have been forced to retreat into Boston, with a loss of two
hundred and seventy-three officers and men.'
The schoolmaster bowed again, one of those fine, sweeping, old-world
bows which he had lately been teaching me with some impatience, I
thought; then without further speech he moved toward the little gate.
But I had caught a look of keen anxiety on his face as he addressed my
mother. Once outside the garden, he stooped forward, and, breaking
into a run, crouching as he went as though afraid of being seen, he
soon disappeared around a turn in the road.
My mother stood without speaking or moving for some moments. The birds
in the blossom-shrouded trees of the garden were shrieking and
chattering in the flood of April sunlight; I felt a draught of perfumed
air draw into the hall. Then a mist that had been heavy all the
morning on the Charles River, suddenly faded into the blue, and I could
see clearly over to Boston, three miles away.
I shall not soon forget the look on my mother's face as she turned and
came toward me. I have wondered since if it were not born of a high
resolve then made, to be put into effect later. She was not in tears
as I thought she would be. There were no signs of grief on her face,
but instead her whole countenance seemed illuminated with a strangely
noble look. I was puzzled at this; but when I remembered that my
mother was the daughter of an English officer who was killed while
serving under Wolfe at Quebec, I understood.
In a firm voice she repeated to me the words I had already heard, then
she passed up the stairs. In a few moments I heard her telling my two
sisters Caroline and Elizabeth--they were both younger than
myself--that it was time to get up. After that I heard my mother go to
her own room and shut the door. In the silence that followed this I
fell to thinking.
Was my father really dead? Could it be that the British had been
repulsed? Duncan Hale had been telling me for weeks that war was
coming, but I had not thought his prophecy would be fulfilled. Now I
understood why he had come so often to visit my father; and why, during
the past month, he had seemed so absent-minded in school. My
preparation for going to Oxford in the autumn, over which he had been
so enthusiastic, appeared to have been completely pushed out of his
mind. I had once overheard my father caution him to keep his visits to
Lord Percy strictly secret. I was wondering if the part he had played
might have any ill consequences for him and for us, when my mother's
footsteps sounded on the stairs. She came at once to where I had been
standing for some moments, caught me in her arms, and, without
speaking, held me close for a moment, and then pressed a kiss on my
forehead.
'Go, Roger,' she said, 'and find Peter and Dora. Bring them to the
library, and wait there till I come with your sisters.'
I was turning to obey, when I caught a | 638.138311 |
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Produced by Donald Cummings, Adrian Mastronardi, Martin
Pettit 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: |
| |
|Errors listed in the Errata have been corrected. |
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ON MR. SPENCER'S DATA OF ETHICS.
BY MALCOLM GUTHRIE,
AUTHOR OF
"ON MR. SPENCER'S FORMULA OF EVOLUTION," & "ON MR. SPENCER'S
UNIFICATION OF KNOWLEDGE."
LONDON:
THE MODERN PRESS,
13 AND 14, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
1884.
(_All rights reserved._)
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.--ETHICS AND THE UNIFICATION OF KNOWLEDGE.
THE PHILOSOPHICAL VIEW 1
CHAPTER II.--THE SCIENTIFIC VIEW OF THE EVOLUTION
OF ETHICS 27
CHAPTER III.--THE BIOLOGICAL VIEW OF ETHICS 36
CHAPTER IV.--THE SOCIOLOGICAL VIEW 56
CHAPTER V.--THE ETHICAL IMPERATIVE 63
CHAPTER VI.--SYSTEMS OF ETHICS 75
CHAPTER VII.--THE EVOLUTION OF FREE WILL 83
CHAPTER VIII.--EVOLUTION AND RELIGION 107
CHAPTER IX.--SUMMARY 120
PREFACE.
This volume completes the critical examination of Mr. Spencer's system
of Philosophy already pursued through two previous volumes entitled
respectively "On Mr. Spencer's Formula of Evolution," and "On Mr.
Spencer's Unification of Knowledge." The entire task has been undertaken
by a student for the use of students. It cannot be of much use to the
general reader, as it presumes and indeed requires a very intimate
knowledge of Mr. Spencer's works. For those who do not wish to enter
into detailed examination perhaps Chapter I. of the "Unification of
Knowledge" will afford a good epitome of the line of criticism; and this
may be followed, if desired, by a perusal of the "Formula of Evolution."
It is believed that the most serious piece of criticism against Mr.
Spencer's system will be found in the examination of his re-constructive
Biology in Chapter V. of the "Unification," and in the examination of
the origin of organic molecules commencing at page 30 of the "Formula
of Evolution." Evidently of the highest importance in a system of
philosophy conceived in the manner in which Mr. Spencer presents it,
this point of transition between the inorganic and the organic with its
dependent histories is of the very deepest fundamental interest, and
upon the question whether it is well or badly treated depends the
practical value of his philosophy as applied to human concerns.
In our opinion, whatever of worth there is in Mr. Spencer's works (and
there is very much), derives its value from _a posteriori_ grounds and
not from its _a priori_ reliance upon first principles, nor from its
place in a deductive system of cosmic philosophy. It has not fallen to
our lot, nor has it been our object, to appraise the separate or
incidental value of Mr. Spencer's works. Our view has been limited to
the single object of examining them in the mode in which he presents
them, as forming a connected system of philosophy. We have done so
because he sets forth his works to us in this light, and evidently if
they can be so accepted, it would be a gift to humanity of the highest
value, for it would lend cogency to every past and confer a guidance to
all future ages, forming a crowning glory to the intellectual
achievements of the human race.
It is therefore to this point that we address our examination, and in
no unfriendly spirit; for the object Mr. Spencer had in view was one
which appealed to every sentiment and every intellectual aspiration
within us. But we feel bound to say how sadly we have been disappointed.
We have found the object of our admiration to be like Nebuchadnezzar's
dream god, a thing apparently perfect and complete in configuration but
like the image compounded of iron and clay and precious stones
inevitably falling to pieces under the strain of sustained criticisms.
Mr. Spencer's philosophic conception was indeed imposing, and before its
magnificent proportions many have bowed down in sincere respect. But his
cosmical scheme when carefully examined proved to be constructed of
terms which had no fixed and definite meaning, which were in fact merely
symbols of symbolic conceptions, conceptions themselves symbolic because
they were not understood--and the moment we began to put them to use as
having definite values they landed us forthwith in alternative
contradictions! Then to effect cosmical evolution, which is a process of
imperceptible objective change, what was necessary, but to adopt a
system of imperceptible word changes, so that the imperceptible word
changes accompanying the imperceptible objective changes should lead us
in the end to the completed results, and the process of evolution should
thus be made comprehensible! In this manner over the spaces of an
enormous work have we been skilfully led by a master of language till we
find ourselves in imagination following out mentally the actual
processes of the universe. But after all it has only been a process, in
our own minds, of the skilful substitution of words!
Errors to be successful must be big and bold. Fallacies of reasoning are
detected on a medium scale, but when they are "writ large" it is
difficult to detect them. Trains of syllogisms are sometimes more
effective because they are vast than because they are true. Let them be
imposing in their language and grand in their proportions, we naturally
bow down to power, even if it is only power of largeness. When dealing
with Mr. Spencer's reasonings we feel a certain awe as if we were
contradicting the forces of the universe--seemingly allied to him. We
feel conscious of an impertinence in treating of such great matters,
dealt with in such a mighty sweep--disdainful of precision and
consistency. The transformations and evolutions of reasoning in Mr.
Spencer's works are no less wonderful than his treatment of words. The
mind is swept along by an indiscernable but mighty flow, and sometimes
after mysterious disappearances of consecutiveness between volumes or
chapters, we find ourselves landed in a satisfied but bewildered manner
at a conclusion about which we cannot but wonder however we arrived
there.
By such terms as equilibration, including the theory of the moving
equilibrium; by such terms as polarity plastic and coercive; and by
plausible similarities between modes of process, we are deluded into
supposing we understand the constructive progress of nature and are made
to feel happy and proud of our knowledge. A great self satisfaction
attends the student who believes himself rightly to understand the
universe. We are pleased with our teacher, and are still more pleased
with ourselves.
But the real difficulty appears when the necessity for exposition
arises. If one undertakes to explain, if one has to condense and
solidify for the purpose of teaching, if one wishes to make others
understand, and share the knowledge one has attained, then indeed our
difficulties commence. What seemed so grand and alluring to look at will
not stand the ordinary handling of scientific language and logical
statement as between man and man. The illusion vanishes, the system has
gone. In these remarks we speak only of Mr. Spencer's cosmical system.
Of the general value of this work as a philosopher we express no
opinion. In the estimation of competent thinkers it is very great.
Fiske, Youmans, Carveth Read, Ribot, Maudsley, Clifford, Sully, Grant
Allen, Gopinay, and others are all working on Spencerian lines, but we
do not understand that they accept the cosmical explanation of Mr.
Spencer. He marks not the age of complete accomplishment but the age of
transition. He has not grasped the solution of problems, but he has
shewn the direction of future studies. He has failed in his grand
endeavour, but he has shown what to aim at and has pointed the way. Much
of his detailed work has been good and effective, and therefore one
feels some compunction in writing of him so severely. Nevertheless a man
of such eminence must not be held sacred from criticism, but on the
contrary, just by reason of his eminence and consequent influence, must
his work be well examined before it is accepted and approved. This is
the task we have set ourselves and which may now be considered as
complete. We have approached the study without any prepossessions, and
we have endeavoured, while being very strict, to be perfectly fair and
honest in our presentations of Mr. Spencer's theories. Naturally the
work has been long and tedious, and where so many contradictory and
indistinct expressions of opinion are given it has been necessary to
deal largely in quotations. This has been done in justice both to
ourselves and to our author. If we have succeeded in bringing out the
main lines of thought for the future use of students we | 638.145162 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 23. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, April 6, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: JIM AND CHARLEY IN THE WOODS.]
A RABBIT DAY.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
"Jim," said Charley, "has that dog of yours gone crazy?"
"Old Nap? No. Why? What's the matter with him?"
"Just look at the way he's diving in and out among the trees. He'll run
full split right against one first thing he knows."
"No, he won't. He's after rabbits. We're'most to the swamp now, and Nap
knows what we've come for as well as we do."
There was no mistake but what he was a wonderfully busy dog just then.
It looked as if he was trying to be all around, everywhere, at the same
time; and every few moments he would give expression to his excitement
in a short sharp yelp.
"He means to tell us he'll stir one out in a minute," said Jim. "It's a
prime rabbit day."
"Are there more rabbits some days than there are others?"
"Easier to get 'em. You see, there came a thaw, and the old snow got
settled down, and a good hard crust froze on top of it; then there was a
little snow last night, and the rabbits'll leave their tracks in that
when they come out for a run on the crust. Old Nap knows. See him; he'll
have one out in a minute."
"Is this the swamp?" asked Charley.
"All that level ahead of us. In spring, and in summer too, unless it's a
dry season, there's water everywhere among the trees and bushes; but
it's frozen hard now."
"What is there beyond?"
"Nothing but mountains, 'way back into the Adirondacks. We'd better load
up, Charley."
"Why, are not the guns loaded?"
"No. Father never lets a loaded gun come into the house. Aunt Sally
won't either. Shall I load your gun for you?"
"Load my gun! Well, I guess not. As if I couldn't load my own gun!"
Charley set himself to work at once, for the movements of old Nap were
getting more and more eager and rapid, and there was no telling what
might happen.
But Charley had never loaded a gun before in all his life. Still, it was
a very simple piece of business, and he knew all about it. He had read
of it and heard it talked of ever so many times, and there was Jim
loading his own gun within ten feet, just as if he meant to show how it
should be done. He could imitate Jim, at all events; and so he thought
he did, to the smallest item; and he hurried to get through as quickly,
for it would not do to be beaten by a country boy. And then, too, there
was old Napoleon Bonaparte--that is to say Nap--beginning to yelp like
mad.
They were just on the edge of the swamp, and it was, as Jim said, "a
great place for rabbits."
"He's after one! There he comes!"
"Where? Where? I see him! Oh, what a big one!"
Bang!
Charley had been gazing, open-mouthed, at the rapid leaps of that
frightened white rabbit, and wondering if he would ever sit down long
enough to be shot at, with that dog less than half a dozen rods behind
him.
He was in a tremendous hurry, that rabbit, and he would hardly have
"taken a seat" if one had been offered him; but he was down now, for Jim
had not only fired at him--he had hit him.
"One for me. I meant to let you have the first shot. Never mind; you
take the next one. Keep your eyes out. He may be along before I'm
loaded."
Old Nap's interest in a rabbit seemed to cease the moment it was killed,
for he was now ranging the bushes at quite a distance.
"Here comes one. Quick, Charley! He's stopped to listen for the dog."
So he had, like a very unwise rabbit, and was perking up his long ears
within quite easy range of Charley's gun as he levelled it.
"Cock it! cock it!" shouted Jim. "Cock your gun!"
"Oh, I forgot that."
But he knew how; and when he once more lifted his gun, and pulled the
triggers, one after the other, they came down handsomely.
"Only snapped your caps?" said Jim. "I never knew that gun to miss fire
before. He | 638.437362 |
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<pb id='001.png' n='1959_h1/A/0715' />
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to both the original and the renewal registration is included in each entry.
References from the names of renewal claimants, joint authors, editors, etc.
and from variant forms of names are interfiled.
A.M.O.R.C. SEE Ancient & Mystical
Order Rosae Crucis.
ABBOTT, JANE.
Silver fountain. © 11May32;
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R236686.
ABBOTT, MATHER A., ed. SEE
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A43985. West Pub. Co. & Lawyers
Co-operative Pub. Co. (PWH);
7Jan59; R228344.
ABDRUSCHIN, pseud. SEE Bernhardt,
Oscar Ernst.
ABDULLAH, ACHMED | 638.541071 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)
The American Missionary
(QUARTERLY)
APRIL }
MAY } 1900
JUNE }
VOL. LIV.
No. 2.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AVERY NORMAL INSTITUTE, CHARLESTON, S. C.]
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE AMERICAN MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION,
THE CONGREGATIONAL ROOMS,
FOURTH AVENUE AND TWENTY-SECOND STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
Price 50 Cents a Year in advance.
Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second-Class mail
matter.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
PAGE
FINANCIAL--SIX MONTHS 49
A WORD AS TO THE MAGAZINE 49
FIFTY-FOURTH ANNUAL MEETING 51
TILLOTSON COLLEGE, AUSTIN, TEXAS (Illustrated) 52
AVERY NORMAL INSTITUTE, CHARLESTON, S. C. (Illustrated) 61
SOUTHERN FIELD NOTES 67
BITS OF EXPERIENCE IN THE INDIAN COUNTRY 69
CHRISTIAN ENDEAVORS OF A HIGHLAND SCHOOL AND VILLAGE (Illustrated) 72
OBITUARIES--MRS. MARY T. CHASE 74
MISS SUSIE T. CATHCART 75
A SUGGESTIVE SUBSCRIPTION 75
RECEIPTS 76
WOMAN'S STATE ORGANIZATIONS 94
SECRETARIES OF YOUNG PEOPLE'S AND CHILDREN'S WORK 96
* * * * *
THE 54th ANNUAL MEETING
OF THE
American Missionary Association
WILL BE HELD IN
SPRINGFIELD, MASS.
October 23-25, 1900.
* * * * *
The AMERICAN MISSIONARY presents new form, fresh material and
generous illustrations for 1900. This magazine is published by the
American Missionary Association quarterly. Subscription rate fifty
cents per year.
Many wonderful missionary developments in our own country during
this stirring period of national enlargement are recorded in the
columns of this magazine.
* * * * *
THE AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
VOL. LIV. APRIL, 1900. No. 2.
* * * * *
FINANCIAL--SIX MONTHS.
The first six months of the present fiscal year of the American
Missionary Association closed March 31st. The receipts are
$18,961.74 more than for the same period last year. The increase in
donations is $10,699, and in estates $6,433.24, exclusive of the
reserve legacy account. The tuition and similar receipts are
$1,829.49 more than last year. This is a favorable and encouraging
showing. We gratefully acknowledge the generosity of the friends of
the great missionary work carried on by this Association, as evident
in their increased donations.
The payments during this period have been $17,595 more than for the
same months last year. The net balance, exclusive of the reserve
legacy account, is $1,366.74 more favorable than that for the first
six months of last year. The increase in current receipts has been
expended in the mission fields which have been so greatly crippled
by the enforced retrenchments during recent years.
The Association rejoices in its freedom from debt and in the
favorable showing for these first six months. The next six months
include the | 638.634677 |
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Produced by MFR, Adrian Mastronardi, The Philatelic Digital
Library Project at http://www.tpdlp.net 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: Punctuation and typographical errors have been
corrected without note. A list of the more substantial amendments made to
the text appears at the end.
[Illustration: “The primary step in connection with second-class mail
is taken in the forests of the American continent.”--_Senator J. P.
Dolliver._]
Postal Riders and Raiders
_Are we fools? If we are not fools, why then continue to
act foolishly, thus inviting railroad, express company
and postoffice officials to treat
us as if we were fools?_
By The Man On The Ladder
(W. H. GANTZ)
Issued By The Independent Postal League
CHICAGO, U. S. A.
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY THE AUTHOR
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Price $1.50, Prepaid to Any Address.
Independent Postal League,
No. 5037 Indiana Ave.,
Chicago
FOREWORD TO THE READER.
The mud-sills of this book are hewn from the presupposition that the
person who reads it has not only the essentially necessary equipment to
do his own thinking, but also a more or less practiced habit of doing it.
It is upon such foundation the superstructure of this volume was built.
It is written in the hope of promoting, or provoking, thought on certain
subjects, along certain lines--not to create or school thinkers. So, if
the reader lacks the necessary cranial furnishing to do his own thinking,
or, if having that, he has a cultivated habit of letting other people do
his hard thinking and an ingrown desire to let them continue doing so,
such reader may as well stop at this period. In fact, he would better
do so. The man who has his thinking done by proxy is possibly as happy
and comfortable on a siding as he would be anywhere--as he is capable
of being. I have no desire to disturb his state or condition of static
felicity. Besides, such a man might “run wild” or otherwise interfere
with the traffic if switched onto the main line.
Emerson has somewheres said, “Beware when God turns a thinker loose in
the world.” Of course Emerson cautioned about constructive and fighting
thinkers, not thinkers who think they know because somebody told them so,
or who think they have thought till they know all about some unknowable
thing--the ratio of the diameter to the circumference of the circle, how
to construct two hills without a valley between, to build a bunghole
bigger than the barrel, and the like.
There are thinkers and thinkers. Emerson had the distinction between
them clearly in mind no doubt when he wrote that quoted warning. So,
also, has the thinking reader. It is for him this volume is planned;
to him its arguments and statements of fact are intended to appeal.
Its chapters have been hurriedly written--some of them written under
conditions of physical distress. The attempts at humor may be attempts
only; the irony may be misplaced or misapplied; the spade-is-a-spade
style may be blunt, harsh or even coarse to the point of offensiveness.
Still, if its reading provokes or otherwise induces thought, the purpose
of its writing, at least in some degree, will have been attained. It is
not asked that the reader agree with the conclusions of the text. If he
read the facts stated and thinks--_thinks for himself_--he will reach
right conclusions. The facts are of easy comprehension. It requires no
superior academic knowledge nor experience of years to understand them
and their significance--their lesson.
Just read and think. Do not let any “official” noise nor breakfast-food
rhetoric so syncopate and segregate your thought as to derail it from
the main line of facts. Lofty, persuasive eloquence is often but the
attractive drapery of planned falsehood, and the beautifully rounded
period is often but a “steer” for an ulterior motive--a “tout” for a
marked-card game. Do not be a “come-on” for any verbal psychic work
or worker. Just stubbornly persist in doing your own thinking, ever
remembering that in this vale of tears, “Plain hoss sense’ll pull you
through when ther’s nothin’ else’ll do.”
As a thinker, you will now have lots of company, and they are still
coming in droves. Respectable company, too. Mr. Roosevelt suddenly
_arrived_ a few days since at Columbus, Ohio. Then there is Mr. Carnegie
and Judge Gary. The senior Mr. Rockefeller, also, has announced, through
a representative, that he is on the way. These latter, of course, have
been thinkers for many years--thinkers on personal service lines chiefly,
it has been numerously asserted. Now, however, if press accounts are
true, they have begun to think, a little at least, about the general
welfare, about the common good--about the other fellow.
Whether this change in mental effort and direction, if change it be, has
followed upon a more careful study of conditions which have so long,
so wastefully, or ruthlessly and viciously governed, or results from
the fact that the advancing years have brought these gentlemen so near
Jericho that they see a gleam of the clearer light and occasionally hear
the “rustle of a wing,” I do not know. Nor need one know nor care. That
they come to join the rapidly-growing company of thinkers is sufficient.
CHICAGO, March 1, 1912.
Postal Riders and Raiders
CHAPTER I.
MAL-ADMINISTRATION RUN RIOT.
This is nice winter weather. However, as The Man on the Ladder was born
some distance prior to the week before last, there’s a tang and chill
in the breezes up here about the ladder top which makes the temperature
decidedly less congenial than is the atmosphere in the editorial rooms of
my publisher.
But, say, the view from this elevation is mighty interesting. The
mobilization of the United States soldiery far to the Southwest; the
breaking up of corrals and herds to the West; the starting of activities
about mining camps in the West and Northwest; the lumber jacks and teams
in the spruce forests of the north are indeed inspiring things to look
upon; and over the eastern horizon, there in the lumber sections of New
England and to the Southeast, in the soft maple, the cottonwood and
basswood districts, the people appear to be industriously and happily
active; away to the South----
Say! What’s that excitement over there at Washington, D. C.?
“Hello, Central! Hello! Yes, this is The Man on the Ladder.”
“Get me Washington, D. C., on the L.-D. in a hurry--and get Congressman
Blank on that end of the wire. The House is in session, and certainly he
ought to be found in not more than five minutes.”
It is something unusually gratifying to see that activity about that
sleepy group of capitol buildings--the “House of Dollars,” the house of
the _hoi polloi_, and the White House--a scene that will linger in the
freshness and fragrance of my remembrance until the faculty of memory
fades away. There are messengers and pages flitting about from house to
house as if the prairies were afire behind them. Excited Congressmen are
in heated discourse on the esplanade, on the capitol steps and in the
corridors and cloak rooms. And there are numerous groups of Senators,
each a kingly specimen of what might be a _real man_ if there was not so
much pickled dignity oozing from his stilted countenance and pose. There
now go four of them to the White House, probably to see the President,
our smiling William. I wonder what they are after. I wonder----
“Yes, yes! Hello! Is that you, Congressman Jim?” “Yes? What can I do for
you?”
“Well, this is The Man on the Ladder, Jim, and I want to know in the
name of heaven--any other spot you can think of quickly will do as
well--what’s the occasion and cause for all that external excitement and
activity I see around the capitol building? There must be a superthermic
atmosphere inside both the Senate and House to drive so many of our
statesmen to the open air and jolt them into a quickstep in their
movements. Now go on and tell, and tell me straight.”
Well, Well! If I did not know my Congressman friend so well, I would
scarcely be persuaded to believe what he has just phoned me.
It appears that a _conspiracy_--yes, I mean just that--a conspiracy has
been entered into between our Chief Executive, a coterie of Senators,
possibly a Congressman or two and a numerous gang of corporate and vested
interests, cappers and beneficiaries, to penalize various independent
weekly and monthly periodicals. Penalize is what I said. But that word
is by no means strong enough. The intent of the conspirators was--and
_is--to put certain periodicals out of business and to establish a press
censorship in the person of the Postmaster General as will enable him to
put any periodical out of existence which does not print what it is told
to publish_.
It would seem that when the Postoffice appropriation bill left the House,
where all revenue measures must originate, it was a fairly clean bill,
carrying some $258,000,000 of the people’s money _for the legitimate
service of the people_. Of course it carried many service excesses,
just as it has carried in each of the past thirty or forty years, and
several of those _looting_ excesses so conspicuous in every one of the
immediately past fifteen years.
But otherwise, it may be stated, the House approval carried this
bill to the Senate in its usual normal cleanliness. It was referred
to the Senate Committee on Postoffices and Postroads, the members of
which, _after conference with the President_, annexed to it an alleged
_revenue-producing_ “rider.”
This rider I will later on discuss for the information of my readers.
Here I desire only to call the reader’s attention to the fact that under
the Constitution of the United States the United States Senate has no
more right or authority to originate legislation for producing federal
revenues than has the Hamilton Club of Chicago or the Golf Club at Possum
Run, Kentucky. But the conspirators--I still use the milder term, though
I feel like telling the truth, which could be expressed only by some term
that would class their action as that of _assassinating education_ in
this country. These conspirators, I say, did not hesitate to exceed and
violate their constitutional obligations and prerogatives. They added a
revenue-producing “rider” to House resolution 31,539. The rider was to
raise certain kinds of second-class matter from a one-cent per pound rate
to a four-cent per pound rate. Not only that, but they managed to induce
Postmaster General Hitchcock to push into the Senate several _ulterior
motive_ reports and letters to boost the outlawry to successful passage.
But, more of this later.
My friend Congressman Jim has just informed me that the conspirators were
beginning to fear their ability even to get their “rider” to the post for
a start; that many members and representatives of the Periodical Press
Association of New York City, as well as those of other branches of the
printing industry, hearing of the attempt to put this confiscatory rider
over in the closing hours--the crooked hours--of Congress, hurried to
Washington and sought to inform Senators and members of the House of the
_truth about second-class mail matter_. Congressman Jim also informed me
that a delegation representing the publishing interests of Chicago had
arrived a few hours before and were scarcely on the ground before “things
began to happen.” “People talk about Chicagoans making a noise,” said Jim
in his L.-D. message, “but when it comes to doing things you can count on
them to go to it suddenly, squarely and effectively. That delegation is
one of the causes of the excitement which you notice here. Good-by.”
Friend Jim, being a Chicago boy, may be pardoned even when a little
profuse or over-confident in speaking of what his townsmen can do,
but Congressman Jim is a live-wire Congressman, and has been able to
do several things himself while on his legislative job, even against
stacked-up opposition.
While reporting on Congressman Jim’s message from Washington, I phoned
the leading features to the office and have just received peremptory
orders to write up not only this attempt but other attempts to raid the
postal revenues of the country by means of crooked riders and otherwise.
So there is nothing to do but go to it.
Incidentally, my editor, knowing my tendency to write with a club,
cautions me to adopt the dignified style of composition while writing
upon this subject. I assure my readers that I shall be as dignified as
the heritage of my nature will allow and the subject warrants. If I
occasionally fall from the expected dignified altitude I trust the reader
will be indulgent, will charge the fault, in part at least, to my remote
Alsatian ancestor. He fought with a club. I have therefore an inherited
tendency to write (fight), with a club. So here goes.
In opening on this important subject, for vastly important it is from
whatever angle one views it, I wish first to speak of the governmental
postoffice department and then of Postmaster Generals.
First I will say that this government has not had, at least within
the range of my mature recollection, any business management of its
postoffice department above the level of that given to Reuben’s country
store of Reubenville, Arkansas.
The second fact I desire to put forward is that since the days of
Benjamin Franklin there have been but few, a possible three or four,
Postmaster Generals who had any qualifications whatsoever, business
or other, to direct the management of so large a business as that
comprehended in the federal postal service. Not only are the chiefs,
the Postmaster Generals, largely or wholly lacking in business and
executive ability to manage so large an industrial and public service,
but their chosen assistants (Second, Third and on up to the Fourth or
Fifth “Assistant Postmaster Generals”), have been and _are_ likewise
lacking in most or _all_ of the essential qualifications fundamentally
necessary to the management and direction of large industrial or service
business enterprises. I venture to say that none of them have read, and
few of them even heard of, the splendid book written by Mr. Frederick
W. Taylor explaining, really giving the A, B, C of the “Science of
Business Management,” which for several years has been so beneficial in
the business and industrial methods in this country as almost to have
worked an economic revolution. I equally doubt if they have even read the
series of articles in one of the monthly periodicals, which Postmaster
General Hitchcock and his coterie of conspirators tried to stab in the
back with that Senate “rider” on the postoffice appropriation bill. Yet
Mr. Taylor wrote these articles, and Mr. Taylor must _know_ a great deal
about economic, scientific business management. _He must know_, otherwise
the Steel Corporation, the great packing concerns, several railroads,
the Yale and Towne Manufacturing Company, the Link Belt Company and
a number of other large concerns, as well as the trained editors of
several engineering and industrial journals, would not have so generally,
likewise profitably, adopted and approved his recommendations and
directions.
Yet while most of these “Assistant Postmaster Generals” and _their_
subassistants have been glaringly--yes, discouragingly--incompetent
to manage and direct the work of their divisions, some of them have
shown an elegance of aptitude, a finished adroitness in using their
official positions to misappropriate, _likewise to appropriate to their
own coffers_, the funds and revenues of the Postoffice Department.
Reference needs only to be made to the grace and deftness displayed by
August W. Machen, George W. Beavers and their copartners. The one was
Superintendent of Free Delivery, the other Superintendent of Salaries
and Allowances, and the way they, for several years, made the postoffice
funds and revenues “come across” beat any get-rich-quick concern about
forty rods in any mile heat that was reported in the sporting columns of
the daily press.
General Leonard Wood, Congressman Loud and a few other reputable
officials induced President Roosevelt to institute an investigation. The
investigation was made under the direction of Joseph L. Bristow. Then
things were uncovered; that is, some things were uncovered. In speaking
of the nastiness disclosed William Allen White in 1904 wrote, in part, as
follows:
“Most of the Congressmen knew there was something wrong in Beaver’s
department; and Beaver knew of their suspicions; so Congressmen generally
got from him what they _went after_, and the crookedness thrived.
“When it was stopped by President Roosevelt, this crookedness was so
far-reaching that when a citizen went to the postoffice to buy a stamp
the cash register which gave him his change was full of graft, the | 638.734763 |
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Produced by Dagny; John Bickers
DONA PERFECTA
by B. PEREZ GALDOS
Translated from the Spanish by Mary J. Serrano
INTRODUCTION
The very acute and lively Spanish critic who signs himself Clarin, and
is known personally as Don Leopoldo Alas, says the present Spanish novel
has no yesterday, but only a day-before-yesterday. It does not derive
from the romantic novel which immediately preceded that: the novel,
large or little, as it was with Cervantes, Hurtado de Mendoza, Quevedo,
and the masters of picaresque fiction.
Clarin dates its renascence from the political revolution of 1868,
which gave Spanish literature the freedom necessary to the fiction that
studies to reflect modern life, actual ideas, and current aspirations;
and though its authors were few at first, "they have never been
adventurous spirits, friends of Utopia, revolutionists, or impatient
progressists and reformers." He thinks that the most daring, the most
advanced, of the new Spanish novelists, and the best by far, is Don
Benito Perez Galdos.
I should myself have made my little exception in favor of Don Armando
Palacio Valdes, but Clarin speaks with infinitely more authority, and I
am certainly ready to submit when he goes on to say that Galdos is not
a social or literary insurgent; that he has no political or religious
prejudices; that he shuns extremes, and is charmed with prudence;
that his novels do not attack the Catholic dogmas--though they deal so
severely with Catholic bigotry--but the customs and ideas cherished
by secular fanaticism to the injury of the Church. Because this is
so evident, our critic holds, his novels are "found in the bosom of
families in every corner of Spain." Their popularity among all classes
in Catholic and prejudiced Spain, and not among free-thinking students
merely, bears testimony to the fact that his aim and motive are
understood and appreciated, although his stories are apparently so often
anti-Catholic.
I
Dona Perfecta is, first of all, a story, and a great story, but it is
certainly also a story that must appear at times potently, and even
bitterly, anti-Catholic. Yet it would be a pity and an error to read it
with the preoccupation that it was an anti-Catholic tract, for really it
is not that. If the persons were changed in name and place, and
modified in passion to fit a cooler air, it might equally seem an
anti-Presbyterian or anti-Baptist tract; for what it shows in the light
of their own hatefulness and cruelty are perversions of any religion,
any creed. It is not, however, a tract at all; it deals in artistic
largeness with the passion of bigotry, as it deals with the passion of
love, the passion of ambition, the passion of revenge. But Galdos
is Spanish and Catholic, and for him the bigotry wears a Spanish and
Catholic face. That is all.
Up to a certain time, I believe, Galdos wrote romantic or idealistic
novels, and one of these I have read, and it tired me very much. It was
called "Marianela," and it surprised me the more because I was already
acquainted with his later work, which is all realistic. But one does not
turn realist in a single night, and although the change in Galdos was
rapid it was not quite a lightning change; perhaps because it was
not merely an outward change, but artistically a change of heart. His
acceptance in his quality of realist was much more instant than his
conversion, and vastly wider; for we are told by the critic whom I have
been quoting that Galdos's earlier efforts, which he called _Episodios
Nacionales_, never had the vogue which his realistic novels have
enjoyed.
These were, indeed, tendencious, if I may Anglicize a very necessary
word from the Spanish _tendencioso_. That is, they dealt with very
obvious problems, and had very distinct and poignant significations,
at least in the case of "Dona Perfecta," "Leon Roch," and "Gloria." In
still later novels, Emilia Pardo-Bazan thinks, he has comprehended that
"the novel of to-day must take note of the ambient truth, and realize
the beautiful with freedom and independence." This valiant lady, in
the campaign for realism which she made under the title of "La Cuestion
Palpitante"--one of the best and strongest books on the subject--counts
him first among Spanish realists, as Clarin counts him first among
Spanish novelists. "With a certain fundamental humanity," she says,
"a certain magisterial simplicity in his creations, with the natural
tendency of his clear intelligence toward the truth, and with the
frankness of his observation, the great novelist was always disposed
to pass over to realism with arms and munitions; but his aesthetic
inclinations were idealistic, and only in his latest works has he
adopted the method of the modern novel, fathomed more and more the human
heart, and broken once for all with the picturesque and with the typical
personages, to embrace the earth we tread."
For her, as I confess for me, "Dona Perfecta" is not realistic
enough--realistic as it is; for realism at its best is not tendencious.
It does not seek to grapple with human problems, but is richly content
with portraying human experiences; and I think Senora Pardo-Bazan is
right in regarding "Dona Perfecta" as transitional, and of a period when
the author had not yet assimilated in its fullest meaning the faith he
had imbibed.
II
Yet it is a great novel, as I said; and perhaps because it is
transitional it will please the greater number who never really arrive
anywhere, and who like to find themselves in good company _en route_. It
is so far like life that it is full of significations which pass beyond
the persons and actions involved, and envelop the reader, as if he too
were a character of the book, or rather as if its persons were men
and women of this thinking, feeling, and breathing world, and he must
recognize their experiences as veritable facts. From the first moment
to the last it is like some passage of actual events in which you cannot
withhold your compassion, your abhorrence, your admiration, any more
than if they took place within your personal knowledge. Where they
transcend all facts of your personal knowledge, you do not accuse them
of improbability, for you feel their potentiality in yourself, and
easily account for them in the alien circumstance. I am not saying that
the story has no faults; it has several. There are tags of romanticism
fluttering about it here and there; and at times the author permits
himself certain old-fashioned literary airs and poses and artifices,
which you simply wonder at. It is in spite of these, and with all these
defects, that it is so great and beautiful a book.
III
What seems to be so very admirable in the management of the story is the
author's success in keeping his own counsel. This may seem a very
easy thing; but, if the reader will think over the novelists of his
acquaintance, he will find that it is at least very uncommon. They
mostly give themselves away almost from the beginning, either by their
anxiety to hide what is coming, or their vanity in hinting what great
things they have in store for the reader. Galdos does neither the one
nor the other. He makes it his business to tell the story as it grows;
to let the characters unfold themselves in speech and action; to permit
the events to happen unheralded. He does not prophesy their course, he
does not forecast the weather even for twenty-four hours; the atmosphere
becomes slowly, slowly, but with occasional lifts and reliefs, of such a
brooding breathlessness, of such a deepening density, that you feel the
wild passion-storm nearer and nearer at hand, till it bursts at last;
and then you are astonished that you had not foreseen it yourself from
the first moment.
Next to this excellent method, which I count the supreme characteristic
of the book merely because it represents the whole, and the other
facts are in the nature of parts, is the masterly conception of the
characters. They are each typical of a certain side of human nature,
as most of our personal friends and enemies are; but not exclusively of
this side or that. They are each of mixed motives, mixed qualities; none
of them is quite a monster; though those who are badly mixed do such
monstrous things.
Pepe Rey, who is such a good fellow--so kind, and brave, and upright,
and generous, so fine a mind, and so high a soul--is tactless and
imprudent; he even condescends to the thought of intrigue; and though
he rejects his plots at last, his nature has once harbored deceit. Don
Inocencio, the priest, whose control of Dona Perfecta's conscience has
vitiated the very springs of goodness in her, is by no means bad, aside
from his purposes. He loves his sister and her son tenderly, and wishes
to provide for them by the marriage which Pepe's presence threatens to
prevent. The nephew, though selfish and little, has moments of almost
being a good fellow; the sister, though she is really such a lamb of
meekness, becomes a cat, and scratches Don Inocencio dreadfully when he
weakens in his design against Pepe.
Rosario, one of the sweetest and purest images of girlhood that I know
in fiction, abandons herself with equal passion to the love she feels
for her cousin Pepe, and to the love she feels for her mother, Dona
Perfecta. She is ready to fly with him, and yet she betrays him to her
mother's pitiless hate.
But it is Dona Perfecta herself who is the transcendent figure, the
most powerful creation of the book. In her, bigotry and its fellow-vice,
hypocrisy, have done their perfect work, until she comes near to being
a devil, and really does some devil's deeds. Yet even she is not without
some extenuating traits. Her bigotry springs from her conscience, and
she is truly devoted to her daughter's eternal welfare; she is of such
a native frankness that at a certain point she tears aside her mask of
dissimulation and lets Pepe see all the ugliness of her perverted soul.
She is wonderfully managed. At what moment does she begin to hate him,
and to wish to undo her own work in making a match between him and
her daughter? I could defy anyone to say. All one knows is that at one
moment she adores her brother's son, and at another she abhors him, and
has already subtly entered upon her efforts to thwart the affection she
has invited in him for her daughter.
Caballuco, what shall I say of Caballuco? He seems altogether bad, but
the author lets one imagine that this cruel, this ruthless brute must
have somewhere about him traits of lovableness, of leniency, though
he never lets one see them. His gratitude to Dona Perfecta, even his
murderous devotion, is not altogether bad; and he is certainly worse
than nature made him, when wrought upon by her fury and the suggestion
of Don Inocencio. The scene where they work him up to rebellion and
assassination is a compendium of the history of intolerance; as the
mean little conceited city of Orbajosas is the microcosm of bigoted and
reactionary Spain.
IV
I have called, or half-called, this book tendencious; but in a certain
larger view it is not so. It is the eternal interest of passion working
upon passion, not the temporary interest of condition antagonizing
condition, which renders "Dona Perfecta" so poignantly interesting, and
which makes its tragedy immense. But there is hope as well as despair in
such a tragedy. There is the strange support of a bereavement in it,
the consolation of feeling that for those who have suffered unto death,
nothing can harm them more; that even for those who have inflicted their
suffering this peace will soon come.
"Is Perez Galdos a pessimist?" asks the critic Clarin. "No, certainly;
but if he is not, why does he paint us sorrows that seem inconsolable?
Is it from love of paradox? Is it to show that his genius, which can do
so much, can paint the shadow lovelier than the light? Nothing of this.
Nothing that is not serious, honest, and noble, is to be found in this
novelist. Are they pessimistic, those ballads of the North, that always
end with vague resonances of woe? Are they pessimists, those singers of
our own land, who surprise us with tears in the midst of laughter? Is
Nature pessimistic, who is so sad at nightfall that it seems as if day
were dying forever?... The sadness of art, like that of nature, is
a form of hope. Why is Christianity so artistic? Because it is the
religion of sadness."
W. D. HOWELLS.
DONA PERFECTA
CHAPTER I
VILLAHORRENDA! FIVE MINUTES!
When the down train No. 65--of what line it is unnecessary to
say--stopped at the little station between kilometres 171 and 172,
almost all the second-and third-class passengers remained in the cars,
yawning or asleep, for the penetrating cold of the early morning did
not invite to a walk on the unsheltered platform. The only first-class
passenger on the train alighted quickly, and addressing a group of the
employes asked them if this was the Villahorrenda station.
"We are in Villahorrenda," answered the conductor whose voice was
drowned by the cackling of the hens which were at that moment being
lifted into the freight car. "I forgot to call you, Senor de Rey. I
think they are waiting for you at the station with the beasts."
"Why, how terribly cold it is here!" said the traveller, drawing his
cloak more closely about him. "Is there no place in the station where
I could rest for a while, and get warm, before undertaking a journey on
horseback through this frozen country?"
Before he had finished speaking the conductor, called away by the
urgent duties of his position, went off, leaving our unknown cavalier's
question unanswered. The latter saw that another employe was coming
toward him, holding a lantern in his right hand, that swung back and
forth as he walked, casting the light on the platform of the station
in a series of zigzags, like those described by the shower from a
watering-pot.
"Is there a restaurant or a bedroom in the station of Villahorrenda?"
said the traveller to the man with the lantern.
"There is nothing here," answered the latter brusquely, running toward
the men who were putting the freight on board the cars, and assuaging
them with such a volley of oaths, blasphemies, and abusive epithets that
the very chickens, scandalized by his brutality, protested against it
from their baskets.
"The best thing I can do is to get away from this place as quickly as
possible," said the gentlemen to himself. "The conductor said that the
beasts were here."
Just as he had come to this conclusion he felt a thin hand pulling him
gently and respectfully by the cloak. He turned round and saw a figure
enveloped in a gray cloak, and out of whose voluminous folds peeped the
shrivelled and astute countenance of a Castilian peasant. He looked at
the ungainly figure, which reminded one of the black poplar among trees;
he observed the shrewd eyes that shone from beneath the wide brim of the
old velvet hat; the sinewy brown hand that grasped a green switch, and
the broad foot that, with every movement, made the iron spur jingle.
"Are you Senor Don Jose de Rey?" asked the peasant, raising his hand to
his hat.
"Yes; and you, I take it," answered the traveller joyfully, "are Dona
Perfecta's servant, who have come to the station to meet me and show me
the way to Orbajosa?"
"The same. Whenever you are ready to start. The pony runs like the
wind. And Senor Don Jose, I am sure, is a good rider. For what comes by
race--"
"Which is the way out?" asked the traveller, with impatience. "Come, let
us start, senor--What is your name?"
"My name is Pedro Lucas," answered the man of the gray cloak, again
making a motion to take off his hat; "but they call me Uncle Licurgo.
Where is the young gentleman's baggage?"
"There it is--there under the cloak. There are three pieces--two
portmanteaus and a box of books for Senor Don Cayetano. Here is the
check."
A moment later cavalier and squire found themselves behind the barracks
called a depot, and facing a road which, starting at this point,
disappeared among the neighboring hills, on whose naked <DW72>s could be
vaguely distinguished the miserable hamlet of Villahorrenda. There were
three animals to carry the men and the luggage. A not ill-looking nag
was destined for the cavalier; Uncle Licurgo was to ride a venerable
hack, somewhat loose in the joints, but sure-footed; and the mule, which
was to be led by a stout country boy of active limbs and fiery blood,
was to carry the luggage.
Before the caravan had put itself in motion the train had started, and
was now creeping along the road with the lazy deliberation of a way
train, awakening, as it receded in the distance, deep subterranean
echoes. As it entered the tunnel at kilometre 172, the steam issued from
the steam whistle with a shriek that resounded through the air. From the
dark mouth of the tunnel came volumes of whitish smoke, a succession of
shrill screams like the blasts of a trumpet followed, and at the sound
of its stentorian voice villages, towns, the whole surrounding country
awoke. Here a cock began to crow, further on another. Day was beginning
to dawn.
CHAPTER II
A JOURNEY IN THE HEART OF SPAIN
When they had proceeded some distance on their way and had left behind
them the hovels of Villahorrenda, the traveller, who was young and
handsome spoke thus:
"Tell me, Senor Solon--"
"Licurgo, at your service."
"Senor Licurgo, I mean. But I was right in giving you the name of a wise
legislator of antiquity. Excuse the mistake. But to come to the point.
Tell me, how is my aunt?"
"As handsome as ever," answered the peasant, pushing his beast forward
a little. "Time seems to stand still with Senora Dona Perfecta. They say
that God gives long life to the good, and if that is so that angel of
the Lord ought to live a thousand years. If all the blessings that are
showered on her in this world were feathers, the senora would need no
other wings to go up to heaven with."
"And my cousin, Senorita Rosario?"
"The senora over again!" said the peasant. "What more can I tell you of
Dona Rosarito but that that she is the living image of her mother? You
will have a treasure, Senor Don Jose, if it is true, as I hear, that you
have come to be married to her. She will be a worthy mate for you, and
the young lady will have nothing to complain of, either. Between Pedro
and Pedro the difference is not very great."
"And Senor Don Cayetano?"
"Buried in his books as usual. He has a library bigger than the
cathedral; and he roots up the earth, besides, searching for stones
covered with fantastical scrawls, that were written, they say, by the
Moors."
"How soon shall we reach Orbajosa?"
"By nine o'clock, God willing. How delighted the senora will be when she
sees her nephew! And yesterday, Senorita Rosario was putting the room
you are to have in order. As they have never seen you, both mother and
daughter think of nothing else but what Senor Don Jose is like, or is
not like. The time has now come for letters to be silent and tongues
to talk. The young lady will see her cousin and all will be joy and
merry-making. If God wills, all will end happily, as the saying is."
"As neither my aunt nor my cousin has yet seen me," said the traveller
smiling, "it is not wise to make plans."
"That's true; for that reason it was said that the bay horse is of one
mind and he who saddles him of another," answered the peasant. "But
the face does not lie. What a jewel you are getting! and she, what a
handsome man!"
The young man did not hear Uncle Licurgo's last words, for he was
preoccupied with his own thoughts. Arrived at a bend in the road, the
peasant turned his horse's head in another direction, saying:
"We must follow this path now. The bridge is broken, and the river can
only be forded at the Hill of the Lilies."
"The Hill of the Lilies," repeated the cavalier, emerging from his
revery. "How abundant beautiful names are in these unattractive
localities! Since I have been travelling in this part of the country
the terrible irony of the names is a constant surprise to me. Some place
that is remarkable for its barren aspect and the desolate sadness of
the landscape is called Valleameno (Pleasant Valley). Some wretched
mud-walled village stretched on a barren plain and proclaiming its
poverty in diverse ways has the insolence to call itself Villarica (Rich
Town); and some arid and stony ravine, where not even the thistles
can find nourishment, calls itself, nevertheless, Valdeflores (Vale of
Flowers). That hill in front of us is the Hill of the Lilies? But where,
in Heaven's name, are the lilies? I see nothing but stones and withered
grass. Call it Hill of Desolation, and you will be right. With the
exception of Villahorrenda, whose appearance corresponds with its name,
all is irony here. Beautiful words, a prosaic and mean reality. The
blind would be happy in this country, which for the tongue is a Paradise
and for the eyes a hell."
Senor Licurgo either did not hear the young man's words, or, hearing, he
paid no attention to them. When they had forded the river, which, turbid
and impetuous, hurried on with impatient haste, as if fleeing from its
own hands, the peasant pointed with outstretched arm to some barren and
extensive fields that were to be seen on the left, and said:
"Those are the Poplars of Bustamante."
"My lands!" exclaimed the traveller joyfully, gazing at the melancholy
fields illumined by the early morning light. "For the first time, I see
the patrimony which I inherited from my mother. The poor woman used to
praise this country so extravagantly, and tell me so many marvellous
things about it when I was a child, that I thought that to be here was
to be in heaven. Fruits, flowers, game, large and small; mountains,
lakes, rivers, romantic streams, pastoral hills, all were to be found
in the Poplars of Bustamante; in this favored land, the best and most
beautiful on the earth. But what is to be said? The people of this place
live in their imaginations. If I had been brought here in my youth, when
I shared the ideas and the enthusiasm of my dear mother, I suppose that
I, too, would have been enchanted with these bare hills, these arid or
marshy plains, these dilapidated farmhouses, these rickety norias,
whose buckets drip water enough to sprinkle half a dozen cabbages, this
wretched and barren desolation that surrounds me."
"It is the best land in the country," said Senor Licurgo; "and for the
chick-pea, there is no other like it."
"I am delighted to hear it, for since they came into my possession these
famous lands have never brought me a penny."
The wise legislator of Sparta scratched his ear and gave a sigh.
"But I have been told," continued the young man, "that some of the
neighboring proprietors have put their ploughs in these estates of mine,
and that, little by little, they are filching them from me. Here
there are neither landmarks nor boundaries, nor real ownership, Senor
Licurgo."
The peasant, after a pause, during which his subtle intellect seemed to
be occupied in profound disquisitions, expressed himself as follows:
"Uncle Paso Largo, whom, for his great foresight, we call the
Philosopher, set his plough in the Poplars, above the hermitage, and bit
by bit, he has gobbled up six fanegas."
"What an incomparable school!" exclaimed the young man, smiling. "I
wager that he has not been the only--philosopher?"
"It is a true saying that one should talk only about what one knows, and
that if there is food in the dove-cote, doves won't be wanting. But you,
Senor Don Jose, can apply to your own cause the saying that the eye of
the master fattens the ox, and now that you are here, try and recover
your property."
"Perhaps that would not be so easy, Senor Licurgo," returned the young
man, just as they were entering a path bordered on either side by
wheat-fields, whose luxuriance and early ripeness gladdened the eye.
"This field appears to be better cultivated. I see that all is not
dreariness and misery in the Poplars."
The peasant assumed a melancholy look, and, affecting something of
disdain for the fields that had been praised by the traveller, said in
the humblest of tones:
"Senor, this is mine."
"I beg your pardon," replied the gentleman quickly; "now I was going to
put my sickle in your field. Apparently the philosophy of this place is
contagious."
They now descended into a canebrake, which formed the bed of a shallow
and stagnant brook, and, crossing it, they entered a field full of
stones and without the slightest trace of vegetation.
"This ground is very bad," said the young man, turning round to look
at his companion and guide, who had remained a little behind. "You
will hardly be able to derive any profit from it, for it is all mud and
sand."
Licurgo, full of humility, answered:
"This is yours."
"I see that all the poor land is mine," declared the young man, laughing
good-humoredly.
As they were thus conversing, they turned again into the | 638.852098 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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THE GOLDEN FLOOD
By Edwin Lefevre
Illustrated By W. R. Leigh
New York
McClure, Phillips & Co.
