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2023-11-16 18:32:21.0255970 | 5,536 | 39 | SPAIN AND ALGIERS ***
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
OUR
ARTIST IN CUBA,
PERU, SPAIN AND ALGIERS.
LEAVES FROM
_THE SKETCH-BOOK OF A TRAVELLER_.
1864-1868.
BY
GEORGE W. CARLETON.
"Let observation, with expansive view,
Survey mankind, from China to Peru."
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
Copyright, 1877, by
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
LONDON: S. LOW & CO.
MDCCCLXXVII.
OUR ARTIST, [Illustration: colophon] HIS MARK.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CUBA, 5
PERU, 57
SPAIN, 109
ALGIERS, 131
[Illustration]
AN APOLOGY.
The Author of these unpretending little wayside sketches offers them to
the Public with the hesitating diffidence of an Amateur. The publication
a few years ago, of a portion of the drawings was attended with so
flattering a reception, that a new edition being called for, it is
believed a few more Leaves from the same vagabond sketch-book may not be
intrusive.
The out-of-the-way sort of places in which the Author's steps have led
him, must always present the most enticing subjects for a comic pencil;
and although no attempt is here made to much more than hint at the
oranges and volantes of Cuba, the earthquakes and buzzards of Peru, the
donkeys and beggars of Spain, or the Arabs and dates of Algiers, yet
sketches made upon the spot, with the crispy freshness of a first
impression, cannot fail in suggesting at least a panoramic picture of
such grotesque incidents as these strange Countries furnish.
The drawings are merely the chance results of leisure moments; and Our
Artist, in essaying to convey a ray of information through the glasses
of humor, has simply multiplied with printers' ink his pocket-book of
sketches, which, although caricatures, are exaggerations of actual
events, jotted down on the impulse of the moment, for the same sort of
idle pastime as may possibly lead the reader to linger along its
ephemeral pages.
NEW YORK, _Christmas_, 1877.
PART I.
CUBA.
[Illustration: colophon]
CUBAN SKETCHES.
SICK TRANSIT. THE SPANISH TONGUE.
TWO BOOBIES. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
A HERCULES. AN AGREEABLE BATH.
THE CUBAN JEHU. A CELESTIAL MAID.
IGLESIA SAN FRANCISCO. A STATUE ON A BUST.
A CUBAN MOTIVE. A TAIL UNFOLDED.
AN INFLUENZA. MONEY IN THY PURSE.
FLEE FOR SHELTER. SUGAR AND WATER.
THE RIDE. GREEN FIELDS.
A COCK-FIGHT. A SEGAR WELL-LIGHTED.
RATHER COOL. SHALL REST BE FOUND.
TAKE YOUR PICK. ALL ABOARD.
A SPANISH RETREAT. THE MATANZAS CAVE.
SPIDERS AND RATS. HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL.
BELLIGERENTS. A SHADY RETREAT.
MATERFAMILIAS. A SPANISH GROCER.
CULINARY DEPARTMENT. HELP.
A BUNDLE OF CLOTHES. VERY MOORISH.
A BUTTON-SMASHER. CHACUN A SON GOUT.
WHITE PANTALOONS. NATURE'S RESTORER.
CARNIVAL ACQUAINTANCE. AGRICULTURAL.
BEAUTY AT THE BALL. A COT IN THE VALLEY.
A DISAPPOINTMENT. A BEAUTY.
DOLCE FAR NIENTE. CORNER STONES.
LOCOMOTION. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE.
THE START.--THE STEAMSHIP COLUMBIA. AT SEA.
[Illustration: First day out.--The wind freshens up a trifle as we get
outside Sandy Hook; but our artist says he is'nt sea-sick, for he never
felt better in his life.]
IN THE GULF OF MEXICO.
[Illustration: A "Booby"--as seen _from_ the ship's deck.]
[Illustration: A "Booby"--as seen _on_ the ship's deck.]
ARRIVAL AT HAVANA.
[Illustration: A side elevation of the <DW52> gentleman who carried our
luggage from the small boat to the Custom House.]
STREETS OF HAVANA.--CALLE MERCADERES.
[Illustration: The first volante driver that our artist saw in Havana.]
VIEW FROM OUR WINDOW AT THE HOTEL ALMY.
[Illustration: The old Convent and Bell Tower of the Church of San
Francisco,--now used as a Custom House.]
STREETS OF HAVANA.--CALLE TENIENTE RE.
[Illustration: A Cuban Cart and its Motive Power.--Ye patient Donkey.]
AT THE CAFE LOUVRE.
[Illustration: Manners and Customs of a Cuban with a Cold in his Head.]
THE [WICKED] FLEA OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: PART I.--The beast in a torpid condition.]
[Illustration: PART II.--When he "smells the blood of an Englishmun."]
THE NATIONAL VEHICLE OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: Manner and Custom of Harnessing ye Animiles to ye Cuban
Volante.]
A COCK-FIGHT IN CUBA.
[Illustration: I.--Chanticleer as he goes in.]
[Illustration: II.--Chanticleer considerably "played out."]
STREETS OF HAVANA.--CALLE LAMPARILLA.
[Illustration: The cool and airy style in which they dress the rising
generation of Havana.]
THE CUBAN TOOTH-PICK.
[Illustration: Two ways of carrying it--behind the ear, and in the
back-hair.]
THE CAPTAIN GENERAL'S QUINTA.
[Illustration: View of the Canal and Cocoa Tree; looking East from the
Grotto.]
THE DOMESTIC INSECTS OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: Agitation of the Better-Half of Our Artist, upon entering
her chamber and making their acquaintance.]
A LITTLE EPISODE IN THE CALLE BARRATILLO.
[Illustration: A slight difference arises between the housekeeper's cat
and the butcher's dog, who has just come out in his summer costume.]
STREETS OF HAVANA.--CALLE COMPOSTELLA.
[Illustration: The Free <DW64>.--An every-day scene, when the weather is
fine.]
AN INTERIOR IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: Kitchen, chief-cook and bottle-washer in the
establishment of Mrs. Franke, out on the "Cerro."]
HEADS OF THE PEOPLE.
[Illustration: A portrait of the young lady, whose family (after
considerable urging) consents to take in our washing.]
PRIMITIVE HABITS OF THE NATIVES.
[Illustration: Washing in Havana.--$4 00 a dozen in gold.]
WASHING IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: I.--My pantaloons as they went _in_. II.--My pantaloons
as they came _out_.]
CARNIVAL IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: A Masquerade at the Tacon Theatre.--Types of Costume,
with a glimpse of the "Cuban Dance" in the background.]
A MASK BALL AT THE TACON.
[Illustration: Our artist mixes in the giddy dance, and falls
desperately in love with this sweet creature--but]
LATER IN THE EVENING,
[Illustration: When the "sweet creature" unmasks, our Artist suddenly
recovers from his fit of admiration. Alas! beauty is but mask deep.]
STREETS OF HAVANA--CALLE OBRAPIA.
[Illustration: The Cuban Wheelbarrow--In Repose.]
STREETS OF HAVANA--CALLE O'REILLY.
[Illustration: The Cuban Wheelbarrow--In action.]
FIRST HOUR! SECOND HOUR!! THIRD HOUR!!!
[Illustration: Our Artist forms the praiseworthy determination of
studying the Spanish language, and devotes three hours to the
enterprise.]
BED-ROOMS IN CUBA.
[Illustration: The Scorpion of Havana,--encountered in his native
jungle.]
SEA-BATHS IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: Our Artist having prepared himself for a jolly plunge,
inadvertently observes an insect peculiar to the water, and rather
thinks he won't go in just now.]
HOTELS IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: A cheerful Chinese Chambermaid (?) at the Fonda de
Ingleterra, outside the walls.]
HIGH ART IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: A gay (but slightly mutilated) old plaster-of-Paris girl,
that I found in one of the avenues of the Bishop's Garden, on the
"Cerro."]
LOCOMOTION IN THE COUNTRY.
[Illustration: A Cuban Planter going into town with his plunder.]
SHOPPING IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: Our Artist just steps around the corner, to look at a
"sweet thing in fans" that his wife has found.]
[Illustration: RESULT!]
THE NATIONAL BEVERAGE OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: Our Artist indulges in a _panale frio_ (a sort of
lime-ade), at the Cafe Dominica, and gets so "set up," that he vows he
won't go home till morning.]
THE LIZARDS OF CUBA.
[Illustration: Our Artist, on an entomological expedition in the
Bishop's Garden, is disagreeably surprised to find such sprightly
specimens.]
SMOKING IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: An English acquaintance of Our Artist wants a light for
his paper segar; whereupon the waiter, according to custom, brings a
live coal.]
THE MUSQUITOS OF HAVANA.
[Illustration: A midsummer's night dream.--Our Artist is just the least
bit disturbed in his rest, and gently remonstrates.]
PUBLIC SERVANTS IN CUBA.
[Illustration: A gay and festive Chinese brakeman, on the railroad near
Guines.--The shirt-collar-and-pair-of-spurs style of costume.]
ONE OF THE SENSATIONS IN CUBA.
[Illustration: The Great Cave near Matanzas.--Picturesque House over the
Entrance.]
THE GREAT CAVE NEAR MATANZAS.
[Illustration: A section of the interior--showing the comfortable manner
in which our artist followed the guide, inspected the stalactites, and
comported himself generally.]
THE OUTSKIRTS OF MATANZAS.
[Illustration: One of the Fortifications.--Sketched from the end of the
_Paseo_, on a day hot enough to give anything but a donkey the brain
fever.]
ARCHITECTURE IN MATANZAS.
[Illustration: A romantic little _tienda mista_ (grocery store) on a
corner, in the Calle Ona.]
A _CAFFETAL_ NEAR MATANZAS.
[Illustration: Our Artist becomes dumb with admiration, at the ingenious
manner of toting little <DW65>s.]
THE PICTURESQUE IN MATANZAS.
[Illustration: A singular little bit, out of the Calle Manzana.]
A SUGAR PLANTATION, NEAR THE YUMORI.
[Illustration: Our Artist essays to drink the milk from a green Cocoa:]
[Illustration: Fatal effect.--An uncomfortable sensation!]
A BED-CHAMBER IN MATANZAS.
[Illustration: First night at the "Gran Hotel Leon de Oro."--Our artist
is accommodated with quarters on the ground-floor, convenient to the
court-yard, and is lulled to sleep by a little domestic concert of cats,
dogs, donkeys, parrots and game-cocks.]
ECONOMY IS WEALTH.
[Illustration: Showing the manner in which one ox accomplishes the labor
of two, in San Felipe.]
THE SUBURBS OF CALABAZAR.
[Illustration: A Planter's Hut, and three scraggly Palm Trees in the dim
distance.]
PLANTATIONS NEAR MARIANAO.
[Illustration: A Beauty toting Sugar Cane from the field to the
grinding mill.]
ARCHITECTURE IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: A conglomerate _Esquina_, on the corner of Calle Obispo
and Monserate.]
LAST NIGHT IN HAVANA.
[Illustration: Alarm of Our Artist and Wife, upon going to their room to
pack, and discovering that a Tarantula has taken possession of their
trunk.]
PART II.
PERU.
[Illustration]
PERUVIAN SKETCHES.
FRIENDLY COUNSELS. GOOD FOR DIGESTION.
A DISAGREEABLE BERTH. AN EYE FOR AN EYE.
A RECEPTION. WHO KNOWS? (NOSE).
THE NAKED TRUTH. DISCRETION IN VALOR.
A PANAMA LAUNDRESS. BLACK WARRIORS.
A MAN FOR A' HAT. MUSIC HATH CHARMS.
DOMESTIC BLISS. A CHARIOT RACE.
A BIT OF A CHURCH. AN ANTIQUE.
HOT WEATHER. FAMILY ARRANGEMENT.
WHAT AN ASS! HEADS OF THE PEOPLE.
A HAPPY FAMILY. BY THEIR FRUITS.
LAND AT LAST. A BEAST OF BURDEN.
CALLAO CATHEDRAL. A NIGHT ADVENTURE.
A BAGGAGE TRAIN. A RUNAWAY.
CATHEDRAL AT LIMA. THE LIGHT FANTASTIC.
A WATER-CARRIER. A ROOSTER.
A BAG OF CUFFEY. A CHIME OF BELLS.
BIRDS OF A FEATHER. DOG-DAYS.
A CHINA BOWL OF SOUP. PORK BUSINESS.
THING OF BEAUTY. WHEN SHALL WE THREE.
FONDEST HOPES DECAY. UNHAND ME!
RAT-IFICATION MEETING. NOTHING VENTURE.
A BACK SEAT. A GREAT SELL.
AN EXCELLENT VIEW. A BEGGARLY SHOW.
BREAD-BASKETS. A DEAD-HEAD.
THE START--STEAMSHIP "HENRY CHAUNCEY." FROM NEW YORK TO ASPINWALL.
[Illustration: Sea-sickness being a weakness of Our Artist, he
determines to be fore-armed, and accordingly provides himself with a few
simple preventives, warmly recommended by his various friends.]
IN THE CARIBBEAN SEA.
[Illustration: Our Artist, having indulged rather freely in the
different preventives, gets things mixed, and wishes that his friends
and their confounded antidotes were at the bottom of the Dead Sea.]
ARRIVAL AT ASPINWALL.
[Illustration: First impressions of the city and its
inhabitants.-- citizens on the dock, awaiting the steamer's
advent.]
ISTHMUS OF DARIEN.
[Illustration: View from the window of a Panama railroad car--showing
the low-neck and short-sleeve style of costume adopted by the youthful
natives of Cruces.--Also a sprightly specimen of the one-eared greyhound
indigenous to the country.]
A VIEW IN PANAMA.
[Illustration: The old and weather-beaten church of Santa Ana--and in
the foreground, with basket on her head, baby under one arm, and bowl of
milk supported by the other, a <DW52> lady of West Indian descent,
vulgarly known as a "Jamaica <DW65>."]
AN AFTERNOON AT PANAMA.
[Illustration: Deeming it always incumbent upon the traveller to invest
in the products of the country, Our Artist provides himself with a good
sensible Panama hat, and thus with wife and "mutual friend," he
peacefully and serenely meanders around among the suburbs of the city.]
A STREET SCENE IN PANAMA.
[Illustration: Our Artist, with the naked eye, beholds a pig, a
fighting-cock, and a black baby, all tied by the leg, at the humble
doorway of the residence of a citizen, in the principal street
of the capital of Central America.]
IN THE BAY OF PANAMA.
[Illustration: Our Artist wanders about the sleepy little neighboring
island, Taboga, where the English steamers lie, and sketches, among
other picturesque bits, the clean little whitewashed cathedral in the
dirty little Broadway of Taboga.]
STEAMSHIP "CHILE." FROM PANAMA TO CALLAO.
[Illustration: Crossing the equinoctial line, Our Artist discovers that
the rays of a vertical sun are anything but bracing and cool.]
PAYTA--A SEAPORT IN PERU.
[Illustration: Our Artist, having understood that this town is chiefly
remarkable for its fine breed of mules, ironically inquires of a native
Venus if this can be considered a good specimen. The N. V. treats Our
Artist with silent, stolid, Indian contempt.]
NATURAL HISTORY IN PERU.
[Illustration: Our Artist visits a coasting-vessel just arrived from
Guayaquil, loaded with every variety of tropical fruit, and a sprinkling
of tame monkeys, parrots, alligators, white herons, iguanas, paroquets,
spotted deer, etc.]
ARRIVAL AT CALLAO--THE HARBOR.
[Illustration: The landing-boat being a trifle too much loaded by the
head, Our Artist finds it somewhat difficult to steer.]
ARCHITECTURE IN CALLAO.