1905
TO
DANIEL GRAY REID
PART ONE: THE FLOOD
The president looked up from the underwriters’ plan of the latest
“Industrial” consolidation capital stock, $100,000,000; assets, for
publication, $100,000,000 which the syndicate’s lawyers had pronounced
perfectly legal. Judiciously advertised, the stock probably would be
oversubscribed. The profits ought to be enormous. He was one of the
underwriters.
“What is it?” he asked. He did not frown, but his voice was as though
hung with icicles. The assistant cashier, an imaginative man in the
wrong place, shivered.
“This gentleman,” he said, giving a card to the president, “wishes to
make a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars.”
The president looked at the card. He read on it:
_MR. GEORGE KITCHELL GRINELL_
“Who sent him to us?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir. He said he had a letter of introduction to you,”
answered the assistant cashier, disclaiming all responsibility in the
matter.
The president read the card a second time. The name was unfamiliar.
“Grinnell?” he muttered. “Grinnell? Never heard of him.” Perhaps he felt
it was poor policy to show ignorance on any matter whatever. When he
spoke again, it was in a voice overflowing with a dignity that was a
subtle rebuke to all assistant cashiers:
“I will see him.”
He busied himself once more with the typewritten documents before him,
lost in its alluring possibilities, until he became conscious of a
presence near him. He still waited, purposely, before looking up. He was
a very busy man, and all the world must know it. At length he raised his
head majestically, and turned--an animated fragment of a glacier--until
his eyes rested on the stranger’s.
“Good-morning, sir,” he said politely.
“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson,” said the stranger. He was a young man,
conceivably under thirty, of medium height, square of shoulders,
clean-shaven, and clear-skinned. He had brown hair and brown eyes.
His dress hinted at careful habits rather than at fashionable tailors.
Gold-rimmed spectacles gave him a studious air, which disappeared
whenever he spoke. As if at the sound of his own voice, his eyes took on
a look of alert self-confidence which interested the bank president.
Mr. Dawson was deeply prejudiced against the look of extreme astuteness,
blended with the desire to create a favourable impression, so familiar
to him as the president of the richest bank in Wall Street.
“You are Mr.----” The president looked at the stranger’s card as though
he had left it unread until he had finished far more important business.
It really was unnecessary; but it had become a habit, which he lost only
when speaking to his equals or his superiors in wealth.
“Grinnell,” prompted the stranger, very calmly. He was so unimpressed by
the president that the president was impressed by him.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Williams tells me you wish to become one of our
depositors?”
“Yes, sir. I have here,” taking a slip of paper from his pocket-book,
“an Assay Office check on the Sub-Treasury. It is for a trifle over a
hundred thousand dollars.”
Even the greatest bank in Wall Street must have a kindly feeling toward
depositors of a hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Dawson permitted himself
to smile graciously.
“I am sure we shall be glad to have your account, Mr. Grinnell,” he
said. “You are in business in----” The slight arching of his eyebrows,
rather than the inflection of his voice, made his words a delicate
interrogation. He was a small, slender man, greyhaired and
grey-moustached, with an air of polite aloofness from trivialities. His
manners were what you might expect of a man whose grandfather had been
Minister to France, and had never forgotten it; nor had his children.
His self-possession was so great that it was not noticeable.
“I am not in any business, Mr. Dawson, unless,” said the young man
with a smile that deprived his voice of any semblance of pertness or of
premeditated discourtesy, “it is the business of depositing $103,648.67
with the Metropolitan National Bank. My friend, Professor Willetts, of
Columbia, gave me a letter of introduction. Here it is. I may say,
Mr. Dawson, that I haven’t the slightest intention of disturbing this
account, as far as I know now, for an indefinite period.” The president
read the letter. It was from the professor of metallurgy at Columbia,
who was an old acquaintance of Dawson’s. It merely said that George K.
Grinnell was one of his old students, a graduate of the School of
Mines, who had asked him to suggest a safe bank of deposit. This the
Metropolitan certainly was. He had asked his young friend to attach his
own signature at the bottom, since Grinnell had no other bank accounts,
and no other way of having his signature verified. Mr. Grinnell had said
he wished his money to be absolutely safe, and Professor Willetts took
great pleasure in sending him to Mr. Dawson.
Mr. Dawson bowed his head--an acquiescence meant to be encouraging.
To the young man the necessity for such encouragement was not clear.
Possibly it showed in his eyes, for Mr. Dawson said very politely, in
an almost courtly way he had at times to show some people that an
aristocrat could do business aristocratically:
“It is not usual for us to accept accounts from strangers. We do not
really know.” very gently, “that you are the man to whom this letter was
given, nor that your signature is that of Mr. George K. Grinnell.”
The young man laughed pleasantly. “I see your position, Mr. Dawson, but,
really, I am not important enough to be impersonated by anybody. As for
my being George K. Grinnell, I’ve laboured under that impression for
twenty-nine years. I’ll have Professor Willetts in person introduce me,
if you wish. I have some letters----” He made a motion toward his breast
pocket, but Mr. Dawson held up a hand in polite dissent; he was above
suspicions. “And as for my signature, if you will send a clerk with me
to the Assay Office, next door they will doubtless verify it to your
satisfaction; I can just as easily bring legal tender notes, I suppose.
In any case, as I have no intention of touching this money for some time
to come, I suppose the bank will be safe from----”
“Oh,” interrupted Dawson, with a sort of subdued cordiality, “as I told
you before, while we do not usually take accounts from people of whom we
know nothing in a business way, we will make an exception in your case.”
That the young man might not think the bank’s eagerness for deposits
made its officers unbusinesslike, the president added, with a
politely explanatory smile: “Professor Willetts’s letter is sufficient
introduction. As you say you are not in business--”
He paused and looked at the young man for confirmation.
“No, sir; I happen to have this money, and I desire a safe place to
keep it in. I may bring a little more. It depends upon certain family
matters. But that is for the future to decide. In the meantime, I should
like to leave this money here, untouched.”
“Very well, sir.” The president pushed a button on his desk.
A bright-looking, neatly dressed office-boy appeared, his face
exaggeratedly attentive.
“Ask Mr. Williams to come in, please.” The office-boy turned on his
heels as by a military command, and hastened away. It was the bank’s
training; the president’s admirers said it showed his genius for
organization down to the smallest detail. Presently the assistant
cashier entered.
“Mr. Williams, Mr. Grinnell will be one of our most valued depositors.
We must show him that we appreciate his confidence in us. Kindly attend
to the necessary details.” Mr. Dawson paused. Perhaps his hesitancy
was meant as an invitation to Mr. George Kitchell Grinnell to vouchsafe
further information of a personal nature. But Mr. Grinnell said, with a
smile: “Many thanks, Mr. Dawson,” and Mr. Dawson smiled back, politely.
As the men turned to go, he took up the underwriting plan and forgot
all about the incident. It was a Thursday. It might as well have been a
Monday or a Tuesday; | 638.892019 |
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Iris Schimandle and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE IMMORTAL MOMENT
Books by
MAY SINCLAIR
The Helpmate
The Divine Fire
Two Sides of a Question
Mr. and Mrs. Nevill Tyson
Etc., etc.
[Illustration: "Kitty's face... pleaded with the other face in the
glass."]
THE IMMORTAL MOMENT
The Story of Kitty Tailleur
_By_
MAY SINCLAIR
ILLUSTRATED AND DECORATED BY
C. COLES PHILLIPS.
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY PAGE & CO.
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1908 BY
MAY SINCLAIR
PUBLISHED, OCTOBER, 1908
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING
THE SCANDINAVIAN
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
THIS STORY APPEARS IN ENGLAND
UNDER THE TITLE "KITTY TAILLEUR"
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Kitty's face... pleaded with the other face
in the glass" FRONTISPIECE
"She stood there, strangely still... before the
pitiless stare that went up to her appealing face" 10
"'You won't be tied to me a minute longer than
you like'" 208
"'I want to make you loathe me... never see me
again'" 268
[Illustration: THE IMMORTAL MOMENT]
THE IMMORTAL MOMENT
CHAPTER I
They came into the hotel dining-room like young persons making their
first entry into life. They carried themselves with an air of subdued
audacity, of innocent inquiry. When the great doors opened to them they
stood still on the threshold, charmed, expectant. There was the magic of
quest, of pure, unspoiled adventure in their very efforts to catch the
head-waiter's eye. It was as if they called from its fantastic
dwelling-place the attendant spirit of delight.
You could never have guessed how old they were. He, at thirty-five, had
preserved, by some miracle, his alert and slender adolescence. In his
brown, clean-shaven face, keen with pleasure, you saw the clear,
serious eyes and the adorable smile of seventeen. She, at thirty, had
kept the wide eyes and tender mouth of childhood. Her face had a child's
immortal, spiritual appeal.
They were charming with each other. You might have taken them for bride
and bridegroom, his absorption in her was so unimpaired. But their names
in the visitors' book stood as Mr. Robert Lucy and Miss Jane Lucy. They
were brother and sister. You gathered it from something absurdly alike
in their faces, something profound and racial and enduring.
For they combined it all, the youth, the abandonment, the innocence,
with an indomitable distinction.
They made their way with easy, unembarrassed movements, and seated
themselves at a table by an open window. They bent their brows together
over the menu. The head-waiter (who had flown at last to their high
summons) made them his peculiar care, and they turned to him with the
helplessness of children. He told them what things they would like,
what things (he seemed to say) would be good for them. And when he went
away with their order they looked at each other and laughed, softly and
instantaneously.
They had done the right thing. They both said it at the same moment,
smiling triumphantly into each other's face. Southbourne was exquisite
in young June, at the dawn of its season. And the Cliff Hotel promised
what they wanted, a gay seclusion, a refined publicity.
If you were grossly rich, you went to the big Hotel Metropole, opposite.
If you were a person of fastidious tastes and an attenuated income, you
felt the superior charm of the Cliff Hotel. The little house, the joy of
its proprietor, was hidden in the privacy of its own beautiful grounds,
having its back to the high road and its face to the open sea. They had
taken stock of it that morning, with its clean walls, white as the
Cliff it stood on; its bay windows, its long, green-roofed veranda,
looking south; its sharp, slated roofs and gables, all sheltered by the
folding Downs.
They did not know which of them had first suggested Southbourne.
Probably they had both thought of it at the same moment, as they were
thinking now. But it was she who had voted for the Cliff Hotel, in
preference to lodgings. She thought that in an hotel there would be more
scope, more chance of things happening.
Jane was always on the look-out for things happening. He saw her now,
with her happy eyes, and her little, tilted nose, sniffing the air,
scanning the horizon.
He knew Jane and her adventures well. They were purely, pathetically
vicarious. Jane was the thrall of her own sympathy. So was he. At a hint
she was off, and he after her, on wild paths of inference, on perilous
oceans of conjecture. Only he moved more slowly, and he knew the end of
it. He had seen, before now, her joyous leap to land, on shores of
manifest disaster. He protested against that jumping to conclusions. He,
for his part, took conclusions in his stride.
But Jane was always listening for a call from some foreign country of
the soul. She was always entering surreptitiously into other people's
feelings. They never caught her at it, never suspected her soft-footed,
innocent intrusions.
She was wondering now whether they would have to make friends with any
of the visitors. She hoped not, because that would spoil it, the
adventure. People had a way of telling her their secrets, and Jane
preferred not to be told. All she wanted was an inkling, a clue; the
slenderer the better.
The guests as yet assembled were not conspicuously interesting.
There was a clergyman dining gloomily at a table by himself. There was a
gray group of middle-aged ladies next to him. There was Colonel Hankin
and his wife. They had arrived with the Lucys in the hotel 'bus, and
their names were entered above Robert's in the visitors' book. They
marked him with manifest approval as one of themselves, and they looked
all pink perfection and silver white propriety. There was the old lady
who did nothing but knit. She had arrived in a fly, knitting. She was
knitting now, between the courses. When she caught sight of the Lucys
she smiled at them over her knitting. They had found her, before dinner,
with her feet entangled in a skein of worsted. Jane had shown tenderness
in disentangling her.
It was almost as if they had made friends already.
Jane's eyes roamed and lighted on a fat, wine-faced man. Lucy saw them.
He teased her, challenged her. She didn't think, did she, she could do
anything with him?
No. Jane thought not. He wasn't interesting. There was nothing that you
could take hold of, except that he seemed to be very fond of wine, poor
old thing. But then, you had to be fond of something, and perhaps it was
his only weakness. What did Robert think?
Robert did not hear her. He was bending forward, looking beyond her,
across the room toward the great doors. They had swung open again, with
a flash of their glass panels, to give passage to a lady.
She came slowly, with the irresistible motion of creatures that divide
and trouble the medium in which they move. The white, painted wainscot
behind her showed her small, eager head, its waving rolls and crowning
heights of hair, black as her gown. She had a sweet face, curiously
foreshortened by a low forehead and the briefest of chins. It was white
with the same whiteness as her neck, her shoulders, her arms--a
whiteness pure and profound. This face she kept thrust a little forward,
while her eyes looked round, steadily, deliberately, for the place where
she desired to be. She carried on her arm a long tippet of brown fur. It
slipped, and her effort to recover it brought her to a standstill.
The large, white room, half empty at this season, gave her up bodily to
what seemed to Lucy the intolerable impudence of the public gaze.
She was followed by an older lady who had the air of making her way with
difficulty and vexation through an unpleasantly crowded space. This lady
was somewhat oddly attired in a white dress cut high with a Puritan
intention, but otherwise indiscreetly youthful. She kept close to the
tail of her companion's gown, and tracked its charming evolutions with
an irritated eye. Her whole aspect was evidently a protest against the
publicity she was compelled to share.
[Illustration: "She stood there, strangely still... before the pitiless
stare that went up to her appealing face."]
Lucy was not interested in her. He was watching the lady in black who
was now standing in the middle of the room. Her elbow touched the
shoulder of a young man on her left. The fur tippet slipped again and
lay at the young man's feet. He picked it up, and as he handed it to her
he stared into her face, and sleeked his little moustache above a
furtive, objectionable smile. His companion (Jane's uninteresting man),
roused from communion with the spirit of Veuve Cliquot, fixed on the
lady a pair of blood-shot eyes in a brutal, wine-dark face.
She stood there, strangely still, it seemed to Lucy, before the pitiless
stare that went up, right and left, to her appealing face. She was
looking, it seemed to him, for her refuge.
She moved forward. The Colonel, pinker than ever in his perfection,
lowered his eyes as she approached. She paused again in her progress
beside the clergyman on her right. He looked severely at her, as much as
to say, "Madam, if you drop that thing in _my_ neighbourhood, I shall
not attempt to pick it up."
An obsequious waiter pointed out a table next to the middle-aged
ladies. She shook her head at the middle-aged ladies. She turned in her
course, and her eyes met Lucy's. He said something to his sister. Jane
rose and changed her seat, thus clearing the way to a table that stood
beside theirs, empty, secluded in the bay of the window.
The lady in black came swiftly, as if to the place of her desire. The
glance that expressed her gratitude went from Lucy to Jane and from Jane
to Lucy, and rested on him for a moment.
As the four grouped themselves at their respective tables, the lady in
white, seated with her back to the window, commanded a front and side
view of Jane. The lady in black sat facing Lucy.
She put her elbows on the table and turned her face (her profile was
remarkably pretty) to her companion.
"Well," said she, "don't you want to sit here?"
"Oh," said the older woman, "what does it matter where we sit?"
She spoke in a small, crowing voice, the voice, Lucy said to himself, of
a rather terrible person. She shivered.
"Poor lamb, does it feel a draught down its little back?"
The lady rose and put her fur tippet on the shivering shoulders. They
shrank from her, and she drew it closer and fastened it with caressing
and cajoling fingers. There was about her something impetuous and
perverse, a wilful, ungovernable tenderness. Her hands had the swiftness
of things moved by sweet, disastrous impulses.
The white person (she was quite terrible) undid the fastening and shook
her shoulders free of the fur. It slid to the floor for the third time.
Lucy rose from his place, picked up the fur and restored it to its
owner.
The quite terrible person flushed with vexation.
"You see," said the lady, "the trouble you've given that nice man."
"Oh don't! he'll hear you."
"If he does, he won't mind," said the lady.
He did hear her. It was difficult not to hear, not to look at her, not
to be interested in every movement that she made | 639.134713 |
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Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
GOLDEN GRAIN
BY VARIUOS AUTHORS
GARNERED FROM THE
WORLD'S GREAT HARVEST-FIELD OF KNOWLEDGE
COMPRISING
Selections from the ablest Modern Writers.
OF
Prose, Poetry, and Legendary Lore.
Some Books with heaps of chaff are stored
And some do Golden Grain afford;
Leave then the chaff and spend thy pains
In gathering up the Golden Grains.
Elegantly Illustrated.
J. C. CHILTON & COMPANY,
DETROIT. MICH.,
1884.
COPYRIGHTED
1884.
J.C. CHILTON & CO.
PRESS OF
RAYNOR & TAYLOR,
75 BATES STREET.
DETROIT.
AUTHORS
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ALFRED TENNYSON.
JOHN G. WHITTIER. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. PETER CHRISTIAN ASBJORNSEN.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. SIR ISAAC NEWTON. REV. LAURENCE STERNE.
HON. JOHN D. LONG. JOHN G. SAXE. PAUL H. HAYNE.
CHARLES DICKENS. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THOMAS MOORE.
THOMAS GRAY. LORD LYTTON. J. | 639.234451 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
KING ROBERT
THE BRUCE:
FAMOUS SCOTS SERIES
_The following Volumes are now ready_:--
THOMAS CARLYLE. By HECTOR C. MacPHERSON.
ALLAN RAMSAY. By OLIPHANT SMEATON.
HUGH MILLER. By W. KEITH LEASK.
JOHN KNOX. By A. TAYLOR INNES.
ROBERT BURNS. By GABRIEL SETOUN.
THE BALLADISTS. By JOHN GEDDIE.
RICHARD CAMERON. By PROFESSOR HERKLESS.
SIR JAMES Y. SIMPSON. By EVE BLANTYRE SIMPSON.
THOMAS CHALMERS. By Professor W. GARDEN BLAIKIE.
JAMES BOSWELL. By W. KEITH LEASK.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT. By OLIPHANT SMEATON.
FLETCHER OF SALTOUN. By G. W. T. OMOND.
THE "BLACKWOOD" GROUP. By Sir GEORGE DOUGLAS.
NORMAN MacLEOD. By JOHN WELLWOOD.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. By Professor SAINTSBURY.
KIRKCALDY OF GRANGE. By LOUIS A. BARBE.
ROBERT FERGUSSON. By A. B. GROSART.
JAMES THOMSON. By WILLIAM BAYNE.
MUNGO PARK. By T. BANKS MacLACHLAN.
DAVID HUME. By Professor CALDERWOOD.
WILLIAM DUNBAR. By OLIPHANT SMEATON.
SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. By Professor MURISON.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. By MARGARET MOYES BLACK.
THOMAS REID. By Professor CAMPBELL FRASER.
POLLOK AND AYTOUN. By ROSALINE MASSON.
ADAM SMITH. By HECTOR C. MacPHERSON.
ANDREW MELVILLE. By WILLIAM MORISON.
JAMES FREDERICK FERRIER. By E. S. HALDANE.
KING ROBERT THE BRUCE. By A. F. MURISON.
[Illustration]
KING ROBERT
THE BRUCE
BY
A. F.
MURISON
FAMOUS
SCOTS
SERIES
PUBLISHED BY
OLIPHANT ANDERSON
& FERRIER. EDINBURGH
AND LONDON
The designs and ornaments of this volume are by Mr Joseph Brown, and
the printing from the press of Messrs Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh.
_July 1899._
ALMAE MATRI
VNIVERSITATI ABERDONENSI
"O, ne'er shall the fame of the patriot decay--
De Bruce! in thy name still our country rejoices;
It thrills Scottish heart-strings, it swells Scottish voices,
As it did when the Bannock ran red from the fray.
Thine ashes in darkness and silence may lie;
But ne'er, mighty hero, while earth hath its motion,
While rises the day-star, or rolls forth the ocean,
Can thy deeds be eclipsed or their memory die:
They stand thy proud monument, sculptur'd sublime
By the chisel of Fame on the Tablet of Time."
PREFACE
The present volume on King Robert the Bruce is the historical
complement to the former volume on Sir William Wallace. Together they
outline, from the standpoint of the leading spirits, the prolonged and | 639.434726 |
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SLEEPY-TIME TALES
BY
ARTHUR SCOTT BAILEY
THE TALE OF CUFFY BEAR
THE TALE OF FRISKY SQUIRREL
THE TALE OF TOMMY FOX
THE TALE OF FATTY <DW53>
THE TALE OF BILLY WOODCHUCK
THE TALE OF JIMMY RABBIT
THE TALE OF PETER MINK
THE TALE OF SANDY CHIPMUNK
THE TALE OF BROWNIE BEAVER
THE TALE OF PADDY MUSKRAT
_SLEEPY-TIME TALES_
THE TALE OF
BILLY
WOODCHUCK
BY
ARTHUR SCOTT BAILEY
ILLUSTRATED BY
HARRY L. SMITH
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1916, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE HOUSE IN THE PASTURE 9
II CALLING NAMES 14
III MAGIC 19
IV THE GREAT HORNED OWL 24
V BILLY STANDS GUARD 29
VI BILLY FORGETS TO WHISTLE 34
VII GREEN PEAS 39
VIII A NEW GAME 44
IX WHAT HAPPENED AT AUNT POLLY'S 49
X UNCLE JERRY CHUCK 53
XI BILLY ASKS FOR PAY 58
XII WHAT JIMMY RABBIT SAW 62
XIII A JOKE ON UNCLE JERRY 66
XIV MR. FOX HAS AN IDEA 71
XV "POP! GOES THE WEASEL!" 76
XVI THE PLAY-HOUSE 81
XVII BILLY BRINGS THE DOCTOR 86
XVIII A WONDERFUL STICK 91
XIX MR. WOODCHUCK MOVES 95
XX THE FAMILY ESCAPES 100
XXI AT HOME IN THE WOODS 104
XXII GROUND HOG DAY 108
ILLUSTRATIONS
BILLY WOODCHUCK OFTEN DUG
HOLES IN THE PASTURE _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"JUST CRAWL INSIDE THAT OLD
STUMP!" MR. FOX SAID 20
"WHAT'S THE MATTER?" BILLY
ASKED 36
SHE TOOK HOLD OF BILLY'S EAR 50
HE PAINTED TWO WHITE STRIPES ON
UNCLE JERRY'S BACK 68
BILLY CARRIED HER BASKET OF HERBS 88
THE TALE OF BILLY WOODCHUCK
I
THE HOUSE IN THE PASTURE
One day, when Johnnie Green tramped over the fields toward the
woods, he did not dream that he walked right over somebody's
bedroom. The snow was deep, for it was midwinter. And as Johnnie
crossed his father's pasture he thought only of the fresh rabbit
tracks that he saw all about him. He had no way of knowing that
beneath the three feet of snow, and as much further below the top
of the ground too, there was a snug, cozy little room, where Mr.
and Mrs. Woodchuck lay sound asleep on a bed of dried grass.
They had been there all winter, asleep like that. And there they
would stay, until spring came and the grass began to grow again.
In summer Johnnie Green was always on the watch for woodchucks. But
now he never gave them a thought. There would be time enough for
that after the snow was gone and the chucks came crawling out of
their underground houses to enjoy the warm sunshine.
Usually it happened in just that way, though there had been years
when Mr. and Mrs. Woodchuck had awakened too soon. And then when
they reached the end of the long tunnel that led from their bedroom
into Farmer Green's pasture they found that they had to dig their
way through a snow-bank before they reached the upper world where
Johnnie Green lived.
But this year their winter's nap came to a close at just the right
time. A whole month had passed since Johnnie walked over their
house. And now when they popped their heads out of their front door
they saw that the snow was all gone and that the sun was shining
brightly. Almost the first thing they did was to nibble at the
tender young grass that grew in their dooryard.
When you stop to remember that neither of them had had so much as a
single mouthful of food since long before Thanksgiving Day you will
understand how hungry they were.
They were very thin, too. But every day they grew a little fatter.
And when at last Johnnie Green passed that way again, late one
afternoon, to drive the cows home to be milked, he thought that
Mrs. Woodchuck looked quite well.
She looked happy, too, just before Johnnie came along. But now she
had a worried air. And it was no wonder, either. For she had five
new children, only a few weeks old, and she was afraid that Johnnie
would take them away from her.
Poor, frightened Mrs. Woodchuck ran round and round her five
youngsters, to keep them all together. And all the time she urged
them nearer and nearer the door of her house.
Johnnie was already late about getting the cows. But he waited to
see what happened. And soon he saw all five of the little chucks
scramble through the doorway. And as soon as the last one was
safely inside the old lady jumped in after her children.
That last one was the biggest of all the young chucks. Perhaps it
was because he always ate twice as much as any of his brothers and
sisters. His mother found him harder to manage, too; and she had to
push him along through the doorway, because he wanted to stop and
snatch a bite from a juicy plantain.
That was Billy Woodchuck--that fat, strong youngster. Even then
Johnnie Green knew that he was going to be a big fellow when he
grew up.
II
CALLING NAMES
Billy Woodchuck grew so fast that he soon looked very much like his
father. Of course, he was still much smaller than Mr. Woodchuck.
But like him, Billy was quite gray; and he had whiskers,
too--though, to be sure, those were black. His eyes also were black
and large and bright. When Billy sat up on his hind legs--as he
often did--he appeared for all the world like a huge squirrel.
In fact, some of Billy's friends remarked how like a squirrel he
looked. And one day when Billy was playing near the edge of the
woods a disagreeable young hedgehog told him that. To tell the
truth, Billy Woodchuck had grown to be the least bit vain. He loved
to gaze upon his bushy tail; and he spent a good deal of time
stroking his whiskers. He hoped that the neighbors had noticed
them.
Now, other people are always quick to see when anyone is silly in
that way. And the young hedgehog thought that Billy Woodchuck
needed taking down a peg. So he said to him:
"Why don't you join the circus?"
"Circus? What's that?" Billy asked.
"A circus is a place where they have all kinds of freaks," the
hedgehog answered with a sly smile--"giants and dwarfs, and thin
people and fat people."
"But I'm not a freak," Billy Woodchuck replied. "Of course, I'm big
for my age. But I'm not a giant."
"Yes, you are," the hedgehog insisted.
"You're a giant squirrel. You look like _him_"--he pointed to a
young fellow called Frisky Squirrel--"only you're ever so much
bigger."
That made Billy Woodchuck very angry. And he began to chatter and
scold.
Wise old Mr. Crow, who sat in a tree nearby, told him to keep his
temper.
"Certainly you are not a squirrel," he said. "It is nonsense to say
that a ground hog is the same as a squirrel----"
Billy Woodchuck's voice broke into a shrill scream. A _ground hog_!
He was terribly angry.
"Why, yes!" Mr. Crow said, nodding his head with a knowing air.
"You're a marmot, you know."
"No, I'm not!" Billy cried. "I'm a woodchuck! That's what I am. And
I'm going home and tell my mother what horrid names you've been
calling me."
Mr. Crow laughed. He said nothing more. But as Billy hurried away
he could hear the young hedgehog calling:
"Ground hog! Marmot! Ground hog! Marmot!" over and over again.
Billy Woodchuck was surprised to see how calm his mother was when
he told her those horrid names. He had rather expected that she
would hurry over to the woods and say a few things to that young
hedgehog, and to old Mr. Crow as well. But she only said:
"Don't be silly! Of course you're a ground hog. You're an American
marmot, too. Though our family has been known in this neighborhood
for many years as the Woodchuck family, you needn't be ashamed of
either of those other names. Isn't 'ground hog' every bit as good a
name as 'hedgehog?'"
Billy Woodchuck began to think it was. And as for "marmot"--that
began to have quite a fine sound in his ears.
"Why can't we change our name to that?" he asked his mother.
But Mrs. Woodchuck shook her head.
"We are plain country people," she said. "Woodchuck is the best
name for us."
[Illustration: "Just Crawl Inside that Old Stump!" Mr. Fox Said]
III
MAGIC
One of the first things Mrs. Woodchuck taught her children was to
beware of dogs and foxes, minks and weasels, skunks and great
horned owls. She often made them say the names of those enemies
over and over again.
For some time Billy Woodchuck was almost afraid to stir out of
doors, for fear he might meet one of those creatures. But at last
as he grew bigger he grew bolder, too. And he began to think that
his mother was just a nervous old lady. Still, when he met a fox
one day at the further end of the pasture Billy was somewhat
frightened. But Mr. Fox seemed very friendly. They talked together
for a while. And then Mr. Fox said:
"Do you like surprises?
"I see you _do_ like them," Mr. Fox continued. "Well, you just
crawl inside that old stump over there. There's a hole in it, as
you see. And in there you'll find something to surprise you." Mr.
Fox stretched himself then. "I must go home now," he said. "I was
out late last night and I feel like taking a nap." So off he
trotted, with never a look behind him.
He was hardly out of sight before Billy Woodchuck hurried to the
old stump and crawled inside. But so far as he could see, it was
quite empty. And he was just about to leave when all at once it
grew dark. That was because Mr. Fox had come back and thrust his
head through the hole.
"Did you find it?" Mr. Fox asked him.
"No!" said Billy in a faint voice.
"Well, well!" said Mr. Fox. "I must be mistaken.... Yes, I know I
am. It was in another stump. Just step outside and I'll show you
which one." The hole was too small for him to squeeze through. If
it had been bigger he would not have bothered to ask Billy to come
out.
Mr. Fox pulled his head back and waited. But Billy Woodchuck did
not appear.
Soon Mr. Fox took another look inside the hollow stump.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Aren't you coming?"
Then _he_ had a surprise. For Billy Woodchuck was gone. Mr. Fox saw
that the old stump was empty.
He thought that Billy must have used magic, to leave that place and
run away under his very eyes. For you may be sure that Mr. Fox had
kept a close watch on the hole all the time. And he told all his
friends that Billy Woodchuck knew a way to make himself
invisible--a word which means that _nobody could see him_.
Later, when Billy heard what people were saying about him, he only
looked wise and said nothing.
But he had been sadly frightened when Mr. Fox peeped inside the old
stump. And he had made up his mind at once that he would not come
out and be caught. He knew better than that. For now he believed
everything his mother had told him about foxes.
As his bright eyes looked about his prison they soon spied a small
hole which seemed to lead down into the ground. It was large enough
for him to enter. And so he went right down out of sight.
Billy found himself in a long tunnel, which made him think of one
that led to his own home. At the other end of it he came out into
daylight again; and he knew then that it was an old woodchuck's
burrow, in which nobody lived any longer. And it was the back door
that opened into the hollow stump.
Billy Woodchuck hurried home. He thought that Mr. Fox would stay
near the old stump for some time, waiting for him to come out.
Although he had been so frightened, it was a good lesson for him.
For he had learned that no matter how pleasant a fox might be, it
was wise to have nothing to do with him.
IV
THE GREAT HORNED OWL
Billy Woodchuck knew that the Great Horned Owl was a dangerous
person. His mother had often told him that. But he had never yet
seen the Great Horned Owl; and Billy wondered how he should know
him if he should ever happen to meet him. So Billy Woodchuck went
indoors and asked his mother to tell him how the Great Horned Owl
looked.
"He's a big fellow," said Mrs. Woodchuck--"almost as big as the
Great Gray Owl and the Snowy Owl. But you can tell him from them by
his ear-tufts, which stick up from his head like horns."
"What color is he?" Billy inquired.
"Buff and black," Mrs. Woodchuck answered. "He's mottled--that
means about the same as spotted," she explained. "I've heard him
called the 'tiger among birds.' But whether it's because of the
spots, or because he's so fierce, I really don't know."
"Maybe it's _both_," Billy suggested.
"Perhaps!" his mother said. "He has a deep voice," she continued.
"And he calls '_Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, whoo, whoo!_' If you heard him
in the woods you might almost think it was old dog Spot barking.
But when he screams"--Mrs. Woodchuck shuddered--"_then_ you'll know
him. For his scream is the most dreadful sound that was ever
heard."
"I wish you would scream like him once," said Billy.
"Bless your heart!" said his mother. "My voice may not be very
sweet, but I never could screech like him."
"Why doesn't Johnnie Green shoot him?" Billy asked. "If he only
would, the Great Horned Owl could never trouble us any more."
"Why, there's more than just _one_!" his mother exclaimed. "When I
say 'the Great Horned Owl,' I don't mean just _one_!"
"Oh!" said Billy. That was different. And then he went out to play
again.
For a long time he couldn't get the Great Horned Owl out of his
mind. Every time he heard the leaves rustle in the trees he jumped
as if forty Great Horned Owls were after him. But since nothing of
the sort happened, at last he forgot all about that danger. It was
late in the afternoon when a horrid call sent him scurrying off:
"_Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, whoo, whoo!_"
Billy Woodchuck was sure that the Great Horned Owl had found him at
last. He ran a little way as fast as he could; and then he crouched
down in the grass.
Again came that deep, long-drawn call. It sent Billy off on another
short run.
And after that had happened three times, he was so scared that he
thrust his head under a heap of dried leaves. So long as he
couldn't see the Great Horned Owl, he thought that the Great Horned
Owl couldn't see him.
Then Billy heard his mother's voice. She was calling him. And he
looked up quickly. There she was, right beside him!
"Did you drive him away, Mother?" he asked.
"Whom do you mean?" she inquired.
"Why, the Great Horned Owl!" Billy said.
"I was the only one that called," she told him. "I wanted to see
what you would do. And I must say, you behaved very foolishly.
Don't ever cover up your head like that. First, you must try to get
away. And if you should get caught, remember that your teeth are
sharp. But they won't be of any use to you with your head buried
under a pile of leaves."
Billy Woodchuck saw that he had a great deal to learn. But he was
glad that his mother had taught him that much, though he was
ashamed that he had been so silly.
V
BILLY STANDS GUARD
Old Mr. Woodchuck had a great deal of time on his paws. He was
always telling people how a stone once rolled off a wall on top of
him and hurt his back, so he was not strong enough to do much work.
On pleasant days he was usually to be found sunning himself. And
often when he leaned his lame back against a tree where the sun
fell squarely upon him he would fall asleep and stay there for
hours at a time.
Though he did no work at all, his appetite was always good. And
when he heard that there were ripe apples, or lettuce, or some
other dainty to be had, he always managed to get to the feast about
as early as anybody else. At such times he seemed to forget how
much his back hurt him.
There came a day when Mr. Woodchuck dashed home on a run. At first
his wife thought there must be a fox chasing him. But as soon as he
caught his breath (he was so fat that running always made him
puff), he told Mrs. Woodchuck that a party of his friends was going
to make a raid on Farmer Green's clover-field.
"I'm going with them," he said.
"Do you think you ought to?" she asked. "Isn't it too far? Isn't
your back too lame?"
Mr. Woodchuck clapped his hands to his back and groaned a bit.
"They say there's nothing better for my trouble than tender young
clover-heads," he replied. "So I think I ought to go.... What I
came home for is this: We want some spry young fellow to come along
with us and be a sentinel. And I'm going to take Billy. He's old
enough now to make himself of some use."
"I don't want him to go," Mrs. Woodchuck said. "He's only a child."
"He has ears, hasn't he? And eyes?" her husband replied. "It's time
he helped me a little, after all | 639.735024 |
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E-text prepared by John Campbell and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
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Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/artofbeinghappy00droz
Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
There are about seventy Notes at the back of the book. These
are referenced in the text by a numeric anchor eg [1] or [15];
some anchors have an ‘a’ suffix eg [15a] or [21a].
There are two Footnotes in the main text, whose anchors are
[A] and [B]. There are six Footnotes in the Notes section,
whose anchors are [C] to [H]. All eight Footnotes have been
placed at the back of the book after the Notes section.
Numerous minor text changes are noted in the Transcriber’s Note
at the end of the book.
THE ART OF BEING HAPPY:
From the French of DROZ,
‘SUR L’ART D’ETRE HEUREUX;’
In a Series of Letters
from
a Father to His Children:
with
Observations and Comments.
by
TIMOTHY FLINT.
‘----sua si bonna nôrint.’--VIRGIL.
Boston,
Published By Carter And Hendee.
1832.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1832,
BY CARTER AND HENDEE,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The text, upon which the following observations and comments
are based, does not assume to be a literal translation of the
celebrated work of Droz. The original is strongly idiomatic;
and the author has carried an uncommon talent of being laconic
sometimes to the point of obscurity. I have often found it
impossible to convey to the English reader a sentiment, perfectly
obvious in the original, in as few words as are there used. The
French, in its more numerous articles, more allowable and bold
personifications, and arbitrary use of gender, has, in the hand
of certain writers, this advantage over our language. When the
doctrines of the book are compared one with the other, and each
with the general bearing of the work, the inculcation, namely, of
the truth that _virtue is happiness_, there will be found nothing
immoral or reprehensible in it. The author, on the whole, leans to
the Epicurean philosophy. Unfavorable, though erroneous impressions
have been very generally entertained of that philosophy. In
deference to that opinion, I have altogether omitted the few
sentences, which seemed appropriate to some of the dogmas of the
Epicureans. Nothing can be more remote from their alleged impiety,
than the general tenor of this work. One of its most eloquent and
impressive chapters is that upon religion. There is a distinct
class in France, both numerous and important, the _literatures_.
Many of the remarks of the author, bearing chiefly upon that class,
seemed inapplicable, or unintelligible in our country, where there
is no such class to address. I have passed over many passages and
parts of chapters, which had an almost exclusive reference to
persons in that walk in life. I have added members of sentences,
and even whole sentences to the text, where such additions seemed
necessary to develope the doctrine to an English reader.
In a word, I do not offer the text, as an exact translation, but
as the only treatise within the compass of my reading, which has
discussed the pursuit of happiness, as a science or an art; and
as one which has advanced more eloquent and impressive sentiments
upon the subject, than I have elsewhere met. With the slight
alterations, which I have made, I have found this book to meet
my own thoughts; and I have laid out of the text all phrases and
passages, which spoke otherwise. I have availed myself of the words
of another, because they have expressed my own views better than
I could have hoped to express them myself. This explanation will
be my reply to all remarks, touching mistranslation, or liberties
taken with the author.
ERRATA.
Page 44, last line, dele the 5.
Page 111, 5th line from bottom, dele 29.
Page 121, end of second paragraph, dele 32.
Page 149, 2d line from top, dele 51.
Page 200, for Note 5, page 44, read 6, page 45.
CONTENTS.
Page.
LETTER I.
Introduction, 1
LETTER II.
The Physical, Organic and Moral Laws, 8
LETTER III.
The same subject continued, 25
LETTER IV.
General Views of the subject, 39
LETTER V.
Our Desires, 45
LETTER VI.
Tranquillity of Mind, | 640.137571 |
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GOING SOME
A ROMANCE OF STRENUOUS AFFECTION
BY
REX BEACH
SUGGESTED BY THE PLAY BY REX BEACH AND PAUL ARMSTRONG
ILLUSTRATED BY MARK FENDERSON
CHAPTER I
Four cowboys inclined their bodies over the barbed-wire fence
which marked the dividing-line between the Centipede Ranch and
their own, staring mournfully into a summer night such as only
the far southwestern country knows. Big yellow stars hung thick
and low--so low that it seemed they might almost be plucked by an
upstretched hand--and a silent air blew across thousands of open
miles of land lying crisp and fragrant under the velvet dark.
And as the four inclined their bodies, they inclined also their
ears, after the strained manner of listeners who feel anguish at
what they hear. A voice, shrill and human, pierced the night like
a needle, then, with a wail of a tortured soul, died away amid
discordant raspings: the voice of a phonograph. It was their own,
or had been until one overconfident day, when the Flying Heart
Ranch had risked it as a wager in a foot-race with the
neighboring Centipede, and their own man had been too slow. As it
had been their pride, it remained their disgrace. Dearly had they
loved, and dearly lost it. It meant something that looked like
honor, and though there were ten thousand thousand phonographs,
in all the world there was not one that could take its place.
The sound ceased, there was an approving distant murmur of men's
voices, and then the song began:
"Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
Lift up your voice and sing--"
Higher and higher the voice mounted until it reached again its
first thin, ear-splitting pitch.
"Still Bill" Stover stirred uneasily in the darkness. "Why 'n
'ell don't they keep her wound up?" he complained. "Gallagher's
got the soul of a wart-hog. It's criminal the way he massacres
that hymn."
From a rod farther down the wire fence Willie answered him, in a
boy's falsetto:
"I wonder if he does it to spite me?"
"He don't know you're here," said Stover.
The other came out of the gloom, a little stoop-shouldered man
with spectacles.
"I ain't noways sure," he piped, peering up at his lanky foreman.
"Why do you reckon he allus lets Mrs. Melby peter out on my
favorite record? He done the same thing last night. It looks like
an insult."
"It's nothing but ignorance," Stover replied. "He don't want no
trouble with you. None of 'em do."
"I'd like to know for certain." The small man seemed torn by
doubt. "If I only knew he done it a-purpose, I'd git him. I bet I
could do it from here."
Stover's voice was gruff as he commanded: "Forget it! Ain't it
bad enough for us fellers to hang around like this every night
without advertising our idiocy by a gun-play?"
"They ain't got no right to that phonograph," Willie averred,
darkly.
"Oh yes, they have; they won it fair and square."
"Fair and square! Do you mean to say Humpy Joe run that foot-race
on the square?"
"I never said nothin' like that whatever. I mean we bet it, and
we lost it. Listen! There goes Carara's piece!"
Out past the corral floated the announcement in a man's metallic
syllables:
"_The Baggage Coach Ahead,_ as sung by Helena Mora for the
Echo Phonograph, of New York and Pa-a-aris!"
From the dusk to the right of the two listeners now issued soft
Spanish phrases.
"_Madre de Dios!_ 'The Baggage Car in Front!' T'adora Mora!
God bless 'er!"
During the rendition of this affecting ballad the two cow-men
remained draped uncomfortably over the barbed-wire barrier, lost
in rapturous enjoyment. When the last note had died away, Stover
roused himself reluctantly.
"It's time we was turnin' in." He called softly, "Hey, Mex!"
"_Si, Senor!_"
"Come on, you and Cloudy. _Vamos!_ It's ten o'clock."
He turned his back on the Centipede Ranch that housed the
treasure, and in company with Willie, made his way to the ponies.
Two other figures joined them, one humming in a musical baritone
the strains of the song just ended.
"Cut that out, Mex! They'll hear us," Stover cautioned.
"_Caramba!_ This t'ing is brek my 'eart," said the Mexican,
sadly. "It seem like the Senorita Mora is sing that song to me.
Mebbe she knows I'm set out 'ere on cactus an | 640.237458 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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A Captain of Industry
BEING
_The Story of a Civilized Man_
BY
UPTON SINCLAIR
AUTHOR OF "THE JUNGLE," ETC.
GIRARD, KANSAS
THE APPEAL TO REASON
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1906,
BY J. A. WAYLAND.
_All rights reserved._
A CAPTAIN OF INDUSTRY
PREFACE
This little story was written nearly five years ago. The verdict upon it
was that it was "unpublishable," and so I put it away until I should be
in position to publish it myself.
Recently I read it over, and got an interesting vision of how the times
have changed in five years. I put it away a revolutionary document; I
took it out a quiet and rather obvious statement of generally accepted
views. In reading the story, one should bear in mind that it was written
before any of the "literature of exposure" had appeared; that its writer
drew nothing from Mr. Steffens' probing of political corruption, nor
from Miss Tarbell's analysis of the railroad rebate, nor from Mr.
Lawson's expose of the inner life of "Frenzied Finance."
U.S.
A CAPTAIN OF INDUSTRY
I
I purpose in this chronicle to tell the story of A CIVILIZED MAN:
casting aside all Dreams and Airy Imaginations, and dealing with that
humble Reality which lies at our doorsteps.
II
Every proverb, every slang phrase and colloquialism, is what one might
call a petrified inspiration. Once upon a time it was a living thing, a
lightning flash in some man's soul; and now it glides off our tongue
without our ever thinking of its meaning. So, when the event transpired
which marks the beginning of my story, the newspapers one and all
remarked that Robert van Rensselaer was born with a silver spoon in his
mouth.
Into the particular circumstances of the event it is not necessary to
go, furthermore than to say that the arrival occasioned considerable
discomfort, to the annoyance of my hero's mother, who had never
experienced any discomfort before. His father, Mr. Chauncey van
Rensselaer, was a respected member of our metropolitan high society,
combining the major and minor _desiderata_ of wealth and good-breeding,
and residing in a twentieth-century palace at number four thousand
eleven hundred and forty-four Fifth Avenue. At the time of the opening
of our story van Rensselaer _pere_ had fled from the scene of the
trouble and was passing the time playing billiards with some sympathetic
friends, and when the telephone-bell rang they opened some champagne and
drank to the health of van Rensselaer _fils_. Later on, when the father
stood in the darkened apartment and gazed upon the red and purple mite
of life, proud emotions swelled high in his heart, and he vowed that he
would make a gentleman of Robert van Rensselaer,--a gentleman after the
pattern of his father.
At the outset of the career of my hero I have to note the amount of
attention which he received from the press, and from an anxious public.
Mr. Chauncey van Rensselaer was wealthy, according to New York and Fifth
Avenue standards, and Baby van Rensselaer was provided with an
introductory outfit of costumes at an estimated cost of seventeen
thousand dollars. I have a file of van Rensselaer clippings, and would
quote the elaborate descriptions, and preserve them to a grateful
posterity; but in the meantime Master Robert van Rensselaer would be
grown up. I pass on to the time when he was a growing boy, with two
governesses, and | 640.341082 |
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Print archive.
[Illustration: Book Cover]
GARRICK'S PUPIL.
GARRICK'S PUPIL
By AUGUSTIN FILON
_Translated by_
J. V. PRICHARD
Illustrated
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & COMPANY
1893
COPYRIGHT,
BY A. C. MCCLURG & CO.
A. D. 1893.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PAINTER AND MODEL 7
II. A SUPPER AT SIR JOSHUA'S 22
III. LADY VEREKER'S BOUDOIR 33
IV. THE BROOKS CLUB 42
V. A STRANGE EDUCATION 58
VI. THE HOUSE IN TOTHILL FIELDS 71
VII. CONFIDENCES 81
VIII. MR. FISHER'S SUBSTITUTE 97
IX. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 106
X. DEATH TO THE <DW7>s 117
XI. THE DAY OF DAYS 132
XII. THE MASQUERADE AT THE PANTHEON 143
XIII. MOWBRAY'S FOLLY AT CHELSEA 156
XIV. VAIN QUESTS 171
XV. SANCTUARY 184
XVI. GAMES OF DEATH AND CHANCE 194
XVII. HORACE AND SHAKESPEARE 208
CHAPTER I.
PAINTER AND MODEL.
Just as the third hour of the afternoon had sounded from the belfry of
Saint Martin's-in-the-Fields, a hackney coach drew up before the most
pretentious mansion upon the west side of Leicester Fields; and while
the coachman hastened to agitate the heavy door-knocker, a young woman,
almost a child, sprang out upon the pavement without waiting to have the
shaky steps unfolded and lowered for her convenience. Her dust-
mantle, disarranged by her rapid movements, revealed a rich costume
beneath; while the dazzled passer-by might have caught a glimpse, amidst
the whiteness of the elevated skirts, of a tiny pair of red satin
slippers and two slender, exquisitely moulded ankles finely clad in
silken hose with embroidered clocks.
The girl turned and assisted a more aged woman, leaning upon a
crutch-headed cane, to descend. This lady wore the big straw bonnet and
gray gown of the Quaker persuasion,--a rigidly simple costume, which
occasionally is becoming to extreme youth, but rarely enhances maturer
charms.
It was one of those glorious days of the English springtide when life
seems endurable even to the hapless, grateful even to the invalid. A
bland breeze rustled the branches of the grand old trees which in double
rows framed the open square. Several children were at play upon the
spacious grass-plot, which was intersected by diagonal paths of yellow
sand. The square was silent, and slept in the voluptuous warmth of the
perfect afternoon; but from the north side came the bustle and confusion
that resembled the turmoil of some festival. It was the continuous din
of the two tides of life which here meet and cross each other, the one
surging from Covent Garden and Chancery Lane, the other from Piccadilly
and St. James's. Pedestrians and horsemen, coaches and sedan chairs,
went to make up a glittering, varied hodgepodge, amidst which
flower-girls and newsboys fought their way, together with the venders of
"hot buns." Gentlemen saluted with exaggerated gesture, pressing their
cocked hats to their breasts and affectedly inclining their heads
towards their right shoulder; while the ladies fluttered their fans and
nodded the edifices of flowers and feathers which served in lieu of a
head-dress. The intoxicating odor of iris powder, of benzoin, bergamot,
and patchouli floated upon the air. The beggars leaning against the
railing of the square and the Irish chairmen indolently smoking their
pipes, for whom life is but a spectacle, watched the passage of others'
happiness. A bright, genial sun polished the flanks of the plaster horse
in the centre of the square, upon which rode a prince of the House of
Hanover. It shone upon the head of the gilded cock which served as sign
to Hogarth's old shop, flamed upon the windows of Newton's sham
observatory, glistened upon the roofs, played along the line of
coaches, set tiny mirrors upon the harnesses of the horses, glittered in
the diamonds in the women's ears, and on the swords that clattered
against the men's legs, set a spangle here or a spark there, and bathed
all things in a blaze of light and joy.
Meanwhile a lackey in a livery embroidered in silver had opened the door
to the two women.
"Sir Joshua Reynolds?"
The lackey hesitated, but at the moment Ralph, the painter's
confidential man, appeared upon the steps.
"Miss Woodville?" he inquired in his turn.
"Yes," replied the girl.
"Be good enough to follow me, Miss Woodville"; adding with a smile, "You
are prompt."
"It is the custom of the theatre. Lean upon my arm, aunt."
At this moment Miss Woodville was saluted with a "good-morning" uttered
by so strange, so guttural, so piercing a voice that she involuntarily
started.
"Don't be alarmed," said Ralph; "it is the bird."
"What bird?"
"Sir Joshua's parrot. He was in the courtyard, but had to be removed to
the dining-room because he fought with the eagle."
"An eagle! a parrot! Pray what are they doing here?"
"They pose. Miss Woodville must have noticed them in more than one of
Sir Joshua's pictures. Oh, we all take our turns in sitting as models to
him. Yesterday I was a shepherd; the day before, a sea-god."
The good man drew himself up at the recollection of the lofty dignity
with which his master's confidence had invested him.
Thus chatting, they reached the first floor. Ralph introduced the ladies
into a gallery filled with roughly sketched canvases. He knocked twice
upon the door at the extreme end, but received no response.
"How deaf the President grows!" he murmured, shaking his head.
Without further delay he opened the door.
Miss Woodville and her companion found themselves upon the threshold of
quite a spacious chamber, lighted by a large window facing the north and
nine feet in height.