[Illustration: The little one-story Cathedral on the Plaza, which the
earthquakes have so frantically and so vainly tried to swallow up or
tumble down.]
ARRIVAL AT LIMA.
[Illustration: Triumphal entry of Our Artist and his
much-the-better-half; reviving the brilliant days of Pizarro and his
conquering warriors, as they entered the "City of the Kings."--The
Peruvian warriors in the present century, however, conquer but the
baggage, and permit the weary traveller to walk to his hotel at the
tail-end of the procession.]
THE CATHEDRAL AT LIMA.
[Illustration: An after-dinner sketch (rather shaky) from our balcony in
the Hotel Morin, on the Grand Plaza.]
DOMESTICS IN PERU.
[Illustration: One of the waiters at our hotel, clad in the inevitable
_poncho_--A genuine native Peruvian, perhaps a son of "Rolla the
Peruvian," who was "within."]
A PERUVIAN COOK.
[Illustration: Peeping into the kitchen one day, Our Artist perceives
that a costume, cool and neglige, may be improvised by making a hole in
a coffee-bag and getting into it.]
STREETS OF LIMA--CALLE JUDIOS.
[Illustration: Almost every other street in Lima has a stream of filthy
water or open sewer running through the middle of it, offering rich
fishing-grounds to the graceful _gallinazos_ or turkey-buzzards, who
thus constitute the street-cleaning department of the municipal
government.]
CELESTIALS IN PERU.
[Illustration: Our Artist is here seen resisting the tempting offer of a
bowl of what appears to be buzzard soup, in front of one of the Chinese
cook-shops that abound in the neighborhood of the market at Lima.]
DOLCE FAR NIENTE--A DREAM OF PERU.
[Illustration: Our Artist before going to Lima, during little poetical
siestas, had indulged in lovely romantic reveries, the burden of which
he sketches in his mind's eye, Horatio--but]
THE SAD REALITY.
[Illustration: Alas! too frequently his thirsty eye is met only by such
visions as the above--and the lovely beauties of Lima, where are they?]
BEDROOMS IN PERU.
[Illustration: A section of the inner-wall to our chamber at the Hotel
in Lima.--The condition of things at the witching hour of night, judging
by the sounds.]
STREETS OF LIMA.--CALLE PALACIO.
[Illustration: A young Peruvian accompanying its mamma to market in the
morning.]
STREETS OF LIMA--CALLE PLATEROS.
[Illustration: A picturesque little _mirador_ or lookout at the corner
of Calle Plateros and Bodegones, opposite the Hotel Maury, with
balconies _ad lib._]
OCCUPATIONS IN LIMA.
[Illustration: The _panadero_, or baker, as he appears on his mite of a
donkey, rushing round through the streets of Lima, delivering bread to
his customers.]
CARRIAGES AND PAVEMENTS IN LIMA.
[Illustration: Our Artist, after a hearty dinner, extravagantly engages
a three-horse coupe, and goes out for a regular, genuine, native
Peruvian ride.
That his bones are unbroken, and that he is yet alive to tell the tale,
remains to him an unfathomable mystery.]
COSTUMES IN LIMA.--THE SAYA Y MANTO.
[Illustration: Our Artist has heard a good deal about the magnificent
eyes of the Limanian women; but as he never sees more than one eye at a
time, he can't say much about them, with any regard for the truth.]
HEAD-DRESSES IN LIMA.--THE MANTO.
[Illustration: The Senoritas look very prettily sometimes, with their
black mantillas thrown gracefully over their heads, (_See Geographies,
etc._,) but when you come across a party possessing a decided nose, in
profile, the effect is rather startling.]
REVOLUTIONS IN PERU.
[Illustration: Our apartments look out upon the Grand Plaza, where the
fighting usually takes place; and as the windows are mostly broken by
the balls of the last Revolution, (Nov. 6, 1865,) and it's about time
for another, Our Artist gets into ambuscade every time he hears a
fire-cracker in the street.]
THE WAR WITH SPAIN.
[Illustration: Two native and dreadfully patriotic Peruvian soldiers on
review before their superior officer.]
MARTIAL MUSIC IN PERU.
[Illustration: The National Hymn, with variations, as rendered by the
Royal Band in front of President Prado's palace on the Grand Plaza.]
FINE ARTS IN PERU.
[Illustration: A hasty sketch of Mistress Juno and her peacocks, as
represented by fresco in the doorway of a Lima palace--Calle
Ayachucho.]
DARK AGES OF PERU.
[Illustration: The old unfinished church and deserted monastery of San
Francisco de Paula--Calle Malambo.]
LOCOMOTION IN SOUTH AMERICA.
[Illustration: What the country people would do down there, if the
jackasses were only long enough.--What they _do_ do, is but slightly
caricatured by Our Artist.]
HAIR-DRESSING IN LIMA.
[Illustration: Ladies' style as seen at the theatre.
Also Our Artist before and after he had his hair cut in the latest Lima
fashion.]
A FRUIT-STALL AT CHORRILLOS.
[Illustration: Our Artist, as he appeared when stricken with amazement
at the huge clusters of white grapes that are everywhere, for a mere
song, sold in Peru.]
SHOPPING IN PERU.
[Illustration: A Peruvian materfamilias, having bought a few simple
house-keeping articles in town, is here seen returning to her mountain
home, accompanied by her purchases.]
THE FLEAS OF LIMA.
[Illustration: Having been nearly devoured by these carnivorous little
devils, Our Artist sprinkles himself with Turkish flea | 917.045637 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.0272110 | 228 | 29 |
Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger
CONISTON
By Winston Churchill
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
One day, in the November following William Wetherell's death, Jethro Bass
astonished Coniston by moving to the little cottage in the village which
stood beside the disused tannery, and which had been his father's. It was
known as the tannery house. His reasons for this step, when at length
discovered, were generally commended: they were, in fact, a
disinclination to leave a girl of Cynthia's tender age alone on Thousand
Acre Hill while he journeyed on his affairs about the country. The Rev.
Mr. Satterlee, gaunt, red-faced, but the six feet of him a man and a
Christian, from his square-toed boots to the bleaching yellow hair around
his temples, offered to become her teacher. For by this time Cynthia had
exhausted the resources of the little school among the birches.
The four years of her life in the tann | 917.047251 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.0440830 | 4,017 | 14 |
ADVENTURES AND LETTERS
OF
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
EDITED BY
CHARLES BELMONT DAVIS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE EARLY DAYS
II. COLLEGE DAYS
III. FIRST NEWSPAPER EXPERIENCES
IV. NEW YORK
V. FIRST TRAVEL ARTICLES
VI. THE MEDITERRANEAN AND PARIS
VII. FIRST PLAYS
VIII. CENTRAL AND SOUTH AMERICA
IX. MOSCOW, BUDAPEST, LONDON
X. CAMPAIGNING IN CUBA, AND GREECE
XI. THE SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR
XII. THE BOER WAR
XIII. THE SPANISH AND ENGLISH CORONATIONS
XIV. THE JAPANESE-RUSSIAN WAR
XV. MOUNT KISCO
XVI. THE CONGO
XVII. A LONDON WINTER
XVIII. MILITARY MANOEUVRES
XIX. VERA CRUZ AND THE GREAT WAR
XX. THE LAST DAYS
CHAPTER I
THE EARLY DAYS
Richard Harding Davis was born in Philadelphia on April 18, 1864, but,
so far as memory serves me, his life and mine began together several
years later in the three-story brick house on South Twenty-first
Street, to which we had just moved. For more than forty years this was
our home in all that the word implies, and I do not believe that there
was ever a moment when it was not the predominating influence in
Richard's life and in his work. As I learned in later years, the house
had come into the possession of my father and mother after a period on
their part of hard endeavor and unusual sacrifice. It was their
ambition to add to this home not only the comforts and the beautiful
inanimate things of life, but to create an atmosphere which would prove
a constant help to those who lived under its roof--an inspiration to
their children that should endure so long as they lived. At the time
of my brother's death the fact was frequently commented upon that,
unlike most literary folk, he had never known what it was to be poor
and to suffer the pangs of hunger and failure. That he never suffered
from the lack of a home was certainly as true as that in his work he
knew but little of failure, for the first stories he wrote for the
magazines brought him into a prominence and popularity that lasted
until the end. But if Richard gained his success early in life and was
blessed with a very lovely home to which he could always return, he was
not brought up in a manner which in any way could be called lavish.
Lavish he may have been in later years, but if he was it was with the
money for which those who knew him best knew how very hard he had
worked.
In a general way, I cannot remember that our life as boys differed in
any essential from that of other boys. My brother went to the
Episcopal Academy and his weekly report never failed to fill the whole
house with an impenetrable gloom and ever-increasing fears as to the
possibilities of his future. At school and at college Richard was, to
say the least, an indifferent student. And what made this undeniable
fact so annoying, particularly to his teachers, was that morally he
stood so very high. To "crib," to lie, or in any way to cheat or to do
any unworthy act was, I believe, quite beyond his understanding.
Therefore, while his constant lack of interest in his studies goaded
his teachers to despair, when it came to a question of stamping out
wrongdoing on the part of the student body he was invariably found
aligned on the side of the faculty. Not that Richard in any way
resembled a prig or was even, so far as I know, ever so considered by
the most reprehensible of his fellow students. He was altogether too
red-blooded for that, and I believe the students whom he antagonized
rather admired his chivalric point of honor even if they failed to
imitate it. As a schoolboy he was aggressive, radical, outspoken,
fearless, usually of the opposition and, indeed, often the sole member
of his own party. Among the students at the several schools he
attended he had but few intimate friends; but of the various little
groups of which he happened to be a member his aggressiveness and his
imagination usually made him the leader. As far back as I can
remember, Richard was always starting something--usually a new club or
a violent reform movement. And in school or college, as in all the
other walks of life, the reformer must, of necessity, lead a somewhat
tempestuous, if happy, existence. The following letter, written to his
father when Richard was a student at Swarthmore, and about fifteen,
will give an idea of his conception of the ethics in the case:
SWARTHMORE--1880.
DEAR PAPA:
I am quite on the Potomac. I with all the boys at our table were
called up, there is seven of us, before Prex. for stealing sugar-bowls
and things off the table. All the youths said, "O President, I didn't
do it." When it came my turn I merely smiled gravely, and he passed on
to the last. Then he said, "The only boy that doesn't deny it is
Davis. Davis, you are excused. I wish to talk to the rest of them."
That all goes to show he can be a gentleman if he would only try. I am
a natural born philosopher so I thought this idea is too idiotic for me
to converse about so I recommend silence and I also argued that to deny
you must necessarily be accused and to be accused of stealing would of
course cause me to bid Prex. good-by, so the only way was, taking these
two considerations with each other, to deny nothing but let the
good-natured old duffer see how silly it was by retaining a placid
silence and so crushing his base but thoughtless behavior and
machinations.
DICK.
In the early days at home--that is, when the sun shone--we played
cricket and baseball and football in our very spacious back yard, and
the programme of our sports was always subject to Richard's change
without notice. When it rained we adjourned to the third-story front,
where we played melodrama of simple plot but many thrills, and it was
always Richard who wrote the plays, produced them, and played the
principal part. As I recall these dramas of my early youth, the action
was almost endless and, although the company comprised two charming
misses (at least I know that they eventually grew into two very lovely
women), there was no time wasted over anything so sentimental or futile
as love-scenes. But whatever else the play contained in the way of
great scenes, there was always a mountain pass--the mountains being
composed of a chair and two tables--and Richard was forever leading his
little band over the pass while the band, wholly indifferent as to
whether the road led to honor, glory, or total annihilation, meekly
followed its leader. For some reason, probably on account of my early
admiration for Richard and being only too willing to obey his command,
I was invariably cast for the villain in these early dramas, and the
end of the play always ended in a hand-to-hand conflict between the
hero and myself. As Richard, naturally, was the hero and incidentally
the stronger of the two, it can readily be imagined that the fight
always ended in my complete undoing. Strangulation was the method
usually employed to finish me, and, whatever else Richard was at that
tender age, I can testify to his extraordinary ability as a choker.
But these early days in the city were not at all the happiest days of
that period in Richard's life. He took but little interest even in the
social or the athletic side of his school life, and his failures in his
studies troubled him sorely, only I fear, however, because it troubled
his mother and father. The great day of the year to us was the day our
schools closed and we started for our summer vacation. When Richard
was less than a year old my mother and father, who at the time was
convalescing from a long illness, had left Philadelphia on a search for
a complete rest in the country. Their travels, which it seems were
undertaken in the spirit of a voyage of discovery and adventure,
finally led them to the old Curtis House at Point Pleasant on the New
Jersey coast. But the Point Pleasant of that time had very little in
common with the present well-known summer resort. In those days the
place was reached after a long journey by rail followed by a three
hours' drive in a rickety stagecoach over deep sandy roads, albeit the
roads did lead through silent, sweet-smelling pine forests. Point
Pleasant itself was then a collection of half a dozen big farms which
stretched from the Manasquan River to the ocean half a mile distant.
Nothing could have been more primitive or as I remember it in its
pastoral loveliness much more beautiful. Just beyond our cottage the
river ran its silent, lazy course to the sea. With the exception of
several farmhouses, its banks were then unsullied by human habitation
of any sort, and on either side beyond the low green banks lay fields
of wheat and corn, and dense groves of pine and oak and chestnut trees.
Between us and the ocean were more waving fields of corn, broken by
little clumps of trees, and beyond these damp Nile-green pasture
meadows, and then salty marshes that led to the glistening, white
sand-dunes, and the great silver semi-circle of foaming breakers, and
the broad, blue sea. On all the land that lay between us and the
ocean, where the town of Point Pleasant now stands, I think there were
but four farmhouses, and these in no way interfered with the landscape
or the life of the primitive world in which we played.
Whatever the mental stimulus my brother derived from his home in
Philadelphia, the foundation of the physical strength that stood him in
such good stead in the campaigns of his later years he derived from
those early days at Point Pleasant. The cottage we lived in was an old
two-story frame building, to which my father had added two small
sleeping-rooms. Outside there was a vine-covered porch and within a
great stone fireplace flanked by cupboards, from which during those
happy days I know Richard and I, openly and covertly, must have
extracted tons of hardtack and cake. The little house was called
"Vagabond's Rest," and a haven of rest and peace and content it
certainly proved for many years to the Davis family. From here it was
that my father started forth in the early mornings on his all-day
fishing excursions, while my mother sat on the sunlit porch and wrote
novels and mended the badly rent garments of her very active sons.
After a seven-o'clock breakfast at the Curtis House our energies never
ceased until night closed in on us and from sheer exhaustion we dropped
unconscious into our patch-quilted cots. All day long we swam or
rowed, or sailed, or played ball, or camped out, or ate enormous
meals--anything so long as our activities were ceaseless and our
breathing apparatus given no rest. About a mile up the river there was
an island--it's a very small, prettily wooded, sandy-beached little
place, but it seemed big enough in those days. Robert Louis Stevenson
made it famous by rechristening it Treasure Island, and writing the new
name and his own on a bulkhead that had been built to shore up one of
its fast disappearing sandy banks. But that is very modern history and
to us it has always been "The Island." In our day, long before
Stevenson had ever heard of the Manasquan, Richard and I had discovered
this tight little piece of land, found great treasures there, and, hand
in hand, had slept in a six-by-six tent while the lions and tigers
growled at us from the surrounding forests.
As I recall these days of my boyhood I find the recollections of our
life at Point Pleasant much more distinct than those we spent in
Philadelphia. For Richard these days were especially welcome. They
meant a respite from the studies which were a constant menace to
himself and his parents; and the freedom of the open country, the
ocean, the many sports on land and on the river gave his body the
constant exercise his constitution seemed to demand, and a broad field
for an imagination which was even then very keen, certainly keen enough
to make the rest of us his followers.