The room contained an easel upon which rested a white canvas; near the
easel stood a large mirror; upon a table near by lay the palette, all
ready and fresh, with a row of little paint jars. The model's chair,
raised upon a dais and revolving upon a pivot, was placed next to that
of the painter, and opposite the mirror. About the room several sofas
were arranged. There were no knickknacks; no cluttering; nothing to
offend the sight, unless it was that just about the painter's chair the
floor was black with snuff.
The man who advanced slowly to meet the strangers, making use of his
maul-stick as a cane, while in the other he carried a silver
ear-trumpet, was none other than Sir Joshua Reynolds himself, the
greatest painter of women that the world has ever known.
The first impression he made upon his visitors was disappointing,
indefinable.
That expansive brow which the hair, brushed straightly back, disclosed
did not lack nobility; but the under lip, cleft by a wound and shrunken
in the middle, lent to the mouth an expression at once unpleasant and
strained. The eyes were concealed behind the crystalline glimmer of
spectacles securely attached to the back of the head by broad black
ribbons. The spare, calmly cold figure bore neither the trace of precise
age nor the certainty of sex. At some distance and in obscurity one
would have hesitated to pronounce it as that of a youth or an aged
woman. Perhaps in some way the air of indecision and anxiety was due to
that expression peculiar to those afflicted with deafness whose aim it
is to dissimulate their infirmity.
He cast upon the old Quakeress a rapid, searching glance; then his eyes
rested complacently upon Miss Woodville; his features, cold to
unpleasantness, softened and became animated. Already had he painted
three thousand portraits, but, far from being weary of his profession,
his enthusiasm for the wonders of the human physiognomy increased each
time that he found himself in the presence of a new model. Each time he
thought, "_This_ will be my _chef-d'oeuvre_!"
The girl was quickly relieved of her mantle, which Ralph laid aside. She
was dressed in the costume of Rosalind, as she had appeared at Drury
Lane for the first time six months previously,--memorable night! when
she had only to show herself to vanquish and carry by storm the hearts
of all London.
A wide-brimmed hat of gray felt with plumes, a corsage of rose-pink
taffety embroidered in silver, and a skirt of green velvet closely
plaited--such was the costume.
The small, childish head, framed in a profusion of chestnut curls, was
illumined by a pair of great brown eyes. With the eye of a connoisseur
Reynolds regarded the delicate complexion, over which ran at the
slightest provocation the rosiest of blushes, and over which every throb
of the heart sent a hint of the tide of life, regarded that brilliant,
mobile glance of the eye, in the depths of which played every
description of piqued curiosity and _naif_ desire, lost in the riotous
joy of living, of being sweet sixteen, celebrated and beautiful.
"Sit there, Miss Woodville," said the President of the Royal Academy,
indicating the pivot chair.
"What! Ought I not to be placed opposite you?"
"No; rather at my side. We shall both benefit by the arrangement.
Instead of looking at an ugly old painter, you will perceive your own
charming image in the mirror and will smile upon it, while I have my
sketch all done for me."
The old lady had drawn a roll of bank-notes from her pocket, which she
proceeded carefully to count and re-count.
"I believe it is the custom," she said.
Sir Joshua acquiesced in silence with a cold smile. An able accountant
and serious man of business, this President of the Royal Academy! The
price of his portraits was invariably paid him, one half on the occasion
of the first sitting, the remainder on the day that the finished work
was delivered. As to the price, it varied according to the dimension; it
had also varied with the epoch and had increased with the reputation of
the artist. A full-length portrait cost at that time (1780) one hundred
and fifty pounds sterling.
The Quakeress, therefore, placed upon a table seventy-five pounds in
notes and gold pieces bearing the effigy of George III. As Miss
Woodville was not yet sufficiently wealthy to order a portrait from the
great painter, a group of enthusiastic amateurs had raised the necessary
money in order to decorate the lobby of the theatre with the portrait.
"Am I permitted to talk?" inquired the girl.
"As much as you please."
"Oh, that's good!" she said, drawing a breath of relief; "and may I ask
a question?"
"Ten, if you see fit."
"Sir Joshua, why are you making me so deathly white? I look like a
statue."
Reynolds smiled.
"What will you say at the next sitting? I shall tint you all in Naples
yellow."
"Fie!--horrors! Why do you do that?"
"Ah, that is my little secret! My enemies pretend that I have scraped a
Watteau, others say a Titian, in order to discover the successive layers
of color and surprise the method of these masters. And why should I not?
All means are justifiable so long as one succeeds in imitating life.
Others pretend that I paint on wax. They may say what they please.
Hudson, my master, painted exceedingly well on cheese."
"On cheese!" exclaimed Miss Woodville with a laugh; "fancy a painting on
cheese!"
"Exactly so."
Thereupon ensued a pause, during which the canvas was heard to crack
beneath the pencil, while the old lady's needles clicked where she sat
knitting. Evidently ill at ease, Reynolds fretted upon his chair. At
last he turned towards the Quakeress and courteously remarked, "The time
will hang heavily upon your hands, madam."
"I have brought my work, and have no end of patience," she replied.
"That may be; but the first sitting is always tedious. Moreover, I need
to become intimately acquainted with my model, and since Miss Woodville
does not play this evening, I count upon keeping your niece for supper,
if you have no objection. I am to have a few friends here, for whom my
sister will do the honors as hostess,--Mr. Burke, Dr. Johnson, my
charming neighbor, Miss Burney."
"The author of 'Evelina'! Oh, I long to meet her!"
"So you see, madam, you may spare yourself a tedious wait, and without
fear leave Miss Woodville in my care. I shall make it my duty to see
that she is returned to you properly escorted."
Thus politely dismissed, the old lady regretfully arose, but seemed
still to hesitate.
"Go, aunt, or you will miss the reunion of 'The Favorites of Jesus
Christ,' of whom you are the presiding officer," suggested the younger
lady.
Whether influenced by this consideration, or whether she found it
difficult to resist the desire which the painter had so delicately
expressed, the Quakeress retired, escorted even to the threshold by Sir
Joshua.
"Are you aware," he asked, returning to his model, "of my true purpose
in sending this lady away?"
"In truth, no."
"Because she constrains you; because she casts a shadow upon your youth
and gayety; in a word, because she prevents you from being yourself."
"Pray, how could you divine that?"
"My dear child, I have already deciphered three thousand human visages,
and why should I not have learned to read the soul a little? The lady is
your aunt?"
"Yes,--at least I have been told to call her so."
"And your parents?"
"My mother is dead; I never knew her. My father has travelled for the
past fifteen years in foreign lands; perhaps I shall never see him.
While a mere child I was placed in Miss Hannah More's boarding-school at
Bristol. One day we learned that our mistress was a poetic genius, that
Dr. Johnson himself had deigned to encourage her. You cannot imagine,
Sir Joshua, what a sensation the tidings created among us girls! We all
sighed to compose verse--or to recite. It was discovered that I spoke
rather better than the others. I swear to you that I was possessed of
but one desire,--to appear in costume, to escape from that frightful
gray gown and that horrible Quaker bonnet in which we were all hooded.
One day I was made to declaim before Mr. Garrick. He wished to give me
lessons and make an actress of me. And a few months later I made my
_debut_."
"And a genuine triumph it was! I was there."
"It was then that I was informed that I had an aunt, a sister of my
mother, and I was forthwith placed in her care, in her guardianship."
"And she has rigorously acquitted herself of the mission which was
confided to her."
The child heaved a deep sigh.
"Ah, Sir Joshua! It is not that she is unkind in any way, but she is my
constant shadow. In the wings, in the greenroom, at the rehearsals, she
is ever at my side, answering questions which are put to me, refusing
invitations, reading letters which are addressed to me, and forcing me
to sing psalms to put to rout the evil thoughts which I find in
Shakespeare!"
"I see; and you long to be free?"
"Oh, yes, passionately!"
"And what use would you make of your liberty?"
"Oh, I can't fancy. Perhaps I might love virtue if it were not crammed
down my throat."
"Good!"
"But you do not know the worst yet."
"Well?"
"The worst--is Reuben!"
"And who may Reuben be?"
"My cousin, my aunt's son; but he is no Quaker. He belongs to one of
those old, rigid, cruel sects which have been perpetuated in shadow
since the days of the Puritans. He is a fanatic; it would rejoice his
heart to plunge into a sea of <DW7> blood; meanwhile he torments me."
"Perhaps he loves you?"
"Yes, according to his light, which surely is not a fair light."
"And what is the proper method of loving?"
The girl burst into a coquettish laugh.
"You ask me more than I can tell, Sir Joshua."
"Indeed? Pray how, then, can one who is ignorant of the sentiment impart
its faithful presentment to others? How can she communicate an emotion
which finds no echo in her own soul? Who has the ability to teach her to
invest her voice, her gestures, her glance, her very smile, with the
woes and joys of love?"
"Garrick, I tell you!"
That name, cast haphazard into their conversation, caused a divergence.
"Poor Garrick!" exclaimed Reynolds ruefully; "it is scarcely yet a year
since we left him alone in his glory beneath the pavement of
Westminster."
The mobile countenance of the child actress reflected as a mirror the
sad memory evoked by the artist; a tear glistened upon the lashes of her
beautiful eyes.
"He was your friend?" she inquired.
"Oh, yes; one of whom I was very proud."
"Did you paint his portrait?"
"Many times. He posed marvellously, and never tormented me as he did one
of my fellow-artists to whom quite unwillingly he had accorded some
sittings."
"What did he do?"
"Changed his mask every five minutes, until the poor artist, believing
that he as often had a new model before him, or the devil, perhaps,
flung away his brushes in despair."
"Garrick once told me," said Esther Woodville, "that the son of a
friend, recently dead, had sought him to complain of some trickery by
which he had been deprived of a portion of his inheritance. A certain
old man, to whom the deceased had intrusted a considerable sum, denied
the trust and refused to make restitution. Do you know what Garrick did?
Arrayed in the attire of the dead, he played the ghost, and played it so
well that the wretch, terrified beyond measure, made confession and
restored the property."
"I never heard the anecdote; it is curious," said Reynolds, taking a
pinch of snuff.
He extended the open box to the actress, but she refused it with a
slight grimace.
"You make a mistake," he said; "this is some 37, Hardham's; our
_elegantes_ prefer it to any other." Then after a brief pause he added,
"Your physiognomy is scarcely less changeable than Garrick's; you have
laughed, you have wept; you have been gay, excited, mournful. Now, of
all these expressions which have chased each other over your charming
face--nay, do not blush; I am an old man--of all these varied
expressions which is the veritable, the dominant one,--the one which
expresses the character of your soul? As long as I fail to discover this
expression in the model, so long is my brush paralyzed. I am obliged to
seek until I find it. I have painted Garrick both in tragedy and comedy;
Admiral Keppel, sword in hand, upon the point of giving the order to
clear the decks for action; Kitty Fisher, at her toilet, since it was
her profession to be beautiful and to please. I have represented
Goldsmith writing the final pages of the 'Vicar' or the sweet verses of
the 'Deserted Village'; Sterne, thinking of poor Maria's suffering or of
the death of Lieut. Lefevre. His wig was all awry and the rascal wanted
to straighten it. 'Let it be as it is!' I said to him; 'if it is
straight, you are no longer the author of 'Tristram Shandy.' When I
paint a child I give it some playthings; a young mother, I surround her
with her children. Notice this one, for instance--"
"That is my comrade, Mrs. Hartley."
"Exactly. She carries her little daughter upon her back and laughs
merrily. Fanciful maternity! There are mythological beauties and modern
beauties. The one will be a nymph and gently rest her limbs upon the
velvet sward in the genial atmosphere of a Grecian landscape; the
other, muffled up to her neck, her muff pressed to her nose, in order
to conceal a mouth that is a trifle expansive, elects to promenade the
denuded paths of her park and leave the imprint of her tiny, fur-clad
feet along the snow. It is the cold, you understand, which lends
brilliancy to the eyes and a rosy tip to the ear; it is the cold that
gives color and life. Thus I strive to place every human being in his or
her favorite attitude, amidst congenial surroundings, beneath the ray
which is best calculated to illumine. And I lie in wait for the divine
moment when the woman exhales all her seduction, the man all the power
of his mind."
He paused for a moment.
"Well, and you!" he continued quickly. "I have not found you yet; I have
no hold upon | 640.46066 |
2023-11-16 18:27:44.5149710 | 943 | 16 |
Produced by David Widger
THE MEMOIRS
OF
JACQUES CASANOVA de SEINGALT
1725-1798
THE RARE UNABRIDGED LONDON EDITION OF 1894 TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR MACHEN TO WHICH HAS BEEN ADDED THE CHAPTERS DISCOVERED BY ARTHUR SYMONS.
[Transcriber's Note: These memoires were not written for children, they may outrage readers also offended by Chaucer, La Fontaine, Rabelais and The Old Testament. D.W.]
ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE
CONTENTS
CASANOVA AT DUX
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
THE MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA
VENETIAN YEARS
EPISODE 1 -- CHILDHOOD
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
EPISODE 2 -- CLERIC IN NAPLES
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
EPISODE 3 -- MILITARY CAREER
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
EPISODE 4 -- RETURN TO VENICE
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
EPISODE 5 -- MILAN AND MANTUA
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE
TO PARIS AND PRISON
EPISODE 6 -- PARIS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
EPISODE 7 -- VENICE
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
EPISODE 8 -- CONVENT AFFAIRS
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
EPISODE 9 -- THE FALSE NUN
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
EPISODE 10 -- UNDER THE LEADS
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE
EPISODE 11 -- PARIS AND HOLLAND
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
EPISODE 12 -- RETURN TO PARIS
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
EPISODE 13 -- HOLLAND AND GERMANY
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
EPISODE 14 -- SWITZERLAND
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
EPISODE 15 -- WITH VOLTAIRE
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE
ADVENTURES IN THE SOUTH
EPISODE 16 -- DEPART SWITZERLAND
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
EPISODE 17 -- RETURN TO ITALY
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
EPISODE 18--RETURN TO NAPLES
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
EPISODE 19 -- BACK AGAIN TO PARIS
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
EPISODE 20 -- MILAN
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE
VOLUME 5 -- TO LONDON AND MOSCOW
EPISODE 21 -- SOUTH OF FRANCE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
EPISODE 21 -- TO LONDON
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
| 640.535011 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: CHELMSFORD HIGH STREET IN 1762.
(_Reduced by Photography from the Larger Engraving by J. Ryland._)]
THE
TRADE SIGNS OF ESSEX:
A Popular Account
OF
THE ORIGIN AND MEANINGS
OF THE
Public House & Other Signs
NOW OR FORMERLY
Found in the County of Essex.
BY
MILLER CHRISTY,
_Author of “Manitoba Described,”
“The Genus Primula in Essex,” “Our Empire,” &c._
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
Chelmsford:
EDMUND DURRANT & CO., 90, HIGH STREET.
London:
GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN, AND WELSH,
WEST CORNER ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD.
MDCCCLXXXVII.
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
“Prefaces to books [says a learned author] are like signs to
public-houses. They are intended to give one an idea of the kind of
entertainment to be found within.”
A student of the ancient and peculiarly interesting Art of Heraldry can
hardly fail, at an early period in his researches, to be struck with the
idea that some connection obviously exists between the various
“charges,” “crests,” “badges,” and “supporters” with which he is
familiar, and the curious designs now to be seen upon the sign-boards of
many of our roadside inns, and which were formerly displayed by most
other houses of business.
On first noticing this relationship when commencing the study of
Heraldry, somewhere about the year 1879, it occurred to me that the
subject was well worth following up. It seemed to me that much
interesting information would probably be brought to light by a careful
examination of the numerous signs of my native county of Essex. Still
more desirable did this appear when, after careful inquiry, I found that
(so far as I was able to discover) no more than three systematic
treatises upon the subject had ever been published. First and foremost
among these stands Messrs. Larwood and Hotten’s _History of
Sign-boards_,[1] a standard work which is evidently the result of a
very large amount of labour and research. I do not wish to conceal the
extent to which I am indebted to it. It is, however, to be regretted
that the authors should have paid so much attention to London signs, to
the partial neglect of those in other parts of the country, and that
they should not have provided a more complete index; but it is
significant of the completeness of their work that the other two writers
upon the subject have been able to add very little that is new, beside
mere local details. A second dissertation upon the origin and use of
trade-signs is to be found in a most interesting series of articles upon
the signs of the Town of Derby, contributed to the _Reliquary_[2] in
1867 by the late Mr. Llewellyn Jewitt, F.S.A., the editor of that
magazine; while the third and last source of information is to be found
in a lengthy pamphlet by Mr. Wm. Pengelly, F.R.S., treating in detail of
the Devonshire signs.[3]
On the Continent the literature of signs is much more voluminous. Among
the chief works may be mentioned Mons. J. D. Blavignac’s _Histoire des
Enseignes d’Hôtelleries, d’Auberges, et de Cabarets_;[4] Mons. Edouard
Fournier’s _Histoire des Enseignes de Paris_;[5] and Mons. Eustache de
La Quérière’s _Recherches Historiques sur les Enseignes des Maisons
Particulières_.[6]
It should be pointed out here that, although in what follows a good deal
has been said as to the age and past history of many of the best-known
Essex inns, this is, strictly speaking, a treatise on Signs and
Sign-boards only. The two subjects are, however, so closely connected
that I have found it best to treat them as one.
There will, doubtless, be many who will say that much of what I have
hereafter advanced is of too speculative a nature to be of real value.
They will declare, too, that I have shown far too great a readiness to
ascribe to an heraldic origin, signs which are at least as likely to
have been derived from some other source. To these objections I may
fairly reply that as, in most cases, no means now exist of discovering
the precise mode of origination, centuries ago, of many of our modern | 640.636365 |
2023-11-16 18:27:44.6185460 | 3,245 | 32 |
Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
"UNTO CAESAR"
BARONESS ORCZY
By BARONESS ORCZY
"UNTO CAESAR"
EL DORADO
MEADOWSWEET
THE NOBLE ROGUE
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
PETTICOAT RULE
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
[Illustration: "LOOK INTO MY EYES NOW!... DO THEY LOOK AS IF THEY MEANT
TO RELENT?"]
UNTO CAESAR
BY BARONESS ORCZY
AUTHOR OF 'THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL', 'ELDORADO'
[Illustration: Coin inscribed C CAESAR AVG GERMANICVS PON M TR POT]
"RENDER THEREFORE UNTO
CAESAR THE THINGS WHICH
ARE CAESAR'S; AND UNTO
GOD THE THINGS THAT
ARE GOD'S"
ST. MATTHEW XX. 21.
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1914,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
TO ALL THOSE WHO BELIEVE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 9
CHAPTER III. 19
CHAPTER IV. 30
CHAPTER V. 39
CHAPTER VI. 54
CHAPTER VII. 72
CHAPTER VIII. 83
CHAPTER IX. 107
CHAPTER X. 119
CHAPTER XI. 128
CHAPTER XII. 146
CHAPTER XIII. 155
CHAPTER XIV. 161
CHAPTER XV. 183
CHAPTER XVI. 193
CHAPTER XVII. 199
CHAPTER XVIII. 204
CHAPTER XIX. 209
CHAPTER XX. 212
CHAPTER XXI. 220
CHAPTER XXII. 226
CHAPTER XXIII. 233
CHAPTER XXIV. 239
CHAPTER XXV. 247
CHAPTER XXVI. 257
CHAPTER XXVII. 267
CHAPTER XXVIII. 277
CHAPTER XXIX. 286
CHAPTER XXX. 296
CHAPTER XXXI. 321
CHAPTER XXXII. 329
CHAPTER XXXIII. 343
CHAPTER XXXIV. 355
CHAPTER XXXV. 370
CHAPTER XXXVI. 376
"UNTO CAESAR"
CHAPTER I
"Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is Mount
Zion...."--PSALM XLVIII. 2.
And it came to pass in Rome after the kalends of September, and when
Caius Julius Caesar Caligula ruled over Imperial Rome.
Arminius Quirinius, the censor, was dead. He had died by his own hand,
and thus was a life of extortion and of fraud brought to an ignominious
end through the force of public opinion, and by the decree of that same
Caesar who himself had largely benefited by the mal-practices of his
minion.
Arminius Quirinius had committed every crime, sunk to every kind of
degradation which an inordinate love of luxury and the insatiable
desires of jaded senses had suggested as a means to satisfaction, until
the treachery of his own accomplices had thrown the glaring light of
publicity on a career of turpitude such as even these decadent times had
seldom witnessed ere this.
Enough that the end had come at last. A denunciation from the rostrum, a
discontented accomplice thirsting for revenge, an angry crowd eager to
listen, and within an hour the mighty, much-feared censor was forced to
flee from Rome to escape the fury of a populace which would have torn
him to pieces, and was ready even to massacre his family and his
womenfolk, his clients and his slaves.
He escaped to his villa at Ostia. But the Emperor Caligula, having duly
enjoyed the profits derived from his favourite's extortions, hurled
anathema and the full weight of his displeasure on the man who had been
not only fool enough to be found out, but who had compromised the
popularity of the Caesar in the eyes of the people and of the army.
Twenty-four hours later the imperial decree went forth that the
disgraced censor must end his days in any manner which he thought
best--seeing that a patrician and member of the Senate could not be
handed over to common justice--and also that the goods of Arminius
Quirinius should be publicly sold for the benefit of the State and the
profit of those whom the extortioner had wronged.
The latter phrase, though somewhat vague, pleased the people and soothed
public irritation, and the ephemeral popularity of a half-crazy tyrant
was momentarily restored. Be it said however, that less than a month
later the Caesar decided that he himself had been the person most wronged
by Arminius, and that the bulk of the profits derived from the sale of
the late censor's goods must therefore find its way into the imperial
coffers.
The furniture of Arminius' house within the city and that of his villa
at Ostia had fetched vast sums at a public auction which had lasted
three days. Everything had been sold, from the bed with the gilt legs on
which the body of the censor had been laid after his death, to the last
vase of murra that adorned his walls and the cups of crystal from which
his guests had drunk. His pet monkeys were sold and his tame magpies,
the pots of flowers out of the hothouses and the bunches of melons and
winter grapes ripening under glass.
After that it was the turn of the slaves. There were, so I understand,
over seven thousand of these: scribes and carpenters, litter-bearers and
sculptors, cooks and musicians; there were a quantity of young children,
and some half-witted dolts and misshapen dwarfs, kept for the amusement
of guests during the intervals of supper.
The bulk of them had been sent to the markets of Delos and Phaselis, but
the imperator had had the most valuable items amongst the human goods
set aside for himself, and not a few choice pieces had found their way
into the households of the aediles in charge of the sales: the State too
had appropriated some hundreds of useful scribes, sculptors and
mechanics, but there were still a thousand or so who--in compliance with
the original imperial edict--would have to be sold by public auction in
Rome for the benefit of the late censor's defrauded victims.
And thus, on this ninth day of September, a human load panting under the
heat of this late summer's sun, huddled one against the other, pushed
and jostled by the crowd, was exposed to the public gaze in the Forum
over against the rostrum Augustini, so that all who had a mind, and a
purse withal, might suit their fancy and buy.
A bundle of humanity--not over-wretched, for the condition of the slaves
in the household of Arminius Quirinius had not been an unhappy one--they
all seemed astonished, some even highly pleased, at thus finding
themselves the centre of attraction in the Forum, they who had spent
their lives in getting humbly out of other people's way.
Fair and dark, ivory skin and ebony, male and female, or almost sexless
in the excess of deformity, there were some to suit all tastes. Each
wore a tablet hung round the neck by a green cord: on this were writ the
chief merits of the wearer, and also a list of his or her defects, so
that intending purchasers might know what to expect.
There were the Phrygians with fair curly hair and delicate hands skilled
in the limner's art; the Numidians with skins of ebony and keen black
eyes that shone like dusky rubies; they were agile at the chase, could
capture a lion or trap the wild beasts that are so useful in
gladiatorial games. There were Greeks here, pale of face and gentle of
manner who could strike the chords of a lyre and sing to its
accompaniment, and there were swarthy Spaniards who fashioned
breast-plates of steel and fine chain mail to resist the assassin's
dagger: there were Gauls with long lithe limbs and brown hair tied in a
knot high above the forehead, and Allemanni from the Rhine with
two- hair heavy and crisp like a lion's mane. There was a
musician from Memphis whose touch upon the sistrum would call a dying
spirit back to the land of the living, and a cook from Judaea who could
stew a peacock's tongue so that it melted like nectar in the mouth:
there was a white-skinned Iceni from Britain, versed in the art of
healing, and a negress from Numidia who had killed a raging lion by one
hit on the jaw from her powerful fist.
Then there were those freshly brought to Rome from overseas, whose
merits or demerits had not yet been appraised--they wore no tablet round
the neck, but their feet were whitened all over with chalk; and there
were those whose heads were surmounted by an ugly felt hat in token that
the State treasury tendered no guarantee for them. Their period of
servitude had been so short that nothing was known about them, about
their health, their skill, or their condition.
Above them towered the gigantic rostrum with tier upon tier of massive
blocks of marble, and in the centre, up aloft, the bronze figure of the
wolf--the foster-mother of the great city--with metal jaws distended and
polished teeth that gleamed like emeralds in the sun.
And all around the stately temples of the Forum, with their rich
carvings and colonnades and walls in tones of delicate creamy white,
scarce less brilliant than the clouds which a gentle morning breeze was
chasing westwards to the sea. And under the arcades of the temples cool
shadows, dense and blue, trenchant against the white marble like an
irregular mosaic of lapis lazuli, with figures gliding along between the
tall columns, priests in white robes, furtive of gait, slaves of the
pontificate, shoeless and silent and as if detached from the noise and
bustle of the Forum, like ghosts that haunt the precincts of graves.
Throughout all this the gorgeous colouring that a summer's mid-morning
throws over imperial Rome. Above, that canopy of translucent blue,
iridescent and scintillating with a thousand colours, flicks of emerald
and crimson, of rose and of mauve that merge and dance together, divide
and reunite before the retina, until the gaze loses consciousness of all
colour save one all-pervading sense of gold.
In the distance the Capitol, temple-crowned, rearing its deified summit
upwards to the dome of heaven above, holding on its triple shoulders a
throng of metal gods, with Jupiter Victor right in the centre, a
thunderbolt in his hand which throws back ten thousand reflections of
dazzling light--another sun engendered by the sun. And to the west the
Aventine wrapped in its mantle of dull brown, its smooth incline barren
and scorched, and with tiny mud-huts dotted about like sleepy eyes that
close beneath the glare.
And far away beyond the Aventine, beyond the temples and palaces, the
blue ribbon of the Tiber flowing lazily to the sea: there where a
rose- haze hung in mid-air, hiding with filmy, transparent veil
the vast Campania beyond, its fever-haunted marshes and its reed-covered
fastnesses.
The whole, a magnificent medley of cream and gold and azure, and deep
impenetrable shadows trenchant as a thunder cloud upon an horizon of
gold, and the moving crowd below, ivory and bronze and black, with here
and there the brilliant note of a snow-white robe or of crimson
head-band gleaming through dark locks.
Up and around the rostrum, noise that was almost deafening had prevailed
from an early hour. On one of the gradients some ten or a dozen scribes
were squatting on mats of twisted straw, making notes of the sales and
entries of the proceeds on rolls of parchment which they had for the
purpose, whilst a swarthy slave, belonging to the treasury, acted as
auctioneer under direct orders from the praefect of Rome. He was perched
high up aloft, immediately beneath the shadow of the yawning bronze
wolf; he stood bare-headed under the glare of the sun, but a linen tunic
covered his shoulders, and his black hair was held close to his head by
a vivid crimson band.
He shouted almost incessantly in fluent Latin, but with the lisp
peculiar to the African races.
A sun-tanned giant whose massive frame and fair hair, that gleamed ruddy
in the sun, proclaimed some foreign ancestry was the praefectus in
command of this tangled bundle of humanity.
He had arrived quite early in the day and his litter stood not far from
the rostrum; its curtains of crimson silk, like vivid stains of blood
upon the walls of cream and gold, fluttered restlessly in the breeze.
Around the litter a crowd of his own slaves and attendants remained
congregated, but he himself stood isolated on the lowest gradient of the
central rostrum, leaning his powerful frame against the marble, with
arms folded across his mighty chest; his deep-set eyes were overshadowed
by heavy brows and his square forehead cut across by the furrow of a
perpetual frown which gave the whole face a strange expression of
untamed will and of savage pride, in no way softened by the firm lines
of the tightly closed lips or the contour of the massive jaws.
His lictors, at some little distance from him, kept his person well
guarded, but it was he who, with word or nod, directed the progress of
the sale, giving occasional directions to the lictors who--wielding
heavy flails--had much ado to keep the herd of human cattle within the
bounds of its pens. His voice was harsh and peremptory and he pronounced
the Latin words with but the faintest semblance of foreign intonation.
Now and then at a word from a likely purchaser he would with a sign
order a lictor to pick out one of his wares, to drag him forward out of
a compact group and set him up on the catasta. A small crowd would then
collect round the slave thus exposed, the tablet on his neck would be
| 640.638586 |
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ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING
by Mark Twain [Sameul Clemens]
ESSAY, FOR DISCUSSION, READ AT A MEETING OF THE HISTORICAL
AND ANTIQUARIAN CLUB OF HARTFORD, AND OFFERED FOR THE
THIRTY-DOLLAR PRIZE.[*]
[*] Did not take the prize.
Observe, I do not mean to suggest that the _custom_ of lying has
suffered any decay or interruption--no, for the Lie, as a Virtue, A
Principle, is eternal; the Lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in
time of need, the fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest
friend, is immortal, and cannot perish from the earth while this club
remains. My complaint simply concerns the decay of the _art_ of lying.
No high-minded man, no man of right feeling, can contemplate the
lumbering and slovenly lying of the present day without grieving to see
a noble art so prostituted. In this veteran presence I naturally enter
upon this theme with diffidence; it is like an old maid trying to teach
nursery matters to the mothers in Israel. It would not become to me to
criticise you, gentlemen--who are nearly all my elders--and my
superiors, in this thing--if I should here and there _seem_ to do it, I
trust it will in most cases be more in a spirit of admiration than
fault-finding; indeed if this finest of the fine arts had everywhere
received the attention, the encouragement, and conscientious practice
and development which this club has devoted to it, I should not need to
utter this lament, or shed a single tear. I do not say this to flatter:
I say it in a spirit of just and appreciative recognition. [It had been
my intention, at this point, to mention names and to give illustrative
specimens, but indications observable about me admonished me to beware
of the particulars and confine myself to generalities.]
No fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of our
circumstances--the deduction that it is then a Virtue goes without
saying. No virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and
diligent cultivation--therefore, it goes without saying that this one
ought to be taught in the public schools--even in the newspapers. What
chance has the ignorant uncultivated liar against the educated expert?
What chance have I against Mr. Per--against a lawyer? _Judicious_ lying
is what the world needs. I sometimes think it were even better and safer
not to lie at all than to lie injudiciously. An awkward, unscientific
lie is often as ineffectual as the truth.
Now let us see what the philosophers say. Note that venerable proverb:
Children and fools _always_ speak the truth. The deduction is plain
--adults and wise persons _never_ speak it. Parkman, the historian, says,
"The principle of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity." In
another place in the same chapters he says, "The saying is old that
truth should not be spoken at all times; and those whom a sick
conscience worries into habitual violation of the maxim are | 640.738068 |
2023-11-16 18:27:44.8193160 | 147 | 15 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE ESCULENT FUNGUSES OF ENGLAND.
A TREATISE
ON THE
ESCULENT FUNGUSES
OF
ENGLAND,
CONTAINING
AN ACCOUNT OF THEIR CLASSICAL HISTORY, USES, CHARACTERS,
DEVELOPMENT, STRUCTURE, NUTRITIOUS PROPERTIES,
MODES OF COOKING AND PRESERVING, ETC.
BY
CHARLES DAVID BADHAM, M.D.
EDITED BY FREDERICK CURRE | 640.839356 |
2023-11-16 18:27:44.9157500 | 4,885 | 6 |
Produced by KD Weeks, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. The topic
headings were printed in =boldface= type, and are delimited with ‘_’.
The original volume promised many illustrations. However, the edition
used here had none of them. The List of Illustrations is retained;
however, the pages indicated are not valid.
The text was printed with two columns per page, which could not be
reproduced in this format.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.
The following less-common characters are found in this book: ă (a with
breve), ā (a with macron), ĕ (e with breve), ē (e with macron), ĭ (i
with breve), ī (i with macron), ŏ (o with breve), ō (o with macron), ŭ
(u with breve), ū (u with macron). If they do not display properly,
please try changing your font.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
CHARACTER SKETCHES
OF ROMANCE, FICTION
AND THE DRAMA::::
A REVISED AMERICAN EDITION
OF THE READER’S HANDBOOK
BY
THE REV. E. COBHAM BREWER, LL.D.
EDITED BY
MARION HARLAND
----------
VOLUME II
[Illustration: colophon]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
NEW YORK SELMAR HESS PUBLISHER
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MDCCCXCII
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1892, by
SELMAR HESS.
PHOTOGRAVURES PRINTED ON THE
HESS PRESS.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
-------
VOLUME II.
-------
PHOTOGRAVURES AND ETCHINGS.
_Illustration_ _Artist_
LA CIGALE (_colored_) E. METZMACHER _Frontispiece_
FATES (THE) PAUL THUMANN 6
GABRIEL AND EVANGELINE FRANK DICKSEE 56
GANYMEDE F. KIRCHBACH 64
HAMLET AND THE GRAVEDIGGER P.A.J.
DAGNAN-BOUVERET 140
HAMLET AND HIS FATHER’S GHOST E. VON HOFFTEN 142
HERODIAS BENJAMIN CONSTANT 172
LORELEI (THE) W. KRAY 340
----------
WOOD ENGRAVINGS AND TYPOGRAVURES.
FALSTAFF AND MRS. FORD. 2
FARIA ENTERS DANTES’S CELL JANET LANGE 4
FATIMA AND ANNA GUSTAVE DORÉ 8
FATINITZA ADRIEN MARIE 10
FATMÉ N. SICHEL 12
FAUNTLEROY (LITTLE LORD) F. M. SPIEGLE 14
FAUST AND MARGARET IN THE GARDEN GABRIEL MAX 16
FITZJAMES AND RODERICK DHU J. B. MCDONALD 22
FITZWALTER (ALURED) AND ROSE HIS
WIFE BEAR HOME THE FLITCH OF
BACON;—JOHN GILPIN THOMAS STOTHARD 24
FLAVIO AND HILARIA 26
FLORESTAN SAVED BY LEONORA EUGEN KLIMSCH 30
FRANZ, ADELAIDE AND THE BISHOP OF
BAMBERG CARL BECKER 46
FRITHIOF AND INGEBORG R. BENDEMANN 50
FRITHIOF AT THE COURT OF KING
RING FERD. LEEKE 52
FROU-FROU GEORGES CLAIRIN 54
GAMP (SAIREY) FREDERICK BARNARD 60
GANN (CAROLINE), THE LITTLE
SISTER FREDERICK BARNARD 62
GARRICK (DAVID) AS ABEL DRUGGER JOHANN ZOFFANY 66
GAUTHIER (MARGUÉRITE), LA DAME
AUX CAMÉLIAS 68
GAVROCHE E. BAYARD 70
GHENT TO AIX (HOW WE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM) 78
GILDA AND RIGOLETTO HERMANN KAULBACH 86
GLAUCUS AND NYDIA W. E. LOCKHART 94
GOBBO (LAUNCELOT) 98
GODIVA J. VON LERIUS 100
GRACCHI (THE MOTHER OF THE) SCHOPIN 108
GRASSHOPPER (THE) AND THE ANT J. G. VIBERT 112
GREY (LADY JANE), EXECUTION OF PAUL DELAROCHE 118
GULLIVER CHAINED J. G. VIBERT 130
GUNTHER (KING) B. GUTH 132
HADWIG (FRAU) INTO THE CONVENT,
EKKEHARD BRINGING CARL VON BLAAS 134
HAIDÉE 136
HALIFAX (JOHN) SAVING THE BANK J. NASH 138
HARLOWE (CLARISSA) C. LANDSEER 144
HAROLD (EDITH FINDING THE BODY
OF) 146
HAROLD (KING) AND THE ELFINS ALBERT TSCHAUTSCH 148
HATTERAICK (DIRK) AND MEG
MERRILEES J.B. MCDONALD 150
HEBE CANOVA 154
HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE A. MAIGNAN 156
HEEP (URIAH) FREDERICK BARNARD 158
HELEN (THE ABDUCTION OF) R. VON DEUTSCH 160
HELOISE GLEYRE 163
HENRY THE EIGHTH AND ANNE BOLEYN C. VON PILOTY 164
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA W. VON KAULBACH 166
HERMIONE 168
HERO AND LEANDER FERDINAND KELLER 170
HETTY (DINAH AND) 174
HIPPOLYTUS (DEATH OF) RUBENS 176
HOFER (ANDREAS) AT INNSBRUCK FRANZ VON DEFREGGER 178
HOP-O’-MY-THUMB GUSTAVE DORÉ 182
HORATII (THE OATH OF THE) L. DAVID 184
HYPATIA A. SEIFERT 198
IANTHE 200
ILSE IN THE FARM-STABLE PAUL MEYERHEIM 202
IMMO AND HILDEGARD HERMANN KAULBACH 204
IMOGEN IN THE CAVE T. GRAHAM 206
INGOMAR (PARTHENIA AND) G. H. SWINSTEAD 212
IPHIGENIA EDMUND KANOLDT 214
IRENE AND KLEA E. TESCHENDORFF 216
ISABELLA AND THE POT OF BASIL HOLMAN HUNT 218
ISABELLE OF CROYE AND CHARLES OF
BURGUNDY (INTERVIEW BETWEEN) A. ELMORE 220
JINGLE (ALFRED) FREDERICK BARNARD 240
JOAN OF ARC EMMANUEL FRÉMIET 242
JOHN OF LEYDEN FERDINAND KELLE 248
JOURDAIN (MONSIEUR) AND NICOLE C.R. LESLIE 250
JUAN (DON) IN THE BARQUE EUGÈNE DELACROIX 252
KÄGEBEIN AND BODINUS CONRAD BECKMANN 256
LALLA ROOKH A. DE VALENTINE 292
LANCELOT AND ELAINE 294
LANTENAC AT THE STONE PILLAR G. BRION 296
LEAR (KING) AND THE FOOL GUSTAV SCHAUER 310
LECOUVREUR (ADRIENNE) AS CORNELIA ANTOINE COYPEL 312
LEIGH (SIR AMYAS) C. J. STANILAND 314
LEONORA AND FERDINANDO J. B. DUFFAUD 318
LOHENGRIN (ELSA AND) 336
LOUIS XI M. BAFFIER 342
LOUISE, THE GLEE-MAIDEN ROBERT HERDMAN 344
PREFACE.
An American reprint of “_The Reader’s Handbook of allusions, references,
plots and stories, by the Rev. E. Cobham Brewer, LL.D., of Trinity Hall,
Cambridge_,” has been for several years in the hands of cis-Atlantic
students.
Too much praise cannot be awarded to the erudition and patient diligence
displayed in the compilation of this volume of nearly twelve hundred
pages. The breadth of range contemplated by the learned editor is best
indicated in his own words:
“The object of this _Handbook_ is to supply readers and speakers with a
lucid, but very brief account of such names as are used in allusions and
references, whether by poets or prose writers;—to furnish those who
consult it with the plot of popular dramas, the story of epic poems, and
the outline of well-known tales. The number of dramatic plots sketched
out is many hundreds. Another striking and interesting feature of the
book is the revelation of the source from which dramatists and romancers
have derived their stories, and the strange repetitions of historic
incidents. It has been borne in mind throughout that it is not enough to
state a fact. It must be stated attractively, and the character
described must be drawn characteristically if the reader is to
appreciate it, and feel an interest in what he reads.”
All that Dr. Brewer claims for his book is sustained by examination of
it. It is nevertheless true that there is in it a mass of matter
comparatively unattractive to the American student and to the general
reader. Many of his “allusions” are to localities and neighborhood
traditions that, however interesting to English people, seem to us
trivial, verbose and inopportune, while he, whose chief object in the
purchase of the work is to possess a popular encyclopædia of literature,
is rather annoyed than edified by even an erudite author when his “talk
is of oxen,” fish, flesh and fowl.
Furthermore, the _Handbook_ was prepared so long ago that the popular
literature of the last dozen years is unrecorded; writers who now occupy
the foremost places in the public eye not being so much as named.
In view of these and other drawbacks to the extended usefulness of the
manual, the publishing-house whose imprint is upon the title-page of the
present work, taking the stanch foundation laid by Dr. Brewer, have
caused to be constructed upon it a work that, while retaining all of the
original material that can interest and aid the English-speaking
student, gives also “characters and sketches found in _American_ novels,
poetry and drama.”
It goes without saying that in the attempt to do this, it was necessary
to leave out a greater bulk of entertaining matter than could be wrought
in upon the original design. The imagination of the compiler, to whose
reverent hands the task was entrusted, recurred continually, while it
was in progress, to the magnificent hyperbole of the sacred
narrator—“The which, if they should be written, every one, I suppose
that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be
written.” Appreciation of the honor put upon her by the commission
deepened into delight as the work went on—prideful delight in the
richness and variety of our national literature. To do ample justice to
every writer and book would have been impossible, but the leading works
of every author of note have the honorable place. It is hoped that the
company of “characters” introduced among _dramatis personæ_ of English
and foreign classics, ancient and modern, will enliven pages that are
already fascinating. Many names of English authors omitted from the
_Handbook_ for the reason stated awhile ago, will also be found in their
proper positions.
The compiler and editor of this volume would be ungrateful did she not
express her sense of obligation for assistance received in the work of
collecting lists of writers and books from “_The Library of American
Literature_,” prepared by Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman and Miss Ellen
Hutchinson.
Besides this, and a tolerable degree of personal familiarity with the
leading literature of her own land, her resort has been to the public
libraries in New York City—notably, to _The Astor_ and _The Mercantile_.
For the uniform courtesy she has received from those in charge of these
institutions she herewith makes acknowledgement in the publisher’s name
and in her own.
MARION HARLAND.
[Illustration]
CHARACTER SKETCHES OF ROMANCE,
FICTION, AND THE DRAMA.
=Falkland=, an aristocratic gentleman, of a noble, loving nature, but
the victim of false honor and morbid refinement of feeling. Under great
provocation, he was goaded on to commit murder, but being tried was
honorably acquitted, and another person was executed for the crime.
Caleb Williams, a lad in Falkland’s service, accidently became
acquainted with these secret facts, but, unable to live in the house
under the suspicious eyes of Falkland, he ran away. Falkland tracked him
from place to place, like a blood-hound, and at length arrested him for
robbery. The true statement now came out, and Falkland died of shame and
broken spirit. —W. Godwin, _Caleb Williams_ (1794).
⁂ This tale has been dramatized by G. Colman, under the title of _The
Iron Chest_, in which Falkland is called “Sir Edward Mortimer,” and
Caleb Williams is called “Wilford.”
=False One= (_The_), a tragedy by Beaumont and Fletcher (1619). The
subject is the amours of Julius Caesar and Cleopat´ra.
=Falsetto= (_Signor_), a man who fawns on Fazio in prosperity, and turns
his back on him when fallen into disgrace.—Dean Milman, _Fazio_ (1815).
=Falstaff= (_Sir John_), in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, and in the two
parts of _Henry IV._, by Shakespeare. In _Henry V._, his death is
described by Mrs. Quickly, hostess of an inn in Eastcheap. In the
comedy, Sir John is represented as making love to Mrs. Page, who “fools
him to the top of his bent.” In the historic plays, he is represented as
a soldier and a wit, the boon companion of “Mad-cap Hal” (the prince of
Wales). In both cases, he is a mountain of fat, sensual, mendacious,
boastful, and fond of practical jokes.
In the king’s army, “Sir John” was Captain, “Peto” Lieutenant, “Pistol”
ancient [ensign], and “Bardolph” Corporal.
C.R. Leslie says: “Quin’s ‘Falstaff’ must have been glorious. Since
Garrick’s time there have been more than one ‘Richard,’ ‘Hamlet,’
‘Romeo,’ ‘Macbeth,’ and ‘Lear;’ but since Quin [1693-1766] only one
'Falstaff,' John Henderson [1747-1786].”
Falstaff, unimitated, inimitable, Falstaff, how shall I describe thee?
Thou compound of sense and vice: of sense which may be admired, but not
esteemed; of vice which may be despised, but hardly detested. “Falstaff
” is a character loaded with faults, and with those faults which
naturally produce contempt. He is a thief and a glutton, a coward and a
boaster, always ready to cheat the weak and prey upon the poor, to
terrify the timorous and insult the defenceless. At once obsequious and
malignant—yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself
necessary to the prince by perpetual gaiety, and by unfailing power of
exciting laughter.—Dr. Johnson.
=Fanciful= (_Lady_), a vain, conceited beauty, who calls herself “nice,
strangely nice,” and says she was formed “to make the whole creation
uneasy.” She loves Heartfree, a railer against women, and when he
proposes marriage to Belinda, a rival beauty, spreads a most impudent
scandal, which, however, reflects only on herself. Heartfree, who at one
time was partly in love with her, says to her:
“Nature made you handsome, gave you beauty to a miracle, a shape without
a fault, wit enough to make them relish... but art has made you become
the pity of our sex, and the jest of your own. There’s not a feature in
your face but you have found the way to teach it some affected
convulsion. Your feet, your hands, your very finger-ends, are directed
never to move without some ridiculous air, and your language is a
suitable trumpet to draw people’s eyes upon the raree-show” (act ii.
1).—Vanbrugh, _The Provoked Wife_ (1697).
=Fan-Fan=, _alias_ =Phelin O’Tug=, “a lolly-pop maker, and manufacturer
of maids of honor to the court.” This merry, shy, and blundering elf,
concealed in a bear-skin, makes love to Christine, the faithful
attendant on the Countess Marie. Phelin O’Tug says his mother was too
bashful ever to let him know her, and his father always kept in the
back-ground.—E. Stirling, _The Prisoner of State_ (1847).
=Fang=, a bullying, insolent magistrate, who would have sent Oliver
Twist to prison, on suspicion of theft, if Mr. Brownlow had not
interposed on the boy’s behalf.—C. Dickens, _Oliver Twist_ (1837).
The original of this ill-tempered, bullying magistrate was Mr. Laing, of
Hatton Garden, removed from the bench by the home secretary.—John
Foster, _Life of Dickens_, iii. 4.
=Fang and Snare=, two sheriff’s officers.—Shakespeare, _2 Henry IV_
(1598).
=Fanny= (_Robin_). Country girl seduced under promise of marriage by
Sergeant Troy. She dies with her child and is buried by Troy’s
betrothed, who learns after her marriage the tale of Fanny’s wrongs.—T.
Hardy, _Far from the Madding Crowd_ (1874).
_Fanny_ (_Lord_). So John Lord Hervey was usually called by the wits of
the time, in consequence of his effeminate habits. His appearance was
that of a “half-wit, half-fool, half-man, half-beau.” He used rouge,
drank ass’s milk, and took Scotch pills (1694-1743).
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll [_publisher_]. Byron, _English
Bards and Scotch Reviewers_ (1809).
_Fanny_ (_Miss_), younger daughter of Mr. Sterling, a rich City
merchant. She was clandestinely married to Lovewell. “Gentle-looking,
soft-speaking, sweet-smiling, and affable,” wanting “nothing but a crook
in her hand and a lamb under her arm to be a perfect picture of
innocence and simplicity.” Every one loved her, and as her marriage was
a secret, Sir John Melvil and Lord Ogleby both proposed to her. Her
marriage with Lovewell being ultimately made known, her dilemma was
removed.—Colman and Garrick, _The Clandestine Marriage_ (1766).
=Fan´teries= (3 _syl._), foot-soldiers, infantry.
Five other bandes of English fanteries. G. Gascoigne, 1535-1577, _The
Fruites of Warre_ (1575)
=Fantine=. Parisian girl, deserted by her lover and left to support her
child as best she can. Her heroic self-devotion is one of the most
interesting episodes of _Les Miserables_, a romance by Victor Hugo.
=Faquir´=, a religious anchorite, whose life is spent in the severest
austerities and mortification.
He diverted himself, however... especially with the Brahmins, faquirs,
and other enthusiasts who had travelled from the heart of India, and
halted on their way with the emir.—W. Beckford, _Vathek_ (1786).
=Farçeur= (_The_), Angelo Beolco, the Italian farce-writer. Called
_Ruzz | 640.93579 |
2023-11-16 18:27:44.9178400 | 3,852 | 9 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 17, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 855. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
A BOY OF 1775.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
Can you not see the boy of 1775 now--his sturdy legs encased in stout
black stockings, german-silver buckles to his knee-breeches, his hair
plaited and tied with a smart black ribbon, and all this magnificence
topped by three real silver buttons with which his hat is rakishly
cocked? But the boy himself is better worth looking at than all his
finery--so thought Captain Moore, of his Majesty's ship _Margaretta_,
lying at anchor in the harbor of Machias. Jack Leverett was the boy's
name--a handsome stripling of sixteen, with a quiet manner but a
fearless eye.
The two were sitting opposite each other at the cabin table, and through
the open port they could see the village and the harbor, bathed in the
bright white light of a day in May. The Captain was conscious that this
young guest was decidedly in a hurry to leave. A whole hour had they sat
at the dinner table, Captain Moore, with the utmost art, trying to find
out Jack's errand to Machias--for those were the stirring days when
every American had to take his stand for or against King George--and
Captain Moore particularly desired to know how Squire Leverett, Jack's
father, stood toward the King. But Jack, with native mother-wit, had
managed to baffle the Captain. He had readily admitted that he was the
bearer of a letter from his father to Jerry O'Brien, master of Squire
Leverett's sloop _Priscilla_, in regard to heaving down the sloop. But
the Captain, with a seaman's eye, had noted that the _Priscilla_ was in
perfect order and did not need to be hove down, and he more than
suspected that Jack was the bearer of other and more important news.
Through the cabin windows they could see the sloop, a beautiful craft,
being warped into her dock, while across the blue water was wafted
sweetly the voices of the men, led by the shanty man,[1] singing the old
shanty song:
"Haul the bowline, our jolly ship's a-rolling,
Haul the bowline, the bowline _haul_!
Haul the bowline, our jolly mate's a-growling,
Haul the bowline, the bowline _haul_!"
[1] "Shanty man"--from "Chantez"--a man who could lead the singing while
the men worked. A good shanty man was considered to be a valuable
acquisition to a vessel.
As soon as Jack decently could, he started to rise from the table.
Captain Moore had observed that the glass of wine at Jack's plate
remained untasted, and it suggested a means of finding out whether the
Leveretts meant to go with the King or not.
"Do not go," he said, "until you have joined me in drinking the health
of his Majesty King George."