In an extremely sympathetic appreciation which Irvin S. Cobb wrote
about my brother at the time of his death, he says that he doubts if
there is such a thing as a born author. Personally it so happened that
I never grew up with any one, except my brother, who ever became an
author, certainly an author of fiction, and so I cannot speak on the
subject with authority. But in the case of Richard, if he was not born
an author, certainly no other career was ever considered. So far as I
know he never even wanted to go to sea or to be a bareback rider in a
circus. A boy, if he loves his father, usually wants to follow in his
professional footsteps, and in the case of Richard, he had the double
inspiration of following both in the footsteps of his father and in
those of his mother. For years before Richard's birth his father had
been a newspaper editor and a well-known writer of stories and his
mother a novelist and short-story writer of great distinction. Of
those times at Point Pleasant I fear I can remember but a few of our
elders. There were George Lambdin, Margaret Ruff, and Milne Ramsay,
all painters of some note; a strange couple, Colonel Olcott and the
afterward famous Madam Blavatsky, trying to start a Buddhist cult in
this country; Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, with her foot on the first
rung of the ladder of fame, who at the time loved much millinery
finery. One day my father took her out sailing and, much to the lady's
discomfiture and greatly to Richard's and my delight, upset the famous
authoress. At a later period the Joseph Jeffersons used to visit us;
Horace Howard Furness, one of my father's oldest friends, built a
summer home very near us on the river, and Mrs. John Drew and her
daughter Georgie Barrymore spent their summers in a near-by hostelry.
I can remember Mrs. Barrymore at that time very well---wonderfully
handsome and a marvellously cheery manner. Richard and I both loved
her greatly, even though it were in secret. Her daughter Ethel I
remember best as she appeared on the beach, a sweet, long-legged child
in a scarlet bathing-suit running toward the breakers and then dashing
madly back to her mother's open arms. A pretty figure of a child, but
much too young for Richard to notice at that time. In after-years the
child in the scarlet bathing-suit and he became great pals. Indeed,
during the latter half of his life, through the good days and the bad,
there were very few friends who held so close a place in his sympathy
and his affections as Ethel Barrymore.
Until the summer of 1880 my brother continued on at the Episcopal
Academy. For some reason I was sent to a different school, but outside
of our supposed hours of learning we were never apart. With less than
two years' difference in our ages our interests were much the same, and
I fear our interests of those days were largely limited to out-of-door
sports and the theatre. We must have been very young indeed when my
father first led us by the hand to see our first play. On Saturday
afternoons Richard and I, unattended but not wholly unalarmed, would
set forth from our home on this thrilling weekly adventure. Having
joined our father at his office, he would invariably take us to a
chop-house situated at the end of a blind alley which lay concealed
somewhere in the neighborhood of Walnut and Third Streets, and where we
ate a most wonderful luncheon of English chops and apple pie. As the
luncheon drew to its close I remember how Richard and I used to fret
and fume while my father in a most leisurely manner used to finish off
his mug of musty ale. But at last the three of us, hand in hand, my
father between us, were walking briskly toward our happy destination.
At that time there were only a few first-class theatres in
Philadelphia--the Arch Street Theatre, owned by Mrs. John Drew; the
Chestnut Street, and the Walnut Street--all of which had stock
companies, but which on the occasion of a visiting star acted as the
supporting company. These were the days of Booth, Jefferson, Adelaide
Neilson, Charles Fletcher, Lotta, John McCullough, John Sleeper Clark,
and the elder Sothern. And how Richard and I worshipped them all--not
only these but every small-bit actor in every stock company in town.
Indeed, so many favorites of the stage did my brother and I admire that
ordinary frames would not begin to hold them all, and to overcome this
defect we had our bedroom entirely redecorated. The new scheme called
for a gray wallpaper supported by a maroon dado. At the top of the
latter ran two parallel black picture mouldings between which we could
easily insert cabinet photographs of the actors and actresses which for
the moment we thought most worthy of a place in our collection. As the
room was fairly large and as the mouldings ran | 917.064123 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.0649460 | 229 | 28 |
Produced by Dan Anderson and Andrew Sly. Thanks to the
John Muir Exhibit for making this eBook available.
http://www.sierraclub.org/john_muir_exhibit/
The Yosemite
by John Muir
Affectionately dedicated to my friend,
Robert Underwood Johnson,
faithful lover and defender of our glorious forests
and originator of the Yosemite National Park.
Acknowledgment
On the early history of Yosemite the writer is indebted to Prof. J. D.
Whitney for quotations from his volume entitled "Yosemite Guide-Book,"
and to Dr. Bunnell for extracts from his interesting volume entitled
"Discovery of the Yosemite."
Contents
1. The Approach to the Valley
2. Winter Storms and Spring Floods
3. Snow-Storms
4. Snow Banners
5. The Trees of the Valley
6. The Forest Trees in General
7. The Big Trees
8. The Flowers
9. The Birds
10. The South Dome
| 917.084986 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.0794430 | 2,417 | 9 | AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION, VOL. 10, ISSUE 268, AUGUST 11, 1827***
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram and Project Gutenberg Distributed
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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. 10, No. 268.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1827. [PRICE 2d.
* * * * *
HOSPITAL OF ST. THOMAS, CANTERBURY.
[Illustration]
The subject of the above engraving claims the attention of the
antiquarian researcher, not as the lofty sculptured mansion of our
monastic progenitors, or the towering castle of the feudatory baton, for
never has the voice of boisterous revelry, or the tones of the solemn
organ, echoed along its vaulted roof; a humbler but not less interesting
trait marks its history. It was here that the zealous pilgrim, strong in
bigot faith, rested his weary limbs, when the inspiring name of Becket
led him from the rustic simplicity of his native home, to view the spot
where Becket fell, and to murmur his pious supplication at the shrine of
the murdered Saint; how often has his toil-worn frame been sheltered
beneath that hospitable roof; imagination can even portray him entering
the area of yon pointed arch, leaning on his slender staff--perhaps some
wanderer from a foreign land.
The hospital of St. Thomas the Martyr of Eastbridge, is situated on the
King's-bridge, in the hundred of Westgate, Canterbury, and was built by
Becket, but for what purpose is unknown. However, after the
assassination of its founder, the resort of individuals being constant
to his shrine, the building was used for the lodgment of the pilgrims.
For many years no especial statutes were enacted, nor any definite rules
laid down for the treatment of pilgrims, till the see devolved to the
jurisdiction of Stratford, who, in 15th Edward III. drew up certain
ordinances, as also a code of regulations expressly to be acted on; he
appointed a master in priest's orders, under whose guidance a secular
chaplain officiated; it was also observed that every pilgrim in health
should have but one night's lodging to the cost of fourpence; that
applicants weak and infirm were to be preferred to those of sounder
constitutions, and that women "upwards of forty" should attend to the
bedding, and administer medicines to the sick.
This institution survived the general suppression of monasteries and
buildings of its cast, during the reigns of Henry VIII. and the sixth
Edward; and after alternately grading from the possession of private
families to that of brothers belonging to the establishment, it was at
last finally appropriated to the instruction of the rising generation,
whose parents are exempt from giving any gratuity to the preceptor of
their children.
Its present appearance is ancient, but not possessing any of those magic
features which render the mansions of our majores so grand and
magnificently solemn; a hall and chapel of imposing neatness and
simplicity are still in good condition, but several of the
apartments are dilapidated in part, and during a wet season admit the
aqueous fluid through the chinks and fissures of their venerable walls.
SAGITTARIUS.
* * * * *
THE LECTURER.
* * * * *
MINOR AFFECTIONS OF THE BRAIN.