Jack had no notion whatever of drinking the King's health, but he was at
his wits' end how to avoid it. Just then, though, the Captain turned to
speak to his orderly, and Jack took the opportunity of gulping down his
wine with more haste than elegance. Captain Moore, seeing it, was
surprised and disgusted at the boy's apparent greediness for wine, but
raising his glass, said, "To the King."
"Excuse me, sir," answered Jack, coolly, "but my father never allows me
to drink but one glass of wine, and that I have already had."
"Then I will drink the toast alone," said Captain Moore, with a stern
look at the boy. "Here is to his Majesty King George. Health and long
life to him! God save the King!"
As Captain Moore uttered this sentiment Jack rose and promptly put on
his hat. The Captain was quite sure that the boy's action, like his
gulping down the wine, meant a distaste for the King, and not a want of
breeding. But he thought it best not to notice the incident, and said,
civilly, to his young guest:
"Present my compliments to your honored father, and tell him that his
Majesty's officers have the kindest feelings toward these misguided
people; and while if attacked we will certainly defend ourselves, we
have strict orders to avoid a conflict if possible, and not to fire
until fired upon."
"I will remember your message, sir," was Jack's answer; and the Captain,
having no further excuse for detaining his young guest, allowed him to
depart.
He was soon alongside of the _Priscilla_, and there, standing at the
gangway, was the sloop's master, Jerry O'Brien. Jerry, by an accident of
fate, had inherited an Irish name, but he was as arrant a Yankee as ever
stepped. He was a handsome fellow withal, and in his natty blue suit
much more resembled the Captain of an armed cruiser than the master of a
smart merchant vessel. The _Priscilla_, too, was a wonderful contrast to
the slovenly merchantmen around her. She was as clean as hands could
make her, and her beautiful lines were brought out by the shining coat
of black paint upon her hull. Her men were smart and seamanlike. Jerry
O'Brien was the most exacting ship-master on that coast, but he never
had any trouble in shipping men, for, while making them do their work
with the quickness and steadiness of man-o'-war's men, he used neither
blows nor curses. A natural leader of men, he made himself respected
first, and after that it is always easy to command obedience.
As soon as Jack Leverett came over the side Jerry took him to the cabin.
Jack produced a letter, and by the heat from a ship's lantern some
writing in lemon juice was deciphered. It contained a full account of
the affairs at Lexington and Concord, of which only vague rumors had
reached Machias. At every sentence descriptive of American valor Jerry
would give a half-suppressed whoop, and at the end he could not forbear
letting out a huzza that made the little cabin ring.
"Suppose," said Jack, who had hard work to keep from hurrahing wildly,
"instead of making a noise, we should invent a scheme to capture the
_Margaretta_. If the farmers around Boston could, with hay-forks and
blunderbusses, beat off the British regulars, the sailors and fishermen
about here ought to be able to get alongside the _Margaretta_ and take
her."
Jerry's mouth was large, and it came open like a rat-trap at this bold
proposition. After a pause he spoke. "Boy," said he, "the enterprise
shall be tried; and if we succeed, you shall be prize-master of the
_Margaretta_."
Jack's heart leaped at these words. He was an admirable sailor, like
most of the hardy youngsters on the coast, and had more than once taken
the _Priscilla_ on short trips. But his mother and the Squire meant him
to be something else than a merchant Captain, and kept him under a tutor
when he would much rather have been sailing blue water. For hours Jack
and Jerry sat in the cabin talking over their scheme. Jerry knew that
the people of Machias were heart and soul with the cause of freedom, and
could be depended upon in any desperate adventure. The _Margaretta_
carried four brass guns and a number of swivels; but, as Jerry shrewdly
said, if once the _Priscilla_ could grapple with her, it would be a
battle of men and musketry, not of guns. At nightfall Jack and Jerry
went ashore. A great vivid moon hung in the sky, and they could see the
_Margaretta_ almost as well as in daylight. She was a handsome vessel,
schooner rigged, and in a state of preparation that showed Captain Moore
did not mean to be caught napping. All her boats were hoisted in, her
anchors had springs on them, and her sails were merely clewed up,
instead of being furled.
"There you are, my beauty," said Jerry. "It's a shame, so it is, that
King George's ensign should fly from your peak. You deserve an American
flag, and we'll try and give it you."
All that night they spent going from house to house of the men who had
the patriotism to enlist with them, and by daylight they had the promise
of twenty-five resolute men who, at a signal of three cheers given from
the _Priscilla_, would at once board her and put themselves under Jerry
O'Brien's command.
All this commotion on shore had not escaped Captain Moore's lookouts
during the night, and although the Captain would much have preferred
staying and fighting it out, his orders compelled him to cut and run if
signs of an outbreak were visible. The British government then earnestly
wished to conciliate the colonists, and by no means to come to blows.
The next morning was Sunday, and as beautifully clear and bright as the
day before. In order to avoid the appearance of fear, Captain Moore
determined, with his officers, to go to church as usual. As the
Captain's gig landed the officers, Jerry O'Brien and Jack Leverett, with
the six men who composed the _Priscilla_'s crew, were all on deck,
keeping a sharp eye on the _Margaretta_ and her boat.
"What say you, men," suddenly asked Jerry, "to bagging those officers in
church?"
"We say yes," answered every man at once. In a few minutes, with Jerry
and Jack in the lead, and all well armed, they took the road toward the
church. As they neared it they heard the faint sweet echo of a hymn that
floated out on the spring air--the only sound that broke the heavenly
stillness.
Jerry silently posted his men at the entrance, and then opening the door
softly, raised his horse-pistol and levelled it straight at Captain
Moore, who sat in the last pew.
The British Captain happened to turn his head at that instant. The
congregation was too absorbed in the singing to notice what was going
on. Jerry nodded at the Captain, as much as to say, "You are my
prisoner." The Captain coolly shook his head, as if to answer, "Not
quite, my fine fellow," and the next moment he made a sudden dash for
the open window, followed by all of his officers, and before Jerry could
realize that the birds had flown, they had run half-way to the shore. In
vain Jerry and Jack and their followers pursued. The officers had too
long a lead, and by the time the Americans reached the shore the
Captain's gig was being pulled rapidly to the ship. As soon as the boat
reached it the anchors were picked up, every sail that would draw was
shaken out, and the cruiser made for the offing. As soon as she was well
under way she sent a shot of defiance screaming over the town, and was
answered by three thundering American cheers from the _Priscilla_. As if
by magic the sloop's deck was alive with armed men, and with a quickness
equal to the cruiser's, her mainsail was up, and she was winging her way
in pursuit of her enemy.
Well had the _Priscilla_ been called the fastest sloop in all that
region. The wind was dead ahead, and both vessels had to get out of the
river on "a long leg and a short one." The _Margaretta_ was handled in a
seamanlike manner, but on every tack the _Priscilla_ gained, and showed
that she was a better sailer both on and off the wind. In an hour they
were within hailing distance, and the men on the _Margaretta_ were
called to quarters by the tap of the drum. Her guns were run out, their
tompions withdrawn, and the cruiser showed herself to be an ugly
customer to tackle. But this did not intimidate the Americans, who were
closing on her fast.
A hail came from the _Margaretta_, "What are you following us for?"
"To learn how to tack ship!" responded Jerry O'Brien, who had taken the
wheel himself. This reply caused a roar of laughter from the Americans,
as the _Priscilla_ could come about in half the time of the
_Margaretta_.
"Keep off or I'll fire!" was the next hail.
"Fire away, gentlemen," bawled Jerry, "and light your matches with your
orders not to fire first!"
At this the gallant British tars groaned loudly, and Captain Moore,
drawing his sword and shaking it at the rapidly advancing sloop,
shouted:
"Orders or no orders, I will fire one round if I lose my commission for
it. Blow your matches, boys!"
The guns were already manned, and at the word there was a flash of
light, a puff of smoke, and a round shot came hissing and shrieking
across the water and struck the _Priscilla_'s mainmast fairly in the
middle, splintering it. The sloop staggered under the blow, and in a
minute or two the mast went by the board with a crash.
A great cheer broke from the _Margaretta_'s men at that.
"Never mind," cried Jerry. "This is not the first mast that was ever
carried away, and we have spare spars and carpenters too. Wait for us in
Holmes Bay, and we will fight it out yard-arm to yard-arm before
sundown."
The _Margaretta_, with her men cheering and jeering, sailed away toward
the open sea. The _Priscilla_ being the best-found sloop in New England,
in a little while the stump of the mast was cleared away, a lighter
spar, but still good enough, was fitted, and she made sail on it.
As she neared the ocean the wind freshened every moment, and although
the sun shone brilliantly, a heavy sea was kicked up. Soon they sighted
the _Margaretta_, with her topsail backed, and gallantly waiting for her
enemy.
In all this time Jack Leverett showed a steadiness and coolness beyond
his years. Once Jerry O'Brien said to him,
"Youngster, if you flinch, depend upon it, your father shall know it."
"All right," answered Jack; "and if I don't flinch I want my mother to
know it."
The two vessels now neared each other on opposite tacks. Captain Moore
manoeuvred to get into a raking position before delivering his fire,
but the _Priscilla_, by skilful yawing and by the roughness of the sea,
proved to be as difficult to hit as if she had been a cork bobbing up
and down. In vain they played their two starboard guns and all their
swivels on her; their shot rarely struck, and when it struck, did small
damage.
Not so with the Americans. Without a single cannon, they poured forth a
musketry fire at close quarters that did fearful work and made hot the
_Margaretta_'s decks. The brave British sailors stood manfully to their
guns, but the Americans were gradually edging up, and their fire grew
more deadly every moment. The _Margaretta_ tried to sheer off, but the
_Priscilla_, closing up, got her jibboom entangled in her adversary's
main rigging, and a dozen Americans sprang forward to make the two ships
fast.
As the vessels came grinding together Jerry O'Brien, leaping on the
taffrail, shouted, "I will be the first man to board--and follow me!"
But Jerry was mistaken. He was suddenly seized by the coat tails, jerked
backwards, and fell sprawling upon the deck, and the next instant Jack
Leverett sprang over him, and was first upon the _Margaretta_'s deck.
"Drat the boy!" was Jerry's involuntary exclamation as he scrambled to
his feet.
The Americans poured over the side, and met with a warm reception.
Captain Moore, surrounded by his officers, retreated to the fo'c's'le,
fighting every step of the way. At last Jerry O'Brien came face to face
with him. The Captain defended himself with his sword, but it was
knocked out of his hand by Jerry with a pistol butt. They clinched and
fell to the deck fighting. The struggle was sharp but short, and in
fifteen minutes from the time the Americans had lashed the ships
together the Captain was overpowered, nearly every officer had been cut
down, and the cruiser was in the hands of the Americans. There had been
much cheering on the _Priscilla_ that day, but when the British ensign
was hauled down, and Jerry, in default of a national flag, hoisted his
own jacket at the | 640.93788 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books
COWARDICE COURT
By George Barr McCutcheon
Illustrated by Harrison Fisher
[Illustration: 0007]
[Illustration: 0008]
[Illustration: 0012]
COWARDICE COURT
CHAPTER I--IN WHICH A YOUNG MAN TRESPASSES
“He's just an infernal dude, your lordship, and I 'll throw him in the
river if he says a word too much.”
“He has already said too much, Tompkins, confound him, don't you know.”
“Then I'm to throw him in whether he says anything or not, sir?”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, your lordship, but James has. James says he wears a red coat and--”
“Never mind, Tompkins. He has no right to fish on this side of that
log. The insufferable ass may own the land on the opposite side, but,
confound his impertinence, I own it on this side.”
This concluding assertion of the usually placid but now irate Lord
Bazelhurst was not quite as momentous as it sounded. As a matter of
fact, the title to the land was vested entirely in his young American
wife; his sole possession, according to report, being a title much
less substantial but a great deal more picturesque than the large,
much-handled piece of paper down in the safety deposit vault--lying
close and crumpled among a million sordid, homely little slips called
coupons.
It requires no great stretch of imagination to understand that Lord
Bazelhurst had an undesirable neighbour. That neighbour was young Mr.
Shaw--Randolph Shaw, heir to the Randolph fortune. It may be fair to
state that Mr. Shaw also considered himself to be possessed of an odious
neighbour. In other words, although neither had seen the other, there
was a feud between the owners of the two estates that had all the
earmarks of an ancient romance.
Lady Bazelhurst was the daughter of a New York millionaire; she was
young, beautiful, and arrogant. Nature gave her youth and beauty;
marriage gave her the remaining quality. Was she not Lady Bazelhurst?
What odds if Lord Bazelhurst happened to be a middle-aged, addle-pated
ass? So much the better. Bazelhurst castle and the Bazelhurst estates
(heavily encumbered before her father came to the rescue) were among the
oldest and most coveted in the English market. Her mother noted, with
unctuous joy, that the present Lady Bazelhurst in babyhood had extreme
difficulty in mastering the eighth letter of the alphabet, certainly a
most flattering sign of natal superiority, notwithstanding the fact that
her father was plain old John Banks (deceased), formerly of Jersey City,
more latterly of Wall street and St. Thomas's.
Bazelhurst was a great catch, but Banks was a good name to conjure with,
so he capitulated with a willingness that savoured somewhat of suspended
animation (so fearful was he that he might do something to disturb
the dream before it came true). That was two years ago. With exquisite
irony, Lady Bazelhurst decided to have a country-place in America. Her
agents discovered a glorious section of woodland in the Adirondacks,
teeming with trout streams, game haunts, unparalleled scenery; her
ladyship instructed them to buy without delay. It was just here that
young Mr. Shaw came into prominence.
His grandfather had left him a fortune and he was looking about for ways
in which to spend a portion of it. College, travel, and society
having palled on him, he hied himself into the big hills west of Lake
Champlain, searching for beauty, solitude, and life as he imagined it
should be lived. He found and bought five hundred acres of the most
beautiful bit of wilderness in the mountains.
The same streams coursed through his hills and dales that ran through
those of Lady Bazelhurst, the only distinction being that his portion
was the more desirable. When her ladyship's agents came leisurely up
to close their deal, they discovered that Mr. Shaw had snatched up
this choice five hundred acres of the original tract intended for their
client. At least one thousand acres were left for the young lady, but
she was petulant enough to covet all of it.
Overtures were made to Mr. Shaw, but he would not sell. He was preparing
to erect a handsome country-place, and he did not want to alter his
plans. Courteously at first, then somewhat scathingly he declined to
discuss the proposition with her agents. After two months of pressure of
the most tiresome persistency, he lost his temper and sent a message to
his inquisitors that suddenly terminated all negotiations. Afterwards,
when he learned that their client was a lady, he wrote a conditional
note of apology, but, if he expected a response, he was disappointed. A
year went by, and now, with the beginning of this narrative, two newly
completed country homes glowered at each other from separate hillsides,
one envious and spiteful, the other defiant and a bit satirical.
Bazelhurst Villa looks across the valley and sees Shaw's Cottage
commanding the most beautiful view in the hills; the very eaves of
her ladyship's house seem to have wrinkled into a constant scowl of
annoyance. Shaw's long, low cottage seems to smile back with tantalizing
security, serene in its more lofty altitude, in its more gorgeous
raiment of nature. The brooks laugh with the glitter of trout, the
trees chuckle with the flight of birds, the hillsides frolic in their
abundance of game, but the acres are growling like dogs of war. “Love
thy neighbour as thyself” is not printed on the boards that line the
borders of the two estates. In bold black letters the sign-boards
laconically say: “No trespassing on these grounds. Keep off!”
“Yes, I fancy you'd better put him off the place if he comes down here
again to fish, Tompkins,” said his lordship, in conclusion. Then he
touched whip to his horse and bobbed off through the shady lane in a
most painfully upright fashion, his thin legs sticking straight out, his
breath coming in agonized little jerks with each succeeding return of
his person to the saddle.
“By Jove, Evelyn, it's most annoying about that confounded Shaw chap,”
he remarked to his wife as he mounted the broad steps leading to the
gallery half an hour later, walking with the primness which suggests
pain. Lady Bazelhurst looked up from her book, her fine aristocratic
young face clouding with ready belligerence.
“What has he done, Cecil dear?”
“Been fishing on our property again, that's all. Tompkins says he
laughed at him when he told him to get off. I say, do you know, I think
I 'll have to adopt rough methods with that chap. Hang it all, what
right has he to catch our fish?”
“Oh, how I hate that man!” exclaimed her ladyship petulantly.
“But I've given Tompkins final instructions.”
“And what are they?”
“To throw him in the river next time.”
“Oh, if he only _could!_” 'rapturously.'
“_Could?_ My dear, Tompkins is an American. He can handle these chaps in
their own way. At any rate, I told Tompkins if his nerve failed him at
the last minute to come and notify me. _I 'll_ attend to this confounded
popinjay!”
“Good for you, Cecil!” called out another young woman from the broad
hammock in which she had been dawdling with half-alert ears through
the foregoing conversation. “Spoken like a true Briton. What is this
popinjay like?”
“Hullo, sister. Hang it all, what's he like? He's like an ass, that's
all. I've never seen him, but if I'm ever called upon to--but you don't
care to listen to details. You remember the big log that lies out in the
river up at the bend? Well, it marks the property line. One half of its
stump belongs to the Shaw man, the other half to m--to us, Evelyn.
He shan't fish below that log--no, sir!” His lordship glared fiercely
through his monocle in the direction of the far-away log, his watery
blue eyes blinking as malevolently as possible, his long, aristocratic
nose wrinkling at its base in fine disdain. His five feet four of
stature quivered with illy-subdued emotion, but whether it was rage or
the sudden recollection of the dog-trot through the woods, it is beyond
me to suggest.
“But suppose our fish venture into his waters, Cecil; what then? Isn't
that trespass?” demanded the Honourable Penelope Drake, youngest and
most cherished sister of his lordship.
“Now, don't be silly, Pen,” cried her sister-in-law. “Of course we can't
regulate the fish.”
“But I daresay his fish will come below the log, so what's the odds?”
said his lord-ship quickly. “A trout's a lawless brute at best.”
“Is he big?” asked the Honourable Penelope lazily.
“They vary, my dear girl.”
“I mean Mr. Shaw.”
“Oh, I thought you meant the--but I don't know. What difference does
that make? Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds.” Was it a look
of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew himself
proudly erect or was it akin to pity? At any rate, her gay young
American head was inches above his own when she arose and suggested that
they go inside and prepare for the housing of the guests who were to
come over from the evening train.
“The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here by
seven o'clock.”
“Confound his impudence, I 'll show him,” grumbled his lordship as he
followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door.
“What's up, Cecil, with your legs?” called his sister. “Are you getting
old?”
This suggestion always irritated him.
“Old? Silly question. You know how old I am. No; it's that beastly
American horse. Evelyn, I told you they have no decent horses in this
beastly country. They jiggle the life out of one--” but he was obliged
to unbend himself perceptibly in order to keep pace with her as she
hurried through the door.
The Honourable Penelope allowed her indolent gaze to follow them. A
perplexed pucker finally developed on her fair brow and her thought was
almost expressed aloud: “By Jove, I wonder if she really loves him.”
Penelope was very pretty and very bright. She was visiting America for
the first time and she was learning rapidly. “Cecil's a good sort, you
know, even--” but she was loyal enough to send her thoughts into other
channels.
Nightfall brought half a dozen guests to Bazelhurst Villa. They were
fashionable to the point where ennui is the chief characteristic, and
they came only for bridge and sleep. There was a duke among them and
also a French count, besides the bored New Yorkers; they wanted brandy
and soda as soon as they got into the house, and they went to bed early
because it was so much easier to sleep lying down than sitting up.
All were up by noon the next day, more bored than ever, fondly praying
that nothing might happen before bedtime. The duke was making desultory
love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De Peyton was leading him aimlessly
toward the shadier and more secluded nooks in the park surrounding the
Villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the purpose of life, was off alone
for a long stroll. By this means she avoided the attentions of the duke,
who wanted to marry her; those of the count who also said he wanted to
marry her but couldn't because his wife would not consent; those of
one New Yorker, who liked her because she was English; and the pallid
chatter of the women who bored her with their conjugal cynicisms.
“What the deuce is this coming down the road?” queried the duke,
returning from the secluded nook at luncheon time.
“Some one has been hurt,” exclaimed his companion. Others were looking
down the leafy road from the gallery.
“By Jove, it's Penelope, don't you know,” ejaculated the duke, dropping
his monocle and blinking his eye as if to rest it for the time being.
“But she's not hurt. She's helping to support one of those men.”
“Hey!” shouted his lordship from the gallery, as Penelope and two
dilapidated male companions abruptly started to cut across the park
in the direction of the stables. “What's up?” Penelope waved her hand
aimlessly, but did not change her course. Whereupon the entire house
party sallied forth in more or less trepidation to intercept the strange
party.
“Who are these men?” demanded Lady Bazelhurst, as they came up to the
fast-breathing young Englishwoman.
“Don't bother me, please. We must get him to bed at once. He'll have
pneumonia,” replied Penelope.
Both men were dripping wet and the one in the middle limped painfully,
probably because both eyes were swollen tight and his nose was bleeding.
Penelope's face was beaming with excitement and interest.
“Who are you?” demanded his lordship, planting himself in front of the
shivering twain.
“Tompkins,” murmured the blind one feebly, tears starting from the blue
slits and rolling down his cheeks.
“James, sir,” answered the other, touching his damp forelock.
“Are they drunk?” asked Mrs. De Peyton, with fresh enthusiasm.
“No, they are not, poor fellows,” cried Penelope. “They have taken
nothing but water.”
“By Jove, deuced clever that,” drawled the duke. “Eh?” to the New
Yorker.
“Deuced,” from the Knickerbocker.
“Well, well, what's it all about?” demanded Bazelhurst.
“Mr. Shaw, sir,” said James.
“Good Lord, couldn't you rescue him?” in horror.
“He rescued us, sir,” mumbled Tompkins.
“You mean--”
“He throwed us in and then had to jump in and pull us out, sir. Beggin'
your pardon, sir, but _damn_ him!”
“And you didn't throw him in, after all? By Jove, extraordinary!”
“Do you mean to tell us that he threw you great hulking creatures into
the river? Single-handed?” cried Lady Bazelhurst, aghast.
“He did, Evelyn,” inserted Penelope. “I met them coming home, and poor
Tompkins was out of his senses. I don't know how it happened, but--”
“It was this way, your ladyship,” put in James, the groom. “Tompkins and
me could see him from the point there, sir, afishin' below the log.
So we says to each other 'Come on,' and up we went to where he was
afishin'. Tompkins, bein' the game warden, says he to him 'Hi there!'
He was plainly on our property, sir, afishin' from a boat for bass, sir.
'Hello, boys,' says he back to us. 'Get off our land,' says Tompkins. 'I
am,' says he; 'it's water out here where I am.' Then--”
“You're wrong,” broke in Tompkins.
“He said 'it's wet out here where I am.'”
“You're right. It was wet. Then Tompkins called him a vile name, your
lordship--shall I repeat it, sir?”
“No, no!” cried four feminine voices.
“Yes, do,” muttered the duke.
“He didn't wait after that, sir. He rowed to shore in a flash and
landed on our land. 'What do you mean by that?' he said, mad-like. 'My
orders is to put you off this property,' says Tompkins, 'or to throw
you in the river.' 'Who gave these orders?' asked Mr. Shaw. 'Lord
Bazelhurst, sir, damn you--' beg pardon, sir; it slipped out. 'And who
the devil is Lord Bazelthurst?' said he. 'Hurst,' said Tompkins.
'He | 640.937892 |
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Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE CRAIG KENNEDY SERIES
THE EXPLOITS OF ELAINE
BY
ARTHUR B. REEVE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE CLUTCHING HAND
II THE TWILIGHT SLEEP
III THE VANISHING JEWELS
IV "THE FROZEN SAFE"
V THE POISONED ROOM
VI THE VAMPIRE
VII THE DOUBLE TRAP
VIII THE HIDDEN VOICE
IX THE DEATH RAY
X THE LIFE CURRENT
XI THE HOUR OF THREE
XII THE BLOOD CRYSTALS
XIII THE DEVIL WORSHIPPERS
XIV THE RECKONING
THE EXPLOITS OF ELAINE
CHAPTER I
THE CLUTCHING HAND
"Jameson, here's a story I wish you'd follow up," remarked the managing
editor of the Star to me one evening after I had turned in an
assignment of the late afternoon.
He handed me a clipping from the evening edition of the Star and I
quickly ran my eye over the headline:
"THE CLUTCHING HAND" WINS AGAIN
NEW YORK'S MYSTERIOUS MASTER CRIMINAL
PERFECTS ANOTHER COUP
CITY POLICE COMPLETELY BAFFLED
"Here's this murder of Fletcher, the retired banker and trustee of the
University," he explained. "Not a clue--except a warning letter signed
with this mysterious clutching fist. Last week it was the robbery of
the Haxworth jewels and the killing of old Haxworth. Again that curious
sign of the hand. Then there was the dastardly attempt on Sherburne,
the steel magnate. Not a trace of the assailant except this same
clutching fist. So it has gone, Jameson--the most alarming and most
inexplicable series of murders that has ever happened in this country.
And nothing but this uncanny hand to trace them by."
The editor paused a moment, then exclaimed, "Why, this fellow seems to
take a diabolical--I might almost say pathological--pleasure in crimes
of violence, revenge, avarice and self-protection. Sometimes it seems
as if he delights in the pure deviltry of the thing. It is weird."
He leaned over and spoke in a low, tense tone. "Strangest of all, the
tip has just come to us that Fletcher, Haxworth, Sherburne and all the
rest of those wealthy men were insured in the Consolidated Mutual Life.
Now, Jameson, I want you to find Taylor Dodge, the president, and
interview him. Get what you can, at any cost."
I had naturally thought first of Kennedy, but there was no time now to
call him up and, besides, I must see Dodge immediately.
Dodge, I discovered over the telephone, was not at home, nor at any of
the clubs to which he belonged. Late though it was I concluded that he
was at his office. No amount of persuasion could get me past the door,
and, though I found out later and shall tell soon what was going on
there, I determined, about nine o'clock, that the best | 641.135241 |
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The Song of the Cardinal
by
Gene Stratton-Porter
IN LOVING TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER
MARK STRATTON
"For him every work of God manifested a new and heretofore
unappreciated loveliness."
CONTENTS
1. "Good cheer! Good cheer!" exulted the Cardinal
2. "Wet year! Wet year!" prophesied the Cardinal
3. "Come here! Come here!" entreated the Cardinal
4. "So dear! So dear!" crooned the Cardinal
5. "See here! See here!" demanded the Cardinal
Chapter 1
"Good cheer! Good cheer!" exulted the Cardinal
He darted through the orange orchard searching for slugs for his
breakfast, and between whiles he rocked on the branches and rang over
his message of encouragement to men. The song of the Cardinal was
overflowing with joy, for this was his holiday, his playtime. The
southern world was filled with brilliant sunshine, gaudy flowers, an
abundance of fruit, myriads of insects, and never a thing to do except
to bathe, feast, and be happy. No wonder his song was a prophecy of
good cheer for the future, for happiness made up the whole of his past.
The Cardinal was only a yearling, yet his crest flared high, his beard
was crisp and black, and he was a very prodigy in size and colouring.
Fathers of his family that had accomplished many migrations appeared
small beside him, and coats that had been shed season after season
seemed dull compared with his. It was as if a pulsing heart of flame
passed by when he came winging through the orchard.
Last season the Cardinal had pipped his shell, away to the north, in
that paradise of the birds, the Limberlost. There thousands of acres
of black marsh-muck stretch under summers' sun and winters' snows.
There are darksome pools of murky water, bits of swale, and high
morass. Giants of the forest reach skyward, or, coated with velvet
slime, lie decaying in sun-flecked pools, while the underbrush is
almost impenetrable.
The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines
clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over
the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken
fringe in the play of the wind. The birds loll in the shade, peel
bark, gather dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent
fruit. They chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload
their crops with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and
mandrake. The alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries,
and the marsh grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The
muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers,
whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.
Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the
bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the
honey-laden trumpets. The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is
vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the
bee-birds feast to gluttony. The fetid odours of the swamp draw
insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit
of them.
Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats. Snakes sun on the bushes.
The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they
cross the lagoons. Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs. Frogs take
graceful leaps from pool to pool. Everything native to that section of
the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the
Lim | 641.3463 |
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Produced by Marius Masi, Don Kretz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's notes:
(1) Numbers following letters (without space) like C2 were originally
printed in subscript. Letter subscripts are preceded by an
underscore, like C_n.
(2) Characters following a carat (^) were printed in superscript.
(3) Side-notes were relocated to function as titles of their respective
paragraphs.
(4) Macrons and breves above letters and dots below letters were not
inserted.
(5) The following typographical errors have been corrected:
ARTICLE BRAIN: "The cough, the eye-closure, the impulse to smile,
all these can be suppressed." 'impulse' amended from 'impluse'.
ARTICLE BRAIN: "The deep ends of these olfactory neurones having
entered the central nervous organ come into contact with the of
large neurones, called, from their | 641.541812 |
2023-11-16 18:27:45.6147740 | 715 | 7 |
Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer 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.)
REPORT
ON
SURGERY
TO THE
SANTA CLARA COUNTY
MEDICAL SOCIETY.
BY
J. BRADFORD COX, M. D.
_READ MARCH 2d, 1880._
SAN JOSE:
MERCURY STEAM PRINT.
1880.
REPORT ON SURGERY.
In presenting this report I will not attempt to give any historical data
connected with the subject of surgery, since that has been ably done in
the report of last year.
I shall assume, and that without hesitation, that surgery is a science,
properly so-called. That it is an art, is also true. But what is science?
What is art? Science is knowledge. Art the application of that knowledge.
To be more explicit, science is the knowledge we possess of nature and her
laws; or, more properly speaking, God and His laws.
When we say that oxygen and iron unite and form ferric oxide, we express a
law of matter: that is, that these elements have an _affinity_ for each
other. A collection of similar facts and their systematic arrangement, we
call chemistry. Or we might say, chemistry is the science or knowledge of
the elementary substances and their laws of combination.
When we say that about one-eighth of the entire weight of the human body
is a fluid, and is continually in motion within certain channels called
blood vessels, we express a law of life, or a vital process. When we say
this fluid is composed of certain anatomical elements, as the plasma, red
corpuscles, leucocytes and granules, we go a step further in the problem
of vitality. When we say that certain nutritious principles are taken into
this circulating fluid by means of digestion and absorption, and that by
assimilation they are converted into the various tissues of the body, we
think we have solved the problem, and know just the essence of life
itself. But what makes the blood hold these nutritious principles in
solution until the very instant they come in contact with the tissue they
are designed to renovate, and then, as it were, precipitate them as new
tissue? You say they are in chemical solution, and the substance of
contact acts as a re-agent, and thus the deposit of new tissue is only in
accordance with the laws of chemistry. Perhaps this is so. Let us see as
to the proofs. In the analysis of the blood plasma, we find chlorides of
sodium, potassium and ammonium, carbonates of potassa, soda, lime and
magnesia, phosphates of lime, magnesia, potassa, and probably iron; also
basic phosphates and neutral phosphates of soda, and sulphates of potassa
and soda. Now in the analysis of those tissues composed principally of
inorganic substances or compounds, it will be seen that these same salts
are found in the tissues themselves.
So also the organic compounds lactate of soda, lactate of lime, pneumate
of soda, margarate of soda, stearate of soda, butyrate | 641.634814 |
2023-11-16 18:27:45.7172350 | 1,104 | 11 |
Produced by Turgut Dincer and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from images made available by the HathiTrust
Digital Library.)
Transcriber’s Note: The original copy of this book wasn’t very well
proofread, if at all. A large number of printing errors have been
corrected, including transposed full lines of text. In one place (noted
below) at least one line was omitted completely: it wasn’t possible to
source another edition to check what the missing words might have been.
The spelling and hyphenation of Egyptian names are often inconsistent.
[Illustration: CLEOPATRA.]
PREDECESSORS
OF CLEOPATRA
BY
LEIGH NORTH
_5 Drawings by G. A. Davis_
[Illustration]
BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO.
AT
835 BROADWAY, N. Y.
1906
Copyrighted, 1906.
BY
BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO.,
_All Rights Reserved._
TO MY HUSBAND
INTRODUCTION.
In attempting even a brief and imperfect outline of the history of
Egyptian queens the author has undertaken no easy task and craves
indulgence for its modest fulfillment. The aim has been merely to put the
little that is known in a readable and popular form, to gather from many
sources the fragments that remain, partly historic, partly legendary, of
a dead past. To present—however imperfectly—sketches of the women who
once lived and breathed as Queens of Egypt, which has been more ably
and completely done—as the period was less remote and the sources of
information fuller, for their royal sisters of other lands.
A short article published some years ago in Lippincott’s Magazine may
be said to be the nucleus of the present volume, the writer’s interest
in the subject having been awakened by the study necessary to its
preparation.
We enter a house through the portico or vestibule. We form acquaintances
on somewhat the same principle. We begin perhaps with the weather, we
exchange comments on trifles, we pass through an introductory stage of
intercourse before we reach the real heart of the man or woman who, in
time, becomes our dearest friend. Skip the introduction if you will,
busy reader, but metaphorically it forms the portico or vestibule of the
Egyptian House.
From the darkness which envelopes the centuries modern research has
brought to light much that was unknown or forgotten. With almost the
creative touch it has made the dry bones to live again and link by link
drawn out the long chain of the years. What was once a mere roll of names
with a wide hiatus here and there has grown to be a record of the words
and deeds of men of like passions with ourselves. We feel once more in
touch with the past, as it is the aim of the highest altruism to beat
responsive to the heart of the present and the by-gone faces look forth
by the side of modern man and claim the universal brotherhood.
Well may we marvel at the faith, the patience, the ingenuity which
has unraveled so much of the tangled skein in “The Story of the
Nations.” Like Cuvier, from a single bone elaborating a whole animal,
the Egyptologist has patiently evolved from shreds of parchment, from
fragments of pottery, from broken plinth and capital a more or less
complete whole. He has woven a tapestry from which some of the figures
start forth with a lifelike vigor.
Few countries claim such antiquity as Egypt and of none were the
estimated dates more widely apart. Sometimes involving periods of
hundreds and thousands of years. An accumulation of difficulties meets
the student as it does the explorer. A cycle of time, beside which modern
life seems like a single breath. A language, at first indecipherable,
and even now imperfectly read. The hasty guesses of scholars anxious to
prove some point or be in the vanguard of discovery; broken monuments,
rifled tombs, and inscriptions, mutilated, erased and altered by the
monarchs of succeeding generations. Among all these difficulties lies the
way. But with patience and care we are rewarded and with “imagination for
a servant,” not a master, one “arrives,” as the French say (at least in a
measure), at last.
The list of authorities consulted by the author would be too long to
enumerate, but among them may be mentioned Rawlinson, Wilkinson, Maspero,
Erman, Ebers and later Edwards, Sayce, Petrie and Mahaffy, whose interest
is so absorbing and the researches of some of whom are of such recent
date. To these may be added the study of all available pictures and
photographs, and the experiences of late travel and travellers.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION i
CHAPTER ONE.
The Black Hand 1
CHAPTER TWO.
The Queen 15
CHAPTER THREE.
Mertytefs 26
CHAPTER FOUR | 641.737275 |
2023-11-16 18:27:45.7253050 | 1,116 | 16 |
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)
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 marked with underlines: _italics_.
The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby
placed in the public domain.
THE FORTY-THIRD REGIMENT
UNITED STATES <DW52> TROOPS.
GETTYSBURG:
J. E. WIBLE, PRINTER, NORTH-EAST CORNER OF THE DIAMOND.
1866.
INTRODUCTION.
No apology can be necessary for the publication of the following
pages, as it is no unworthy or mercenary object they seek to obtain.
They have been elicited by request of numerous friends of the officers
of this regiment and of the <DW52> troops, designed for their own
use; and their object is not simply to give succinct statements of
individual military history, or of any single command of the
Troop, but to furnish, also, at the same time, an unanswerable
argument on the subject of this Troop, as an element in the military
service on the side of Freedom and the Union; their extraordinary good
discipline, efficiency and bravery, and the fact that they are very
susceptible of intellectual and moral culture. We present it in
compliance with the request that has been made, subservient to this
purpose.
J. M. MICKLEY,
_late Chaplain of the Regiment_.
COMMISSIONED OFFICERS
FORTY-THIRD REGIMENT
UNITED STATES <DW52> TROOPS,
INCLUDING A BRIEF HISTORY OF THEIR MILITARY CAREER.
BREVET BRIG. GEN. S. B. YEOMAN.
This officer, formerly Colonel Commanding this Regiment, is a native
of Washington, Ohio. His great-grand-father, James Yeoman, served
with distinction as a Captain in the war of the Revolution, and his
grand-father as a First Lieutenant in the war of 1812.
Before entering the United States service the General was a sea-man,
whose experience of nautical life extends over a decade of years. He
started as a sailor before the mast at fifteen years of age. His first
voyage was on a whaling expedition of three years in the ship
"Alexander," which was wrecked on the South Island of New Zealand. The
boats, to which all fled for safety, became unmanageable; and not
until after suffering great hardships on the deep, he with a few
others were accidentally rescued. After this he made several voyages
to South America, Asia and Africa; and returned shortly before the
outbreak of the Rebellion. He at once determined to remain and
identify himself with the cause of the Union and its Free
Institutions.
He volunteered as a PRIVATE in Co. F. 22nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry
April 20th 1861, and was afterwards appointed First Sergeant of his
Company. With this command he continued in Western Virginia, under
General Rosencrans until it was discharged by reason of expiration
of term of service. At home he immediately commenced the work of
Recruiting; and returned again to the field September 15th 1861 as
CAPTAIN of Co. A. 54th Ohio Volunteer Infantry.
At Corinth, General Yeoman, then a Captain, was particularly selected
by Maj. General Sherman, to take command of ten picked men, and with
these to penetrate the Rebel lines in order to ascertain their forces,
and more especially the movements they were inaugurating. The task was
a perilous one; but he accomplished it with entire success, returning
with very valuable information, for which he obtained the hearty
thanks of the General in command and of the Department.
While gallantly in the discharge of duty he has received the following
wounds, viz.: In the battle of Shiloh, April 6th and 7th 1862,
slightly wounded in the breast and left leg; in the battle of Russell's
House, June 1862, wounded again in left leg; wounded in arm and
abdomen on different occasions on the picket line; in the battle of
Arkansas Post, January 10th and 11th, 1863, while in command of his
Regiment, severely wounded by a shell in right arm, almost entirely
severing the arm below the elbow. Amputation became necessary
immediately on the field; and after this he was conveyed to a Hospital
Boat on the Mississippi River, and finally reached home. For his
distinguished services he was appointed Major of his Regiment, but
such was the condition of his wound that any attempt to return to the
field was considered unadvisable, and he, therefore, respectfully
declined the promotion. He resigned on account of his serious loss.
This officer won an estimable name in his services with the Western
Army.
He was appointed Captain in the Veteran Reserve Corps, Commanding 6th
Co. 2 | 641.745345 |
2023-11-16 18:27:45.8190270 | 1,116 | 8 |
Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 713. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
A STRANGE FAMILY HISTORY.
For the following curious episode of family history we are indebted to
a descendant of one of the chief personages involved; his story runs as
follows.
Somewhat less than one hundred years ago, a large schooner, laden with
oranges from Spain, and bound for Liverpool, was driven by stress of
weather into the Solway Firth, and after beating about for some time,
ran at last into the small port of Workington, on the Cumberland
coast. For several previous days some of the crew had felt themselves
strangely 'out of sorts,' as they termed it; were depressed and
languid, and greatly inclined to sleep; but the excitement of the
storm and the instinct of self-preservation had kept them to their
duties on deck. No sooner, however, had the vessel been safely moored
in the harbour than a reaction set in; the disease which had lurked
within them proclaimed its power, and three of them betook themselves
to their hammocks more dead than alive. The working-power of the ship
being thus reduced and the storm continuing, the master determined to
discharge and sell his cargo on the spot. This was done. But his men
did not recover; he too was seized with the same disease; and before
many days were past most of them were in the grave. Ere long several of
the inhabitants of the village were similarly affected, and some died;
by-and-by others were smitten down; and in less than three weeks after
the arrival of the schooner it became evident that a fatal fever or
plague had broken out amongst the inhabitants of the village.
The authorities of the township took alarm; and under the guidance of
Squire Curwen of Workington Hall, all likely measures were taken to
arrest or mitigate the fatal malady. Among other arrangements, a band
of men was formed whose duties were to wait upon the sick, to visit
such houses as were reported or supposed to contain victims of the
malady, and to carry the dead to their last home.
Among the first who fell under this visitation was a man named John
Pearson, who, with his wife and a daughter, lived in a cottage in
the outskirts of the village. He was employed as a labourer in an
iron foundry close by. For some weeks his widow and child escaped the
contagion; but ere long it was observed that their cottage window was
not opened; and a passer-by stopping to look at the house, thought
he heard a feeble moan as from a young girl. He at once made known
his fears to the proper parties, who sent two of the 'plague-band'
to examine the case. On entering the abode it was seen that poor Mrs
Pearson was a corpse; and her little girl, about ten years old, was
lying on her bosom dreadfully ill, but able to cry: 'Mammy, mammy!' The
poor child was removed to the fever hospital, and the mother to where
her husband had been recently taken. How long the plague continued
to ravage the village, I am not able to say; but as it is about the
Pearson family, and not about the plague I am going to write, such
information may be dispensed with.
The child, Isabella Pearson, did not die; she conquered the foe, and
was left to pass through a more eventful life than that which generally
falls to the lot of a poor girl. Although an orphan, she was not
without friends; an only and elder sister was with relatives in Dublin,
and her father's friends were well-to-do farmers in Westmoreland.
Nor was she without powerful interest in the village of her birth:
Lady Curwen, of the Hall, paid her marked attention, as she had done
her mother, because that mother was of noble descent, as I shall now
proceed to shew.
Isabella Pearson (mother of the child we have just spoken of), whose
maiden name was Day, was a daughter of the Honourable Elkanah Day
and of his wife Lady Letitia, daughter of the Earl of Annesley. How
she came to marry John Pearson forms one of the many chapters in
human history which come under the head of Romance in Real Life,
or Scandal in High Life, in the newspaper literature of the day.
Isabella's parents were among those parents who believe they are at
liberty to dispose of their daughters in marriage just as they think
fit, even when the man to whom the girl is to be given is an object
of detestation to her. Heedless of their daughter's feelings in the
matter, they had bargained with a man of their acquaintance, to whom
they resolved that Isabella should give her hand--be her heart | 641.839067 |
2023-11-16 18:27:45.8191820 | 3,144 | 133 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books
COWARDICE COURT
By George Barr McCutcheon
Illustrated by Harrison Fisher
[Illustration: 0007]
[Illustration: 0008]
[Illustration: 0012]
COWARDICE COURT
CHAPTER I--IN WHICH A YOUNG MAN TRESPASSES
“He's just an infernal dude, your lordship, and I 'll throw him in the
river if he says a word too much.”
“He has already said too much, Tompkins, confound him, don't you know.”
“Then I'm to throw him in whether he says anything or not, sir?”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, your lordship, but James has. James says he wears a red coat and--”
“Never mind, Tompkins. He has no right to fish on this side of that
log. The insufferable ass may own the land on the opposite side, but,
confound his impertinence, I own it on this side.”
This concluding assertion of the usually placid but now irate Lord
Bazelhurst was not quite as momentous as it sounded. As a matter of
fact, the title to the land was vested entirely in his young American
wife; his sole possession, according to report, being a title much
less substantial but a great deal more picturesque than the large,
much-handled piece of paper down in the safety deposit vault--lying
close and crumpled among a million sordid, homely little slips called
coupons.
It requires no great stretch of imagination to understand that Lord
Bazelhurst had an undesirable neighbour. That neighbour was young Mr.
Shaw--Randolph Shaw, heir to the Randolph fortune. It may be fair to
state that Mr. Shaw also considered himself to be possessed of an odious
neighbour. In other words, although neither had seen the other, there
was a feud between the owners of the two estates that had all the
earmarks of an ancient romance.
Lady Bazelhurst was the daughter of a New York millionaire; she was
young, beautiful, and arrogant. Nature gave her youth and beauty;
marriage gave her the remaining quality. Was she not Lady Bazelhurst?
What odds if Lord Bazelhurst happened to be a middle-aged, addle-pated
ass? So much the better. Bazelhurst castle and the Bazelhurst estates
(heavily encumbered before her father came to the rescue) were among the
oldest and most coveted in the English market. Her mother noted, with
unctuous joy, that the present Lady Bazelhurst in babyhood had extreme
difficulty in mastering the eighth letter of the alphabet, certainly a
most flattering sign of natal superiority, notwithstanding the fact that
her father was plain old John Banks (deceased), formerly of Jersey City,
more latterly of Wall street and St. Thomas's.
Bazelhurst was a great catch, but Banks was a good name to conjure with,
so he capitulated with a willingness that savoured somewhat of suspended
animation (so fearful was he that he might do something to disturb
the dream before it came true). That was two years ago. With exquisite
irony, Lady Bazelhurst decided to have a country-place in America. Her
agents discovered a glorious section of woodland in the Adirondacks,
teeming with trout streams, game haunts, unparalleled scenery; her
ladyship instructed them to buy without delay. It was just here that
young Mr. Shaw came into prominence.
His grandfather had left him a fortune and he was looking about for ways
in which to spend a portion of it. College, travel, and society
having palled on him, he hied himself into the big hills west of Lake
Champlain, searching for beauty, solitude, and life as he imagined it
should be lived. He found and bought five hundred acres of the most
beautiful bit of wilderness in the mountains.
The same streams coursed through his hills and dales that ran through
those of Lady Bazelhurst, the only distinction being that his portion
was the more desirable. When her ladyship's agents came leisurely up
to close their deal, they discovered that Mr. Shaw had snatched up
this choice five hundred acres of the original tract intended for their
client. At least one thousand acres were left for the young lady, but
she was petulant enough to covet all of it.
Overtures were made to Mr. Shaw, but he would not sell. He was preparing
to erect a handsome country-place, and he did not want to alter his
plans. Courteously at first, then somewhat scathingly he declined to
discuss the proposition with her agents. After two months of pressure of
the most tiresome persistency, he lost his temper and sent a message to
his inquisitors that suddenly terminated all negotiations. Afterwards,
when he learned that their client was a lady, he wrote a conditional
note of apology, but, if he expected a response, he was disappointed. A
year went by, and now, with the beginning of this narrative, two newly
completed country homes glowered at each other from separate hillsides,
one envious and spiteful, the other defiant and a bit satirical.
Bazelhurst Villa looks across the valley and sees Shaw's Cottage
commanding the most beautiful view in the hills; the very eaves of
her ladyship's house seem to have wrinkled into a constant scowl of
annoyance. Shaw's long, low cottage seems to smile back with tantalizing
security, serene in its more lofty altitude, in its more gorgeous
raiment of nature. The brooks laugh with the glitter of trout, the
trees chuckle with the flight of birds, the hillsides frolic in their
abundance of game, but the acres are growling like dogs of war. “Love
thy neighbour as thyself” is not printed on the boards that line the
borders of the two estates. In bold black letters the sign-boards
laconically say: “No trespassing on these grounds. Keep off!”
“Yes, I fancy you'd better put him off the place if he comes down here
again to fish, Tompkins,” said his lordship, in conclusion. Then he
touched whip to his horse and bobbed off through the shady lane in a
most painfully upright fashion, his thin legs sticking straight out, his
breath coming in agonized little jerks with each succeeding return of
his person to the saddle.
“By Jove, Evelyn, it's most annoying about that confounded Shaw chap,”
he remarked to his wife as he mounted the broad steps leading to the
gallery half an hour later, walking with the primness which suggests
pain. Lady Bazelhurst looked up from her book, her fine aristocratic
young face clouding with ready belligerence.
“What has he done, Cecil dear?”
“Been fishing on our property again, that's all. Tompkins says he
laughed at him when he told him to get off. I say, do you know, I think
I 'll have to adopt rough methods with that chap. Hang it all, what
right has he to catch our fish?”
“Oh, how I hate that man!” exclaimed her ladyship petulantly.
“But I've given Tompkins final instructions.”
“And what are they?”
“To throw him in the river next time.”
“Oh, if he only _could!_” 'rapturously.'
“_Could?_ My dear, Tompkins is an American. He can handle these chaps in
their own way. At any rate, I told Tompkins if his nerve failed him at
the last minute to come and notify me. _I 'll_ attend to this confounded
popinjay!”
“Good for you, Cecil!” called out another young woman from the broad
hammock in which she had been dawdling with half-alert ears through
the foregoing conversation. “Spoken like a true Briton. What is this
popinjay like?”
“Hullo, sister. Hang it all, what's he like? He's like an ass, that's
all. I've never seen him, but if I'm ever called upon to--but you don't
care to listen to details. You remember the big log that lies out in the
river up at the bend? Well, it marks the property line. One half of its
stump belongs to the Shaw man, the other half to m--to us, Evelyn.
He shan't fish below that log--no, sir!” His lordship glared fiercely
through his monocle in the direction of the far-away log, his watery
blue eyes blinking as malevolently as possible, his long, aristocratic
nose wrinkling at its base in fine disdain. His five feet four of
stature quivered with illy-subdued emotion, but whether it was rage or
the sudden recollection of the dog-trot through the woods, it is beyond
me to suggest.
“But suppose our fish venture into his waters, Cecil; what then? Isn't
that trespass?” demanded the Honourable Penelope Drake, youngest and
most cherished sister of his lordship.
“Now, don't be silly, Pen,” cried her sister-in-law. “Of course we can't
regulate the fish.”
“But I daresay his fish will come below the log, so what's the odds?”
said his lord-ship quickly. “A trout's a lawless brute at best.”
“Is he big?” asked the Honourable Penelope lazily.
“They vary, my dear girl.”
“I mean Mr. Shaw.”
“Oh, I thought you meant the--but I don't know. What difference does
that make? Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds.” Was it a look
of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew himself
proudly erect or was it akin to pity? At any rate, her gay young
American head was inches above his own when she arose and suggested that
they go inside and prepare for the housing of the guests who were to
come over from the evening train.
“The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here by
seven o'clock.”
“Confound his impudence, I 'll show him,” grumbled his lordship as he
followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door.
“What's up, Cecil, with your legs?” called his sister. “Are you getting
old?”
This suggestion always irritated him.
“Old? Silly question. You know how old I am. No; it's that beastly
American horse. Evelyn, I told you they have no decent horses in this
beastly country. They jiggle the life out of one--” but he was obliged
to unbend himself perceptibly in order to keep pace with her as she
hurried through the door.
The Honourable Penelope allowed her indolent gaze to follow them. A
perplexed pucker finally developed on her fair brow and her thought was
almost expressed aloud: “By Jove, I wonder if she really loves him.”
Penelope was very pretty and very bright. She was visiting America for
the first time and she was learning rapidly. “Cecil's a good sort, you
know, even--” but she was loyal enough to send her thoughts into other
channels.
Nightfall brought half a dozen guests to Bazelhurst Villa. They were
fashionable to the point where ennui is the chief characteristic, and
they came only for bridge and sleep. There was a duke among them and
also a French count, besides the bored New Yorkers; they wanted brandy
and soda as soon as they got into the house, and they went to bed early
because it was so much easier to sleep lying down than sitting up.
All were up by noon the next day, more bored than ever, fondly praying
that nothing might happen before bedtime. The duke was making desultory
love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De Peyton was leading him aimlessly
toward the shadier and more secluded nooks in the park surrounding the
Villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the purpose of life, was off alone
for a long stroll. By this means she avoided the attentions of the duke,
who wanted to marry her; those of the count who also said he wanted to
marry her but couldn't because his wife would not consent; those of
one New Yorker, who liked her because she was English; and the pallid
chatter of the women who bored her with their conjugal cynicisms.
“What the deuce is this coming down the road?” queried the duke,
returning from the secluded nook at luncheon time.
“Some one has been hurt,” exclaimed his companion. Others were looking
down the leafy road from the gallery.
“By Jove, it's Penelope, don't you know,” ejaculated the duke, dropping
his monocle and blinking his eye as if to rest it for the time being.
“But she's not hurt. She's helping to support one of those men.”
“Hey!” shouted his lordship from the gallery, as Penelope and two
dilapidated male companions abruptly started to cut across the park
in the direction of the stables. “What's up?” Penelope waved her hand
aimlessly, but did not change her course. Whereupon the entire house
party sallied forth in more or less trepidation to intercept the strange
party.
“Who are these men?” demanded Lady Bazelhurst, as they came up to the
fast-breathing young Englishwoman.
“Don't bother me, please. We must get him to bed at once. He'll have
pneumonia,” replied Penelope.
Both men were dripping wet and the one in the middle limped painfully,
probably because both eyes were swollen tight and his nose was bleeding.
Penelope's face was beaming with excitement and interest.
“Who are you?” demanded his lordship, planting himself in front of the
shivering twain.
“Tompkins,” murmured the blind one feebly, tears starting from the blue
slits and rolling down his cheeks.
“James, sir,” answered the other, touching his damp forelock.
“Are they drunk?” asked Mrs. De Peyton, with fresh enthusiasm.
“No, they are not, poor fellows,” cried Penelope. “They have taken
nothing but water.”
“By Jove, deuced clever that,” drawled the duke. “Eh?” to the New
Yorker.
“Deuced,” from the Knickerbocker.
“Well, well, what's it all about | 641.839222 |
2023-11-16 18:27:45.9141700 | 501 | 9 |
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
The Author's Press Series of the Works of Elinor Glyn
THE POINT OF VIEW
ELINOR GLYN
CHAPTER I
The restaurant of the Grand Hotel in Rome was filling up. People were
dining rather late--it was the end of May and the entertainments were
lessening, so they could dawdle over their repasts and smoke their
cigarettes in peace.
Stella Rawson came in with her uncle and aunt, Canon and the Honorable
Mrs. Ebley, and they took their seats in a secluded corner. They looked
a little out of place--and felt it--amid this more or less gay company.
But the drains of the Grand Hotel were known to be beyond question,
and, coming to Rome so late in the season, the Reverend Canon Ebley
felt it was wiser to risk the contamination of the over-worldly-minded
than a possible attack of typhoid fever. The belief in a divine
protection did not give him or his lady wife that serenity it might
have done, and they traveled fearfully, taking with them their own
jaeger sheets among other precautions.
They realized they must put up with the restaurant for meals, but at
least the women folk should not pander to the customs of the place and
wear evening dress. Their subdued black gowns were fastened to the
throat. Stella Rawson felt absolutely excited--she was twenty-one years
old, but this was the first time she had ever dined in a fashionable
restaurant, and it almost seemed like something deliciously wrong.
Life in the Cathedral Close where they lived in England was not highly
exhilarating, and when its duties were over it contained only mild
gossip and endless tea-parties and garden-parties by way of recreation.
Canon and the Honorable Mrs. Ebley were fairly rich people. The Uncle
Erasmus' call to the church had been answered from inclination--not
necessity. His heart was in his work. He was a good man and did his
duty according to the width of the lights in which he had been brought
up.
Mrs. Ebley did more than her duty--and had often too much momentum,
which now and then upset other people's apple carts.
She had, in fact, | 641.93421 |
2023-11-16 18:27:46.1161520 | 179 | 51 |
Produced by Nick Wall, 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.)
Transcriber's Notes:
1) Morrumbidgee/Murrumbidgee each used on several occasions
and left as in the original. 'Morrumbidgee' is the aboriginal
name for the Murrumbidgee.
2) Used on numerous occasions, civilisation/civilization;
civilised/civilized; civilising/civilizing; uncivilised/uncivilized:
left as in the original.
3) Same with variations of colonisation/colonization, and a few other
"z" words that should be "s" words in their English form.
* | 642.136192 |
2023-11-16 18:27:46.2157790 | 405 | 56 |
Produced by Sonya Schermann, 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 Notes.
Where no illustration caption appeared below the image, the
corresponding wording from the list of illustrations has been included
as a caption.
Italics are surrounded with _ _. The oe ligature has been replaced
in this version by the letters oe. Some words have been represented
in the print version as the first three letters of the word followed
by the last letter as a superscript and with a dot underneath. The
superscripted letters have been represented in this version as ^[.x].
On p. 59 of the original book, a presumed printer's error has been
corrected:
"She seems 'em now!" (as printed in the original) has been changed to
"She sees 'em now!" (in this version)
On p. 201, the date 1543 has been changed to 1534. This can be fairly
presumed to be the intended date based on historical occurrences
referred to and based on the continuity of entries.
THE
HOUSEHOLD OF
SIR THO^[.S] MORE
By the same Author
_In crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, 6s._
Illustrated by JOHN JELLICOE and HERBERT RAILTON
The Old Chelsea Bun-Shop:
A Tale of the Last Century
Cherry & Violet:
A Tale of the Great Plague
The Maiden and Married Life of Mary
Powell, afterwards Mrs. Milton
_The many other interesting works of this author will be published from
time to time uniformly with the above._
[Illustration:
The Household of
SIR THO^[.S] | 642.235819 |
2023-11-16 18:27:46.3153330 | 3,853 | 9 |
Produced by James Linden. HTML version by Al Haines.
State of the Union Addresses of Woodrow Wilson
The addresses are separated by three asterisks: ***
Dates of addresses by Woodrow Wilson in this eBook:
December 2, 1913
December 8, 1914
December 7, 1915
December 5, 1916
December 4, 1917
December 2, 1918
December 2, 1919
December 7, 1920
***
State of the Union Address
Woodrow Wilson
December 2, 1913
Gentlemen of the Congress:
In pursuance of my constitutional duty to "give to the Congress information
of the state of the Union," I take the liberty of addressing you on several
matters which ought, as it seems to me, particularly to engage the
attention of your honorable bodies, as of all who study the welfare and
progress of the Nation.
I shall ask your indulgence if I venture to depart in some degree from the
usual custom of setting before you in formal review the many matters which
have engaged the attention and called for the action of the several
departments of the Government or which look to them for early treatment in
the future, because the list is long, very long, and would suffer in the
abbreviation to which I should have to subject it. I shall submit to you
the reports of the heads of the several departments, in which these
subjects are set forth in careful detail, and beg that they may receive the
thoughtful attention of your committees and of all Members of the Congress
who may have the leisure to study them. Their obvious importance, as
constituting the very substance of the business of the Government, makes
comment and emphasis on my part unnecessary.
The country, I am thankful to say, is at peace with all the world, and many
happy manifestations multiply about us of a growing cordiality and sense of
community of interest among the nations, foreshadowing an age of settled
peace and good will. More and more readily each decade do the nations
manifest their willingness to bind themselves by solemn treaty to the
processes of peace, the processes of frankness and fair concession. So far
the United States has stood at the front of such negotiations. She will, I
earnestly hope and confidently believe, give fresh proof of her sincere
adherence to the cause of international friendship by ratifying the several
treaties of arbitration awaiting renewal by the Senate. In addition to
these, it has been the privilege of the Department of State to gain the
assent, in principle, of no less than 31 nations, representing four-fifths
of the population of the world, to the negotiation of treaties by which it
shall be agreed that whenever differences of interest or of policy arise
which can not be resolved by the ordinary processes of diplomacy they shall
be publicly analyzed, discussed, and reported upon by a tribunal chosen by
the parties before either nation determines its course of action.
There is only one possible standard by which to determine controversies
between the United States and other nations, and that is compounded of
these two elements: Our own honor and our obligations to the peace of the
world. A test so compounded ought easily to be made to govern both the
establishment of new treaty obligations and the interpretation of those
already assumed.
There is but one cloud upon our horizon. That has shown itself to the south
of us, and hangs over Mexico. There can be no certain prospect of peace in
America until Gen. Huerta has surrendered his usurped authority in Mexico;
until it is understood on all hands, indeed, that such pretended
governments will not be countenanced or dealt with by-the Government of the
United States. We are the friends of constitutional government in America;
we are more than its friends, we are its champions; because in no other way
can our neighbors, to whom we would wish in every way to make proof of our
friendship, work out their own development in peace and liberty. Mexico has
no Government. The attempt to maintain one at the City of Mexico has broken
down, and a mere military despotism has been set up which has hardly more
than the semblance of national authority. It originated in the usurpation
of Victoriano Huerta, who, after a brief attempt to play the part of
constitutional President, has at last cast aside even the pretense of legal
right and declared himself dictator. As a consequence, a condition of
affairs now exists in Mexico which has made it doubtful whether even the
most elementary and fundamental rights either of her own people or of the
citizens of other countries resident within her territory can long be
successfully safeguarded, and which threatens, if long continued, to
imperil the interests of peace, order, and tolerable life in the lands
immediately to the south of us. Even if the usurper had succeeded in his
purposes, in despite of the constitution of the Republic and the rights of
its people, he would have set up nothing but a precarious and hateful
power, which could have lasted but a little while, and whose eventual
downfall would have left the country in a more deplorable condition than
ever. But he has not succeeded. He has forfeited the respect and the moral
support even of those who were at one time willing to see him succeed.
Little by little he has been completely isolated. By a little every day his
power and prestige are crumbling and the collapse is not far away. We shall
not, I believe, be obliged to alter our policy of watchful waiting. And
then, when the end comes, we shall hope to see constitutional order
restored in distressed Mexico by the concert and energy of such of her
leaders as prefer the liberty of their people to their own ambitions.
I turn to matters of domestic concern. You already have under consideration
a bill for the reform of our system of banking and currency, for which the
country waits with impatience, as for something fundamental to its whole
business life and necessary to set credit free from arbitrary and
artificial restraints. I need not say how earnestly I hope for its early
enactment into law. I take leave to beg that the whole energy and attention
of the Senate be concentrated upon it till the matter is successfully
disposed of. And yet I feel that the request is not needed-that the Members
of that great House need no urging in this service to the country.
I present to you, in addition, the urgent necessity that special provision
be made also for facilitating the credits needed by the farmers of the
country. The pending currency bill does the farmers a great service. It
puts them upon an equal footing with other business men and masters of
enterprise, as it should; and upon its passage they will find themselves
quit of many of the difficulties which now hamper them in the field of
credit. The farmers, of course, ask and should be given no special
privilege, such as extending to them the credit of the Government itself.
What they need and should obtain is legislation which will make their own
abundant and substantial credit resources available as a foundation for
joint, concerted local action in their own behalf in getting the capital
they must use. It is to this we should now address ourselves.
It has, singularly enough, come to pass that we have allowed the industry
of our farms to lag behind the other activities of the country in its
development. I need not stop to tell you how fundamental to the life of the
Nation is the production of its food. Our thoughts may ordinarily be
concentrated upon the cities and the hives of industry, upon the cries of
the crowded market place and the clangor of the factory, but it is from the
quiet interspaces of the open valleys and the free hillsides that we draw
the sources of life and of prosperity, from the farm and the ranch, from
the forest and the mine. Without these every street would be silent, every
office deserted, every factory fallen into disrepair. And yet the farmer
does not stand upon the same footing with the forester and the miner in the
market of credit. He is the servant of the seasons. Nature determines how
long he must wait for his crops, and will not be hurried in her processes.
He may give his note, but the season of its maturity depends upon the
season when his crop matures, lies at the gates of the market where his
products are sold. And the security he gives is of a character not known in
the broker's office or as familiarly as it might be on the counter of the
banker.
The Agricultural Department of the Government is seeking to assist as never
before to make farming an efficient business, of wide co-operative effort,
in quick touch with the markets for foodstuffs. The farmers and the
Government will henceforth work together as real partners in this field,
where we now begin to see our way very clearly and where many intelligent
plans are already being put into execution. The Treasury of the United
States has, by a timely and well-considered distribution of its deposits,
facilitated the moving of the crops in the present season and prevented the
scarcity of available funds too often experienced at such times. But we
must not allow ourselves to depend upon extraordinary expedients. We must
add the means by which the, farmer may make his credit constantly and
easily available and command when he will the capital by which to support
and expand his business. We lag behind many other great countries of the
modern world in attempting to do this. Systems of rural credit have been
studied and developed on the other side of the water while we left our
farmers to shift for themselves in the ordinary money market. You have but
to look about you in any rural district to see the result, the handicap and
embarrassment which have been put upon those who produce our food.
Conscious of this backwardness and neglect on our part, the Congress
recently authorized the creation of a special commission to study the
various systems of rural credit which have been put into operation in
Europe, and this commission is already prepared to report. Its report ought
to make it easier for us to determine what methods will be best suited to
our own farmers. I hope and believe that the committees of the Senate and
House will address themselves to this matter with the most fruitful
results, and I believe that the studies and recently formed plans of the
Department of Agriculture may be made to serve them very greatly in their
work of framing appropriate and adequate legislation. It would be
indiscreet and presumptuous in anyone to dogmatize upon so great and
many-sided a question, but I feel confident that common counsel will
produce the results we must all desire.
Turn from the farm to the world of business which centers in the city and
in the factory, and I think that all thoughtful observers will agree that
the immediate service we owe the business communities of the country is to
prevent private monopoly more effectually than it has yet been prevented. I
think it will be easily agreed that we should let the Sherman anti-trust
law stand, unaltered, as it is, with its debatable ground about it, but
that we should as much as possible reduce the area of that debatable ground
by further and more explicit legislation; and should also supplement that
great act by legislation which will not only clarify it but also facilitate
its administration and make it fairer to all concerned. No doubt we shall
all wish, and the country will expect, this to be the central subject of
our deliberations during the present session; but it is a subject so
many-sided and so deserving of careful and discriminating discussion that I
shall take the liberty of addressing you upon it in a special message at a
later date than this. It is of capital importance that the business men of
this country should be relieved of all uncertainties of law with regard to
their enterprises and investments and a clear path indicated which they can
travel without anxiety. It is as important that they should be relieved of
embarrassment and set free to prosper as that private monopoly should be
destroyed. The ways of action should be thrown wide open.
I turn to a subject which I hope can be handled promptly and without
serious controversy of any kind. I mean the method of selecting nominees
for the Presidency of the United States. I feel confident that I do not
misinterpret the wishes or the expectations of the country when I urge the
prompt enactment of legislation which will provide for primary elections
throughout the country at which the voters of the several parties may
choose their nominees for the Presidency without the intervention of
nominating conventions. I venture the suggestion that this legislation
should provide for the retention of party conventions, but only for the
purpose of declaring and accepting the verdict of the primaries and
formulating the platforms of the parties; and I suggest that these
conventions should consist not of delegates chosen for this single purpose,
but of the nominees for Congress, the nominees for vacant seats in the
Senate of the United States, the Senators whose terms have not yet closed,
the national committees, and the candidates for the Presidency themselves,
in order that platforms may be framed by those responsible to the people
for carrying them into effect.
These are all matters of vital domestic concern, and besides them, outside
the charmed circle of our own national life in which our affections command
us, as well as our consciences, there stand out our obligations toward our
territories over sea. Here we are trustees. Porto Rico, Hawaii, the
Philippines, are ours, indeed, but not ours to do what we please with. Such
territories, once regarded as mere possessions, are no longer to be
selfishly exploited; they are part of the domain of public conscience and
of serviceable and enlightened statesmanship. We must administer them for
the people who live in them and with the same sense of responsibility to
them as toward our own people in our domestic affairs. No doubt we shall
successfully enough bind Porto Rico and the Hawaiian Islands to ourselves
by ties of justice and interest and affection, but the performance of our
duty toward the Philippines is a more difficult and debatable matter. We
can satisfy the obligations of generous justice toward the people of Porto
Rico by giving them the ample and familiar rights and privileges accorded
our own citizens in our own territories and our obligations toward the
people of Hawaii by perfecting the provisions for self-government already
granted them, but in the Philippines we must go further. We must hold
steadily in view their ultimate independence, and we must move toward the
time of that independence as steadily as the way can be cleared and the
foundations thoughtfully and permanently laid.
Acting under the authority conferred upon the President by Congress, I have
already accorded the people of the islands a majority in both houses of
their legislative body by appointing five instead of four native citizens
to the membership of the commission. I believe that in this way we shall
make proof of their capacity in counsel and their sense of responsibility
in the exercise of political power, and that the success of this step will
be sure to clear our view for the steps which are to follow. Step by step
we should extend and perfect the system of self-government in the islands,
making test of them and modifying them as experience discloses their
successes and their failures; that we should more and more put under the
control of the native citizens of the archipelago the essential instruments
of their life, their local instrumentalities of government, their schools,
all the common interests of their communities, and so by counsel and
experience set up a government which all the world will see to be suitable
to a people whose affairs are under their own control. At last, I hope and
believe, we are beginning to gain the confidence of the Filipino peoples.
By their counsel and experience, rather than by our own, we shall learn how
best to serve them and how soon it will be possible and wise to withdraw
our supervision. Let us once find the path and set out with firm and
confident tread upon it and we shall not wander from it or linger upon it.
A duty faces us with regard to Alaska which seems to me very pressing and
very imperative; perhaps I should say a double duty, for it concerns both
the political and the material development of the Territory. The people of
Alaska should be given the full Territorial form of government, and Alaska,
as a storehouse, should be unlocked. One key to it is a system of railways.
These the Government should itself build and administer, and the ports and
terminals it should itself control in the interest of all who wish to use
them for the service and development of the country and its people.
But the construction of railways is only the first step; is only thrusting
in the key to the storehouse and throwing back the lock and opening the
door. How the tempting resources of the country are to be exploited is
another matter, to which I shall take the liberty of from time to time
calling your attention, for it is a policy which must be worked out by
well-considered stages, not upon theory, but upon lines of practical
expediency. It is part of our general problem of conservation. We have a
freer hand in working out the problem in Alaska than in the States of the
Union; and yet the principle and object are the same, wherever we touch it.
We must use the resources of the country, not lock them up. There need be
no conflict or jealousy as between State and Federal authorities, for there
can be no essential difference of purpose between them. The resources in
question must be used, but not destroyed or wasted; used, but not
monopolized upon any narrow idea of individual rights as against the
abiding interests of communities. That a policy can be worked out by
conference and concession which will release these resources and yet not
jeopard or dissipate them, I for one have no doubt; and it can be done on
lines of regulation which need be no less acceptable to the people and
| 642.335373 |
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E-text prepared by Julia Miller, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 34121-h.htm or 34121-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
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CALAVAR
Or The Knight of the Conquest
A Romance of Mexico
by
ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD
Author of "Nick of the Woods," "The Infidel," Etc.
Escucha pues, un rato, y dire cosas
Estranas y espantosas, poco a poco.
GARCILASO DE LA VEGA.
Redfield
110 And 112 Nassau Street, New York.
Third Edition.
1854
Entered according to the act of Congress in the year 1834, by
Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, in the clerk's office of the district
court for the eastern district of Pennsylvania.
PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION.
It is now thirteen years since the first publication of "Calavar,"
which, apart from the ordinary objects of an author, was written chiefly
with a view of illustrating what was deemed the most romantic and
poetical chapter in the history of the New World; but partly, also, with
the hope of calling the attention of Americans to a portion of the
continent which it required little political forecast to perceive must,
before many years, assume a new and particular interest to the people of
the United States. It was a part of the original design to prepare the
way for a history of Mexico, which the author meditated; a design which
was, however, soon abandoned. There was then little interest really felt
in Mexican affairs, which presented, as they have always done since the
first insurrection of Hidalgo, a scene of desperate confusion, not
calculated to elevate republican institutions in the opinions of the
world. Even the events in Texas had not, at that time, attracted much
attention. Mexico was, in the popular notion, regarded as a part of
_South_ America, the _alter ego_ almost of Peru,--beyond the world, and
the concerns of Americans. There was little thought, and less talk, of
"the halls of the Montezumas;" and the ancient Mexican history was left
to entertain school-boys, in the pages of Robertson.
"Calavar" effected its more important purpose, as far as could be
expected of a mere work of fiction. The revolution of Texas, which
dismembered from the mountain republic the finest and fairest portion of
her territory, attracted the eyes and speculations of the world; and
from that moment, Mexico has been an object of regard. The admirable
history of Prescott has rendered all readers familiar with the ancient
annals of the Conquest; and now, with an American army thundering at the
gates of the capital, and an American general resting his republican
limbs on the throne of Guatimozin and the Spanish Viceroys, it may be
believed that a more earnest and universal attention is directed towards
Mexico than was ever before bestowed, since the time when Cortes
conquered upon the same field of fame where Scott is now victorious.
There is, indeed, a remarkable parallel between the invasions of the two
great captains. There is the same route up the same difficult and lofty
mountains; the same city, in the same most magnificent of valleys, as
the object of attack; the same petty forces, and the same daring
intrepidity leading them against millions of enemies, fighting in the
heart of their own country; and finally, the same desperate fury of
unequal armies contending in mortal combat on | 642.356092 |
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Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Steve Schulze and PG Distributed
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+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| TIFFANY & CO., |
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| UNION SQUARE, |
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| A COVER, |
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| Lettered and Stamped, with New Title-Page, |
| FOR BINDING |
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| FIRST VOLUME, |
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| On Receipt of 50 Cents, |
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| OR THE |
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| TITLE-PAGE ALONE, FREE, |
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| On application to |
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| PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO., |
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| 83 Nassau Street. |
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| STEEL PENS. |
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Vol. II. No. 38
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
PRANG'S LATEST PUBLICATIONS: "Joy of Autumn," "Prairie Flowers,"
"Lake George," "West Point," "Beethoven," large and small.
PRANG'S CHROMOS sold in all Art Stores throughout the world.
PRANG'S ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE sent free on receipt of stamp.
L. PRANG & CO., Boston
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[Sidenote: See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.]
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| AND ASSOCIATIONS, ON |
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| W. A. WILKINS, |
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| Care of Punchinello Publishing Co., |
| 83 Nassau Street New York. |
| P.O. Box No. 2783. |
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+--------------------------------------------------------------+
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| 642.435695 |
2023-11-16 18:27:46.6163500 | 782 | 77 |
Produced by Carlos Colón, Princeton Theological Seminary
Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Notes:
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by
=equal signs=.
Small uppercase have been replaced with regular uppercase.
Characters after a carat are superscripts.
Blank pages have been eliminated.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the
original.
THE
SACRED BOOKS OF THE BUDDHISTS
Oxford
HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
SACRED BOOKS OF THE BUDDHISTS
TRANSLATED
BY VARIOUS ORIENTAL SCHOLARS
AND EDITED BY
F. MAX MÜLLER
_PUBLISHED UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF_
HIS MAJESTY CHULÂLANKARANA, KING OF SIAM
VOL. I
London
HENRY FROWDE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE
AMEN CORNER, E.C.
1895
THE _G_ÂTAKAMÂLÂ
OR
GARLAND OF BIRTH-STORIES
BY
ÂRYA _S_ÛRA
_TRANSLATED FROM THE SANSKRIT_
BY
J. S. SPEYER
London
HENRY FROWDE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE
AMEN CORNER, E.C.
1895
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
After all the necessary preparations for the first and second series of
the _Sacred Books of the East_, consisting in all of forty-nine volumes,
with two volumes of _General Index_, had been completed, I still
received several offers of translations of important texts which I felt
reluctant to leave unpublished. As they were chiefly translations of
Buddhist texts, I mentioned the fact to several of my Buddhist friends,
and I was highly gratified when I was informed that H. M. the King of
Siam, being desirous that the true teaching of the Buddha should become
more widely known in Europe, had been graciously pleased to promise that
material support without which the publication of these translations
would have been impossible.
I therefore resolved to do what I could for helping to spread a more
correct knowledge of the religion of Buddha: but after the first three
volumes of this new Series of the Sacred Books of the Buddhists is
published, it will mainly depend on the interest which the public may
take in this work, whether it can be continued or not.
As long as my health allows me to do so I shall be quite willing to
continue what has been a labour of love to me during many years of my
life. It was not always an easy task. The constant correspondence with
my fellow-workers has taxed my time and my strength far more than I
expected. The difficulty was not only to select from the very large mass
of Sacred Books those that seemed most important and most likely to be
useful for enabling us to gain a correct view of the great religions of
the East, but to find scholars competent and willing to undertake the
labour of translation. I can perfectly understand the unwillingness of
most scholars to devote their time to mere translations. With every year
the translation of such works as the Veda or the Avesta, instead of
becoming easier, becomes really more perplexing and more difficult.
Difficulties of which we | 642.63639 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE MENTOR 1916.03.01, No. 102,
Chinese Rugs
LEARN ONE THING
EVERY DAY
MARCH 1 1916 SERIAL NO. 102
THE
MENTOR
[Illustration: A RUG OF MIXED DESIGNS
The Center Is a Faded Magenta Red.
The Border Ground Is Pale Yellow]
CHINESE RUGS
By JOHN K. MUMFORD
Author and Expert on Oriental Rugs
DEPARTMENT OF VOLUME 4
FINE ARTS NUMBER 2
FIFTEEN CENTS A COPY
A Thing of Beauty
No word in | 642.771953 |
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Produced by Linton Dawe, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
VICKY VAN
BY CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF
"The Affair at Flower Acres," "Anybody But Anne,"
"The Mystery of the Sycamore," "Raspberry Jam,"
"The Vanishing of Betty Varian," "Spooky Hollow,"
"Feathers Left Around," etc.
TO
ONE OF MY BEST CHUMS
JULIAN KING SPRAGUE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. VICKY VAN
II. MR. SOMERS
III. THE WAITER'S STORY
IV. SOMERS' REAL NAME
V. THE SCHUYLER HOUSEHOLD
VI. VICKY'S WAYS
VII. RUTH SCHUYLER
VIII. THE LETTER BOX
IX. THE SOCIAL SECRETARY
X. THE INQUEST
XI. A NOTE FROM VICKY
XII. MORE NOTES
XIII. FLEMING STONE
XIV. WALLS HAVE TONGUES
XV. FIBSY
XVI. A FUTILE CHASE
XVII. THE GOLD-FRINGED GOWN
XVIII. FIBSY DINES OUT
XIX. PROOFS AND MORE PROOFS
XX. THE TRUTH FROM RUTH
CHAPTER I
VICKY VAN
Victoria Van Allen was the name she signed to her letters and to her
cheques, but Vicky Van, as her friends called her, was signed all over
her captivating personality, from the top of her dainty, tossing head
to the tips of her dainty, dancing feet.
I liked her from the first, and if her "small and earlies" were said
to be so called because they were timed by the small and early
numerals on the clock dial, and if her "little" bridge games kept in
active circulation a goodly share of our country's legal tender, those
things are not crimes.
I lived in one of the polite sections of New York City, up among the
East Sixties, and at the insistence of my sister and aunt, who lived
with me, our home was near enough the great boulevard to be designated
by that enviable phrase, "Just off Fifth Avenue." We were on the north
side of the street, and, nearer to the Avenue, on the south side, was
the home of Vicky Van.
Before I knew the girl, I saw her a few times, at long intervals, on
the steps of her house, or entering her little car, and
half-consciously I noted her charm and her evident zest of life.
Later, when a club friend offered to take me there to call, I accepted
gladly, and as I have said, I liked her from the first.
And yet, I never said much about her to my sister. I am, in a way,
responsible for Winnie, and too, she's too young to go where they play
Bridge for money. Little faddly prize bags or gift-shop novelties are
her stakes.
Also, Aunt Lucy, who helps me look after Win, wouldn't quite
understand the atmosphere at Vicky's. Not exactly Bohemian--and yet,
I suppose it did represent one compartment of that handy-box of a
term. But I'm going to tell you, right now, about a party I went to
there, and you can see for yourself what Vicky Van was like.
"How late you're going out," said Winnie, as I slithered into my
topcoat. "It's after eleven."
"Little girls mustn't make comments on big brothers," I smiled back at
her. Win was nineteen and I had attained the mature age of
twenty-seven. We were orphans and spinster Aunt Lucy did her best to
be a parent to us; and we got on smoothly enough, for none of us had
the temperament that rouses friction in the home.
"Across the street?" Aunt Lucy guessed, raising her aristocratic
eyebrows a hair's breadth.
"Yes," I returned, the least bit irritated at the implication of that
hairbreadth raise. "Steele will be over there and I want to see him--"
This time the said eyebrows went up frankly in amusement, and the kind
blue eyes beamed as she said, "All right, Chet, run along."
Though I was Chester Calhoun, the junior partner of the law firm of
Bradbury and Calhoun, and held myself in due and consequent respect, I
didn't mind Aunt Lucy's calling me Chet, or even, as she sometimes
did, Chetty. A man puts up with those things from the women of his
household. As to Winnie, she called me anything that came handy, from
Lord Chesterton to Chessy-Cat.
I patted Aunt Lucy on her soft old shoulder and Winnie on her hard
young head, and was off.
True, I did expect to see Steele at Vicky Van's--he was the club chap
who had introduced me there--but as Aunt Lucy had so cleverly
suspected, he was not my sole reason for | 642.837764 |
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Produced by MWS, 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/Canadian Libraries)
Transcriber’s note: Superscripts are preceded by the caret character ^,
as in 20^d. Multi-letter and mid-word superscripts are enclosed in
{braces}, as in w^{th} and w^{t}out. Italics are represented by
_underscores_.
WOMEN IN ENGLISH LIFE.
[Illustration: _C. Cook, sculp._
ANN,
_Lady Fanshawe_.
London Richard Bentley & Son 1896]
WOM | 642.937059 |
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UNDER THE DEODARS
By Rudyard Kipling
Contents
The Education of Otis Yeere
At the Pit's Mouth
A Wayside Comedy
The Hill of Illusion
A Second-rate Woman
Only a Subaltern
In the Matter of a Private
The Enlightenments of Pagett. M. P.
UNDER THE DEODARS
THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE
I
In the pleasant orchard-closes
'God bless all our gains,' say we;
But 'May God bless all our losses,'
Better suits with our degree.
The Lost Bower.
This is the history of a failure; but the woman who failed said that it
might be an instructive tale to put into print for the benefit of the
younger generation. The younger generation does not want instruction,
being perfectly willing to instruct if any one will listen to it. None
the less, here begins the story where every right-minded story should
begin, that is to say at Simla, where all things begin and many come to
an evil end.
The mistake was due to a very clever woman making a blunder and not
retrieving it. Men are licensed to stumble, but a clever woman's mistake
is outside the regular course of Nature and Providence; since all good
people know that a woman is the only infallible thing in this world,
except Government Paper of the '79 issue, bearing interest at four and
a half per cent. Yet, we have to remember that six consecutive days
of rehearsing the leading part of The Fallen Angel, at the New Gaiety
Theatre where the plaster is not yet properly dry, might have brought
about an unhingement of spirits which, again, might have led to
eccentricities.
Mrs. Hauksbee came to 'The Foundry' to tiffin with Mrs. Mallowe, her one
bosom friend, for she was in no sense 'a woman's woman.' And it was a
woman's tiffin, the door shut to all the world; and they both talked
chiffons, which is French for Mysteries.
'I've enjoyed an interval of sanity,' Mrs. Hauksbee announced, after
tiffin was over and the two were comfortably settled in the little
writing-room that opened out of Mrs. Mallowe's bedroom.
'My dear girl, what has he done?' said Mrs. Mallowe sweetly. It is
noticeable that ladies of a certain age call each other 'dear girl,'
just as commissioners of twenty-eight years' standing address their
equals in the Civil List as'my boy.'
'There's no he in the case. Who am I that an imaginary man should be
always credited to me? Am I an Apache?'
'No, dear, but somebody's scalp is generally drying at your wigwam-door.
Soaking rather.'
This was an allusion to the Hawley Boy, who was in the habit of riding
all across Simla in the Rains, to call on Mrs. Hauksbee. That lady
laughed.
'For my sins, the Aide at Tyrconnel last night told me off to The
Mussuck. Hsh! Don't laugh. One of my most devoted admirers. When the
duff came some one really ought to teach them to make puddings at
Tyrconnel The Mussuck was at liberty to attend to me.'
'Sweet soul! I know his appetite,' said Mrs. Mallowe. 'Did he, oh did
he, begin his wooing?'
'By a special mercy of Providence, no. He explained his importance as a
Pillar of the Empire. I didn't laugh.'
'Lucy, I don't believe you.'
'Ask Captain Sangar; he was on the other side. Well, as I was saying,
The Mussuck dilated.'
'I think I can see him doing it,' said Mrs. Mallowe pensively,
scratching her fox-terrier's ears.
'I was properly impressed. Most properly. I yawned openly. "Strict
supervision, and play them off one against the other," said The Mussuck,
shovelling down his ice by tureenfuls, I assure you. "That, Mrs.
Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government."'
Mrs. Mallowe laughed long and merrily. 'And what did you say?'
'Did you ever know me at loss for an answer yet? I said: "So I have
observed in my dealings with you." The Mussuck swelled with pride. He is
coming to call on me to-morrow. The Hawley Boy is coming too.'
'"Strict supervision and play them off one against the other. That,
Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government." And I daresay if we
could get to The Mussuck's heart, we should find that he considers
himself a man of the world.'
'As he is of the other two things. I like The Mussuck, and I won't have
you call him names. He amuses me.'
'He has reformed you, too, by what appears. Explain the interval of
sanity, and hit Tim on the nose with the paper-cutter, please. That dog
is too fond of sugar. Do you take milk in yours?'
'No, thanks. Polly, I'm wearied of this life. It's hollow.'
'Turn religious, then. I always said that Rome would be your fate.'
'Only exchanging half-a-dozen attaches in red for one in black, and if I
fasted, the wrinkles would come, and never, never go. Has it ever struck
you, dear, that I'm getting old?'
'Thanks for your courtesy. I'll return it. Ye-es, we are both not
exactly how shall I put it?'
'What we have been. "I feel it in my bones," as Mrs. Crossley says.
Polly, I've wasted my life.'
'As how?'
'Never mind how. I feel it. I want to be a Power before I die.'
'Be a Power then. You've wits enough for anything and beauty!'
Mrs. Hauksbee pointed a teaspoon straight at her hostess. 'Polly, if you
heap compliments on me like this, I shall cease to believe that you're a
woman. Tell me how I am to be a Power.'
'Inform The Mussuck that he is the most fascinating and slimmest man in
Asia, and he'll tell you anything and everything you please.'
'Bother The Mussuck! I mean an intellectual Power not a gas-power.
Polly, I'm going to start a salon.'
Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa and rested her head on her hand.
'Hear the words of the Preacher, the son of Baruch,' she said.
'Will you talk sensibly?'
'I will, dear, for I see that you are going to make a mistake.'
'I never made a mistake in my life at least, never one that I couldn't
explain away afterwards.'
'Going to make a mistake,' went on Mrs. Mallowe composedly. 'It is
impossible to start a salon in Simla. A bar would be much more to the
point.'
'Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy.'
'Just what makes it so difficult. How many clever women are there in
Simla?'
'Myself and yourself,' said Mrs. Hauksbee, without a moment's
hesitation.
'Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you for that. And how many
clever men?'
'Oh er hundreds,' said Mrs. Hauksbee vaguely.
'What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all bespoke by the Government.
Take my husband, for instance. Jack was a clever man, though I say so
who shouldn't. Government has eaten him up. All his ideas and powers of
conversation he really used to be a good talker, even to his wife in the
old days are taken from him by this this kitchen-sink of a Government.
That's the case with every man up here who is at work. I don't suppose
a Russian convict under the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang;
and all our men-folk here are gilded convicts.'
'But there are scores--'
'I know what you're going to say. Scores of idle men up on leave. I
admit it, but they are all of two objectionable sets. The Civilian who'd
be delightful if he had the military man's knowledge of the world and
style, and the military man who'd be adorable if he had the Civilian's
culture.'
'Detestable word! Have Civilians culchaw? I never studied the breed
deeply.'
'Don't make fun of Jack's Service. Yes. They're like the teapoys in the
Lakka Bazar good material but not polished. They can't help themselves,
poor dears. A Civilian only begins to be tolerable after he has knocked
about the world for fifteen years.'
'And a military man?'
'When he has had the same amount of service. The young of both species
are horrible. You would have scores of them in your salon.'
'I would not!' said Mrs. Hauksbee fiercely.
'I would tell the bearer to darwaza band them. I'd put their own
colonels and commissioners at the door to turn them away. I'd give them
to the Topsham Girl to play with.'
'The Topsham Girl would be grateful for the gift. But to go back to the
salon. Allowing that you had gathered all your men and women together,
what would you do with them? Make them talk? They would all with one
accord begin to flirt. Your salon would become a glorified Peliti's a
"Scandal Point" by lamplight.'
'There's a certain amount of wisdom in that view.'
'There's all the wisdom in the world in it. Surely, twelve Simla seasons
ought to have taught you that you can't focus anything in India; and
a salon, to be any good at all, must be permanent. In two seasons your
roomful would be scattered all over Asia. We are only little bits of
dirt on the hillsides here one day and blown down the road the next. We
have lost the art of talking at least our men have. We have no cohesion.'
'George Eliot in the flesh,' interpolated Mrs. Hauksbee wickedly.
'And collectively, my dear scoffer, we, men and women alike, have no
influence. Come into the verandah and look at the Mall!'
The two looked down on the now rapidly filling road, for all Simla was
abroad to steal a stroll between a shower and a fog.
'How do you propose to fix that river? Look! There's The Mussuck head of
goodness knows what. He is a power in the land, though he does eat like
a costermonger. There's Colonel Blone, and General Grucher, and Sir
Dugald Delane, and Sir Henry Haughton, and Mr. Jellalatty. All Heads of
Departments, and all powerful.'
'And all my fervent admirers,' said Mrs. Hauksbee piously. 'Sir Henry
Haughton raves about me. But go on.'
'One by one, these men are worth something. Collectively, they're just
a mob of Anglo-Indians. Who cares for what Anglo-Indians say? Your salon
won't weld the Departments together and make you mistress of India,
dear. And these creatures won't talk administrative "shop" in a crowd
your salon because they are so afraid of the men in the lower ranks
overhearing it. They have forgotten what of Literature and Art they ever
knew, and the women--'
'Can't talk about anything except the last Gymkhana, or the sins of
their last nurse. I was calling on Mrs. Derwills this morning.'
'You admit that? They can talk to the subalterns though, and the
subalterns can talk to them. Your salon would suit their views
admirably, if you respected the religious prejudices of the country and
provided plenty of kala juggahs.'
'Plenty of kala juggahs. Oh my poor little idea! Kala juggahs in a
salon! But who made you so awfully clever?'
'Perhaps I've tried myself; or perhaps I know a woman who has. I have
preached and expounded the whole matter and the conclusion thereof.'
'You needn't go on. "Is Vanity." Polly, I thank you. These vermin' Mrs.
Hauksbee waved her hand from the verandah to two men in the crowd below
who had raised their hats to her 'these vermin shall not rejoice in a
new Scandal Point or an extra Peliti's. I will abandon the notion of a
salon. It did seem so tempting, though. But what shall I do? I must do
something.'
'Why? Are not Abana and Pharpar.'
'Jack has made you nearly as bad as himself! I want to, of course. I'm
tired of everything and everybody, from a moonlight picnic at Seepee to
the blandishments of The Mussuck.'
'Yes that comes, too, sooner or later. Have you nerve enough to make
your bow yet?'
Mrs. Hauksbee's mouth shut grimly. Then she laughed. 'I think I see
myself doing it. Big pink placards on the Mall: "Mrs. Hauksbee!
Positively her last appearance on any stage! This is to give notice!" No
more dances; no more rides; no more luncheons; no more theatricals with
supper to follow; no more sparring with one's dearest, dearest friend;
no more fencing with an inconvenient man who hasn't wit enough to clothe
what he's pleased to call his sentiments in passable speech; no more
parading of The Mussuck while Mrs. Tarkass calls all round Simla,
spreading horrible stories about me! No more of anything that is
thoroughly wearying, abominable, and detestable, but, all the same,
makes life worth the having. Yes! I see it all! Don't interrupt, Polly,
I'm inspired. A mauve and white striped "cloud" round my excellent
shoulders, a seat in the fifth row of the Gaiety, and both horses sold.
Delightful vision! A comfortable arm-chair, situated in three different
draughts, at every ball-room; and nice, large, sensible shoes for
all the couples to stumble over as they go into the verandah! Then at
supper. Can't you imagine the scene? The greedy mob gone away. Reluctant
subaltern, pink all over like a newly-powdered baby, they really ought
to tan subalterns before they are exported, Polly, sent back by the
hostess to do his duty. Slouches up to me across the room, tugging at
a glove two sizes too large for him I hate a man who wears gloves like
overcoats and trying to look as if he'd thought of it from the first.
"May I ah-have the pleasure 'f takin' you 'nt' supper?" Then I get up
with a hungry smile. Just like this.'
'Lucy, how can you be so absurd?'
'And sweep out on his arm. So! After supper I shall go away early, you
know, because I shall be afraid of catching cold. No one will look for
my 'rickshaw. Mine, so please you! I shall stand, always with that mauve
and white "cloud" over my head, while the wet soaks into my dear, old,
venerable feet, and Tom swears and shouts for the mem-sahib's gharri.
Then home to bed at half-past eleven! Truly excellent life helped out
by the visits of the Padri, just fresh from burying somebody down below
there.' She pointed through the pines toward the Cemetery, and continued
with vigorous dramatic gesture,
'Listen! I see it all down, down even to the stays! Such stays!
Six-eight a pair, Polly, with red flannel or list, is it? that they
put into the tops of those fearful things. I can draw you a picture of
them.'
'Lucy, for Heaven's sake, don't go waving your arms about in that
idiotic manner! Recollect every one can see you from the Mall.'
'Let them see! They'll think I am rehearsing for The Fallen Angel. Look!
There's The Mussuck. How badly he rides. There!'
She blew a kiss to the venerable Indian administrator with infinite
grace.
'Now,' she continued | 642.953921 |
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THE HOLYHEAD ROAD
[Illustration: EARLY DAYS ON THE LONDON AND BIRMINGHAM RAILWAY.]
THE HOLYHEAD ROAD: THE MAIL-COACH ROAD TO DUBLIN
By CHARLES G. HARPER
Author of “_The Brighton Road_,” “_The Portsmouth Road_,” “_The Dover
Road_,” “_The Bath Road_,” “_The Exeter Road_,” “_The Great North
Road_,” and “_The Norwich Road_”
[Illustration]
_Illustrated by the Author, and from Old-Time Prints and Pictures_
_Vol. II. BIRMINGHAM TO HOLYHEAD_
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL
LTD. 1902
[_All rights reserved_]
PRINTED BY
HAZELL, WATSON, AND VINEY, LD.
LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
SEPARATE PLATES
PAGE
EARLY DAYS ON THE LONDON AND BIRMINGHAM RAILWAY. _Frontispiece_
BULL RING. (_From a Print after David Cox_) 5
OLD BIRMINGHAM COACHING BILL. 13
DUDLEY. (_After J. M. W. Turner, R.A._) 31
HIGH GREEN, WOLVERHAMPTON, 1797. (_After
Rowlandson_) 47
HIGH GREEN, WOLVERHAMPTON, 1826. (_From an
Old Print_) 51
HIGH GREEN, WOLVERHAMPTON, 1860. (_From a
Contemporary Photograph_) 55
SHIFFNAL. 67
THE COUNCIL HOUSE. 141
THE HONOURABLE THOMAS KENYON. (_From an Old Print_) 153
THE VALE OF LLANGOLLEN. 177
LLANGOLLEN. | 643.235864 |
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Produced by Michael Ciesielski, Christine D. and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's notes:
Original spelling and puctuation were retained, including u/v and
i/j substitution. Text has been put on the left side of the dividing
line and notes on the right to make the plain text version easier to
work with. Some of the Latin note text was illegible, many thanks to
the Distributed Proofreaders Volunteers who helped look up the
references in various internet sources.]
THE PRAISE OF A
GODLY WOMAN.
A Sermon preached at the Solemne Funerall
of the Right Honourable Ladie, the Ladie
FRANCES ROBERTS, at _Lanhide-rock-Church_
in _Cornwall_ the tenth of
August, 1626.
By
HANNIBALL GAMON, Minister of the word
of God, at S^t. _Maugan_ in the same Countie.
_1 Cor. 4. 5._
Therefore iudge nothing before the time, vntill the Lord come, who
will bring to light the hidden things of darknesse, and will manifest
the counsells of the hearts, and then shall euery man haue praise of
God.
_Galath. 3. 28._
{ Neither Iew nor Greek,
There is { Neither Bond nor Free,
{ Neither Male nor Female, for yee are all one in Christ Iesus.
S^t. Hierom. Eustoch.
_----In seruitute Christi nequaquam Differentia sexuum valet,
sed mentium._
Idem ad Principiam.
_Non facie vllam inter Sanctas Feminas Differentiam, quod Nonnulli
inter Sanctos Viros & Ecclesiarum Principes, stulte facere
consueverunt._
LONDON,
Printed by _I.H._ for _Iohn Grismond_, and are to be sold at his shop in
_Ivie-Lane_ at the signe of the Gunne. 1627.
TO THE TRVLY
NOBLE IOHN ROBERTS,
Son and Heire to the Right
Honourable RICHARD _Lord_ ROBERTS
of _Truro_: the Vnualuable Riches of
sincere Grace here, and of Eternall
Glory hereafter.
HONOVRABLE SIR,
Although it bee true (which a |
worthy Diuine[a] obserueth) that | [Note a: M^r. _Bolter_ Disc. of
formall Hypocrites are heartned and | true Happinesse, p. 61.]
hardned in their lewd courses & |
false conceits of happinesse, when |
they heare more infamous Sinners |
than themselues, gloriously and |
flatteringly commended at their |
Deaths; yet we need not feare any |
such bad effect by the |
Funerall-commendation of Gods true |
Saints; because the publike |
Testimonie of their iust Praises |
doth not onely make the wicked more |
inexcusable, and the Glory of Gods |
| 643.334227 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
THE BIRTH OF THE NATION
[Illustration: The First English Church in America.]
'Tis just three hundred years ago
We sailed through unknown Narrows
And landed on an unknown coast
Amid a flight of arrows.
We planted England's standard there | 643.435424 |
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E-text prepared by Ted Garvin, Linda Cantoni, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 33022-h.htm or 33022-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33022/33022-h/33022-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33022/33022-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
This e-book contains numerous sidenotes. All sidenotes have
been moved to the beginning of the paragraph in which they
appear. Duplicate date sidenotes within a section have been
removed.
Phonetic symbols are represented by [)a] (short a) and [=a]
(long a). The "because" symbol (an inverted triangle of 3
dots) is represented by [V].
The last four lines on page 22 in the edition used to prepare
this e-book were erroneously duplicated from another page.
For details, see the note at the end of this e-book.
Inconsistent spellings of proper nouns have been retained as
they appear in the original, except where clearly incorrect.
VILLANI'S CHRONICLE
Being Selections from the First Nine Books of the
Croniche Fiorentine of Giovanni Villani
Translated by Rose E. Selfe
and
Edited by Philip H. Wicksteed M.A.
London
Archibald Constable & Co. Ltd.
1906
SECOND EDITION
Carefully Revised
Ditemi dell' ovil di San Giovanni
Quanto era allora, e chi eran le genti
Tra esso degne di piu alti scanni
[Illustration]
PREFATORY NOTE
The Editor is responsible for the selection of the passages
translated, and for the Introduction. He has also compared the
translation with the original text, has satisfied himself of its
general accuracy, and has made numerous suggestions.
The Translator is responsible for the fidelity of the translation in
detail, and for its general tone and style. She has also drawn up the
Indexes, and seen the work through the press.
For the selection of marginal references to the works of Dante the
Editor and Translator are jointly responsible.
Both Translator and Editor desire to express their obligations to Mr.
A.J. Butler, who has given them his ungrudging assistance in every
difficulty, and whose learning and judgment have been invaluable.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xxv
BOOK I.
_This book is called the New Chronicle, in which many
past things are treated of, and especially the root and origins
of the city of Florence; then all the changes through which
it has passed and shall pass in the course of time: begun to
be compiled in the year of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ,
1300. Here begins the preface and the First Book._
Sec. 1. 1
Sec. 2.--_How through the confusion of the Tower of Babel
the world began to be inhabited_ 2
Sec. 5.--_Of the third part of the world called Europe, and
its boundaries_ 4
Sec. 7.--_How King Atlas first built the city of Fiesole_ 4
Sec. 8.--_How Atlas had three sons, Italus and Dardanus
and Sicanus_ 6
Sec. 9.--_How Italus and Dardanus came to agree which
should succeed to the city of Fiesole and the kingdom
of Italy_ 7
Sec. 10.--_How Dardanus came to Phrygia and built the city
of Dardania, which was afterwards the great Troy_ 8
Sec. 11.--_How Dardanus had a son which was named
Tritamus, which was the father of Trojus, after
whose name the city of Troy was so called_ 8
Sec. 17.--_How Antenor and the young Priam, having departed
from Troy, built the city of Venice, and that
of Padua_ 9
Sec. 21.--_How Aeneas departed from Troy and came to
Carthage in Africa_ 10
Sec. 22.--_How Aeneas came into Italy_ 13
Sec. 23.--_How the King Latinus ruled over Italy, and how
Aeneas had his daughter to wife, and all his kingdom_ 14
Sec. 29.--_How Rome was ruled for a long time by the
government of the consuls and senators, until Julius
Caesar became Emperor_ 16
Sec. 30.--_How a conspiracy was formed in Rome by Catiline
and his followers_ 18
Sec. 31.--_How Catiline caused the city of Fiesole to rebel
against the city of Rome_ 19
Sec. 32.--_How Catiline and his followers were discomfited
by the Romans in the plain of Piceno_ 20
Sec. 33.--_How Metellus with his troops made war upon the
Fiesolans_ 22
Sec. 34.--_How Metellus and Fiorinus discomfited the Fiesolans_ 22
Sec. 35.--_How the Romans besieged Fiesole the first time,
and how Fiorinus was slain_ 23
Sec. 36.--_How, because of the death of Fiorinus, the Romans
returned to the siege of Fiesole_ 24
Sec. 37.--_How the city of Fiesole surrendered itself to the
Romans, and was destroyed and laid waste_ 26
Sec. 38.--_How the city of Florence was first built_ 27
Sec. 39.--_How Caesar departed from Florence, and went to
Rome, and was made consul to go against the
French_ 30
Sec. 40.--_Of the ensign of the Romans and of the Emperors,
and how from them it came to the city of Florence
and other cities_ 31
Sec. 42.--_How the Temple of Mars, which is now called
the Duomo of S. Giovanni, was built in Florence_ 32
Sec. 50.--_Of the city of Luni_ 34
Sec. 57.--_The story returns to the doings of the city of
Florence, and how S. Miniato there suffered martyrdom
under Decius, the Emperor_ 35
Sec. 59.--_Of Constantine the Emperor, and his descendants,
and the changes which came thereof in Italy_ | 643.535491 |
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VOL. XXXV. NO. 8.