Pain _in the head_ may arise from very different causes, and is
variously seated. It has had a number of different appellations bestowed
upon it, according to its particular character. I need not observe that
headach is a general attendant of all inflammatory states of the brain,
whether in the form of _phrenitis, hydrocephalus acutus_, or _idiopathic
fever;_ though with some exceptions in regard to all of them, as I
before showed you. It is often also said to be a symptom of other
diseases, of parts remotely situated; as of the _stomach_, more
especially; whence the term _sick headach_, the stomach being supposed
to be the part first or principally affected, and the headach
symptomatic of this. I am confident, however, that in a majority of
instances the reverse is the case, the affection of the head being the
cause of the disorder of the stomach. It is no proof to the contrary,
that _vomiting_ often relieves the headach, for vomiting is capable of
relieving a great number of other diseases, as well as those of the
brain, upon the principle of _counter-irritation_. The stomach may be
disordered by nauseating medicines, up to the degree of full vomiting,
without any headach taking place; but the brain hardly ever suffers,
either from injury or disease, without the stomach having its functions
impaired, or in a greater or less degree disturbed: thus a blow on the
head immediately produces vomiting; and, at the outset of various
inflammatory affections of the brain, as _fever_ and _hydrocephalus_,
nausea and vomiting are almost never-failing symptoms. It is not denied,
that _headach_ may be produced through the medium of the stomach; but
seldom, unless there is previously disease in the head, or at least a
strong predisposition to it. In persons habitually subject to headach,
the arteries of the brain become so irritable, that the slightest cause
of disturbance, either _mental_ or _bodily_, will suffice to bring on a
paroxysm.
The _occasional_ or _exciting causes of headach_, then, are principally
these:--
1. _Emotions of mind_, as fear, terror, and agitation of spirits; yet
these will sometimes take off headach when present at the time.
2. Whatever either increases or disorders the general circulation, and
especially all causes that increase the action of the cerebral arteries,
or, as it is usually though improperly expressed, which occasion a
determination of blood to the head. Of the former kind are violent
exercise, and external heat applied to the surface generally, as by a
heated atmosphere or the _hot bath_; of the latter, the direct
application of heat to the head; falls or blows, occasioning a shock to
the brain; stooping; intense thinking; intoxicating drinks, and other
narcotic substances. These last, however, as well as _mental emotions_,
often relieve a paroxysm of headach, though they favour its return
afterwards.
3. A disordered state of the stomach, of which a vomiting of _bile_ may
be one symptom, is also to be ranked among the _occasional causes_ of
_headach_.
These _occasional causes_ do not in general produce their effect, unless
where a _predisposition_ to the disease exists. This predisposition is
often hereditary, or it may be acquired by long-protracted study and
habits of intoxication.--_Dr. Clutterbuck's Lectures on the Diseases of
the Nervous System_.
HYDROPHOBIA.
There is no cure for this disease when once the symptoms show
themselves. A variety of remedies have from time to time been advertised
by quacks. The "Ormskirk Medicine," at one time, was much in vogue; it
had its day, but it did not cure the disease, nor, as far as I know, did
it mitigate any of its symptoms. With regard to the affection of the
mind itself in this disease, it does not appear that the patients are
deprived of reason; some have merely, by the dint of resolution,
conquered the dread of water, though they never could conquer the
convulsive motions which the contact of liquids occasioned; while this
resolution has been of no avail, for the convulsions and other symptoms
increasing, have almost always destroyed the unhappy sufferers.
--_Abernethy's Lectures_.
EFFECTS OF KINDNESS ON THE SICK.
Under all circumstances, man is a poor and pitiable being, when stricken
down by disease. Sickened and subdued, his very lineaments have a voice
which calls for commiseration and assistance. Celsus says, that knowing
two physicians equally intelligent, he should prefer the one who was his
friend, for the obvious reason that he would feel a deeper interest in
his welfare. Kindness composes, and harshness disturbs the mind, and
each produces correspondent effects upon the body. A tone, a look, may
save or destroy life in extremely delicate cases. Whatever may be the
prognosis given to friends, in all febrile cases, the most confident and
consoling language about the ultimate recovery should be used to the
sick, as prophecies not unfrequently contribute to bring about the event
foretold, by making people feel, or think, or act, differently from what
they otherwise would have done. Again, in chronic cases, as time is
required for their cure, by explaining to the patient this fact, we
maintain his confidence, we keep his mind easy, and thus gain a fair
opportunity for the operation of regimen or remedies; in short, the
judicious physician, like the Roman general, Fabius, conquers through
delay, by cutting off the supplies, and wearing out the strength of the
enemy. In large cities, where the mind is so much overwrought in the
various schemes of private ambition, or of public business, anxiety is
very frequently the grand opposing circumstance to recovery; so that
while the causes which produced it are allowed to operate, mere medical
prescription is of no avail. The effects of this anxiety are visible in
the pallid face and wasted body. But if the patient be possessed of
philosophy enough to forego his harassing pursuits; if he have not, from
the contact and cares of the world, lost his relish for the simple and
sublime scenes of nature, a removal into the country is of the utmost
efficacy. The deformity and conflict of the moral world are exchanged
for the beauty and calm of the physical world; and surrounded by all the
poetry of earth and heaven, the mind regains its peace, and the health,
as if by magic, is perfectly restored.--_Dr. Armstrong's Lectures_.
DIET.
Experience has taught us that the nature of our food is not a matter of | 917.099483 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.1411520 | 1,227 | 15 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Thiers Halliwell 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:
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and =equal= signs indicate bold text.
Footnotes are located below the relevant paragraphs.
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correctly with all viewing devices. If some of the characters look
abnormal, first ensure that the device’s character encoding is set to
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The following spelling errors have been corrected silently:
pecularities —> peculiarities
indentification —> identification
classfication —> classification.
Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. fingerprint, finger-print, finger
print) remains as in the original text, as does the inconsistent
use of em dashes in the index.
A few illustrations have been relocated nearer to the relevant text,
and their page references adjusted appropriately in the list of
illustrations.
[Illustration: Cover]
Dactylography
_Or, THE STUDY OF FINGER-PRINTS_
[Illustration: [Illustration: [Illustration:
GREASY SMUDGE ACCIDENTAL SMUDGE A “NEGATIVE” THUMB-PRINT,
(Vivified by (encircled for furrows and pores black,
white powder).] presentation).] ridges white.]
Dactylography, frontispiece
DACTYLOGRAPHY
OR
_THE STUDY OF FINGER-PRINTS_
BY
HENRY FAULDS
L.R.F.P. & S. F.R. Anthrop. Inst.,
M.R. Archæol. Inst. M. Sociol. Soc.
Illustrated
[Logo]
HALIFAX
MILNER & COMPANY
RAGLAN WORKS
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Introduction: Early Hints and Recent Progress 9
II. Sweat-Pores, Ridges, and Furrows 29
III. Finger-Print Patterns 39
IV. Some Biological Questions in Dactylography 49
V. Technique of Printing and Scrutinizing Finger-Patterns 61
VI. Persistence of Finger-Print Patterns 76
VII. Syllabic Classification of Finger-Prints 83
VIII. Practical Results and Future Prospects 101
GLOSSARY 120
BIBLIOGRAPHY 123
INDEX 125
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Greasy Smudge, Accidental Smudge, and a Negative
Thumb-print _frontis._
Footprints in Ancient Mexican Remains 10
Single Finger-Print 19
Facsimile of Original Outline Forms for both hands 19
Section of Skin showing Sweat-Glands, Ducts and Pores 29
Ripple Marks in Sand 32
Grevy’s Zebra, showing lineations like Finger-print
Patterns 39
Section of Pine-wood Stem and a Human Thumb-print 43
Design-like Patterns in Finger-prints 46
Anthropoid Lineations 51
Reduced Copy of Police Register Form 68
Flexible Curves and Curve Rules 70
Diagrammatic Analysis of Lineations in a Restricted Section 71
Kew Micrometer 72
Glass Disc centred 73
Vowels and Consonants in Syllabic Classification 100
Dactylography
_OR THE STUDY OF FINGER-PRINTS_
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION: EARLY HINTS AND RECENT PROGRESS
Dactylography deals with what is of scientific interest and practical
value in regard to the lineations in the skin on the fingers and toes,
or rather on the hands and feet of men, monkeys, and allied tribes,
which lineations form patterns of great variety and persistence. The
Greeks used the term δάκτυλος του̑ ποδός (_daktylos tou podos_, finger
of the foot) for a toe; and the toes are of almost as much interest to
the dactylographer as the fingers, and present similar patterns for
study.