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
* * * * *
“To the Poor the Gospel is Preached.”
* * * * *
AUGUST, 1881.
_CONTENTS_:
EDITORIAL.
PARAGRAPH—The Mendi Mission 225
ILLUSTRATION—Mission Home, Mendi Mission 228
DEATH OF REV. KELLY M. KEMP 230
AFRICAN NOTES 230
FREEDMEN FOR AFR | 643.660539 |
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Transcriber's Note:
[=XVII] = XVII with a line above.
* * * * *
A Line-o'-Verse or Two
By
Bert Leston Taylor
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago
Copyright, 1911
by
The Reilly & Britton Co.
NOTE
For the privilege of reprinting the rimes gathered here I am indebted to
the courtesy of the _Chicago Tribune_ and _Puck_, in whose pages most of
them first appeared. "The Lay of St. Ambrose" is new.
One reason for rounding up this fugitive verse and prisoning it between
covers was this: Frequently--more or less--I receive a request for a
copy of this jingle or that, and it is easier to mention a publishing
house than to search through ancient and dusty files.
The other reason was that I wanted to.
B. L. T.
_TO MY READERS_
_Not merely of this book,--but a larger company, with whom, through the
medium of the_ Chicago Tribune, _I have been on very pleasant terms for
several years,--this handful of rime is joyously dedicated._
THE LAY OF ST. AMBROSE
"_And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell,_
_Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey._"
--THE LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
Ambrose the anchorite old and grey
Larruped himself in his lonely cell,
And many a welt on his pious pelt
The scourge evoked as it rose and fell.
For hours together the flagellant leather
Went whacketty-whack with his groans of pain;
And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head,
"Ambrose has been at the bottle again."
And such, in sooth, was the sober truth;
For the single fault of this saintly soul
Was a desert thirst for the cup accurst,--
A quenchless love for the Flowing Bowl.
When he woke at morn with a head forlorn
And a taste like a last-year swallow's nest,
He would kneel and pray, then rise and flay
His sinful body like all possessed.
Frequently tempted, he fell from grace,
And as often he found the devil to pay;
But by diligent scourging and diligent purging
He managed to keep Old Nick at bay.
This was the plight of our anchorite,--
An endless penance condemned to dree,--
When it chanced one day there came his way
A Mystical Book with a golden Key.
This Mystical Book was a guide to health,
That none might follow and go astray;
While a turn of the Key unlocked the wealth
That all unknown in the Scriptures lay.
Disease is sin, the Book defined;
Sickness is error to which men cling;
Pain is merely a state of mind,
And matter a non-existent thing.
If a tooth should ache, or a leg should break,
You simply "affirm" and it's sound again.
Cut and contusion are only delusion,
And indigestion a fancied pain.
For pain is naught if you "hold a thought,"
Fevers fly at your simple say;
You have but to affirm, and every germ
Will fold up its tent and steal away.
..........
From matin gong to even-song
Ambrose pondered this mystic lore,
Till what had seemed fiction took on a conviction
That words had never possessed before.
"If pain," quoth he, "is a state of mind,
If a rough hair shirt to silk is kin,--
If these things are error, pray where's the terror
In scourging and purging oneself of sin?
"It certainly seemeth good to me,
By and large, in part and in whole.
I'll put it in practice and find if it fact is,
Or only a mystical rigmarole."
..........
The very next night our anchorite
Of the Flowing Bowl drank long and deep.
He argued this wise: "New Thought applies
No fitter to lamb than it does to sheep | 643.834653 |
2023-11-16 18:27:47.8812070 | 3,852 | 9 |
Produced by Holly Astle, Mormon Texts Project Intern
(http://mormontextsproject.org/)
HELPFUL VISIONS.
THE FOURTEENTH BOOK OF THE FAITH-PROMOTING SERIES.
Intended for the Instruction and Encouragement of Young Latter-day
Saints.
JUVENILE INSTRUCTOR OFFICE,
SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH.
1887.
COMBINED FAITH-PROMOTING SERIES,
Nos. 1-5, $1.35,
Nos. 6-10, $1.25.
CONTENTS.
A TERRIBLE ORDEAL.
CHAPTER I.
Remarkable Spiritual Manifestations--Thrilling Experience of Elder
David P. Kimball, as Narrated by himself.
CHAPTER II.
Account of Patten Kimball and Others, Regarding the Search for and
Finding of his Father.
BRIANT S. STEVENS.
CHAPTER I.
Briant Stringham Stevens Becomes a Missionary to His Associates and
Brings Four Boys to Belief and Baptism--A Good Child who Passed Amidst
the Daily Temptations of Life Unscathed.
CHAPTER II.
Accidents to Briant--He is Ordained to the Priesthood--Patient
Endurance of His Sufferings--He is Blessed to be an Elder and then
Slumbers in Death.
CHAPTER III.
A "Helpful Vision" to Briant's Stricken Father--the Comforter Brings
the Peace which Passes All Understanding--The Funeral of the Little
Missionary--His Work Lives after Him.
FINDING COMFORT.
CHAPTER I.
Called to Australasia--The Modern Imitators of Job's Friends--Our
"Special Instruction" is to "Build up the Kingdom of God in those
Lands"--A Disappointment ends in a Blessing--Promises by an Apostle
which were Literally Fulfilled--We Reach Sydney, I am Separated From my
Companion.
CHAPTER II.
Labor which Brought Little Compensation--A Mysterious Call to
New Zealand--Attacked by an Evil Spirit--The Visitation Thrice
Repeated--Meeting the Brother of a Friend--On Board the _Wakatipu_
Bound for New Zealand.
CHAPTER III.
An Irreverent Company of Passengers--Sickness and a Horror of Life
Fall Upon Me--A "Helpful Vision"--"Only be True"--Invoking the
Name of Christ--A Jolly Singer and a Jolly Song--Landing at Port
Littleton--Strange Recognition of Brother Nordstrand--His Dream
Concerning Me.
CHAPTER IV.
Reason for my Sudden Call to Leave Sydney--The Little Old Lady of the
_Wakatipu_--She had Waited a Generation to Renew her Covenants--Another
"Helpful Vision"--A Mysterious Half-Sovereign--Saved from Death in a
Swift River.
CHAPTER V.
Some Old Members of the Church--The Spirit Prompts Promises to Them
which are Literally Fulfilled--Help from a Catholic Who is Suddenly
Converted and Who as Suddenly Apostatizes--A Spontaneous Prophecy--The
Journey Home--A Careful Observer--Safe in Zion.
TRAITORS.
Solemn Warnings--A Traitor can Never be Anything but
Despicable--Examples of the Past.
PREFACE.
The very encouraging reports we are constantly receiving from various
parts of the country concerning the vast amount of good accomplished by
these small publications, induces us to issue the fourteenth book, with
the sincere hope that it may not be less interesting or instructive
than those which have preceded it.
The Visions here recorded will again prove that truth is stranger than
fiction, and we trust that a perusal of these manifestations will lead
our young people to seek for the guidance of the Lord in all things,
and make Him their constant friend. The article on traitors is very
appropriate reading matter for the present season, and will, it is
hoped, cause everyone to look upon the men of this class with the
contempt they so justly merit, and sustain everyone in shunning as they
would poison, any traitorous act.
Our great desire is that this little book may assist in the education
and elevation of the young people and others who may peruse it.
THE PUBLISHERS.
A TERRIBLE ORDEAL.
BY O. F. WHITNEY.
CHAPTER I.
REMARKABLE SPIRITUAL MANIFESTATIONS--THRILLING EXPERIENCE OF ELDER
DAVID P. KIMBALL, AS NARRATED BY HIMSELF.
The following narrative of the experience of the late David Patten
Kimball, who was lost on the Salt River desert, Arizona, in the latter
part of November, 1881, is taken by permission from a letter written
by him to his sister, Helen Mar Whitney, of this city, on the 8th of
January, 1882. Brother Kimball was then a resident of Jonesville,
or Lehi, three miles from Mesa, where the letter was written. The
events described took place while he was returning home from a trip to
Prescott, the capital of that Territory.
The experience related was of so remarkable a character as to meet with
dubiety on the part of some, especially those inclined to be skeptical
regarding spiritual manifestations. Some went so far as to ascribe the
sights and scenes through which the narrator claimed to have passed,
to the fevered fancy of a mind disordered by strong drink. That such
should have been supposed, particularly by those who are ignorant of
spiritual things, is not surprising, when it is remembered that even
the Apostles of Christ, on the day of Pentecost, were accused of being
"drunken with new wine," when the power of the Spirit fell upon them
and they "spake with tongues and prophesied."
What is here presented is the plain and simple testimony of an honest
man, who adhered to it till the day of his death, which occurred within
two years from the date of his letter, and was in literal fulfillment
of certain things which he said were shown him in vision, and of which
he frequently testified while living.
For the benefit of such as may not have known Brother David P. Kimball,
we will state that he was the fourth son of the late President Heber C.
Kimball, whose wonderful encounter with evil spirits, on the opening
of the British Mission in 1837, has become a matter of Church history.
Here is the excerpt from David's letter:
"On the 4th of November, I took a very severe cold in a snow storm at
Prescott, being clad in light clothing, which brought on pneumonia
or lung fever. I resorted to Jamaica ginger and pepper tea to obtain
relief and keep up my strength till I could reach home and receive
proper care. On the 13th I camped in a canyon ten miles west of
Prescott, my son Patten being with me. We had a team of eight horses
and two wagons. That night I suffered more than death. The next night
we camped at Mr. McIntyre's, about twenty miles farther on. I stopped
there two nights and one day, during which time I took nothing to drink
but pepper tea. On the 16th we drove to Black's ranch, twenty-eight
miles nearer home, and were very comfortably located in Mr. Black's
house.
"About 11 p. m., I awoke and to my surprise saw some six or eight men
standing around my bed. I had no dread of them but felt that they were
my friends. At the same time I heard a voice which seemed to come from
an eight square (octagon) clock on the opposite side of the house.
It commenced talking and blackguarding, which drew my attention,
when I was told to pay no attention to it. At this point I heard the
most beautiful singing I ever listened to in all my life. These were
the words, repeated three times by a choir: 'God bless Brother David
Kimball.' I at once distinguished among them the voice of my second
wife, Julia Merrill, who in life was a good singer. This, of course,
astonished me. Just then my father commenced talking to me, the voice
seeming to come from a long distance. He commenced by telling me of
his associations with President Young, the Prophet Joseph, and others
in the spirit world, then enquired about his children, and seemed to
regret that his family were so scattered, and said there would be a
great reformation in his family inside of two years. He also told me
where I should live, also yourself and others, and a great many other
things. I conversed freely with father, and my words were repeated
three times by as many different persons, exactly as I spoke them,
until they reached him, and then his words to me were handed down in a
like manner.
"After all this I gave way to doubt, thinking it might be only a dream,
and to convince myself that I was awake, I got up and walked out-doors
into the open air.
"I returned and still the spirit of doubt was upon me. To test it
further I asked my wife Julia to sing me a verse of one of her old
songs. At that, the choir, which had continued singing, stopped and she
sang the song through, every word being distinct and beautiful. The
name of the song was, 'Does He Ever Think of Me.'
"My eyes were now turned toward the south, and there, as in a large
parquette, I beheld hundreds, even thousands, of friends and relatives.
I was then given the privilege of asking questions and did so. This
lasted for some time, after which the singing commenced again,
directly above me. I now wrapped myself in a pair of blankets and went
out-doors, determined to see the singers, but could see nothing, though
I could hear the voices just the same. I returned to my couch and the
singing, which was all communicative and instructive, continued until
the day dawned. All this time the clock I have mentioned continued its
cursing and blackguarding.
"Mr. and Mrs. Black were up in due time and got breakfast. I arose and
made my toilet, plain as it was, and took breakfast with my host and
hostess. When my boy got ready to start, I went to pay my bill, and to
my surprise heard a voice say or communicate: 'David Kimball has paid
his bill.' When I got into the wagon, my guards, or those who were
around my bed during the night, were still with me. My father had told
me that he and President Young and others would visit me the next night.
"We drove on until about 11 a. m., when a host of evil spirits made
their appearance. They were determined to destroy me, but I had power
of mind to pay no attention to them, and let them curse all day without
heeding them any more than possible. Five times they made a rush _en
masse_ to come into the wagon, the last one, where I was, but were kept
off by my friends (spiritual). About 2 p. m. I told my boy to stop and
we would water our horses. We used for this purpose barrels that we had
along with us. After this I walked to the west side of my wagons, and
looking to the east, I saw and heard the evil spirits floating in the
air and chanting curses upon Brigham Young. I saw two other groups of
the same kind, but did not hear them. Then I looked to the south and
the whole atmosphere was crowded with fallen spirits, or those who had
not obtained bodies. Others who tried to torment me were spirits who
had lived upon the earth. Having seen so many and being complimented
by my guard for seeing so well, I became a little timid and asked my
spiritual friends if they had any help. The answer was, 'Yes, plenty.'
I now told my boy to drive on--he was entirely oblivious of all that
was taking place with me--and soon after I was so exhausted that I fell
into a troubled sleep and must have slept quite a little while.
"After I awoke I seemed to be left alone, and was lying on my back,
when, all at once, I saw an old man and two young girls. This vision
coming on me so suddenly, I was startled, and finding my guard gone, I
jumped out of the wagon and got up on the spring seat beside my boy.
But I could not get away from them. I was told in a coarse, gruff voice
that the devil was going to kill me, and that he would follow me night
and day until he destroyed me. I remembered the promise father had made
me the night before--that he intended to visit me the next evening--and
I nerved up and tried to pay no attention to my persecutors, but I must
confess I was frightened.
"We arrived at Wickenburg just at sundown. The old man and the girls
were tormenting and tantalizing me all the way, but never coming very
near to me. We got supper and I took a room at Peeple's hotel and
retired about 10 p. m. When everything was quiet my spirit friends,
eight in number, returned and my tormentors were required to leave.
Soon after, a glorious vision burst upon me. There were thousands of
the Saints presented to me, many who had died at Nauvoo, in Winter
Quarters, on the plains and in Utah.
"I saw Brother Pugmire and many others whom I did not know were dead.
When my mother came to me it was so real and I was so overjoyed that
I exclaimed aloud. So powerful was this vision that I asked President
Young, who seemed to be directing matters, three times to relieve me,
or I would faint. A great many others passed in regular order; and I
recognized nearly all of them, and was told the names of all I did not
know. My father sat in a chair with his legs crossed and his hands
clasped together, as we have often seen him. Those who passed along had
hidden him from my view till then.
"This scene vanished, and I was then taken in the vision into a vast
building, which was built on the plan of the Order of Zion. I entered
through a south door and found myself in a part of the building which
was unfinished, though a great many workmen were busy upon it. My guide
showed me all through this half of the house, and then took me through
the other half, which was finished. The richness, grandeur and beauty
of it defied description. There were many apartments in the house,
which was very spacious, and they differed in size and the fineness of
the workmanship, according to the merits on earth of those who were
to occupy them. I felt most at home in the unfinished part, among the
workmen. The upper part of the house was filled with Saints, but I
could not see them, though some of them conversed with me, my father
and mother, Uncle Joseph Young and others.
"My father told me many things, and I received many reproofs for my
wrong-doings. Yet he was loth to have me leave, and seemed to feel very
badly when the time came for me to go. He told me I could remain there
if I chose to do so, but I plead with him that I might stay with my
family long enough to make them comfortable, to repent of my sins, and
more fully prepare myself for the change. Had it not been for this, I
never should have returned home, except as a corpse. Father finally
told me I could remain two years, and to do all the good I could during
that time, after which he would come for me; he mentioned four others
that he would come for also, though he did not say it would be at the
same time.
"On the 18th of November, about noon, we left Wickenburg (which is
twenty-two miles from Black's Ranch where we stopped the previous
night) on our journey home. I was exhausted from what I had
experienced, and could feel my mind fast giving away, but I had
confidence that I would reach home alive. There were no Elders to
administer to me and no kind friends to look after my wants except my
son, who had all he could do in looking after eight horses and two
wagons. As my mind wandered and grew weaker, I was troubled and led by
influences over which I had no power, and my friends, the good spirits,
had all left me.
"We drove about twenty miles that afternoon, camping about eight miles
from water, on the Salt River desert, which is about fifty miles
across. During the fore part of the night I heard the horses running as
though they were frightened. My son was asleep, but I got up and put my
overcoat across my shoulders and went out where they were and got them
quieted down. I was about to return to the wagon, when that same old
man with gray whiskers, who had tormented me before, stepped between
me and the wagons. He had a long knife in his hand. I was frightened
and fled, he pursuing me and telling me he was going to kill me. What
I passed through I cannot describe, and no mortal tongue could tell. I
wandered two days and three nights in the Salt River desert, undergoing
the torments of the damned, most of the time, which was beyond anything
that mortal could imagine.
"When my mind was restored, and the fever which had raged within me had
abated, I found myself lying on a bleak hill-top, lost in the desert,
chilled, hungered, thirsty and feeble. I had scarcely any clothing on,
was barefooted, and | 643.901247 |
2023-11-16 18:27:48.1149940 | 2,628 | 22 | HETHERINGTON ***
Produced by David Widger.
*THE TRIAL OF HENRY HETHERINGTON*
_By_
*Henry Hetherington*
_On an Indictment for Blasphemy_
CONTENTS
A FULL REPORT OF THE TRIAL OF HENRY HETHERINGTON
THE TRIAL
INDICTMENT
Second Count:
Third Count:
Mr. Bult opened the proceedings
DEFENCE
OBSERVATIONS
Extract from The Sun Newspaper
"TO LORD DENMAN, ON THE LATE PROSECUTION FOR BLASPHEMY
A FULL REPORT OF THE TRIAL OF HENRY HETHERINGTON
ON AN INDICTMENT FOR BLASPHEMY,
LORD DENMAN AND A SPECIAL JURY,
ON TUESDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1840;
FOR SELLING HASLAM'S LETTERS TO THE CLERGY TO ALL DENOMINATIONS:
THE WHOLE OF THE AUTHORITIES CITED IN THE DEFENCE, AT FULL LENGTH.
LONDON:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY HENRY HETHERINGTON, 1-26, STRAND;
AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
1840
Price Sixpence.
To
JAMES WATSON,
BOOKSELLER,
THE FRIEND OF TRUTH, THE INFIDEL TO ERROR, AND THE LOVER OF LIBERTY,
THIS TRIAL
IS DEDICATED,
IN PROOF OF THE AFFECTIONATE ATTACHMENT THAT SUBSISTS BETWEEN TWO
FRIENDS, WHO FULLY RECOGNISE AND ACT UPON THE PRINCIPLES AVOWED AND
CONTENDED FOR IN THE FOLLOWING DEFENCE; AND AS A TRIBUTE OF ESTEEM,
TO GOD'S NOBLEST WORK--AN HONEST MAN!
BY HIS FAITHFUL FRIEND,
HENRY HETHERINGTON.
THE TRIAL
COURT OF QUEEN'S BENCH, December 8, 1840.
Sittings at Nisi Prius at Westminster, before Lord DENMAN and a
Middlesex Special Jury.
PROSECUTION FOR BLASPHEMY.
THE QUEEN Versus HETHERINGTON.
This was a prosecution instituted by Her Majesty's Attorney-General, Sir
John Campbell, against Henry Hetherington, bookseller, of 126, Strand,
for the publication of a blasphemous libel.
INDICTMENT
Of Easter term, in the Third Year of the Reign of Queen Victoria.
Middlesex:--
Be it remembered, that on Tuesday, the twenty-eighth day of April, in
the third year of the reign of our sovereign lady Victoria, by the grace
of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen,
Defender of the Faith, in the court of our said lady the Queen, before
the Queen herself at Westminster, in the county of Middlesex, upon the
oath of twelve jurors, good and lawful men, of the said county of
Middlesex, now here sworn and charged to inquire for our said lady the
Queen for the body of the same county; it is presented as followeth,
that is to say, Middlesex to wit. The jurors for our lady the Queen upon
their oath present, that Henry Hetherington, late of Westminster, in the
county of Middlesex, bookseller, _being a wicked, impious, and
ill-disposed person_, and having no regard for the laws and religion of
this realm, but _most wickedly, blasphemously, impiously, and profanely
devising and intending to asperse and vilify that part of the Holy Bible
which is called the Old Testament_, on the third day of February, in the
third year of the reign of our sovereign lady Victoria, by the grace of
God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen, Defender
of the Faith, at Westminster aforesaid, in the county aforesaid, did
publish, and cause to be published, a certain scandalous, impious, and
blasphemous libel, of and concerning that part of the Holy Bible which
is called the Old Testament, containing therein, amongst other things,
divers scandalous, impious, and blasphemous matters of and concerning
that part of the Holy Bible which is called the Old Testament, according
to the tenor and effect following, that is to say, "What wretched stuff
this Bible (meaning that part of the Holy Bible which is called the Old
Testament) is, to be sure! What a random idiot its author must have
been! I would advise the human race to burn every Bible they have got.
Such a book is actually a disgrace to ourang outangs, much less to men.
I would advise them to burn it, in order that posterity may never know
we believed in such abominable trash. What must they think of our
intellects? What must they think of our incredible foolery? And we not
only believe it, but we actually look upon the book as the sacred word
of God, as a production of infinite wisdom. Was insanity ever more
complete? I for one, however, renounce the book; I renounce it as a vile
compound of filth, blasphemy, and nonsense, as a fraud and a cheat, _and
as an insult to God,"_ to the great displeasure of Almighty God, to the
great scandal, infamy, and contempt of that part of the Holy Bible which
is called the Old Testament, to the evil example of all others, and
against the peace of our said lady the Queen, her crown, and dignity.
Second Count:
And the jurors aforesaid, upon their oath aforesaid, further present,
that the said Henry Hetherington, devising and intending as aforesaid,
on the eleventh day of February and year aforesaid, at Westminster
aforesaid, in the county aforesaid, did publish, and cause to be
published, a certain other scandalous, impious, and blasphemous libel,
of and concerning that part of the Holy Bible which is called the Old
Testament, containing therein, amongst other things, divers scandalous,
impious, and blasphemous matters of and concerning that part of the Holy
Bible which is called the Old Testament, according to the tenor and
effect following, that is to say, "One great question between you and me
is, 'Is the Bible (meaning that part of the Holy Bible which is called
the Old Testament) the word of God, or is it not? I assert that it is
not the word of God, and you assert that it is; and I not only assert
that it is not the word of God, but that it is a book containing more
blunders, more ignorance, and more nonsense, than any book to be found
in the universe," to the great displeasure of Almighty God, to the great
scandal and contempt of that part of the Holy Bible which is called the
Old Testament, to the evil example of all others, and against the peace
of our lady the Queen, lier crown, and dignity.
Third Count:
And the jurors aforesaid, upon their oath aforesaid, further present,
that the said Henry Hetherington, further devising and intending as
aforesaid, on the day and year last aforesaid, at Westminster aforesaid,
in the county aforesaid, did publish, and cause to be published, a
certain other scandalous, impious, and blasphemous libel of and
concerning that part of the Holy Bible which is called the Old
Testament, containing therein, among other things, divers scandalous,
impious, and blasphemous matters of and concerning that part of the Holy
Bible which is called the Old Testament, in one part thereof, according
to the tenor and effect following, that is to say, "My object, and I
fearlessly state it, is to expose this book (meaning that part of the
Holy Bible which is called the Old Testament) in such a manner, that the
children of the Stockport Sunday-school will reject it with contempt and
in another part thereof, according to the tenor and effect following,
that is to say,
"Such a book (meaning that part of the Holy Bible which is called the
Old Testament) ought to be rejected by every one. The human race have
been too long gulled with such trash. Moses was the inventor of this
grand cheat; and although it may have done some little towards
frightening people into what is called morality, the purpose for which
Moses invented it is now out of date,
"to the great displeasure of Almighty God, to the great scandal and
contempt of that part of the Holy Bible which is called the Old
Testament, to the evil example of all others, and against the peace of
our lady the Queen, her crown, and dignity."
[Witness] ALEXANDER KERR,
One sworn in court.
A true Bill.
On the names of the gentlemen summoned as Special Jurymen being called
over, only five answered to their names.
The Attorney-General prayed a tales, when the following were sworn:--
The Jury.
Special--
Robert Savage, Esq., 11, Montaguplace, Bloomsbury.
James Arboine, merchant, 3, Brunswick-square.
William Fechney Black, merchant, Wilton-place.
Charles Frederick Barnwell, Esq., 44, Woburn-place.
Robert Eglinton, merchant, 29, Woburn-square.
Common Jurors--
Charles Ricketts, stove-maker, 5, Agar-street, West Strand.
William Polden, licensed victualler, Villiers-street, Strand.
John Osborne, confectioner, 401, Strand.
John Johnson Ruffell, painter, 24, Church-street, Soho.
Thomas Reid, baker, 24, Old Compton-street, Soho.
Charles Phillips, ivory brush-maicer, 20, King-street, Soho. J. Mahew,
baker, 84, Greek-street, Soho.
Mr. Bult opened the proceedings
The Attorney-General said, this was an indictment found by the Grand
Jury of Middlesex, for the publication of certain blasphemous libels. It
appeared to him that all he should have to do, would be to prove the
publication of the libels in question. He had not hesitated for one
moment, when he found there were only five Special Jurymen, to pray a
tales, because it was to him a matter of perfect indifference from what
class of society the Jury was taken. It had frequently been laid down by
the Judges, that to insult and vilify Christianity was against the law.
Publications insulting religion, and addressed to the vulgar and
uneducated, were most dangerous. He would call a witness who purchased
these books in the defendant's shop, the defendant himself being
present; and he should prove that the defendant was rated to that house.
It gave him pain that it should be necessary for the Jury to hear such
shocking attacks as were contained in this publication. It consisted of
a series of letters, and each number was sold for a penny. It was
"Letters to the Clergy of all Denominations" and was, in fact, an attack
upon the Holy Scriptures, particularly on the Old Testament. He should
content himself with reading one extract.--(The learned Gentleman then
read an extract from Letter 8, contained in the first count of the
indictment.) Mr. Hetherington was in person to defend himself: they
would hear what he had to say, and then he (the Attorney-General) would
have an opportunity of again addressing them.
The following witness was then called and examined by Sir F. Pollock.
Alexander Kerr, a policeman, bought the "Letters to the Clergy," 5, 8,
and 13, at the shop of the defendant, 126, Strand, on the 5th of
February last. A young man served him. Knows defendant--he was standing
on the threshold of the door at the time; has known him for the last
three years; has seen him | 644.135034 |
2023-11-16 18:27:48.4175450 | 1,041 | 10 |
E-text prepared by Sankar Viswanathan, Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, and
the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)
English Men of Letters
Edited by John Morley
BUNYAN
by
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
London
Macmillan and Co.
1880
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
EARLY LIFE 1
CHAPTER II.
CONVICTION OF SIN 16
CHAPTER III.
GRACE ABOUNDING 35
CHAPTER IV.
CALL TO THE MINISTRY 52
CHAPTER V.
ARREST AND TRIAL 65
CHAPTER VI.
THE BEDFORD GAOL 78
CHAPTER VII.
LIFE AND DEATH OF MR. BADMAN 90
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HOLY WAR 114
CHAPTER IX.
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 151
CHAPTER X.
LAST DAYS AND DEATH 173
BUNYAN.
CHAPTER I.
EARLY LIFE.
'I was of a low and inconsiderable generation, my father's house being
of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all families in the
land.' 'I never went to school, to Aristotle or Plato, but was brought
up in my father's house in a very mean condition, among a company of
poor countrymen.' 'Nevertheless, I bless God that by this door He
brought me into the world to partake of the grace and life that is by
Christ in His Gospel.' This is the account given of himself and his
origin by a man whose writings have for two centuries affected the
spiritual opinions of the English race in every part of the world more
powerfully than any book or books, except the Bible.
John Bunyan was born at Elstow, a village near Bedford, in the year
1628. It was a memorable epoch in English history, for in that year
the House of Commons extorted the consent of Charles I. to the
Petition of Right. The stir of politics, however, did not reach the
humble household into which the little boy was introduced. His father
was hardly occupied in earning bread for his wife and children as a
mender of pots and kettles: a tinker,--working in neighbours' houses
or at home, at such business as might be brought to him. 'The
Bunyans,' says a friend, 'were of the national religion, as men of
that calling commonly were.' Bunyan himself, in a passage which has
been always understood to refer to his father, describes him 'as an
honest poor labouring man, who, like Adam unparadised, had all the
world to get his bread in, and was very careful to maintain his
family.' In those days there were no village schools in England; the
education of the poor was an apprenticeship to agriculture or
handicraft; their religion they learnt at home or in church. Young
Bunyan was more fortunate. In Bedford there was a grammar school,
which had been founded in Queen Mary's time by the Lord Mayor of
London, Sir William Harper. Hither, when he was old enough to walk to
and fro, over the mile of road between Elstow and Bedford, the child
was sent, if not to learn Aristotle and Plato, to learn at least 'to
read and write according to the rate of other poor men's children.'
If religion was not taught at school, it was taught with some care in
the cottages and farmhouses by parents and masters. It was common in
many parts of England, as late as the end of the last century, for the
farmers to gather their apprentices about them on Sunday afternoons,
and to teach them the Catechism. Rude as was Bunyan's home, religious
notions of some kind had been early and vividly impressed upon him. He
caught, indeed, the ordinary habits of the boys among whom he was
thrown. He learnt to use bad language, and he often lied. When a
child's imagination is exceptionally active, the temptations to
untruth are correspondingly powerful. The inventive faculty has its
dangers, and Bunyan was eminently gifted in that way. He was a
violent, passionate boy besides, and thus he says of himself that for
lying and swearing he had no equal, and that his parents did not
sufficiently correct him. Wickedness, he declares in his own
remorseful story of his early years, became a second nature to him.
But the estimate which a man forms of himself in later life, if he has
arrived at any strong abhorrence of moral evil, is harsher than others
at the time would have been likely to have | 644.437585 |
2023-11-16 18:27:48.6150800 | 766 | 19 |
Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, Chuck Greif, MFR, The
University of Louisiana at Lafayette and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Daughters of Destiny
[Illustration: AHMED KHAN TO THE RESCUE.]
DAUGHTERS
_of_
DESTINY
BY
SCHUYLER STAUNTON
AUTHOR OF “THE FATE OF A CROWN”
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago
COPYRIGHT, 1906
BY
THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
LIST OF CHAPTERS
BOOK I--THE MAN
CHAPTER PAGE
I PRINCE KASAM OF BALUCHISTAN 11
II THE AMERICAN COMMISSION 20
III THE PERSIAN PHYSICIAN 41
IV THE DAUGHTER OF THE VIZIER 49
V THE PERIL OF BURAH KHAN 61
VI THE MAN OF DESTINY 71
VII DIRRAG 83
VIII A WOMAN’S WAY 111
IX THE SIXTH DAY 119
X AHMED KHAN 130
BOOK II--THE WOMAN
XI CAPTURE OF DAVID THE JEW 151
XII THE GIRL ON THE DIVAN 172
XIII A WILD WOOING 189
XIV THE VEILED WOMAN 206
XV SALAMAN 215
XVI THE ABDUCTION 224
XVII DAVID SELLS AN IMPORTANT SECRET 230
XVIII THE VIZIER OPENS THE GATE 246
XIX IN THE GARDEN OF AGAHR 262
XX THE GIRL IN THE HAREM 270
XXI THE CHAMBER OF DEATH 284
XXII BY THE HAND OF ALLAH 288
XXIII THE VENGEANCE OF MAIE 298
XXIV THE SPIRIT OF UNREST 301
XXV KASAM KHAN 308
XXVI HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE KHANUM 317
BOOK I
THE MAN
CHAPTER I
PRINCE KASAM OF BALUCHISTAN
“What country did you say, Prince?”
“Baluchistan, my lord.”
The great financier lay back in his chair and a slight smile flickered
over his stern features. Then he removed his eye-glasses and twirled
them thoughtfully around his finger as he addressed the young man
opposite.
“I remember,” said he, “that when I attended school as a boy one of my
chiefest trials in geography was to learn how to bound Baluchistan.”
“Ah, do not say that, sir,” exclaimed Prince Kasam, eagerly. “It is a
customary thing, whenever my country is mentioned, for an Englishman to
refer to his geography. I have borne the slight with rare patience, Lord
Marvale, since first I came, a boy, to London; but permit me to say
that I expected _you_ to be better informed.”
“But, why?” asked the nobleman, raising his brows at the retort.
“Because Baluchistan is a great country, sir. You might drop all of
England upon one of its plains--and have some trouble to find it again.”
Lord Marvale’s eyes twinkled.
“And how about London?” he asked. “You have many such cities, I
suppose?”
“There is but one London, my lord | 644.63512 |
2023-11-16 18:27:48.8150340 | 896 | 38 | AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES***
E-text prepared by MFR, Martin Pettit, 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/nuggetsindevilsp00robe
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES
* * * * * *
_Crown 8vo. cloth. 6s._
THE KIDNAPPED SQUATTER
And Other Australian Tales
BY
ANDREW ROBERTSON
LONDON AND NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
* * * * * *
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN TALES
by
ANDREW ROBERTSON
Author of "The Kidnapped Squatter," etc.
London
Longmans, Green, and Co.
And New York: 15 East 16th Street
Melbourne
Melville, Mullen, and Slade
1894
(All rights reserved)
Printed by
Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL 1
LANKY TIM 59
LOST IN THE BUSH 103
THUNDER-AND-LIGHTNING 159
NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL
CHAPTER I
Bill Marlock had been shearing all the morning, with long slashing cuts
before which the fleece fell, fold upon fold. He was the "ringer" of the
shed, and his reputation was at stake, for Norman Campbell was running
him close. To-day was Saturday, and it was known from the tally that
Bill was only one sheep ahead, and that Norman was making every effort
to finish the week "one better" than the record shearer of Yantala
woolshed. The two men were working side by side, and eyeing each other
from time to time with furtive glances. Norman suddenly straightened
himself, and, quick as a frightened snake, thrust his long body across
the "board," with the sheep he had shorn in his sinewy hands, and shot
it into the tally pen among the white, shivering sheep. Then he dashed
into the catching pen, and seized the smaller of two sheep that
remained. At almost the same moment Bill had his hands upon the same
sheep, but took them off when he saw the other man was before him, and
was obliged to content himself, much to his chagrin, with the "cobbler,"
a grizzled, wiry-haired old patriarch that every one had shunned.
When Bill carried out this sheep there was a loud roar from all the
shearers who caught from that pen, followed by derisive laughter.
"Who shaved the cobbler?" was shouted from one end of the shed to the
other.
When almost every man had slashed and stabbed Bill with these cutting
words, a whisper ran round the "board" that Norman had beaten Bill in
his tally, and that the beaten man was groaning over his defeat and
climbing down from the position of the fastest shearer in the shed.
Bill did not like this: that was clear. He had known all the morning
that his pride of place was slipping from him, for his wrist ached and
was giving way under the strain. He finished shearing the "cobbler" when
the manager shouted "Smoko!" Then Bill slid down on the slippery floor
without a word, and laid his head upon his outstretched arm.
The sun was hot. Everything was frizzling, frying, or baking. The
stunted white-gums drooped and yawned; the grass hung limp; the tall
thistles bowed their heads and shut their eyes; the lizards were as
quiet as the granite boulders on | 644.835074 |
2023-11-16 18:27:48.8524660 | 1,116 | 6 |
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page images provided by the Web Archive
Page scan source:
http://ia341310.us.archive.org/3/items/cu31924026169395/
and within this file seek: cu31924026169395.pdf
BY THE AUTHOR OF "VILLA EDEN."
ON THE HEIGHTS.
Revised Edition. In one volume, with Pictorial Title. 16mo. Cloth.
Price, $2.00.
EDELWEISS.
One volume. With Pictorial Title. Square 16mo. Neat Cloth. Price,
$1.00.
GERMAN TALES.
One volume. Square 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
* * * * *
-->_Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by the Publishers,_
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
[Illustration: "_Be patient a few minutes longer! There's a man
beckoning to go with us_," _said the boatman to his passengers_.--VILLA
EDEN, Page 1.]
VILLA EDEN:
THE COUNTRY-HOUSE ON THE RHINE.
By BERTHOLD AUERBACH.
TRANSLATED BY CHARLES C. SHACKFORD.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1871.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
ROBERTS BROTHERS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
THE COUNTRY-HOUSE ON THE RHINE.
A ROMANCE, BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
THE APPARITION.
"Be patient a few: minutes longer! There's a man beckoning to go with
us," said the boatman to his passengers, two women and one man. The man
was gray-haired, of slender form, rubicund face, and blue eyes of a
kindly, but absent-minded and weary expression; a heavy moustache,
wholly covering the upper lip, seemed out of keeping with this
inoffensive face. He wore a new summer suit of that fashionable
material which seems be-dashed and be-sprinkled with white, as if the
wearer had purposely rolled himself in a feather bed. He had, moreover,
a pretty wallet attached to a leather belt, and embroidered with blue
and red beads.
Opposite the man sat a tall and stately woman, with restless eyes and
sharp features, that might once have been attractive. She shook her
head, vexed at the delay, like one not accustomed to be kept waiting,
got up, and sat down again. She wore a pale-yellow silk dress, and the
white veil on her gray round hat was wound about the rim like the band
around a turban. Again she threw back her head with a quick movement,
then looked straight down before her, as if not to show any interest in
the stranger, and boring with the point of her large parasol into the
side of the boat.
Near the man sat a smiling, fair maiden, in a blue summer suit, and
holding in her hand, by the elastic string, a small blue hat ornamented
with a bird's wing. Her head was rather large and heavy, and the broad
forehead was made yet more massive by a rich abundance of braided hair;
a large curl on each side rested upon her shoulder and breast. The
girl's countenance was bright and clear as the clear day which shed its
beams over the landscape. She put on her hat, and the mother gave it a
little touch to adjust it properly. The girl exchanged quickly her
coarse leather gauntlets for delicate, glossy ones which she took out
of her pocket; and while drawing them on with great dexterity, she
looked at the new-comer.
A tall and handsome young man, with a full brown beard, a sinewy frame,
a gray shawl over his shoulder, and upon his head a broad-brimmed gray
hat with black crape, same down the steep and zigzag path with a
vigorous step to the shore. He stepped into the boat, and lifting his
hat while bowing in silence, displayed a noble white forehead shaded by
dark-brown hair. His countenance spoke courage and firmness, and, at
the same time, had an expression that awakened confidence and trust.
The girl cast down her eyes, while her mother once more fastened and
unfastened her hat-string, contriving at the same time, with seeming
carelessness, to place one long curl in front, and the other upon the
shoulder behind, so as to be becoming, and to look easy and natural.
The man in the mottled suit pressed the white head of his cane to his
lips. The stranger, seating himself apart from the others, gazed into
the stream, whilst the boat was moving rapidly through the water. They
landed at an island on which was a large convent, now a boarding-school
for girls.
"Oh, how beautiful! and are the lessons | 644.872506 |
2023-11-16 18:27:48.8664830 | 506 | 25 |
Produced by Robert Cicconetti, KD Weeks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
Transcriber's Note: Some obvious typographical errors have been
corrected, and several inconsistent spellings regularized. Please see
the Transcriber's end notes for details.
[Illustration: Execution of Guy Fawkes]
GUY FAWKES
OR
THE GUNPOWDER TREASON
_AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE_
BY
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH
With Illustrations on Steel by George Cruikshank
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited
BROADWAY HOUSE, LUDGATE HILL
LONDON AND COUNTY PRINTING WORKS,
BAZAAR BUILDINGS, LONDON, W.C.
TO
MRS. HUGHES,
KINGSTON LISLE, BERKS.
MY DEAR MRS. HUGHES,
You are aware that this Romance was brought to a close during my last
brief visit at Kingston Lisle, when the time necessary to be devoted to
it deprived me of the full enjoyment of your society, and, limiting my
range--no very irksome restriction,--to your own charming garden and
grounds, prevented me from accompanying you in your walks to your
favourite and beautiful downs. This circumstance, which will suffice to
give it some interest in your eyes by associating it with your
residence, furnishes me with a plea, of which I gladly avail myself, of
inscribing it with your name, and of recording, at the same time, the
high sense I entertain of your goodness and worth, the value I set upon
your friendship,--a friendship shared in common with some of the most
illustrious writers of our time,--and the gratitude I shall never cease
to feel for attentions and kindnesses, little less than maternal, which
I have experienced at your hands.
In the hope that you may long continue to diffuse happiness round your
own circle, and contribute to the instruction and delight of the many
attached friends with whom you maintain so active and so interesting a
correspondence; and that you may live to | 644.886523 |
2023-11-16 18:27:49.0154840 | 1,477 | 26 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
INDEX
TO THE
STREETS, SQUARES, AND CAB STANDS,
COMPRISED IN
MOGG’S
NEW CAB FARE, DISTANCE MAP,
AND
GUIDE TO LONDON.
CONTAINING
THREE THOUSAND PLACES, WITH REFERENCES
TO THEIR SEVERAL SITUATIONS.
PUBLISHED BY W. MOGG,
62, HIGH STREET, BLOOMSBURY.
[Illustration: MOGG’S POSTAL-DISTRICT AND CAB-FARE MAP.
MOGG’S
LONDON
AND ITS
ENVIRONS
_Drawn from_
The latest Surveys
_By E. T. Mogg._]
INDEX.
EXPLANATION--The method here adopted is by dividing
the Plan into Squares, with Letters at the top and bottom to
correspond, and also Figures down the sides. It is therefore
necessary, first, to find the place required in this Index, to
which are annexed the Letter and Figure of the Square in which it
is contained; when, on reference to the Plan, it will be instantly
found.
Example: Required St. Paul’s Church-yard. On reference to the
Index, it is found to be I 8, then on the Plan at the top or
bottom find the letter I, and on either side find the figure 8,
the place required must consequently be in the Square I 8.
[Stars] Those lines marked in Italic refer solely to the Western
portion of the Map. The Map is divided into half-mile squares.
Abbey Road, St. John’s Wood, B 5
Abbey Street, Bermondsey, K 10
Abchurch La. Lombard St., J 8
Aberdeen Place, Maida Hill, C 7
Abingdon Street, Westm., G 10
Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington, K 2
Acacia Road, C 5
Acton Place, Kingsland Rd., K 5
Acton Street, Regent Sq., H 6
Acton Street, Walworth, J 11
Adam Street, Adelphi, G 9
Adam St. Manchester Sq., E 8
Adam Street, Portman Sq., D 8
Adam Street, Rotherhithe, M 10
Addington Place, Camberwell Road, J 13
Addington Square, Camberwell Road, J 13
Addison Place, Brixton, H 13
_Addison Rd. Notting Hill_, A 9
_Addison Rd. North, Notting Hill_, A 9
_Addison Ter. Notting Hill_, A 9
Addle Street, Wood Street, J 8
Adelaide Street, Strand, G 9
Adelphi Terrace, G 9
Admiralty, Whitehall, G 9
Air Street, Piccadilly, F 9
Albany Road, Walworth, J 12
Albany St. Regent’s Park, E 6
Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, F 9
_Albert Road, Notting Hill_, A 8
Albert Sq. Commercial Rd., M 8
Albert St. Regent’s Park, F 5
_Albion Place, Hammersmith_, A 11
Albion St. Commercial Rd., M 8
Albion Street, Hyde Park, D 8
Albion Street, Rotherhithe, M 10
Aldermanbury, Cheapside, J 8
Aldersgate Street, I 8
Aldgate, Leadenhall Street, K 8
Alexander Sq. Brompton, C 11
Alfred Pl. Tottenham Ct. Rd., F 7
Alfred Street, Mile End Rd., O 6
Allen Street, Goswell Street, I 7
Allerton Street, City Road, J 6
Alpha Road, Regent’s Park, C 7
Alsop’s Buildings, Upper Baker Street, D 7
Alsop’s Place, New Road., D 7
Amelia Street, Walworth, I 11
America Sq. Minories, K 8
Amwell St. Middleton Sq., H 6
Ampthill Square, F 6
Ampton St. Gray’s Inn Rd., H 6
Anchor Street, Shoreditch, K 7
Anderson’s Buildings, City Road, I 6
Anderson’s Walk, Vauxhall Walk, G 11
Angel Terrace, Pentonville, H 6
Ann Street, Pentonville, H 6
Apollo Buildings, East La., L 10
Arabella Row, Pimlico, E 10
Arbour Sq. Commercial Rd., M 8
_Argyle Place, Hammersmith_, A 11
Argyle Square, King’s Cross, G 6
Argyle Street, King’s Cross, G 6
Argyle Street, Oxford Street, F 8
Arlington St. Camden Town, F 5
Arlington Street, Piccadilly, F 9
Arlington St. Sadler’s Wells, I 6
Arthur Street, Queen’s Elm, C 12
Artillery Ground, Fins. Sq., J 7
Artillery Lane, Bishopsgate, K 8
Artillery Pl. Finsbury Sq., J 7
_Arundel Road, Notting Hill_, A 8
Arundel Street, Strand, H 8
_Arundel Terrace, Notting Hill_, A 8
Ashby St. Northampton Sq., I 6
Ashford Street, Hoxton, K 6
Ashley Crescent, Hoxton, K 6
Ashton Street, East India Dock Road, Q 8
Aske Street, Hoxton, K 6
Astey’s Row, Islington, I 4
Asylum, Roy, Mil. Chelsea, D 11
Audley Street, North & South Grosvenor Square, E 8
Augusta Place, Deptford, Lower Road, M 10
Avenue Rd. Regent’s Park, C 5
Aylesbury St. Clerkenwell, I 7
Ayliff Street, Great, Goodman’s Fields, K 8
Baalzephon St. Bermondsey, J 10
Back Lane, Upper Shadwell, M 8
Bacon Street, Spitalfields, K 7
Baker Street, Portman Sq., D 8
Baker Street, | 645.035524 |
2023-11-16 18:27:49.0170730 | 2,931 | 14 | OF HOLY SCRIPTURE***
Transcribed from the 1901 Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge
edition by David Price, email [email protected]
Addresses on the Revised
Version of Holy
Scripture.
BY
C. J. ELLICOTT, D.D.,
BISHOP OF GLOUCESTER,
AND HON. FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE TRACT COMMITTEE.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.; 43 QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.
BRIGHTON: 129 NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.
1901.
PREFATORY NOTE.
The following Addresses form the Charge to the Archdeaconry of
Cirencester at the Visitation held at the close of October in the present
year. The object of the Charge, as the opening words and the tenor of
the whole will abundantly indicate, is seriously to suggest the question,
whether the time has not now arrived for the more general use of the
Revised Version at the lectern in the public service of the Church.
C. J. GLOUCESTER.
_October_, 1901.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ADDRESS I. EARLY HISTORY OF REVISION 5
,, II. LATER HISTORY OF REVISION 17
,, III. HEBREW AND GREEK TEXT 48
,, IV. NATURE OF THE RENDERINGS 81
,, V. PUBLIC USE OF THE VERSION 117
ADDRESS I.
EARLY HISTORY OF REVISION.
As there now seem to be sufficient grounds for thinking that ere long the
Revised Version of Holy Scripture will obtain a wider circulation and
more general use than has hitherto been accorded to it, it seems
desirable that the whole subject of the Revised Version, and its use in
the public services of the Church, should at last be brought formally
before the clergy and laity, not only of this province, but of the whole
English Church.
Twenty years have passed away since the appearance of the Revised Version
of the New Testament, and the presentation of it by the writer of these
pages to the Convocation of Canterbury on May 17, 1881. Just four more
years afterwards, viz. on April 30, 1885, the Revised Version of the Old
Testament was laid before the same venerable body by the then Bishop of
Winchester (Bp. Harold Browne), and, similarly to the Revised Version of
the New Testament, was published simultaneously in this country and
America. It was followed, after a somewhat long interval, by the Revised
Version of the Apocrypha, which was laid before Convocation by the writer
of these pages on February 12, 1896.
The revision of the Authorised Version has thus been in the hands of the
English-speaking reader sixteen years, in the case of the Canonical
Scriptures, and five years in the case of the Apocrypha--periods of time
that can hardly be considered insufficient for deciding generally,
whether, and to what extent, the Revised Version should be used in the
public services of the Church.
I have thus thought it well, especially after the unanimous resolution of
the Upper House of the Convocation of Canterbury, three years ago {6},
and the very recent resolution of the House of Laymen, to place before
you the question of the use of the Revised Version in the public services
of the Church, as the ultimate subject of this charge. I repeat, as the
ultimate subject, for no sound opinion on the public use of this version
can possibly be formed unless some general knowledge be acquired, not
only of the circumstances which paved the way for the revision of the
time-honoured version of 1611, but also of the manner in which the
revision was finally carried out. We cannot properly deal with a
question so momentous as that of introducing a revised version of God's
Holy Word into the services of the Church, without knowing, at least in
outline, the whole history of the version which we are proposing to
introduce. This history then I must now place before you from its very
commencement, so far as memory and a nearly life-long connexion with the
subject enable me to speak.
The true, though remote fountain-head of revision, and, more
particularly, of the revision of the New Testament, must be regarded as
the grammar written by a young academic teacher, George Benedict Winer,
as far back as 1822, bearing the title of a Grammar of the Language of
the New Testament. It was a vigorous protest against the arbitrary, and
indeed monstrous licence of interpretation which prevailed in
commentaries on Holy Scripture of the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries. It met with at first the fate of all assaults on prevailing
unscientific procedures, but its value and its truth were soon
recognized. The volume passed through several successively improved
editions, until in 1855 the sixth edition was reached, and issued with a
new and interesting preface by the then distinguished and veteran writer.