In primitive times the savage hunter had to use all his wits sharply in
the examination of foot and toe marks, whether of the game he pursued
or the human foe he guarded against, and he learned to deduce many
a curious lesson with Sherlock Holmes-like acuteness and precision.
The recency, the rate of motion, the length of stride, the degree of
fatigue, the number, and kinds and conditions of men or beasts that
had impressed their traces on the soil, all could be read by him with
ease and promptness. Such imprints have been preserved in early Mexican
picture writings.
[Illustration: FOOTPRINTS IN ANCIENT MEXICAN REMAINS.
Inset: Threshold with Foot-Marks (also Mexican).]
In a similar way the palæontologist strives to interpret the impress
made by organisms | 917.161192 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.3144890 | 1,736 | 9 |
Produced by Renald Levesque
WOMAN
VOLUME VI
WOMEN OF THE ROMANCE COUNTRIES
BY
JOHN R. EFFINGER, Ph.D.
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
[Illustration 1:
_BOCCACCIO'S MERRY RACONTEURS
After the painting by Jacques Wagrez
In the meantime, Naples, in the hands of the invaders, had been stained
with blood, and then ravaged by the great plague of which Boccaccio has
given us a picture, and of the idyllic way the rich people passed their
time, in his_ Decameron.]
Woman
In all ages and in all countries
VOLUME VI
WOMEN OF THE ROMANCE COUNTRIES
BY
JOHN R. EFFINGER, Ph.D.
Of the University of Michigan
ILLUSTRATED
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE BARRIE & SONS, Publishers
PREFACE
No one can deny the influence of woman, which has been a potent factor
in society, directly or indirectly, ever since the days of Mother Eve.
Whether living in Oriental seclusion, or enjoying the freer life of the
Western world, she has always played an important part in the onward
march of events, and exercised a subtle power in all things, great and
small. To appreciate this power properly, and give it a worthy
narrative, is ever a difficult and well-nigh impossible task, at least
for mortal man. Under the most favorable circumstances, the subject is
elusive and difficult of approach, lacking in sequence, and often
shrouded in mystery.
What, then, must have been the task of the author of the present volume,
in essaying to write of the women of Italy and Spain! In neither of
these countries are the people all of the same race, nor do they afford
the development of a constant type for observation or study. Italy, with
its mediaeval chaos, its free cities, and its fast-and-loose allegiance
to the temporal power of the Eternal City, has ever been the despair of
the orderly historian; and Spain, overrun by Goth, by Roman, and by
Moslem host, presents strange contrasts and rare complexities.
Such being the case, this account of the women of the Romance countries
does not attempt to trace in detail their gradual evolution, but rather
to present, in the proper setting, the most conspicuous examples of
their good or evil influence, their bravery or their cowardice, their
loyalty or their infidelity, their learning or their illiteracy, their
intelligence or their ignorance, throughout the succeeding years.
Chroniclers and historians, poets and romancers, have all given valuable
aid in the undertaking, and to them grateful acknowledgment is hereby
made.
JOHN R. EFFINGER.
_University of Michigan._
PART FIRST
ITALIAN WOMEN
CHAPTER I
THE AGE OF THE COUNTESS MATILDA OF TUSCANY
The eleventh century, which culminated in the religious fervor of the
First Crusade, must not on that account be considered as an age of
unexampled piety and devotion. Good men there were and true, and women
of great intellectual and moral force, but it cannot be said that the
time was characterized by any deep and sincere religious feeling which
showed itself in the general conduct of society. Europe was just
emerging from that gloom which had settled down so closely upon the
older civilizations after the downfall of the glory that was Rome, and
the light of the new day sifted but fitfully through the dark curtains
of that restless time. Liberty had not as yet become the shibboleth of
the people, superstition was in the very air, the knowledge of the
wisest scholars was as naught, compared with what we know to-day;
everywhere, might made right.
In a time like this, in spite of the illustrious example of the Countess
Matilda, it cannot be supposed that women were in a very exalted
position. It is even recorded that in several instances, men, as
superior beings, debated as to whether or not women were possessed of
souls. While this momentous question was never settled in a conclusive
fashion, it may be remarked that in the heat of the discussion there
were some who called women angels of light, while there were others who
had no hesitation in declaring that they were devils incarnate, though
in neither case were they willing to grant them the same rights and
privileges which they themselves possessed. Though many other facts of
the same kind might be adduced, the mere existence of such discussion is
enough to prove to the most undiscerning that woman's place in society
was not clearly recognized, and that there were many difficulties to be
overcome before she could consider herself free from her primitive state
of bondage.
In the eye of the feudal law, women were not considered as persons of
any importance whatever. The rights of husbands were practically
absolute, and led to much abuse, as they had a perfectly legal right to
punish wives for their misdeeds, to control their conduct in such a way
as to interfere with their personal liberty, and in general to treat
them as slaves and inferior beings. The whipping-post had not then been
invented as a fitting punishment for the wife beater, as it was
perfectly understood, according to the feudal practices as collected by
Beaumanoir, "that every husband had the right to beat his wife when she
was unwilling to obey his commands, or when she cursed him, or when she
gave him the lie, providing that it was done moderately, and that death
did not ensue." If a wife left a husband who had beaten her, she was
compelled by law to return at his first word of regret, or to lose all
right to their common possessions, even for purposes of her own support.
The daughters of a feudal household had even fewer rights than the wife.
All who are willing to make a candid acknowledgment of the facts must
admit that even to-day, a girl-baby is often looked upon with disfavor.
This has been true in all times, and there are numerous examples to show
that this aversion existed in ancient India, in Greece and Sparta, and
at Rome. The feudal practices of mediaeval Europe were certainly based
upon it, and the Breton peasant of to-day expresses the same idea
somewhat bluntly when he says by way of explanation, after the birth of
a daughter: _Ma femme a fait une fausse couche._ Conscious as all must
be of this widespread sentiment at the present time, it will not be
difficult to imagine what its consequences must have been in so rude a
time as the eleventh century, when education could do so little in the
way of restraining human passion and prejudice. As the whole feudal
system, so far as the succession of power was concerned, was based upon
the principle of primogeniture, it was the oldest son who succeeded to
all his father's lands and wealth, the daughter or daughters being left
under his absolute control. Naturally, such a system worked hardship for
the younger brothers, but then as now it was easier for men to find a
place for themselves in the world than for women, and the army or the
Church rarely failed to furnish some sort of career for all those who
were denied the rights and privileges of the firstborn. The lot of the
sister, however, was pitiful in the extreme (unless it happened that the
older brother was kind and considerate), for if she were in the way she
could be bundled off to a cloister, there to spend her days in solitude,
or she could be married against her will, being given as the price of
some alliance.
The conditions of marriage, however, were somewhat complicated, as it
was always necessary to secure the consent of three persons before a
girl of the higher class could go to the altar in nuptial array. These
three persons were her father or her guardian, her lord and the king. | 917.334529 |
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Libraries))
[This e-text includes characters that will only display in UTF-8
(Unicode) text readers:
Ē ā ē ī ō ū (vowel with macron or “long” mark)
Ă Ĕ Ĭ ă ĕ ĭ ŏ (vowel with breve or “short” mark)
Ś ś ć (s, c with “acute”:
mainly in Recording Indian Languages article)
ⁿ (small raised n, representing nasalized vowel)
ɔ ʞ ʇ (inverted letters)
‖ (double vertical line
There are also a handful of Greek words.
Some compromises were made to accommodate font availability:
The ordinary “cents” sign ¢ was used in place of the correct form ȼ,
and bracketed [¢] represents the capital letter Ȼ.
Turned c is represented by ɔ (technically an open o).