This edition formed the basis of the admirable and admirably supplemented
translation of my lamented and highly esteemed friend Dr. Moulton, which
was published in 1870, passed through a second edition six years
afterwards, and has, since that time, continued to be a standard grammar,
in an English dress, of the Greek Testament down to this day.
The claim that I have put forward for this remarkable book as the
fountain-head of revision can easily be justified when we call to memory
how very patently the volume, in one or another of its earlier editions,
formed the grammatical basis of the commentaries of De Wette and Meyer,
and, here in England, of the commentary of Alford, and of critical and
grammatical commentaries on some of St. Paul's Epistles with which my own
name was connected. It was to Winer that we were all indebted for that
greater accuracy of interpretation of the Greek Testament which was
recognized and welcomed by readers of the New Testament at the time I
mention, and produced effects which had a considerable share in the
gradual bringing about of important movements that almost naturally
followed.
What came home to a large and increasing number of earnest and
truth-seeking readers of the New Testament was this--that there were
inaccuracies and errors in the current version of the Holy Scriptures,
and especially of the New Testament, which plainly called for
consideration and correction, and further brought home to very many of us
that this could never be brought about except by an authoritative
revision.
This general impression spread somewhat rapidly; and soon after the
middle of the last century it began to take definite shape. The subject
of the revision of the Authorised Version of the New Testament found a
place in the religious and other periodicals of the day {10a}, and as the
time went on was the subject of numerous pamphlets, and was alluded to
even in Convocation {10b} and Parliament {10c}. As yet however there had
been no indication of the sort of revision that was desired by its
numerous advocates, and fears were not unnaturally entertained as to the
form that a revision might ultimately take. It was feared by many that
any authoritative revision might seriously impair the acceptance and
influence of the existing and deeply reverenced version of Holy
Scripture, and, to use language which expressed apprehensions that were
prevailing at the time, might seriously endanger the cause of sound
religion in our Church and in our nation.
There was thus a real danger, unless some forward step was quickly and
prudently taken, that the excitement might gradually evaporate, and the
movement for revision might die out, as has often been the case in regard
of the Prayer Book, into the old and wonted acquiescence of the past.
It was just at this critical time that an honoured and influential
churchman, who was then the popular and successful secretary of the
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, Rev. Ernest Hawkins,
afterwards Canon of Westminster, came forward and persuaded a few of us,
who had the happiness of being his friends, to combine and publish a
version of one of the books of the New Testament which might practically
demonstrate to friends and to opponents what sort of a revision seemed
desirable under existing circumstances. After it had been completed we
described it "as a _tentamen_, a careful endeavour, claiming no finality,
inviting, rather than desiring to exclude, other attempts of the same
kind, calling the attention of the Church to the many and anxious
questions involved in rendering the Holy Scriptures into the vernacular
language, and offering some help towards the settlement of those
questions {12}."
The portion of Scripture selected was the Gospel according to St. John.
Those who undertook the revision were five in number:--Dr. Barrow, the
then Principal of St. Edmund's Hall, Oxford; Dr. Moberly, afterwards
Bishop of Salisbury; Rev. Henry Alford, afterwards Dean of Canterbury;
Rev. W. G. Humphry, Vicar of St. Martin's in the Fields; and lastly, the
writer of this charge. Mr. Ernest Hawkins, busy as he was, acted to a
great extent as our secretary, superintended arrangements, and encouraged
and assisted us in every possible manner. Our place of meeting was the
library of our hospitable colleague Mr. Humphry. We worked in the
greatest possible harmony, and happily and hopefully concluded our
Revision of the Authorised Version of the Gospel of St. John in the month
of March, 1857.
Our labours were introduced by a wise and attractive preface, written
mainly by Dr. Moberly, in the lucid, reverent, and dignified language
that marked everything that came from the pen of the late Bishop of
Salisbury.
The effect produced by this _tentamen_ was indisputably great. The work
itself was of course widely criticized, but for the most part favourably
{13}. The principles laid down in the preface were generally considered
reasonable, and the possibilities of an authoritative revision distinctly
increased. The work in fact became a kind of object lesson.
It showed plainly that there _were_ errors in the Authorised Version that
needed correction. It further showed that their removal and the
introduction of improvements in regard of accuracy did not involve,
either in quantity or quality, the changes that were generally
apprehended. And lastly, it showed in its results that _scholars_ of
different habits of thought could combine in the execution of such a work
without friction or difficulty.
In regard of the Greek text but little change was introduced. The basis
of our translation was the third edition of Stephens, from which we only
departed when the amount of external evidence in favour of a different
reading was plainly overwhelming. As we ourselves state in the preface,
"our object was to revise a version, not to frame a text." We should
have obscured this one purpose if we had entered into textual criticism.
Such was the tentative version which prepared the way for authoritative
revision.
More need not be said on this early effort. The version of the Gospel of
St. John passed through three editions. The Epistles to the Romans and
Corinthians appeared in 1858, and the first three of the remaining
Epistles (Galatians, Ephesians, and Philippians) in 1861. The third
edition of the Revision of the Authorised Version of St. John was issued
in 1863, with a preface in which the general estimate of the revision was
discussed, and the probability indicated of some authoritative procedure
in reference to the whole question. As our little band had now been
reduced to four, and its general aim and object had been realized, we did
not deem it necessary to proceed with a work which had certainly helped
to remove most of the serious objections to authoritative revision. Our
efforts were helped by many treatises on the subject which were then
appearing from time to time, and, to a considerable extent, by the
important work of Professor, afterwards Archbishop, Trench, entitled "On
the Authorised Version of the New Testament in connexion with some recent
proposals for its revision." This appeared in 1858. After the close of
our tentative revision in 1863, the active friends (as they may be
termed) of the movement did but little except, from time to time, confer
with one another on the now yearly improving prospects of authoritative
revision. In 1869 Dean Alford published a small handy revised version of
the whole of the Greek Testament, and, a short time afterwards, I
published a small volume on the "Revision of the English Version," in
which I sought to show how large an amount of the fresh and vigorous
translation of Tyndale was present in the Authorised Version, and how
little of this would ever be likely to disappear in any authoritatively
revised version of the future. Some estimate also was made of the amount
of changes likely to be introduced in a sample portion of the Gospels. A
few months later, a very valuable volume ("On a Fresh Revision of the New | 645.037113 |
2023-11-16 18:27:49.1147810 | 767 | 19 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Paul Mitchell 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. In the section SAND WHEEL--PLATE 21, third
paragraph, the word "on" was added as the most likely word to correct
a typographical omission and "drawn" changed to "draw". Otherwise only a
very few minor typographical errors have been corrected.
[Illustration: TESTING THE KITE-STRING SAILBOAT]
MANUAL TRAINING TOYS
_for_ THE BOY'S WORKSHOP
_By_ HARRIS W. MOORE
SUPERVISOR OF MANUAL TRAINING
WATERTOWN, MASSACHUSETTS
[Illustration]
THE MANUAL ARTS PRESS
PEORIA, ILLINOIS
DEDICATED
TO THE BOY WHO LIKES
TO TINKER 'ROUND
Copyright, 1912
HARRIS W. MOORE
CONTENTS.
Frontispiece Testing the Kite-string Sailboat
Introduction-- PAGE.
Bench, Marking Tools 7
Saws 8
Planes, Bits, Nails 9
Screws, Glue 10
Sandpaper, Dowels, Drills, Sharpening 11
Holding Work 12
Directions for Planing 13
Dart 16
Spool Dart 18
Dart for Whip-Bow 19
Buzzer 20
Flying Top (Plate 3) 22
Flying Top (Plate 4) 24
Top 26
Tom-Tom Drum 28
Pop-gun 30
Whistle 32
Arrow 33
Bow 34
Sword 36
Magic Box 38
Pencil-Box 41
Telephone 42
Happy Jack Windmill 44
Gloucester "Happy Jack" Windmill 46
Paddling Indian Windmill 48
Kite 50
Tailless Kite 53
Box Kite 54
Kite-String Sailboat 56
The Hygroscope or Weather Cottage 59
Electrophorus 62
Waterwheel 64
Water Motor 67
Sand Wheel 70
Running Wheel 73
Rattle 76
Cart 78
Cannon 81
Automobile 84
Bow Pistol 86
Elastic Gun 88
Rattle-Bang Gun 92
Boat 95
Pile-Driver 98
Windmill 100
Kite-String Reel 103
String Machine 106
Windmill Force-Pump 108
INTRODUCTION.
The wise man learns from the experience of others. That is the reason
for this introduction--to tell the boy who wants to make the toys
described in this book some of the "tricks of the trade." It is
supposed, however, that he has had some instruction in the use of tools.
This book is written after long experience in teaching boys, and because
of that experience, the author desires to urge upon his younger | 645.134821 |
2023-11-16 18:27:49.3148330 | 4,883 | 128 | ***
Produced by Al Haines.
_A Marriage
Under the Terror_
_By_
_Patricia Wentworth_
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
Knickerbocker Press
1910
COPYRIGHT, 1910
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Published, April, 1910
Reprinted, May, 1910
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
Advertisement
To _A Marriage Under the Terror_ has been awarded in England the first
prize in the Melrose Novel Competition, a competition that was not
restricted to first stories. The distinguished literary reputation of
the three judges--Mrs. Flora Annie Steel, Miss Mary Cholmondeley, and
Mrs. Henry de la Pasture--was a guaranty alike to the contestants and to
the public that the story selected as the winner would without question
be fully entitled to that distinction. In consequence, many authors of
experience entered the contest, with the result that the number of
manuscripts submitted was greater than that in the competition
previously conducted by Mr. Melrose.
Among such a number of good stories individual taste must always play an
important part in the decision. It is, therefore, no small tribute to
the transcendent interest of the winning novel that, though the judges
worked independently, each selected _A Marriage Under the Terror_ as the
most distinctive novel in the group.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A Purloined Cipher
II. A Forced Entrance
III. Shut out by a Prison Wall
IV. The Terror Let Loose
V. A Carnival of Blood
VI. A Doubtful Safety
VII. The Inner Conflict
VIII. An Offer of Friendship
IX. The Old Ideal and the New
X. The Fate of a King
XI. The Irrevocable Vote
XII. Separation
XIII. Disturbing Insinuations
XIV. A Dangerous Acquaintance
XV. Sans Souci
XVI. An Unwelcome Visitor
XVII. Distressing News
XVIII. A Trial and a Wedding
XIX. The Barrier
XX. A Royalist Plot
XXI. A New Environment
XXII. At Home and Afield
XXIII. Return of Two Fugitives
XXIV. Burning of the Chateau
XXV. Escape of Two Madcaps
XXVI. A Dying Woman
XXVII. Betrayal
XXVIII. Inmates of the Prison
XXIX. Through Darkness to Light
A MARRIAGE UNDER THE TERROR
CHAPTER I
A PURLOINED CIPHER
It was high noon on a mid-August morning of the year 1792, but Jeanne,
the waiting-maid, had only just set the coffee down on the small table
within the ruelle of Mme de Montargis' magnificent bed. Great ladies
did not trouble themselves to rise too early in those days, and a beauty
who has been a beauty for twenty years was not more anxious then than
now to face the unflattering freshness of the morning air. Laure de
Montargis stirred in the shadow of her brocaded curtains, put out a
white hand for the cup, sipped from it, murmured that the coffee was
cold, and pushed it from her with a fretful exclamation that made Jeanne
frown as she drew the tan- curtains and let in the mid-day
glare. Madame had been up late, Madame had lost at faro, and her
servants would have to put up with Heaven alone knew how many megrims in
consequence.
"Madame suffers?" inquired Jeanne obsequiously, but with pursed lips.
The lady closed her eyes. Laying her head back against the delicately
embroidered pillows, she indicated by a gesture that her sufferings
might be taken for granted.
"Madame has the migraine?" suggested the soft, rather false-sounding
voice. "Madame will not receive?"
"Heavens! girl, how you pester me," said the Marquise sharply.
Then, falling again to a languid tone, "Is there any one there?"
Jeanne smiled with malicious, averted face as she poured rose-water from
a silver ewer into a Sevres bowl, and watched it rise, dimpling, to the
flower-wreathed brim.
"There is M. le Vicomte as usual, Madame, and Mme la Comtesse de Maille,
who, learning that Madame was but now awakened, told me that she would
wait whilst I inquired if Madame would see her."
"Good Heavens! what an hour to come," said the lady, with a peevish air.
"Madame la Comtesse seemed much moved. One would say something had
occurred," said Jeanne.
The Marquise raised her head sharply.
"--And you stand chattering there? Just Heaven! The trial that it is to
have an imbecile about one! The glass quickly, and the rouge, and the
lace for my head. No, not that rouge,--the new sort that Isidore
brought yesterday;--arrange these two curls,--now a little powder.
Fool! what powder is this?"
"Madame's own," submitted Jeanne meekly.
The suffering lady raised herself and dealt the girl a sounding box on
the ear.
"Idiot! did I not tell you I had tired of the perfume, and that in
future the white lilac powder was the only one I would use? Did I not
tell you?"
"Yes, Madame"--but there was a spark beneath the waiting-maid's
discreetly dropped lids.
The Marquise de Montargis sat bolt upright, and contemplated her
reflection in the wide silver mirror which Jeanne was steadying. Her
passion had brought a little flush to her cheeks, and she noted
approvingly that the colour became her.
"Put the rouge just here, and here, Jeanne," she ordered, her anger
subsiding;--then, with a fresh outburst--"Imbecile, not so much! One
does not have the complexion of a milkmaid when one is in bed with the
migraine; just a shade here now, a nuance. That will do; go and bring
them in."
She drew a rose- satin wrap about her, and posed her head, in
its cloud of delicate lace, carefully. Her bed was as gorgeous as it
well might be. Long curtains of rosy brocade fell about it, and a
coverlid of finest needlework, embroidered with bunches of red and white
roses on a white satin ground, was thrown across it. The carved pillars
showed cupids pelting one another with flowers plucked from the garlands
that wreathed their naked chubbiness.
Madame de Montargis herself had been a beauty for twenty years, but a
life of light pleasures, and a heart incapable of experiencing more than
a momentary emotion had combined to leave her face as unlined and almost
as lovely as when Paris first proclaimed her its reigning queen of
beauty.
She was eminently satisfied with her own looks as she turned languidly
on her soft pillows to greet her friends.
Mme de Maille bent and embraced her; M. le Vicomte Selincourt stooped
and kissed her gracefully extended hand. Jeanne brought seats, and
after a few polite inquiries Mme de Maille plunged into her news.
"Ma chere amie!" she exclaimed, "I come to tell you the good news. My
daughter and her husband have reached England in safety." Tears filled
her soft blue eyes, and she raised them to the ceiling with a gesture
that would have been affected had her emotion been less evidently
sincere.
"Ah! chere Comtesse, a thousand felicitations!"
"My dear, I have been on thorns, I have not slept, I have not eaten, I
have wept rivers, I have said more prayers in a month than my confessor
has ever before induced me to say in a year. First I thought they would
be stopped at the barriers, and then--then I pictured to myself a
hundred misfortunes, a thousand inconveniences! I saw my Adele ill,
fainting from the fatigues of the road; I imagined assaults of brigands,
shipwrecks, storms,--in short, everything of the most unfortunate,--ah!
my dear friends, you do not know what a mother suffers,--and now I have
the happiness of receiving a letter from my dearest Adele,--she is well;
she is contented. They have been received with the greatest amiability,
and, my friends, I am too happy."
"And your happiness is that of your friends," bowed the Vicomte.
Mme de Montargis' congratulations were polite, if a trifle perfunctory.
The convenances demanded that one should simulate an interest in the
affairs of one's acquaintances, but in reality, and at this hour of the
day, how they did bore one! And Marie de Maille, with her soft airs,
and that insufferable Adele of hers, whom she had always spoilt so
abominably. It was a little too much! One had affairs of one's own.
With the fretful expression of half an hour before she drew a letter
from beneath her pillow.
"I too have news to impart," she said, with rather a pinched smile.
"News that concerns you very closely, M. le Vicomte," and she fixed her
eyes on Selincourt.
"That concerns me?"
"But yes, Monsieur, since what concerns Mademoiselle your betrothed must
concern you, and closely, as I said."
"Mademoiselle my betrothed, Mlle de Rochambeau!" he cried quickly. "Is
she then ill?"
Mme de Montargis smiled maliciously.
"Hark to the anxious lover! But calm yourself, my friend, she is
certainly not ill, or she would not now be on her way to Paris."
"To Paris?"
"That, Monsieur, is, I believe, her destination."
"What? She is coming to Paris now?" inquired Mme de Maille with
concern.
The Marquise shrugged her shoulders.
"It is very inconvenient, but what would you?" she said lightly; "as you
know, dear friend, she was betrothed to M. le Vicomte when she was a
child. Then my good cousin, the Comte de Rochambeau, takes it into his
virtuous head that this world, even in his rural retreat, is no longer
good enough for him, and follows Madame, his equally virtuous wife, to
Paradise, where they are no doubt extremely happy. Until yesterday I
pictured Mademoiselle almost as saintly and contented with the holy
Sisters of the Grace Dieu Convent, who have looked after her for the
last ten years or so. Then comes this letter; it seems there have been
riots, a chateau burned, an intendant or two murdered, and the good nuns
take advantage of the fact that the steward of Rochambeau and his wife
are making a journey to Paris to confide Mademoiselle to their care, and
mine. It seems," she concluded, with a little laugh, "that they think
Paris is safe, these good nuns."
"Poor child, poor child!" exclaimed Mme de Maille in a distressed voice;
"can you not stop her, turn her back?"
The Marquise laughed again.
"Dear friend, she is probably arriving at this minute. The Sisters are
women of energy."
"At least M. de Selincourt is to be congratulated," said Mme de Maille
after a pause; "that is if Mademoiselle resembles her parents. I
remember her mother very well,--how charming, how spirituelle, how
amiable! I knew her for only too short a time, and yet, looking back, it
seems to me that I never had a friend I valued more."
"My cousin De Rochambeau was crazy about her," reflected Mme de
Montargis; "he might have married anybody, and he chose an Irish girl
without a sou. It was the talk of Paris at the time. He was the
handsomest man at Court."
"And Aileen Desmond the loveliest girl," put in Mme de Maille
thoughtlessly; then, observing her hostess's change of expression, she
, but continued--"They were not so badly matched, and," with a
little sigh, "they were very happy. It was a real romance."
Mme de Montargis' eyes flashed. Twenty years ago beautiful Aileen
Desmond had been her rival at Court. Now that for quite a dozen years
gossip had coupled her name with that of the Vicomte de Selincourt, was
Aileen Desmond's daughter to take her mother's place in that bygone
rivalry?
Mme de Maille, catching her glance, wondered how it would fare with any
defenceless girl who came between Laure de Montargis and her lover. She
was still wondering whilst she made her farewells.
When M. le Vicomte had bowed her out he came moodily back to his place.
"It is very inconvenient, Madame," he said pettishly.
"You say so," returned the lady.
"Pardon, Madame, it was you who said so."
The Marquise laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.
"Of course it was I," she cried. "Who else? It is hardly likely that
M. le Vicomte finds a rich bride inconvenient."
Selincourt's face changed a little, but he waved the words away.
"Mademoiselle is nothing to me," he asserted. "Chere amie, do you
suspect, do you doubt the faithful heart which for years has beaten only
for one beloved object?"
The lady pouted, but her eyes ceased to sparkle.
"And that object?" she inquired, with a practised glance.
"Angel of my life--need you ask?"
It was indeed unnecessary, since a very short acquaintance with this
fervid lover was sufficient to assure any one that his devotion to
himself was indeed his ruling and unalterable passion; perhaps the
Marquise was aware of this, and was content to take the second, but not
the third place, in his affections. She looked at him coquettishly.
"Ah," she said, "you mean it now, now perhaps, Monsieur, but when she
comes, when you are married?"
"Eh, ma foi," and the Vicomte waved away his prospective marriage vows
as lightly as if they were thistle-down, "one does not marry for love;
the heart must be free, not bound,--and where will the free heart turn
except to the magnet that has drawn it for so long?"
Madame extended a white, languid hand, and Monsieur kissed it with more
elegance than fervour. As he was raising his head she whispered
sharply:
"The new cipher, have you got it?"
He bent lower, and kissed the fair hand again, lingeringly.
"It is here, and I have drafted the letter we spoke of; it must go this
week."
"The Queen is well?"
"Well, but impatient for news. There is an Austrian medicine that she
longs for."
"Chut! Enough, one is never safe."
"Adieu, then, m'amie."
"Adieu, M. le Vicomte."
Monsieur took his leave with an exquisite bow, and all the forms that
elegance prescribed, and Madame lay back against her pillows with closed
eyes, and the frown which she never permitted to appear in society.
Jeanne threw a sharp glance at her as she returned from closing the door
upon Selincourt. Her ears had made her aware of whispering, and now her
eyes showed her a small crumpled scrap of paper, just inside the ruelle
of Madame's bed. A love-letter? Perhaps, or perhaps not. In any case
the correspondence of the mistress is the perquisite of the maid, and as
Jeanne came softly to the bedside she covered the little twisted note
with a dexterous foot, and, bending to adjust the rose-embroidered
coverlid, secured and hid her prize. In a moment she had passed behind
the heavy curtains and was scanning it with a practised eye--an eye that
saw more than the innocent-seeming figures with which the white paper
was dotted. Jeanne had seen ciphers before, and a glance sufficed to
show her the nature of this one, for at the foot of the draft was a row
of signs and figures, mysterious no longer in the light of the key that
stood beneath them. Apparently Jeanne knew something about secret
correspondence too, for there in the shadow behind the curtain she
nodded and smiled, and once even shook her fist towards the unconscious
Marquise. Next moment she was again in evidence, and but for that paper
tucked away inside her bodice she would have found her morning a hard
one. Madame wished this, Madame wished that; Madame would have her
forehead bathed, her feet rubbed, a thousand whims complied with and a
thousand fancies gratified. Soft-voiced and deft, Jeanne moved
incessantly to and fro on those small, neatly-shod feet, which she
sometimes compared not uncomplacently with those of her mistress, until,
at last, at the latter end of all conceivable fancies there came one for
repose,--the rosy curtains were drawn, and Jeanne was free.
Half an hour later a deftly-cloaked figure stood before a table at which
a dark-faced man wrote busily--a paper was handed over, a password asked
and given.
"Is it enough now?" asked Jeanne the waiting-maid. And the dark-faced
man answered, without looking up, "It is enough--the cup is full."
CHAPTER II
A FORCED ENTRANCE
Mademoiselle de Rochambeau had been a week in Paris, but as yet she had
tasted none of its gaieties--for gaieties there were still, even in
these clouding days when the wind of destiny blew up the storm of the
Terror. The King and Queen were prisoners in the Temple, many of the
noblesse had emigrated, but what remained of the Court circles still met
and talked, laughed, gamed, and flirted, as if there were no deluge to
come. To-day Mme de Montargis received, and Mlle de Rochambeau, dressed
by a Parisian milliner for the first time, was to be presented to her
cousin's friends.
She had not even seen her betrothed as yet,--that dim figure which she
had contemplated for so many years of cloistered monotony, until it had
become the model upon which her dreams and hopes were hung. Now that the
opening of the door might at any moment reveal him in the flesh, the
dreams wore suddenly thin, and she was conscious of an overpowering
suspense. She hoped for so much, and all at once she was afraid.
Husbands, to be sure, were not romantic, not the least in the world,
and, according to the nuns, it would be the height of impropriety to
wish that they should be. One married because it was the convenable
thing to do, but to fall in love,--fi donc, Mademoiselle, the idea!
Aline laughed, for she remembered Sister Seraphine's face, all soft and
shocked and wrinkled, and then in a minute she was grave again. Dreams
may be forbidden, but when one is nineteen they have a way of recurring,
and it is certain that Mlle de Rochambeau's heart beat faster than
Sister Seraphine would have approved, as she stood by Mme de Montargis'
gilded chair and heard the servant announce "M. le Vicomte de
Selincourt."
He kissed Madame's hand; and then hers. A sensation that was almost
terror caught the colour from her face. Was this little, dark, bowing
<DW2> the dream hero? His eyes were like a squirrel's--black, restless,
shallow--and his mouth displeased her. Something about its puckered
outline made her recoil from the touch of it upon her hand, and the
Marquise, glancing at her, saw all the young face pale and distressed.
She smiled maliciously, and reflected on the folly of youth and the kind
connivance of Fate.
Selincourt, for his part, was well enough satisfied. Mademoiselle was
too tall for his taste, it was true; her beautifully shaped shoulders
and bust too thin; but of those dark grey Irish eyes there could be no
two opinions, and his quick glance approved her on the whole. She would
play her part as Mme la Vicomtesse very creditably when a little modish
polish had softened her convent stateliness, and for the rest he had no
notion of being in love with his bride. It was long, in fact, since his
small, jaded heart had beaten the faster for any woman, and his eyes
left her face with a genuine indifference which did not escape either
woman.
"Mademoiselle, I felicitate Paris, and myself," he said, with a formal
bow. Mademoiselle made him a stately reverence, and the long-dreamed-of
meeting was over.
He turned at once to her cousin.
"You have written to our friend, Madame?"
"I wrote immediately, M. le Vicomte."
He lowered his voice.
"The paper with the cipher on it, did I give you my copy as well as your
own?"
"But no, mon ami. Why, have you not got it?"
Selincourt raised his shoulders.
"Certainly | 645.334873 |
2023-11-16 18:27:49.4176350 | 2,029 | 61 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Adventures of Hans Sterk, by Captain A.W. Drayson, R.A..
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
ADVENTURES OF HANS STERK, BY CAPTAIN A.W. DRAYSON, R.A..
PREFACE.
In the history of colonisation there is probably no example on record so
extraordinary as that of the emigration from the colony of the Cape of
Good Hope, in 1835, of nearly six thousand souls, who, without guides or
any definite knowledge of where they were going or what obstacles they
would encounter, yet placed their all in the lottery and journeyed into
the wilderness.
The cause of this emigration was to avoid what the emigrants considered
the oppression of the ruling Government, and the object was to found an
independent nationality in the interior of Africa.
These emigrants, shortly after quitting the neighbourhood of the Cape
colony, were attacked by the chief of a powerful tribe called the
Matabili, into whose country they had trespassed. Severe battles, in
which overwhelming numbers were brought against them, were fought by the
emigrants, the general results being victory to the white man.
Not satisfied with the situation which these victories might have
enabled them to secure, a party of the emigrants journeyed on towards
the east, in order to obtain a better position near the present district
of Natal. This party were shortly afterwards either treacherously
massacred by a Zulu chief named Dingaan, or were compelled to fight for
their lives and property during many months.
It is mainly amidst these scenes that the hero of the following tale
passed--scenes which brought out many cases of individual courage,
daring, and perseverance rarely equalled in any part of the world.
Around the bivouac fire, or in the ride over the far-spreading plains,
or whilst resting after a successful hunting track in the tangled
forest, the principal events of this tale have been recorded. From Zulu
and Boer, English emigrant and Hottentot driver, we have had various
accounts, each varying according to the peculiar views of the relater,
but all agreeing as regards the main facts here blended and interwoven
into a tale.
CHAPTER ONE.
INTRODUCTION TO THE HUNTERS--DEATH OF THE LION--DISCOVERY OF THE
ELEPHANTS BY HANS STERK.
Near the outskirts of a far-extending African forest, and close beside
some deep shady-pools, the only remnants of a once rapidly flowing
river, were seen one glowing summer's evening, shortly after sunset, a
party of some ten men; bronzed workmen-like fellows they were too, their
dress and equipment proclaiming them hunters of the first class. This
party were reclining on the turf, smoking, or giving the finishing touch
to their rifles and smooth-bore guns, which they had been engaged in
cleaning. Among this party there were two black men, fine,
stalwart-looking fellows, whose calm demeanour and bright steady gazing
eyes, proclaimed them men of nerve and energy. One tiny yellow man, a
Hottentot, was remarkable among the group on account of his smallness,
as he stood scarcely more than five feet in height, whereas all his
companions were tall heavy men. A fire was brightly blazing, and
several small tin vessels on this fire were steaming as their contents
hissed and bubbled. The white men who composed this party were Dutch
South African Boers, who were making an excursion into the favourite
feeding-grounds of the Elephant, in order to supply themselves with
ivory, this valuable commodity being to them a source of considerable
wealth.
"It will soon be very dark," exclaimed Bernhard, one of the Boers, "and
Hans will have difficulty in finding our lager; I will go on to the
headland and shoot."
"You may leave Sterk to take care of himself," said Heinrich, another
Boer, "for no man is less likely to lose himself than he is."
"I will go and shoot at all events," said Bernhard, "for it can do no
harm; and though Hans is quick and keen, watchful and careful, he may
for once be overtaken by a fog or the darkness, and he does not well
know this country."
With this excuse for his proceeding, the man called Bernhard grasped his
large-bored gun, and ascended a krantz which overhung the resting-place
of his party, when, having reached the summit, he placed the muzzle of
his gun within a foot of the ground, and fired both barrels in quick
succession. This is a common signal amongst African hunters, it being
understood to mean, that the resting-place at night is where the double
shot is fired from.
There being no reply to this double shot, Bernhard returned to his
companions, and the whole party then commenced their evening meal.
"So your sweetheart did not reply to you, Bernhard," said one of the
Boers, "though you did speak so loudly."
"Hans Sterk is my sworn friend, good and true," replied Bernhard; "and
no man speaks lightly of him before me."
"Quite right, Bernhard, stand to your friends, and they will stand to
you; and Hans is a good friend to all, and few of us have not been
indebted to him for some good turn or other; but what is Tembili the
Kaffir doing?"
At this remark, all eyes were directed towards one of the Kaffir men,
who had risen to his feet, and stood grasping his musket and looking
eagerly into the forest near, whilst his dark companion was gazing
fixedly in the same direction. It was a fine sight to observe this
bronzed son of the desert at home and on the watch, for he did seem at
home amidst the scenes around him. After a minute's intent watching, he
raised his hand, and in a low whisper said, "Leuew, Tao," (the Dutch and
Matabili names for a lion). "Leuew!" exclaimed each Boer, as he seized
his weapons, which were close at hand and stood ready for an emergency.
"Make up the fire, Piet," said Heinrich: "let us illuminate the
visitor." And a mass of dried grass and sticks thrown on the fire
caused a brilliant flame, which lighted up the branches and creepers of
the ancient forest.
As the flame rose and the sticks crackled, a low grumbling growl came
from the underwood in the forest, which at once indicated to the hunters
that the Kaffir's instincts had not misled him, but that a lion was
crouching in the bush near.
"Fire a shot, Karl," said one of the Dutchmen; "drive him away with
fear; we must not let him remain near us." And Karl, aiming among the
brushwood, fired. Amidst the noise and echoes of the Boer's musket, a
loud savage roar was audible, as the lion, thus disturbed, moved
sullenly away from what he had expected would have been a feast; whilst
the hunters, hearing him retreat, proceeded without any alarm with their
meal, the Kaffirs alone of the party occasionally stopping in their
eating to listen, and to watch the neighbouring bush.
The sun had set about three hours, and the moon, a few days past the
full, had risen; whilst the Boers, having finished their meal, were
rolled up in their sheepskin carosses, and sleeping on the ground as
calmly as though they were each in a comfortable bed. The Kaffirs,
however, were still quietly but steadily eating, and conversing in a low
tone, scarcely above a whisper.
"The lion will not leave us during the night," said the Kaffir called
Tembili, "I will not sleep unless you watch, 'Nquane."
"Yes, I will watch whilst you sleep, then you sleep whilst I watch,"
replied the Kaffir addressed as 'Nquane. "We shall shoot elephants
to-morrow, I think; and the young chief must be now close to them, that
is why he does not return."
"No: he would return to tell us if he could, I fear he must have lost
himself," replied Tembili.
"The `strong' lose himself," exclaimed 'Nquane, "no, as soon the vulture
lose his way in the air, or the springbok on the plains, or the elephant
in the forest, as the strong lose himself any where. He sees without
eyes and hears without ears. Hark! is that the lion?"
Both Kaffirs listened attentively for some minutes, when 'Nquane said,
"It is the lion moving up the krantz: he smells something or hears
something; he must have tasted man's flesh, to have stopped here so long
close to us. What can he hear now? Ah, there is something up high in
the bushes, a buck perhaps, the lion will soon feast on it, and that
will be the better for us, as when his belly is full he will not want to
eat you or me."
Attentively as the Kaffirs watched the bushes, and listened for some
| 645.437675 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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Transcriber's Notes: Words in italics in the original are surrounded by
_underscores_. A row of asterisks represents a thought break. A complete
list of corrections as well as other notes follows the text.
ANECDOTES
OF THE
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS
OF
LONDON
DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY;
INCLUDING
THE CHARITIES, DEPRAVITIES, DRESSES, AND AMUSEMENTS,
OF THE CITIZENS OF LONDON,
DURING THAT PERIOD;
WITH A REVIEW
OF THE
STATE OF | 645.635166 |
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Produced by David Starner, Louise Hope and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
[Transcriber's Note: With the exception of hyphenation at the end of
lines, the text version preserves the line breaks of the original;
the html version has been treated similar to drama and starts a new
paragraph for each change of speaker. An illustration of the title
page is included to give an impression of the original.]
A mery Dia-
logue, declaringe the propertyes
of shrowde shrewes, and ho-
nest wyues, not onelie verie
pleasaunte, but also not a
lytle profitable: made
by ye famous clerke
D. Erasmus.
Roteroda-
mus.
Translated into
Englyshe.
Anno. M | 645.738976 |
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Produced by Eric Hutton
THE SOUL OF THE FAR EAST
By Percival Lowell
Contents
Chapter 1. Individuality
Chapter 2. Family
Chapter 3. Adoption
Chapter 4. Language
Chapter 5. Nature and Art
Chapter 6. Art
Chapter 7. Religion
Chapter 8. Imagination
Chapter 1. Individuality.
The boyish belief that on the other side of our globe all things are
of necessity upside down is startlingly brought back to the man when he
first sets foot at Yokohama. If his initial glance does not, to be sure,
disclose the natives in the every-day feat of standing calmly on their
heads, an attitude which his youthful imagination conceived to be a
necessary consequence of their geographical position, it does at least
reveal them looking at the world as if from the standpoint of that
eccentric posture. For they seem to him to see everything topsy-turvy.
Whether it be that their antipodal situation has affected their brains,
or whether it is the mind of the observer himself that has hitherto been
wrong in undertaking to rectify the inverted pictures presented by
his retina, the result, at all events, is undeniable. The world stands
reversed, and, taking for granted his own uprightness, the stranger
unhesitatingly imputes to them an obliquity of vision, a state of mind
outwardly typified by the cat-like obliqueness of their eyes.
If the inversion be not precisely of the kind he expected, it is none
the less striking, and impressibly more real. If personal experience has
definitely convinced him that the inhabitants of that under side of our
planet do not adhere to it head downwards, like flies on a ceiling,--his
early a priori deduction,--they still appear quite as antipodal,
mentally considered. Intellectually, at least, their attitude sets
gravity at defiance. For to the mind's eye their world is one huge,
comical antithesis of our own. What we regard intuitively in one way
from our standpoint, they as intuitively observe in a diametrically
opposite manner from theirs. To speak backwards, write backwards, read
backwards, is but the a b c of their contrariety. The inversion extends
deeper than mere modes of expression, down into the very matter of
thought. Ideas of ours which we deemed innate find in them no home,
while methods which strike us as preposterously unnatural appear to
be their birthright. From the standing of a wet umbrella on its handle
instead of its head to dry to the striking of a match away in place
of toward one, there seems to be no action of our daily lives, however
trivial, but finds with them its appropriate reaction--equal but
opposite. Indeed, to one anxious of conforming to the manners and
customs of the country, the only road to right lies in following
unswervingly that course which his inherited instincts assure him to be
wrong.
Yet these people are human beings; with all their eccentricities they
are men. Physically we cannot but be cognizant of the fact, nor mentally
but be conscious of it. Like us, indeed, and yet so unlike are they
that we seem, as we gaze at them, to be viewing our own humanity in
some mirth-provoking mirror of the mind,--a mirror that shows us our own
familiar thoughts, but all turned wrong side out. Humor holds the glass,
and we become the sport of our own reflections. But is it otherwise at
home? | 645.739037 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
REFLECTIONS; OR SENTENCES AND MORAL MAXIMS
By Francois Duc De La Rochefoucauld, Prince de Marsillac
Translated from the Editions of 1678 and 1827 with introduction, notes,
and some account of the author and his times.
By J. W. Willis Bund, M.A. LL.B and J. Hain Friswell
Simpson Low, Son, and Marston, 188, Fleet Street.
1871.
{TRANSCRIBERS NOTES: spelling variants are preserved (e.g. labour
instead of labor, criticise instead of criticize, etc.); the
translators' comments are in square brackets [...] as they are in the
text; footnotes are indicated by * and appear immediately following the
passage containing the note (in the text they appear at the bottom of
the page); and, finally, corrections and addenda are in curly brackets
{...}.}
ROCHEFOUCAULD
"As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From Nature--I believe them true. They
argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind."--Swift.
"Les Maximes de la Rochefoucauld sont des proverbs des gens
d'esprit."--Montesquieu.
"Maxims are the condensed good sense of nations."--Sir J. Mackintosh.
"Translators should not work alone; for good Et Propria Verba do not
always occur to one mind."--Luther's Table Talk, iii.
CONTENTS
Preface (translator's)
Introduction (translator's)
Reflections and Moral Maxims
First Supplement
Second Supplement
Third Supplement
Reflections on Various Subjects
Index
Preface.
{Translators'}
Some apology must be made for an attempt "to translate the
untranslatable." Notwithstanding there are no less than eight English
translations of La Rochefoucauld, hardly any are readable, none are free
from faults, and all fail more or less to convey the author's meaning.
Though so often translated, there is not a complete English edition
of the Maxims and Reflections. All the translations are confined
exclusively to the Maxims, none include the Reflections. This may be
accounted for, from the fact that most of the translations are taken
from the old editions of the Maxims, in which the Reflections do
not appear. Until M. Suard devoted his attention to the text of
Rochefoucauld, the various editions were but reprints of the preceding
ones, without any regard to the alterations made by the author in the
later editions published during his life-time. So much was this the
case, that Maxims which had been rejected by Rochefoucauld in his last
edition, were still retained in the body of the work. To give but one
example, the celebrated Maxim as to the misfortunes of our friends, was
omitted in the last edition of the book, published in Rochefoucauld's
life-time, yet in every English edition this Maxim appears in the body
of the work.
M. Aime Martin in 1827 published an edition of the Maxims and
Reflections which has ever since been the standard text of Rochefoucauld
in France. The Maxims are printed from the edition of 1678, the last
published during the author's life, and the last which received his
corrections. To this edition were added two Supplements; the first
containing the Maxims which had appeared in the editions of 1665, 1666,
and 1675, and which were afterwards omitted; the second, some additional
Maxims found among various of the author's manuscripts in the Royal
Library at Paris. And a Series of Reflections which had been previously
published in a work called "Receuil de pieces d'histoire et de
litterature." Paris, 1731. They were first published with the Maxims in
an edition by Gabriel Brotier.
In an edition of Rochefoucauld entitled "Reflexions, ou Sentences et
Maximes Morales, augmentees de plus deux cent nouvelles Maximes et
Maximes et Pensees diverses suivant les copies Imprimees a Paris, chez
Claude Barbin, et Matre Cramoisy 1692,"* some fifty Maxims were added,
ascribed by the editor to Rochefoucauld, and as his family allowed them
to be published under his name, it seems probable they were genuine.
These fifty form the third supplement to this book.
*In all the French editions this book is spoken of as
published in 1693. The only copy I have seen is in the
Cambridge University Library, 47, 16, 81, and is called
"Reflexions Morales."
The apology for the present edition of Rochefoucauld must therefore be
twofold: firstly, that it is an attempt to give the public a complete
English edition of Rochefoucauld's works as a moralist. The body of the
work comprises the Maxims as the author finally left them, the first
supplement, those published in former editions, and rejected by the
author in the later; the second, the unpublished Maxims taken from the
author's correspondence and manuscripts, and the third, the Maxims first
published in 1692. While the Reflections, in which the thoughts in the
Maxims are extended and elaborated, now appear in English for the first
time. And secondly, that it is an attempt (to quote the preface of the
edition of 1749) "to do the Duc de la Rochefoucauld the justice to make
him speak English."
Introduction
{Translators'}
The description of the "ancien regime" in France, "a despotism tempered
by epigrams," like most epigrammatic sentences, contains some truth,
with much fiction. The society of the last half of the seventeenth, and
the whole of the eighteenth centuries, was doubtless greatly influenced
by the precise and terse mode in which the popular writers of that date
expressed their thoughts. To a people naturally inclined to think that
every possible view, every conceivable argument, upon a question is
included in a short aphorism, a shrug, and the word "voila," truths
expressed in condensed sentences must always have a peculiar charm. It
is, perhaps, from this love of epigram, that we find so many eminent
French writers of maxims. Pascal, De Retz, La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyere,
Montesquieu, and Vauvenargues, each contributed to the rich stock of
French epigrams. No other country can show such a list of brilliant
writers--in England certainly we cannot. Our most celebrated, Lord
Bacon, has, by his other works, so surpassed his maxims, that their fame
is, to a great measure, obscured. The only Englishman who could have
rivalled La Rochefoucauld or La Bruyere was the Earl of Chesterfield,
and he only could have done so from his very intimate connexion
with France; but unfortunately his brilliant genius was spent in the
impossible task of trying to refine a boorish young Briton, in "cutting
blocks with a razor."
Of all the French epigrammatic writers La Rochefoucauld is at once the
most widely known, and the most distinguished. Voltaire, whose opinion
on the century of Louis XIV. is entitled to the greatest weight, says,
"One of the works that most largely contributed to form the taste of
the nation, and to diffuse a spirit of justice and precision, is the
collection of maxims, by Francois Duc de la Rochefoucauld."
This Francois, the second Duc de la Rochefoucauld, Prince de Marsillac,
the author of the maxims, was one of the most illustrious members of the
most illustrious families among the French noblesse. Descended from the
ancient Dukes of Guienne, the founder of the Family Fulk or Foucauld, a
younger branch of the House of Lusignan, was at the commencement of
the eleventh century the Seigneur of a small town, La Roche, in the
Angounois. Our chief knowledge of this feudal lord is drawn from
the monkish chronicles. As the benefactor of the various abbeys and
monasteries in his province, he is naturally spoken of by them in terms
of eulogy, and in the charter of one of the abbeys of Angouleme he is
called, "vir nobilissimus Fulcaldus." His territorial power enabled him
to adopt what was then, as is still in Scotland, a common custom, to
prefix the name of his estate to his surname, and thus to create and
transmit to his descendants the illustrious surname of La Rochefoucauld.
From that time until that great crisis in the history of the French
aristocracy, the Revolution of 1789, the family of La Rochefoucauld have
been, "if not first, in the very first line" of that most illustrious
body. One Seigneur served under Philip Augustus against Richard Coeur de
Lion, and was made prisoner at the battle of Gisors. The eighth
Seigneur Guy performed a great tilt at Bordeaux, attended (according
to Froissart) to the Lists by some two hundred of his kindred and
relations. The sixteenth Seigneur Francais was chamberlain to Charles
VIII. and Louis XII., and stood at the font as sponsor, giving his name
to that last light of French chivalry, Francis I. In 1515 he was created
a baron, and was afterwards advanced to a count, on account of his great
service to Francis and his predecessors.
The second count pushed the family fortune still further by obtaining
a patent as the Prince de Marsillac. His widow, Anne de Polignac,
entertained Charles V. at the family chateau at Verteuil, in so princely
a manner that on leaving Charles observed, "He had never entered a
house so redolent of high virtue, uprightness, and lordliness as that
mansion."
The third count, after serving with distinction under the Duke of
Guise against the Spaniards, was made prisoner at St. Quintin, and only
regained his liberty to fall a victim to the "bloody infamy" of St.
Bartholomew. His son, the fourth count, saved with difficulty from that
massacre, after serving with distinction in the religious wars, was
taken prisoner in a skirmish at St. Yriex la Perche, and murdered by the
Leaguers in cold blood.
The fifth count, one of the ministers of Louis XIII., after fighting
against the English and Buckingham at the Ile de Re, was created a duke.
His son Francis, the second duke, by his writings has made the family
name a household word.
The third duke fought in many of the earlier campaigns of Louis XIV. at
Torcy, Lille, Cambray, and was dangerously wounded at the passage of
the Rhine. From his bravery he rose to high favour at Court, and was
appointed Master of the Horse (Grand Veneur) and Lord Chamberlain. His
son, the fourth duke, commanded the regiment of Navarre, and took part
in storming the village of Neerwinden on the day when William III. was
defeated at Landen. He was afterwards created Duc de la Rochequyon and
Marquis de | 656.073189 |
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Gardiner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note: The original publication has been replicated
faithfully except as shown in the TRANSCRIBER'S AMENDMENTS at the end of
the text. This etext presumes a mono-spaced font on the user's device,
such as Courier New. Words in italics are indicated like _this_. Text
emphasized with bold characters or other treatment is shown like =this=.
The author indicates questionable data with (?). Superscripts are
indicated like this: S^{ta} Maria. Subscripts are indicated like this:
H_{2}O. Examples of short and long vowels: [)a]: "a" with a breve
overhead, indicating a short vowel. [=o]: "o" with a macron overhead,
indicating a long vowel. [oe | 656.320504 |
2023-11-16 18:28:00.5533610 | 1,076 | 8 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
A QUEEN OF TEARS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
THE LOVE OF
AN UNCROWNED QUEEN:
SOPHIE DOROTHEA, CONSORT OF GEORGE I.,
AND HER CORRESPONDENCE WITH PHILIP
CHRISTOPHER, COUNT KONIGSMARCK.
NEW AND REVISED EDITION.
_With 24 Portraits and Illustrations._
_8vo., 12s. 6d. net._
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.,
LONDON, NEW YORK AND BOMBAY.
[Illustration:
_Queen Matilda in the uniform of Colonel of the Holstein Regiment of
Guards._
_After the painting by Als, 1770._]
A QUEEN OF TEARS
CAROLINE MATILDA, QUEEN OF
DENMARK AND NORWAY AND
PRINCESS OF GREAT BRITAIN
AND IRELAND
BY
W. H. WILKINS
_M.A._, _F.S.A._
_Author of "The Love of an Uncrowned Queen," and
"Caroline the Illustrious, Queen Consort of George II."_
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1904
CONTENTS
PAGE
CONTENTS v
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS vii
CHAPTER I.
THE TURN OF THE TIDE 1
CHAPTER II.
THE GATHERING STORM 23
CHAPTER III.
THE MASKED BALL 45
CHAPTER IV.
THE PALACE REVOLUTION 63
CHAPTER V.
THE TRIUMPH OF THE QUEEN-DOWAGER 88
CHAPTER VI.
"A DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND" 110
CHAPTER VII.
THE IMPRISONED QUEEN 129
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DIVORCE OF THE QUEEN 149
CHAPTER IX.
THE TRIALS OF STRUENSEE AND BRANDT 177
CHAPTER X.
THE EXECUTIONS 196
CHAPTER XI.
THE RELEASE OF THE QUEEN 216
CHAPTER XII.
REFUGE AT CELLE 239
CHAPTER XIII.
THE RESTORATION PLOT 268
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN 295
CHAPTER XV.
RETRIBUTION 315
APPENDIX.
LIST OF AUTHORITIES 327
INDEX 331
CATALOG
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
QUEEN MATILDA IN THE UNIFORM OF COLONEL OF THE
HOLSTEIN REGIMENT OF GUARDS. (_Photogravure._)
_From a Painting by Als, 1770_ _Frontispiece_
THE ROSENBORG CASTLE, COPENHAGEN _Facing page_ 6
STRUENSEE. _From the Painting by Jens Juel, 1771, now
in the possession of Count Bille-Brahe_ " " 20
ENEVOLD BRANDT. _From a Miniature at Frederiksborg_ " " 38
QUEEN JULIANA MARIA, STEP-MOTHER OF CHRISTIAN VII.
_From the Painting by Clemens_ " " 54
KING CHRISTIAN VII.'S NOTE TO QUEEN MATILDA INFORMING
HER OF HER ARREST " " 74
THE ROOM IN WHICH QUEEN MATILDA WAS IMPRISONED
AT KRONBORG _Page_ 85
COUNT BERNSTORFF _Facing page_ 96
FREDERICK, HEREDITARY PRINCE OF DENMARK, STEP-BROTHER
OF CHRISTIAN VII. " " 108
THE COURTYARD OF THE CASTLE AT KRONBORG. _From
an Engraving_ " " 130
RÖSKILDE CATHEDRAL, WHERE THE KINGS AND QUEENS
OF DENMARK ARE BURIED " " 150
THE GREAT COURT OF FREDERIKSBORG PALACE. _From
a Painting by Heinrich Hansen_ " " 172
THE DOCKS, COPENHAGEN, _TEMP. 1770_ " " 184
THE MARKET PLACE AND TOWN HALL, COPENHAGEN,
_TEMP. 1770_ " " 184
STRUENSEE IN HIS DUN | 656.573401 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Dorrien of Cranston
By Bertram Mit | 656.576791 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TRANSLATIONS OF CHRISTIAN LITERATURE
SERIES I
GREEK TEXTS
ST. DIONYSIUS OF
ALEXANDRIA
TRANSLATION OF CHRISTIAN
LITERATURE. SERIES I
GREEK TEXTS
ST. DIONYSIUS
OF ALEXANDRIA
LETTERS AND TREATISES
_By_ CHARLES LETT FELTOE, D.D.
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING
CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE. London
The Macmillan Company. New York
PREFACE
Not long after my edition of this Father's writings appeared in the
_Cambridge Patristic Texts_ (1904), I was invited to translate the
Letters and some of the other more certainly genuine fragments that
remain into English for the present series; but it is not until now that
I have been able to accomplish the task I then undertook. Since then,
though chiefly occupied in other researches, I have naturally acquired a
more extensive and accurate knowledge of St. Dionysius and his times,
some of the results of which will be found in this volume. Nevertheless,
I was bound to incorporate a considerable amount of the information and
conclusions arrived at in the former work, and wish to express my
acknowledgments to the Syndics of the University Press for leave to do
so, as well as to those again whose names I mentioned as having assisted
me before.
In the present book Dr. A. J. Mason was kind enough to advise me over the
choice of extracts from the two treatises, _On Nature_ and _Refutation
and Defence_, and on one or two minor points, while a friend and
neighbour (the Rev. L. Patterson) read through the whole of the MS.
before it went to the printer and gave me the benefit of a fresh mind
upon a number of small details of style and fact, for which I sincerely
thank him.
C. L. Feltoe.
_Ripple by Dover_
_March 1918._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE V
INTRODUCTION 9
LETTERS 35
TO BASILIDES 76
"ON THE PROMISES" 82
"ON NATURE" 91
"REFUTATION AND DEFENCE" 101
ADDITIONAL NOTE 108
INDEX 109
INTRODUCTION
1. None of the many influential occupants of the see of Alexandria and of
the many distinguished heads of the Catechetical School in that city seem
to have been held in higher respect by the ancients than Dionysius. By
common consent he is styled "the Great," while Athanasius, one of his
most famous-successors as Bishop, calls him "Teacher of the Church
universal," and Basil (of Caesarea) refers to him as "a person of
canonical authority" ({kanonikos}). He took a prominent and important
part in all the leading movements and controversies of the day, and his
opinions always carried great weight, especially in Eastern Christendom.
His writings are freely referred to and quoted, not only by Eusebius the
historian,[1] but also by Athanasius, Basil and John of Damascus amongst
others. And what we gather of his personal story from his letters and
various fragments embodied in the works of others--and very little, if
anything else, for certain has come down to us--undoubtedly leaves the
impression that the verdict of the ancient world is correct.
His Family and Earlier Life
2. The references to his family and early years are extremely scanty and
vague. In the _Chronicon Orientale_, p. 94, he is stated to have been a
_Sabaita_ and sprung from "the chiefs and nobles of that race": and
several writers speak as if he had been a rhetorician before his
conversion (as Cyprian of Carthage had been). The exact meaning of the
term "Sabaita" above is doubtful. Strictly used, it should mean a member
of the Sabaite convent near Jerusalem, and the _Chronicon_ may be
claiming Dionysius as that, though, of course, without any ground for the
claim. If it is equivalent, however, to "Sabaean" here, it implies an Arab
descent for him, which is hardly probable, as he seems always to consider
himself connected by education and residence, if not by birth, with the
city-folk of Alexandria, whom he distinguishes from the Coptic
inhabitants of Egypt ({Aigyptioi}); so that it would be rather surprising
to find that his family came from the remoter parts of Arabia, where the
Sabaeans dwelt. The other tradition of his having been a rhetorician may
be due to some confusion between our Dionysius and a much later
Alexandrian writer of the same name, who edited the works of the
Areopagite with notes and wrote other treatises. On the other hand,
Dionysius's literary style is such that it might very well have been
formed by the study and practice of rhetoric, while he has been thought
himself to corroborate the statement of the _Chronicon Orientale_, as to
the high position of his family, in his reply to Germanus (p. 49), where
he refers to the "losses of dignities" which he has suffered for the
Faith.
3. He was probably a priest, and not less than thirty, when he became
head of the Catechetical School in 231, and in 264 he excused himself
from attendance at the Council of Antioch on the ground of age and
infirmity; and so it is a safe inference that he was born about or before
200, being thus nearly of an age with Cyprian of Carthage, and only ten
or fifteen years younger than Origen, his master.
His Conversion
4. The _Chronicon Orientale_ assigns the reading of St. Paul's letters as
the cause of his conversion to Christianity, and proceeds to state how,
after their perusal, he presented himself for baptism to Demetrius, then
Bishop of Alexandria, who admitted him in due course. Whether this was
actually the cause of his conversion or not, we know from what he has
himself told us in his letter to Philemon (p. 56), that both before and
after baptism he was a diligent student of all that was written for and
against Christianity.
Was He Married or Not?
5. Whether, in accordance with the common practice of the Eastern Church
at that time, Dionysius was married or not, is a moot point. He addressed
his treatise {peri Physe | 656.627827 |
2023-11-16 18:28:00.8743760 | 1,285 | 61 |
Produced by Brian Coe and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
created from images of public domain material made available
by the University of Toronto Libraries
(http://link.library.utoronto.ca/booksonline/).)
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 Daily Telegraph
WAR BOOKS
BRITISH REGIMENTS AT THE FRONT
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WAR BOOKS
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HOW THE WAR BEGAN
By W. L. COURTNEY. LLD., and J. M. KENNEDY
THE FLEETS AT WAR
By ARCHIBALD HURD
THE CAMPAIGN OF SEDAN
By GEORGE HOOPER
THE CAMPAIGN ROUND LIEGE
By J. M. KENNEDY
IN THE FIRING LINE
By A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK
GREAT BATTLES OF THE WORLD
By STEPHEN CRANE
Author of "The Red Badge of Courage."
BRITISH REGIMENTS AT THE FRONT
The story of their Battle Honour.
THE RED CROSS IN WAR
By Miss MARY FRANCES BILLINGTON
FORTY YEARS AFTER
The Story of the Franco-German War. By H. C. BAILEY.
With an Introduction by W. L. COURTNEY. LL.D.
A SCRAP OF PAPER
The Inner History of German Diplomacy.
By E. J. DILLON
HOW THE NATIONS WAGED WAR
A companion volume to "How the War Began," telling how the
world faced.
Armageddon and how the British Army answered the call to arms.
By J. M. KENNEDY
AIR-CRAFT IN WAR
By S. ERIC BRUCE
FAMOUS FIGHTS OF INDIAN NATIVE REGIMENTS
THE TRIUMPHANT RETREAT TO PARIS
THE RUSSIAN ADVANCE
_OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION_
PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
BY HODDER & STOUGHTON, WARWICK SQUARE,
LONDON, E.C.
BRITISH REGIMENTS AT THE FRONT
THE STORY OF THEIR BATTLE HONOURS
BY
REGINALD HODDER
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
MCMXIV
The Author wishes to express his indebtedness to MR. J. NORVILL for his
valuable assistance and suggestions.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER--NICKNAMES OF THE REGIMENTS AND HOW THEY
WERE WON 9
I. 5TH DRAGOON GUARDS 41
II. THE CARABINIERS 43
III. THE SCOTS GREYS 49
IV. 15TH HUSSARS 57
V. 18TH HUSSARS 61
VI. THE GRENADIER GUARDS 63
VII. THE COLDSTREAM GUARDS 71
VIII. THE ROYAL SCOTS 76
IX. THE "FIGHTING FIFTH" 84
X. THE LIVERPOOL REGIMENT 89
XI. THE NORFOLKS 92
XII. THE BLACK WATCH 100
XIII. THE MANCHESTER REGIMENT 113
XIV. THE GORDON HIGHLANDERS 118
XV. THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS 139
XVI. THE ARGYLL AND SUTHERLAND HIGHLANDERS 142
XVII. THE DUBLIN FUSILIERS 146
XVIII. FUENTES D'ONORO AND ALBUERA 156
XIX. BALACLAVA AND INKERMAN 178
NICKNAMES OF THE REGIMENTS AND HOW THEY WERE WON
"The Rusty Buckles."
The 2nd Dragoon Guards (Queen's Bays) got their name of "The Bays" in
1767 when they were mounted on bay horses--a thing which distinguished
them from other regiments, which, with the exception of the Scots
Greys, had black horses. Their nickname, "The Rusty Buckles," though
lending itself to a ready explanation, is doubtful as to its origin;
but one thing is certain that the rust remained on the buckles only
because the fighting was so strenuous and prolonged that there was no
time to clean it off.
"The Royal Irish."
The 4th Dragoon Guards received this title in 1788, in recognition of
its long service in Ireland since 1698. The regiment also has the name
of the "Blue Horse" from the blue facings of the uniform.
"The Green Horse."
The 5th Dragoon Guards were given this name in 1717 when their facings
were changed from buff to green. Some time later, after Salamanca, they
were also called the "Green Dragoon Guards."
"Tichborne's Own."
The 6th Dragoon Guards, or Carabiniers, have been known as "Tichborne's
Own" ever since the trial of Arthur Orton, as Sir Roger Tichborne had
served for some time in the regiment. The name of "Carabiniers" has
distinguished them ever since 1692, when they were armed with long
pistols or "carabins." With these weapons they did signal work in
Ireland in 1690-1.
"Scots Greys."
| 656.894416 |
2023-11-16 18:28:01.4194050 | 3,865 | 73 |
Produced by Judith Boss
MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE SIOUX
By Mrs. Marie L. Mclaughlin
In loving memory of my mother,
MARY GRAHAM BUISSON,
at whose knee most of the stories
contained in this little volume
were told to me, this book is
affectionately dedicated
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
Foreword
The Forgotten Ear of Corn
The Little Mice
The Pet Rabbit
The Pet Donkey
The Rabbit and the Elk
The Rabbit and the Grouse Girls
The Faithful Lovers
The Artichoke and the Muskrat
The Rabbit, and the Bear with the Flint Body
Story of the Lost Wife
The Raccoon and the Crawfish
Legend of Standing Rock
Story of the Peace Pipe
A Bashful Courtship
The Simpleton's Wisdom
Little Brave and the Medicine Woman
The Bound Children
The Signs of Corn
Story of the Rabbits
How the Rabbit Lost His Tail
Unktomi and the Arrowheads
The Bear and the Rabbit Hunt Buffalo
The Brave Who Went on the Warpath Alone and
Won the Name of the Lone Warrior
The Sioux Who Married the Crow Chief's
Daughter
The Boy and the Turtles
The Hermit, or the Gift of Corn
The Mysterious Butte
The Wonderful Turtle
The Man and the Oak
Story of the Two Young Friends
The Story of the Pet Crow
The "Wasna" (Pemmican Man) and the Unktomi (Spider)
The Resuscitation of the Only Daughter
The Story of the Pet Crane
White Plume
Story of Pretty Feathered Forehead
The Four Brothers or Inyanhoksila (Stone Boy)
The Unktomi (Spider), Two Widows and the Red Plums
FOREWORD
In publishing these "Myths of the Sioux," I deem it proper to state that
I am of one-fourth Sioux blood. My maternal grandfather, Captain Duncan
Graham, a Scotchman by birth, who had seen service in the British Army,
was one of a party of Scotch Highlanders who in 1811 arrived in the
British Northwest by way of York Factory, Hudson Bay, to found what was
known as the Selkirk Colony, near Lake Winnipeg, now within the
province of Manitoba, Canada. Soon after his arrival at Lake Winnipeg he
proceeded up the Red River of the North and the western fork thereof
to its source, and thence down the Minnesota River to Mendota, the
confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers, where he located. My
grandmother, Ha-za-ho-ta-win, was a full-blood of the Medawakanton Band
of the Sioux Tribe of Indians. My father, Joseph Buisson, born near
Montreal, Canada, was connected with the American Fur Company, with
headquarters at Mendota, Minnesota, which point was for many years the
chief distributing depot of the American Fur Company, from which the
Indian trade conducted by that company on the upper Mississippi was
directed.
I was born December 8, 1842, at Wabasha, Minnesota, then Indian country,
and resided thereat until fourteen years of age, when I was sent to
school at Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin.
I was married to Major James McLaughlin at Mendota, Minnesota,
January 28, 1864, and resided in Minnesota until July 1, 1871, when I
accompanied my husband to Devils Lake Agency, North Dakota, then Dakota
Territory, where I remained ten years in most friendly relations with
the Indians of that agency. My husband was Indian agent at Devils Lake
Agency, and in 1881 was transferred to Standing Rock, on the Missouri
River, then a very important agency, to take charge of the Sioux who
had then but recently surrendered to the military authorities, and been
brought by steamboat from various points on the upper Missouri, to be
permanently located on the Standing Rock reservation.
Having been born and reared in an Indian community, I at an early age
acquired a thorough knowledge of the Sioux language, and having lived on
Indian reservations for the past forty years in a position which brought
me very near to the Indians, whose confidence I possessed, I have,
therefore, had exceptional opportunities of learning the legends and
folk-lore of the Sioux.
The stories contained in this little volume were told me by the older
men and women of the Sioux, of which I made careful notes as related,
knowing that, if not recorded, these fairy tales would be lost to
posterity by the passing of the primitive Indian.
The notes of a song or a strain of music coming to us through the night
not only give us pleasure by the melody they bring, but also give us
knowledge of the character of the singer or of the instrument from which
they proceed. There is something in the music which unerringly tells us
of its source. I believe musicians call it the "timbre" of the sound. It
is independent of, and different from, both pitch and rhythm; it is the
texture of the music itself.
The "timbre" of a people's stories tells of the qualities of that
people's heart. It is the texture of the thought, independent of its
form or fashioning, which tells the quality of the mind from which it
springs.
In the "timbre" of these stories of the Sioux, told in the lodges and
at the camp fires of the past, and by the firesides of the Dakotas of
today, we recognize the very texture of the thought of a simple, grave,
and sincere people, living in intimate contact and friendship with the
big out-of-doors that we call Nature; a race not yet understanding all
things, not proud and boastful, but honest and childlike and fair; a
simple, sincere, and gravely thoughtful people, willing to believe that
there may be in even the everyday things of life something not yet fully
understood; a race that can, without any loss of native dignity, gravely
consider the simplest things, seeking to fathom their meaning and to
learn their lesson--equally without vain-glorious boasting and trifling
cynicism; an earnest, thoughtful, dignified, but simple and primitive
people.
To the children of any race these stories can not fail to give pleasure
by their vivid imaging of the simple things and creatures of the great
out-of-doors and the epics of their doings. They will also give an
intimate insight into the mentality of an interesting race at a most
interesting stage of development, which is now fast receding into the
mists of the past.
MARIE L. McLAUGHLIN (Mrs. James McLaughlin).
McLaughlin, S. D., May 1, 1913.
THE FORGOTTEN EAR OF CORN
An Arikara woman was once gathering corn from the field to store away
for winter use. She passed from stalk to stalk, tearing off the ears and
dropping them into her folded robe. When all was gathered she started to
go, when she heard a faint voice, like a child's, weeping and calling:
"Oh, do not leave me! Do not go away without me."
The woman was astonished. "What child can that be?" she asked herself.
"What babe can be lost in the cornfield?"
She set down her robe in which she had tied up her corn, and went back
to search; but she found nothing.
As she started away she heard the voice again:
"Oh, do not leave me. Do not go away without me."
She searched for a long time. At last in one corner of the field, hidden
under the leaves of the stalks, she found one little ear of corn. This
it was that had been crying, and this is why all Indian women have since
garnered their corn crop very carefully, so that the succulent food
product should not even to the last small nubbin be neglected or wasted,
and thus displease the Great Mystery.
THE LITTLE MICE
Once upon a time a prairie mouse busied herself all fall storing away a
cache of beans. Every morning she was out early with her empty cast-off
snake skin, which she filled with ground beans and dragged home with her
teeth.
The little mouse had a cousin who was fond of dancing and talk, but who
did not like to work. She was not careful to get her cache of beans and
the season was already well gone before she thought to bestir herself.
When she came to realize her need, she found she had no packing bag. So
she went to her hardworking cousin and said:
"Cousin, I have no beans stored for winter and the season is nearly
gone. But I have no snake skin to gather the beans in. Will you lend me
one?"
"But why have you no packing bag? Where were you in the moon when the
snakes cast off their skins?"
"I was here."
"What were you doing?"
"I was busy talking and dancing."
"And now you are punished," said the other. "It is always so with lazy,
careless people. But I will let you have the snake skin. And now go, and
by hard work and industry, try to recover your wasted time."
THE PET RABBIT
A little girl owned a pet rabbit which she loved dearly. She carried it
on her back like a babe, made for it a little pair of moccasins, and at
night shared with it her own robe.
Now the little girl had a cousin who loved her very dearly and wished to
do her honor; so her cousin said to herself:
"I love my little cousin well and will ask her to let me carry her pet
rabbit around;" (for thus do Indian women when they wish to honor a
friend; they ask permission to carry about the friend's babe).
She then went to the little girl and said:
"Cousin, let me carry your pet rabbit about on my back. Thus shall I
show you how I love you."
Her mother, too, said to her: "Oh no, do not let our little grandchild
go away from our tepee."
But the cousin answered: "Oh, do let me carry it. I do so want to show
my cousin honor." At last they let her go away with the pet rabbit on
her back.
When the little girl's cousin came home to her tepee, some rough boys
who were playing about began to make sport of her. To tease the little
girl they threw stones and sticks at the pet rabbit. At last a stick
struck the little rabbit upon the head and killed it.
When her pet was brought home dead, the little rabbit's adopted mother
wept bitterly. She cut off her hair for mourning and all her little girl
friends wailed with her. Her mother, too, mourned with them.
"Alas!" they cried, "alas, for the little rabbit. He was always kind and
gentle. Now your child is dead and you will be lonesome."
The little girl's mother called in her little friends and made a great
mourning feast for the little rabbit. As he lay in the tepee his adopted
mother's little friends brought many precious things and covered his
body. At the feast were given away robes and kettles and blankets and
knives and great wealth in honor of the little rabbit. Him they wrapped
in a robe with his little moccasins on and buried him in a high place
upon a scaffold.
THE PET DONKEY
There was a chief's daughter once who had a great many relations so that
everybody knew she belonged to a great family.
When she grew up she married and there were born to her twin sons. This
caused great rejoicing in her father's camp, and all the village women
came to see the babes. She was very happy.
As the babes grew older, their grandmother made for them two saddle bags
and brought out a donkey.
"My two grandchildren," said the old lady, "shall ride as is becoming
to children having so many relations. Here is this donkey. He is patient
and surefooted. He shall carry the babes in the saddle bags, one on
either side of his back."
It happened one day that the chief's daughter and her husband were
making ready to go on a camping journey. The father, who was quite proud
of his children, brought out his finest pony, and put the saddle bags on
the pony's back.
"There," he said, "my sons shall ride on the pony, not on a donkey; let
the donkey carry the pots and kettles."
So his wife loaded the donkey with the household things. She tied the
tepee poles into two great bundles, one on either side of the donkey's
back; across them she put the travois net and threw into it the pots and
kettles and laid the skin tent across the donkey's back.
But no sooner done than the donkey began to rear and bray and kick. He
broke the tent poles and kicked the pots and kettles into bits and tore
the skin tent. The more he was beaten the more he kicked.
At last they told the grandmother. She laughed. "Did I not tell you the
donkey was for the children," she cried. "He knows the babies are
the chief's children. Think you he will be dishonored with pots and
kettles?" and she fetched the children and slung them over the donkey's
back, when he became at once quiet again.
The camping party left the village and went on their journey. But the
next day as they passed by a place overgrown with bushes, a band of
enemies rushed out, lashing their ponies and sounding their war whoop.
All was excitement. The men bent their bows and seized their lances.
After a long battle the enemy fled. But when the camping party came
together again--where were the donkey and the two babes? No one knew.
For a long time they searched, but in vain. At last they turned to go
back to the village, the father mournful, the mother wailing. When they
came to the grandmother's tepee, there stood the good donkey with the
two babes in the saddle bags.
THE RABBIT AND THE ELK
The little rabbit lived with his old grandmother, who needed a new
dress. "I will go out and trap a deer or an elk for you," he said. "Then
you shall have a new dress."
When he went out hunting he laid down his bow in the path while he
looked at his snares. An elk coming by saw the bow.
"I will play a joke on the rabbit," said the elk to himself. "I will
make him think I have been caught in his bow string." He then put one
foot on the string and lay down as if dead.
By and by the rabbit returned. When he saw the elk he was filled with
joy and ran home crying: "Grandmother, I have trapped a fine elk. You
shall have a new dress from his skin. Throw the old one in the fire!"
This the old grandmother did.
The elk now sprang to his feet laughing. "Ho, friend rabbit," he called,
"You thought to trap me; now I have mocked you." And he ran away into
the thicket.
The rabbit who had come back to skin the elk now ran home again.
"Grandmother, don't throw your dress in the fire," he cried. But it was
too late. The old dress was burned.
THE RABBIT AND THE GROUSE GIRLS
The rabbit once went out on the prairie in winter time. On the side of a
hill away from the wind he found a great company of girls all with grey
and speckled blankets over their backs. They were the grouse girls and
they were coasting down hill on a board. When the rabbit saw them, he
called out:
"Oh, maidens, that is not a good way to coast down hill. Let me get you
a fine skin with bangles on it that tinkle as you slide." And away he
ran to the tepee and brought a skin bag. It had red stripes on it and
bangles that tinkled. "Come and get inside," he said to the grouse
girls. "Oh, no, we are afraid," they answered. "Don't be afraid, I can't
hurt you. Come, one of you," said the rabbit. Then as each hung back he
added coaxingly: "If each is afraid alone, come all together. I can't
hurt you _all_." And so he coaxed the whole flock into the bag. This
done, the rabbit closed the mouth of the bag, slung it over his back and
came home. "Grandmother," said he, as he came to the tepee, "here is a
bag full of game. Watch it while I go for willow sticks to make spits."
But as soon as the rabbit had gone out of the tent, the grouse girls
began to cry out:
"Grandmother, let us out."
"Who are you?" asked the old woman.
"Your dear grandchildren," they answered.
"But how came you in the bag?" asked the old woman.
"Oh, our cousin was jesting with us. He coaxed us in the bag for a joke.
Please let us out."
"Certainly, dear grandchildren, I will let you out," said the old
woman as she untied the bag: and lo, the grouse flock with
achuck-a-chuck-achuck flew up, knocking over the old grandmother and
flew out of the square smoke opening of the winter lodge. The old woman
caught only one grouse as it flew | 657.439445 |
2023-11-16 18:28:01.4738860 | 749 | 32 |
Produced by Michael Gray
[Illustration: Christ and the rich young man]
If thou wilt be perfect go sell what thou hast and give to the poor,
and thou shalt have treasure in Heaven and come follow Me.
--Matt. xix: 21.
WHAT SHALL I BE?
A CHAT WITH YOUNG PEOPLE
BY THE
REVEREND FRANCIS CASSILLY, S.J.
"And every one that hath left house, or brothers, or sisters, or
father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands for My name, shall
receive a hundredfold, and shall possess life everlasting." (Matt.
xix: 29)
NEW YORK
THE AMERICA PRESS
1914
IMPRIMI POTEST
A. J. BURROWES, S.J.
_Provincial Missouri Province_
NIHIL OBSTAT
REMEGIUS LAFORT
_Censor_
IMPRIMATUR
JOHN CARDINAL FARLEY
_Archbishop of New York_
COPYRIGHT 1914
BY
THE AMERICA PRESS
LETTER TO THE AUTHOR
FROM REVEREND A. VERMEERSCH, S.J.
Louvain, le 23 fevrier, 1914.
Mon Reverend Pere: P. C.
Votre petit livre me plait extremement. Il expose une doctrine tres
solide avec une merveilleuse clarte. D' une lecture agreable, il
interessera la jeunesse des ecoles, et l'encouragera a faire un choix
genereux d' etat de vie. J' estime que, traduit en flamand et en
francais, il ferait egalement du bien a nos collegiens de Belgique.
Votre devoue en N. S. et M. I.
A. Vermeersch.
TRANSLATION
My Reverend Father:
Your little book pleases me exceedingly. Its doctrine is very sound
and set forth with wonderful clearness. It makes pleasant reading, and
will interest the young of school age, and encourage them to make a
generous choice of a state of life. In my opinion, a Flemish and
French translation would also be profitable to our college students in
Belgium.
Devotedly yours in Our Lord and Mary Immaculate,
A. Vermeersch.
TO THE THOUSANDS
OF TRUE-HEARTED BOYS AND GIRLS
HE HAS BEEN BLESSED TO KNOW
OF WHOM
SOME ARE GONE TO HEAVEN
AND MANY ARE BATTLING FOR THE RIGHT
IN THE SANCTUARY
THE CLOISTER OR THE WORLD
AND WITH ALL OF WHOM
HE HOPES ONE DAY TO BE REUNITED
FOREVERMORE
IN GOD'S OWN COURTS
THIS LITTLE BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
In this little book the writer has aimed to present, in brief and
simple form, sound principles which may assist the young in deciding
their future course of life. The subject of vocation, as it is called,
has suffered much, during the last two or three centuries, at the
hands of rigorist authors, who so hedged the approach to religious
life with difficulties and restrictions, as to frighten | 657.493926 |
2023-11-16 18:28:01.7531670 | 24 | 14 |
Produced by David Widger
SKETCHES NEW AND OLD
by Mark Twain
Part 7 | 657.773207 |
2023-11-16 18:28:01.8531930 | 6,028 | 6 |
Produced by Tapio Riikonen, [email protected]
A SIREN
By Thomas Adolphus Trollope
CONTENTS
BOOK I
Ash Wednesday Morning
CHAPTER
I The Last Night of Carnival
II Apollo Vindex
III St. Apollinare in Classe
IV Father Fabiano
V "The Hours passed, and still she came not"
VI Gigia's Opinion
VII An Attorney-at-Law in the Papal States
VIII Lost in the Forest
IX "Passa la bella Donna e par che dorma"
BOOK II
Four Months Before That Ash Wednesday Morning
CHAPTER
I How the Good News came to Ravenna
II The Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare
III The Impresario's Report
IV Paolina Foscarelli
V Rivalry
VI The Beginning of Trouble
VII The Teaching of a Great Love
VIII A Change in the Situation
IX Uncle and Nephew
X The Coutessa Violante
XI The Cardinal's Reception, and the Marchese's Ball
XII The Arrival of the "Diva"
BOOK III
"Sirenum Pocula"
CHAPTER
I "Diva Potens"
II An Adopted Father and an Adopted Daughter
III "Armed at All Points"
IV Throwing the Line
V After-thoughts
VI At the Circolo
VII Extremes Meet
VIII The Diva shows her Cards
IX One Struggle more
BOOK IV
The Last Days of the Carnival
CHAPTER
I In the Cardinal's Chapel
II The Corso
III "La Sonnambula"
IV The Marchese Lamberto's Correspondence
V Bianca at Home
VI Paolina at Home
VII Two Interviews
VIII A Carnival Reception
IX Paolina's Return to the City
BOOK V
Who Did The Deed?
CHAPTER
I At the City Gate
II Suspicion
III Guilty or Not Guilty?
IV The Marchese hears the Ill News
V Doubts and Possibilities
VI At the Circolo again
VII A Prison Visit
VIII Signor Giovacchino Fortini at Home
IX The Post-Mortem Examination
X Public Opinion
XI In Father Fabiano's Cell
XII The Case against Paolina
BOOK VI
Poena Pede Claudo
CHAPTER
I Signor Fortini receives the Signora Steno in his Studio
II Was it Paolina after all?
III Could it have been the Aged Friar?
IV What Ravenna thought of it
V "Miserrimus"
VI The Trial
VII The Friar's Testimony
VIII The Truth!
IX Conclusion
A SIREN
By Thomas Adolphus Trollope
BOOK I
Ash Wednesday Morning
CHAPTER I
The Last Night of Carnival
It was Carnival time in the ancient and once imperial, but now
provincial and remote, city of Ravenna. It was Carnival time, and the
very acme and high-tide of that season of mirth and revel. For the
theory of Carnival observance is, that the life of it, unlike that of
most other things and beings, is intensified with a constantly crescendo
movement up to the last minutes of its existence. And there now remained
but an hour before midnight on the Tuesday preceding the first day of
Lent, Ash Wednesday--Dies Cinerum!--that sad and sober morrow which has
brought with it "sermons and soda-water" to so many generations of
revellers.
Of course Carnival, according to the Calendar and Time's hour-glass, is
over at twelve o'clock on the night of Shrove Tuesday. Generally,
however, in the pleasure-loving cities of Italy, a few hours' law are
allowed or winked at. The revellers are not supposed to become aware
that it is past midnight till about three or four in the morning.
Very generally the wind-up of the season of fun and frolic consists of
what is called a "Veglione," or "great making a night of it," which
means a masked ball at the theatre. And the great central chandelier
does not begin to descend into the body of the house, to have its lights
flapped out by the handkerchiefs of the revellers amid a last frantic
rondo, till some four hours after midnight. But in provincial Ravenna, a
Pope's city under the rule of a Cardinal Legate, there is--or was in the
days when the Pope held sway there--no Veglione. Its place was supplied,
as far as "the society" of the city was concerned, by a ball at the
"Circolo dei Nobili."
It was not, therefore, till four o'clock in the morning, or perhaps even
a little later, that the lights would be extinguished on the night in
question at the "Circolo dei Nobili," and Carnival would, in truth, be
over, and the tired holiday-makers would go home to their beds.
A few hours more remained, and the revelry was at its height, and the
dancers danced as knowing that their minutes were numbered.
There had been a ball on the previous night at the Palazzo of the
Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare. But the scene at the Circolo was a much
more brilliant, animated, and varied one than that of the night before
at the Castelmare palace. The Marchese Lamberto was the wealthiest noble
in Ravenna, and--putting aside his friend the Cardinal Legate--was, in
many other respects, the first and foremost man of the city. He was a
bachelor of some fifty years old. And bachelors' houses and bachelors'
balls have the reputation of enjoying the privilege of a somewhat freer
and more unreserved gaiety and jollity than those of their neighbours
more heavily weighted with the cares and responsibilities of life. But
such was not the case at the Palazzo Castelmare. Presided over on such
occasions as that of the great annual Carnival ball by a widowed
sister-in-law of the Marchese, the Castelmare palace was the most
decorous and respectable house, as its master was the most decorous and
respectable man, in Ravenna.
Not that it was a dull house. The Marchese Lamberto, though a grave and
dignified personage in the eyes of the "jeunesse doree" of Ravenna, was
looked up to as one of the best loved, as well as most respected, men in
the city. And there was not a member of the "society" who would not have
been sadly hurt at not being invited to the great annual Carnival ball
at the Castelmare palace. But the same degree of laissez aller jollity
would not have been "de mise" there as was permissible at the Circolo.
The fun was not so fast and furious as it was wont to be at the club of
the nobles on the last night of Carnival.
The whole society were at the latter gathering. All the nobles of
Ravenna were the hosts, and everybody was there solely and entirely to
amuse and enjoy themselves. Host and guests, indeed, were almost
identical. There were but few persons present, and those strangers to
the town, who did not belong to their own class.
To the Marchese, on the previous night, most of the company had
contented themselves with going in "domino." At the Circolo ball a very
large proportion of the dancers were in costume. The Conte Leandro
Lombardoni,--lady-killer, Don Juan, and poet, whose fortunes and
misfortunes in these characters had made him the butt of the entire
society, and had perhaps contributed, together with his well-known
extraordinarily pronounced propensity for cramming himself with pastry,
to give him the pale, puffed, pasty face, swelling around a pair of pale
fish-like eyes, that distinguished him,--the Conte Leandro Lombardoni;
indeed, had gone to the Castelmare palace as "Apollo," in a costume
which young Ludovico Castelmare, the Marchese Lamberto's nephew, would
insist on mistaking for that of Aesop; and had now, according to a
programme perfectly well known previously throughout the city, come to
the Circolo as "Dante." The Tuscan "lucco," or long flowing gown, had at
least the advantage of concealing from the public eye much that the
Apollo costume had injudiciously exhibited.
Ludovico Castelmare had adopted the costume of a Venetian noble of the
sixteenth century; and very strikingly handsome he looked in that most
picturesque of all dresses. The Marchese Lamberto was at the ball, of
course, but not in costume. Perhaps the most striking figure in the
rooms, however, was one of those few persons who have been mentioned as
present, but not belonging to Ravenna, or to the class of its nobles.
This was a lady, well known at that day throughout Italy as Bianca
Lalli--"La Lalli," or "La Bianca," in theatrical parlance--for she was
one of the first singers of the day. Special circumstances--to be
explained at a future page--had rendered it possible for remote little
Ravenna to secure the celebrated artist for the Carnival, which was now
expiring. The Marchese Lamberto, who, among many other avocations and
occupations, all of them contributing in some way or other to the
welfare and advantage of his native city, was a great lover and
connoisseur of music, and patron of the theatre, had been mainly
instrumental in bringing La Lalli to Ravenna. The engagement had been a
most successful one. The "Diva Bianca" had sung through the Carnival,
charming all ears and hearts in Ravenna with her voice, and all eyes
with her very remarkable and fascinating beauty. And now, on this last
night of the festive season, she was the cynosure of all eyes at the
ball.
Bianca had, as it so happened, also chosen a Venetian costume of the
same period as that of Ludovico--about the middle of the sixteenth
century. In truth, it was mere chance that had led to this similarity.
And neither of them, as it happened, had mentioned to the other the
dress they intended to wear. Bianca, in fact, used as she was to wear
costumes of all sorts, and to outshine all beauties near her in all or
any of them, had thought nothing about her dress, till the evening
before; and then had consulted the Marchese Lamberto on the subject: but
had been so much occupied with him during nearly the whole of that
evening at his ball, that she had not said a word about it to any one
else.
It could not but seem, however, to everybody that the Marchese Ludovico
and La Lalli had agreed together to represent a pair belonging to the
most gorgeous and picturesque days of Venetian history. And a most
magnificently handsome pair they made. Bianca's dress, or at least the
general appearance and effect of it, will readily be imagined by those
acquainted with the full-length portraits of Titian or Tintoretto. A
more strictly "proper" costume no lady could wish to wear. And the
jeunesse doree of Ravenna, who had thought it likely that the Diva would
appear as some light-skirted Flora, or high-kirtled Diana, were
altogether disappointed.
But there was much joking and raillery about the evident and notable
pair-ship of Ludovico and Bianca; and it came to pass that, almost
without any special intention on their own part, they were thrown much
together, and danced together frequently. And this, under the
circumstances, was still more the case than it would have otherwise
been, in consequence of the Marchese Lamberto not dancing. It was a long
time since he had done so. There were many men dancing less fitted than
he, as far as appearance and capability, and even as far as years went,
to join in such amusements. Nevertheless, all Ravenna would have been
almost as much surprised to see the Marchese Lamberto dressed in mumming
costume, and making one among Carnival revellers, as to see the Cardinal
himself doing the same things. He had made for himself a social
position, and a life so much apart from any such levities, that his
participation in them would have seemed a monstrosity.
It may be doubted, however, whether on this occasion, at least, the
dignified Marchese was satisfied with the position he had thus made for
himself. It would have been too absurd and remarkable for La Bianca to
have abstained from dancing and attached herself to him in the
ball-room, instead of consorting with the younger folks. Of course that
was entirely out of the question. But none the less for that was the
evening a time of cruel suffering and martyrdom to the Marchese. Of
course he believed that the adoption of so singularly similar a costume
by Bianca and his nephew was the result of pre-arranged agreement. And
the thought, and all that his embittered fancy built upon the thought,
were making everything around him, and all the prospect of his life
before him, utterly intolerable to him.
Ludovico and Bianca had been dancing together for the third time--a
waltz fast and furious, which they had kept up almost incessantly till
the music had ceased. Heated and breathless, he led her out of the
ball-room to get some refreshment. There was a large supper-room which,
on the cessation of the waltz, immediately became crowded by other
couples bent on a similar errand. But there had also been established a
little subsidiary buffet in a small cabinet at the furthest end of the
suite of rooms, for the purpose of drawing off some of the crowd from
the main supper-room. And thither Ludovico led Bianca, thinking to avoid
the crush of people rushing in to the larger room.
The young Marchese--the "Marchesino," as he was often called, to
distinguish him from his uncle, the Marchese Lamberto--was one of the
small committee of the Circolo, who had had the management of all the
arrangements for the ball; and was, accordingly, well aware of the
whereabouts of this little "succursale" to the supper-room. But it is
probable that the existence of it was unknown to the great majority of
the company. At all events, so it happened, that when Ludovico and
Bianca reached it, it was wholly untenanted, save by Dante, in his long
red gown, solitarily occupied in cramming himself with pastry.
"What, Dante in exile!" cried Ludovico. "Pray, Sir Poet, which bolgia
was set apart for those who are lost by the 'peccato della gola?' or is
a bilious fit in the more immediate future bolgia fearful enough?"
"It is not so bad a bolgia as that appointed some other sins," said the
Conte Leandro, with mouth stuffed with cake, as he moved out of room.
"What an animal it is!" said Ludovico, laughing, as he gave Bianca a
glass of champagne, and filled another for himself.
"Take some of this woodcock pie, Signora Bianca? You must be starved by
this time; and I can recommend it."
"How so? You have not tasted it yourself yet."
"No; but I am going to do so. And my recommendation is based on my
knowledge of the qualities of our woodcocks. They are the finest in the
world. The marshes in the neighbourhood of the Pineta breed them in
immense quantities."
"Oh, I have heard so much of the Pineta. They say it is so lovely."
"The most beautiful forest in the world. And this is just the time when
it is in its greatest beauty,--the early spring, when the wild flowers
are all beginning to blossom, and the birds are all singing. There is
nothing like our Pineta!"
"I should so like to see it. It does seem really a shame to leave
Ravenna without ever having seen the Pineta."
"Oh, you must not dream of doing so. You must make a little excursion
one of these fine spring days. It is just the time for it. Some morning,
the earlier the better. But I dare say your habits are not very
matutinal, Signora?"
"Well, not very, for the most part. But I would willingly make them
matutinal for such a purpose at any time. How far is it?"
"Oh, a mere nothing--at the city gates almost a couple of miles,
perhaps. You may go out by the Porta Nuova, at the end of the Corso, and
so to that part of the forest which lies to the southward of the city;
or by the northern road, which very soon enters the wood on that side.
Perhaps the finest part of the Pineta is that to the southwards. Of all
places in the world it is the spot for a colazione al fresco."
"I should so like it. I have heard of the Pineta di Ravenna all my
life."
"What do you say to going this very morning?" said Ludovico, after
thinking for a minute. "There is no time like the present. It will be a
charming finish to our Carnival--new and original, too! Do you feel as
if you had go enough left for it?"
"Oh, as for that," said Bianca, laughing with lips and eyes, "I am up to
anything. I should like it of all things. But--"
"Ah! what a terrible word that 'but' is. But what?" said Ludovico, who
had no sooner conceived the idea than he became eager to put it into
execution. "But what?"
"But--a great many things. Unhappily, there is no word comes oftener
into one's life than that odious 'but.' But who is to go with me? I
cannot go all alone by myself?"
"Oh, that's no but at all. Of course, Signora, I did not propose such an
expedition to you without proposing to myself the honour of accompanying
you," said Ludovico with a profound bow.
"What a scappata! I should like it of all things. But--there it comes
again! 'But' the second; will not the good people say all sorts of
ill-natured and absurd things?"
"Not a bit of it--in my case, Signora. Everybody knows that we have been
very good friends; and that I have not been coxcomb enough to have ever
hoped to be aught more to you, having been protected, as they all know,
from such danger in the only way in which a man could possibly be
protected from it," said Ludovico, bowing again.
"Dear me! What way is that? It might be so useful to know. Would it be
equally applicable to a lady, I wonder?" said Bianca, looking at him
half laughingly, half-poutingly, with her head on one side. "Oh yes!
perfectly applicable in all cases, Signora. It is only to have no heart
to lose, having lost it already," returned he.
"Oh, come! This is a confidence dans les regles! And in return for it,
Signor Ludovico, do you know--speaking in all seriousness--that--if we
really do put this wild scheme into execution--I have a confidence to
give you, and may take that opportunity of making it--a confidence, not
which may or may not be made, like yours, but which I ought to make to
you, the necessity of making which furnishes, to say the truth, a very
plausible reason for our projected tete-a-tete."
"Davvero, Signora! Better and better; I shall be charmed to receive such
a mark of your friendship," said Ludovico, thinking and caring little on
what subject it might be that the Diva purposed speaking to him: "and
then, the fact is," he continued, "that to-morrow morning will be the
best morning for the purpose of all the days of the year. For we shall
be quite sure that every soul here will be in bed and asleep. On the
first morning in Lent one is tolerably safe not to fall in with early
risers. Our little trip, you may be very sure, will never be heard of by
anybody, unless we choose to tell of it ourselves."
"And I am sure that I do not see why we should not," said Bianca.
"I see no reason against telling all the town, for my part," rejoined
Ludovico; "afterwards though--you understand; and not beforehand, or our
little escapade would be spoilt by some blockhead or other insisting on
joining us. Our friend Leandro there, for instance; think of it!"
"The idea is a nightmare! No; we will not say a word till afterwards.
'Tis the most charming notion for a finale to a Carnival that ever was
conceived. I make you my compliments on it, Signor Ludovico."
"So, then, all the 'buts' have been butted and rebutted?" said he.
"Well, I suppose so,"--by the help of a strong desire to yield to the
temptation of so pleasant a scheme, the way 'buts' generally are
answered. "But we cannot go on the expedition as we are, I suppose?"
said she.
"I don't see why not. I dare say the old pines have seen similar figures
beneath them before now. But you would not be comfortable without
changing your dress, and the mornings are still sharp. This is how it
must be. I will slip away before long, and make all preparation
necessary. I will get a bagarino and a pony--not from the Castelmare
stables, you understand, but from a man I know and can trust--and I will
come with it to the door of your lodging at six o'clock. You will stay
at the ball till the end. Everybody will go by four o'clock, or soon
after. That will give you plenty of time to change your dress. By six
o'clock every soul in Ravenna will be fast asleep. We shall drive to a
little farm-house I know on the border of the forest, leave our bagarino
there, and have our stroll under the trees just as long and as far as is
agreeable to you. Won't that do?"
"Perfect! I shall enjoy it amazingly. I will be sure to be ready when
you come at six o'clock."
"I will be there at six or thereabouts. Now we will go back to the
ball-room; but don't dance till you have not a leg left to stand on. We
must have a good long stroll in the Pineta."
"Lascia fare a me! I dare say I shan't dance another dance--unless,
indeed, we have one more turn together before you go. Is there time?"
"Oh yes, for that plenty of time. If you are not afraid of tiring
yourself, one more last dance by all means."
So giving her his arm, the Marchesino led his beautiful and fascinating
companion back to the ballroom, where the music was again making the
most of the time with another waltz.
CHAPTER II
Apollo Vindex
The Conte Leandro Lombardoni had not passed a pleasant Carnival.
Reconciled, as he had recently professed himself to be--after some one
of the frequent misfortunes that happened to his intercourse with
them--with the fair sex, he had begun his Carnival by attempting to make
his merit acceptable in the eyes of La Lalli; and had failed to obtain
any recognition from her, even as a poet, to say nothing of his
pretensions as a Don Juan. To a certain limited degree, it had been
forced upon his perception, that he had been making an ass of himself;
and the appreciation of that fact by the other young men among whom he
lived had been indicated with that coarse brutality, as the poet said to
himself, which was the outcome of minds not "softened by the study of
the ingenuous arts," as his own was. He had been consistently snubbed
and flouted, he and his poetry, and his love-making, and his carefully
prepared Carnival costumes.
The result was, that at the ball on that last night of the Carnival, the
Conte Leandro was not in charity with all men, and, indeed, hardly with
any man. He was feeling very sore, and would fain have avenged his pain
by making any one else feel equally sore, if he had it in his power to
do so.
He was especially angry with Ludovico di Castelmare. Had he not chaffed
him unmercifully about the verses he had sent to La Bianca? Was it not,
to all appearance, due to him that the Diva had never condescended to
cast a glance on either him or his poetry? Had he not called him Aesop,
when it was plain to all the world that he represented Apollo? And now
this night, again, he had taken the opportunity of turning him into
ridicule in the presence of La Bianca; and he and she had spoken of the
possibility of their being troubled with his company as of a nightmare.
For the painful fact was that their uncomplimentary expressions had been
heard by the poet; who, when he had left Ludovico and Bianca in the
little supper-room together, had retreated no further than just to the
other side of a curtain, which hung, Italian fashion, by the side of the
open door. Finding that there was nobody there--for the little buffet
was at the end of the entire suite of rooms, and all those who were not
either in the ball-room, or in the card-room, were at that moment in the
principal supper-room--it had seemed well to the Conte Leandro, in his
dudgeon and spite against all the world, to ensconce himself quietly
behind the curtain, and hear what use Ludovico and Bianca would make of
their tete-a-tete.
The first advantage he obtained was to hear himself spoken of as a
nightmare; and that naturally: prompted him to prick up his ears to hear
more. But when he had thus learned the whole secret of the projected
expedition, it struck him, as well worth considering, whether there
might not be found in this the means of making his tormentor pay him for
some of the annoyances he had suffered at his hands.
So! the Marchese Ludovico, who ought to be paying his addresses to the
Contessa Violante in the sight of all Ravenna--the Contessa Violante
Marliani was great niece of the Cardinal Legate, between whom and the
Marchese Ludovico their respective families had projected an
alliance | 657.873233 |
2023-11-16 18:28:01.8643520 | 220 | 11 |
Text File produced by Ronald J. Goodden in memory of Royal G. Goodden
THE STORY OF THE MALAKAND FIELD FORCE
AN EPISODE OF FRONTIER WAR
By Sir Winston S. Churchill
"They (Frontier Wars) are but the surf that marks the edge
and the advance of the wave of civilisation."
LORD SALISBURY, Guildhall, 1892
CONTENTS
Preface
Chapter I: The Theatre of War
Chapter II: The Malakand Camps
Chapter III: The Outbreak
Chapter IV: The Attack on the Malakand
Chapter V: The Relief of Chakdara
Chapter VI: The Defence of Chakdara
Chapter VII: The Gate of Swat
Chapter VIII: The Advance Against the Mohmands
Chapter IX: Reconnaissance
Chapter X: The March to Nawagai
Chapter XI: The Action of the Mamund Valley, | 657.884392 |
2023-11-16 18:28:01.9917490 | 1,252 | 18 |
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)
A SATIRE ANTHOLOGY
“_SATIRE should, like a polished razor keen,
Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen._”
--_LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU._
A Satire Anthology
Collected by
Carolyn Wells
New York
Charles Scribner’s Sons
1905
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Published, October, 1905
TO
MINNIE HARPER PILLING
NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENT is hereby gratefully made to the publishers of
the various poems included in this compilation.
Those by Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, John G. Saxe,
Edward Rowland Sill, John Hay, Bayard Taylor and Edith Thomas are
published by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
The poems by Anthony Deane and Owen Seaman are used by arrangement with
John Lane.
Through the courtesy of Small, Maynard & Co., are included poems by
Bliss Carman, Charlotte Perkins Stetson-Gilman, Stephen Crane, and
Frederic Ridgely Torrence.
Poems by Sam Walter Foss are published by permission of Lothrop, Lee &
Shepherd Co.
The Century Co. are the publishers of poems by Richard Watson Gilder
and Mary Mapes Dodge.
Frederich A. Stokes Company give permission for poems by Gelett Burgess
and Stephen Crane.
“The Buntling Ball,” by Edgar Fawcett is published by permission of
Funk and Wagnalls Company; “Hoch der Kaiser” by Rodney Blake, by the
courtesy of the New Amsterdam Book Co. The poems by James Jeffrey Roche
by permission of E. H. Bacon & Co.; and “The Font in the Forest” by
Herman Knickerbocker Vielé, by permission of Brentano’s.
“The Evolution of a Name,” by Charles Battell Loomis, is quoted from
“Just Rhymes,” Copyright, 1899, by R. H. Russell.
“He and She,” by Eugene Fitch Ware, is published by permission of G. P.
Putnam’s Sons.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Chorus of Women _Aristophanes_ 3
A Would-Be Literary Bore _Horace_ 4
The Wish for Length of Life _Juvenal_ 6
The Ass’s Legacy _Ruteboeuf_ 7
A Ballade of Old-Time Ladies
(Translated by John Payne). _François Villon_ 11
A Carman’s Account of a Lawsuit _Sir David Lyndsay_ 12
The Soul’s Errand _Sir Walter Raleigh_ 13
Of a Certain Man _Sir John Harrington_ 16
A Precise Tailor _Sir John Harrington_ 16
The Will _John Donne_ 18
From “King Henry IV” _William Shakespeare_ 20
From “Love’s Labour’s Lost” _William Shakespeare_ 21
From “As You Like It” _William Shakespeare_ 22
Horace Concocting An Ode _Thomas Dekker_ 23
On Don Surly _Ben Jonson_ 24
The Scholar and His Dog _John Marston_ 25
The Manly Heart _George Wither_ 26
The Constant Lover _Sir John Suckling_ 27
The Remonstrance _Sir John Suckling_ 28
Saintship versus Conscience _Samuel Butler_ 29
Description of Holland _Samuel Butler_ 30
The Religion of Hudibras _Samuel Butler_ 31
Satire on the Scots _John Cleiveland_ 32
Song _Richard Lovelace_ 34
The Character of Holland _Andrew Marvell_ 35
The Duke of Buckingham _John Dryden_ 37
On Shadwell _John Dryden_ 38
Satire on Edward Howard _Charles Sackville, Earl
of Dorset_ 39
St. Anthony’s Sermon to the
Fishes _Abraham á Sancta Clara_ 39
Introduction to the True-Born
Englishman _Daniel Defoe_ 41
An Epitaph _Matthew Prior_ 43
The Remedy Worse than the Disease _Matthew Prior_ 45
Twelve Articles _Jonathan Swift_ 46
The Furniture of a Woman’s Mind _Jonathan Swift_ 48
From “The Love of Fame” _Edward Young_ 50
Dr. Delany’s Villa _Thomas Sheridan_ 52
The Quidnunckis _John Gay_ 54
The Sick Man and the Angel _John Gay_ 55
Sandys’ Ghost _Alexander Pope_ 57
From “The Epistle to Dr.
Arbuthnot” _Alexander Pope_ 60
The Three Black Crows _John Byrom_ 63
An Epitaph _George John Cayley_ 64
An Epistle to Sir | 658.011789 |
2023-11-16 18:28:02.2000800 | 24 | 17 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Harry Lamé and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http | 658.22012 |
2023-11-16 18:28:02.5792710 | 390 | 7 |
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
KEELY AND HIS DISCOVERIES
AERIAL NAVIGATION
BY
Mrs. BLOOMFIELD MOORE
The universe is ONE. There is no supernatural: all is related, cause
and sequence. Nothing exists but substance and its modes of motion.
Spinoza.
LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., Ltd.
PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD
1893
John Stuart Mill, in order to protect science, carried
empiricism to its extreme sceptical consequences, and thereby
cut the ground from under the feet of all science.--Professor
Otto Pfleiderer, D.D.
The word of our God shall stand for ever.--Isa. xl. 8.
Imagination is wholly taken captive by the stupendous
revelation of the God-force which modern conceptions of
the Cosmos furnish. Through the whole universe beats the
one life-force, that is God, controlling every molecule
in the petal of a daisy, in the meteoric ring of Saturn,
in the remotest nebula that outskirts space, as though
that molecule were the universe. In each molecule and atom
God lives and moves and has His being, thereby sustaining
theirs.... Prophet after prophet cries, and psalmist after
psalmist sings, that so indeed he has found it; that therein
is the divine sonship of man, therein the assurance of eternal
life.--Rev. R. A. | 658.599311 |
2023-11-16 18:28:02.7532120 | 25 | 9 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Harry Milvaine
The Wanderings of a Wayward | 658.773252 |
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