Bracketed [K] and [T] represent upside-down (turned) capital K and T.
Inverted V (described in text) is represented by the Greek letter Λ.
If your computer has a more appropriate character, feel free to replace
letters globally.
Syllable stress is represented by an acute accent either on the main
vówel or after the syl´lable; inconsistencies are unchanged. Except
for special characters noted above, and obvious insertions such as
[Illustration] and [Footnote], brackets are in the original. Note that
in the Sign Language article, hand positions identified by letter
(A, B... W, Y) are descriptive; they do not represent a “finger
alphabet”.
Italics are shown with _lines_. Boldface (rare) is shown with +marks+;
in some articles the same notation is used for +small capitals+.
The First Annual Report includes ten “Accompanying Papers”, all
available from Project Gutenberg as individual e-texts. Except for
Yarrow’s “Mortuary Customs”, updated shortly before the present text,
the separate articles were released between late 2005 and late 2007. For
this combined e-text they have been re-formatted for consistency. Some
articles have been further modified to include specialized characters
shown above, and a few more typographical errors have been corrected.
For consistency with later Annual Reports, a full List of Illustrations
has been added after the Table of Contents, and each article has been
given its own Table of Contents. In the original, the Contents were
printed _only_ at the beginning of the volume, and Illustrations were
listed _only_ with their respective articles.
Errors and inconsistencies are listed separately at the end of each
article and after the combined Index. Differences in punctuation or
hyphenization between the Table of Contents, Index, or List of
Illustrations, and the item itself, are not noted.]
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
FIRST ANNUAL REPORT
of the
BUREAU OF ETHNOLOGY
to the
Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution
1879-’80
by
J. W. POWELL
Director
[Illustration]
WASHINGTON
Government Printing Office
1881
SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, Bureau of Ethnology,
_Washington, D.C., July, 1880._
Prof. SPENCER F. BAIRD,
_Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution_,
_Washington, D.C._:
SIR: I have the honor to transmit herewith the first annual report of
the operations of the Bureau of Ethnology.
By act of Congress, an appropriation was made to continue researches in
North American anthropology, the general direction of which was confided
to yourself. As chief executive officer of the Smithsonian Institution,
you entrusted to me the immediate control of the affairs of the Bureau.
This report, with its appended papers, is designed to exhibit the
methods and results of my administration of this trust.
If any measure of success has been attained, it is largely due to
general instructions received from yourself and the advice you have ever
patiently given me on all matters of importance.
I am indebted to my assistants, whose labors are delineated in the
report, for their industry; hearty co-operation, and enthusiastic love
of the science. Only through their zeal have your plans been executed.
Much assistance has been rendered the Bureau by a large body of
scientific men engaged in the study of anthropology, some of whose names
have been mentioned in the report and accompanying papers, and others
will be put on record when the subject-matter of their writings is fully
published.
I am, with respect, your obedient servant,
J. W. POWELL.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
REPORT OF THE DIRECTOR.
Page.
Introductory xi
Bibliography of North American philology, by J. C. Pilling xv
Linguistic and other anthropologic researches,
by J. O. Dorsey xvii
Linguistic researches, by S. R. Riggs xviii
Linguistic and general researches among the Klamath
Indians, by A. S. Gatschet xix
Studies among the Iroquois, by Mrs. E. A. Smith xxii
Work by Prof. Otis T. Mason xxii
The study of gesture speech, by Brevet Lieut. Col.
Garrick Mallery xxiii
Studies on Central American picture writing,
by Prof. E. S. Holden xxv
The study of mortuary customs, by Dr. H. C. Yarrow xxvi
Investigations relating to cessions of lands by Indian
tribes to the United States, by C. C. Royce xxvii
Explorations by Mr. James Stevenson xxx
Researches among the Wintuns, by Prof. J. W. Powell xxxii
The preparation of manuals for use in American research xxxii
Linguistic classification of the North American tribes xxxiii
ACCOMPANYING PAPERS.
Page.
ON THE EVOLUTION OF LANGUAGE, BY J. W. POWELL.
Process by combination 3
Process by vocalic mutation 5
Process by intonation 6
Process by placement 6
Differentiation of the parts of speech 8
SKETCH OF THE MYTHOLOGY OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS, BY J. W. POWELL.
The genesis of philosophy 19
Two grand stages of philosophy 21
Mythologic philosophy has four stages 29
Outgrowth from mythologic philosophy 33
The course of evolution in mythologic philosophy 38
Mythic tales 43
The Cĭn-aú-äv Brothers discuss matters of importance
to the Utes 44
Origin of the echo 45
The So´-kûs Wai´-ûn-ats 47
Ta-vwots has a fight with the sun 52
WYANDOT GOVERNMENT, BY J. W. POWELL.
The family 59
The gens 59
The phratry 60
Government 61
Civil government 61
Methods of choosing councillors 61
Functions of civil government 63
Marriage regulations 63
Name regulations 64
Regulations of personal adornment 64
Regulations of order in encampment 64
Property rights 65
Rights of persons 65
Community rights 65
Rights of religion 65
Crimes 66
Theft 66
Maiming 66
Murder 66
Treason 67
Witchcraft 67
Outlawry 67
Military government 68
Fellowhood 68
ON LIMITATIONS TO THE USE OF SOME ANTHROPOLOGIC DATA, BY J. W. POWELL.
Arch | 917.345486 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 3
[Illustration: MODERN ROAD ON LAUREL HILL
[_Follows track of Washington's Road; near by, on the right,
Washington found Jumonville's "embassy" hidden in the Ravine_]]
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 3
Washington's Road (NEMACOLIN'S PATH)
The First Chapter of the Old French War
BY
ARCHER BUTLER HULBERT
_With Maps and Illustrations_
[Illustration]
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
CLEVELAND, OHIO
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903
BY
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 11
I. WASHINGTON AND THE WEST 15
II. THE HUNTING-GROUND OF THE IROQUOIS 40
III. THE ARMS OF THE KING OF FRANCE 63
IV. THE VIRGINIAN GOVERNOR'S ENVOY 85
V. THE VIRGINIA REGIMENT 120
VI. THE CHAIN OF FEDERAL UNION 189
ILLUSTRATIONS
I. MODERN ROAD ON LAUREL HILL, (Follows Track
of Washington's Road) _Frontispiece_
II. WASHINGTON'S ROAD 93
III. A MAP OF THE COUNTRY BETWEEN WILLS CREEK AND
LAKE ERIE (showing designs of the French
for erecting forts southward of the lakes;
from the original in the British Museum) 109
IV. LEDGE FROM WHICH WASHINGTON OPENED FIRE UPON
JUMONVILLE'S PARTY 145
V. SITE OF FORT NECESSITY 157
VI. TWO PLANS OF FORT NECESSITY
(_A_, Plan of Lewis's survey; _B_, Sparks's plan) 175
VII. DIAGRAMS OF FORT NECESSITY 179
PREFACE
The following pages are largely devoted to Washington and his times as
seen from the standpoint of the road he opened across the Alleghanies in
1754. Portions of this volume have appeared in the _Interior_, the _Ohio
State Archaeological and Historical Quarterly_, and in a monograph,
_Colonel Washington_, issued by Western Reserve University. The author's
debt to Mr. Robert McCracken, Mr. Louis Fazenbaker, and Mr. James
Hadden, all of Pennsylvania, is gratefully acknowledged.
A. B. H.
MARIETTA, OHIO, November 17, 1902.
Washington's Road
(NEMACOLIN'S PATH)
The First Chapter of the Old French War
CHAPTER I
WASHINGTON AND THE WEST
If you journey today from Cumberland, Maryland, on the Potomac, across
the Alleghanies to Pittsburg on the Ohio, you will follow the most
historic highway of America, through scenes as memorable as any on our
continent.
You may make this journey on any of the three thoroughfares: by the
Cumberland Road, with all its memorials of the gay coaching days "when
life was interwoven with white and purple," by Braddock's Road, which
was used until the Cumberland Road was opened in 1818, or by
Washington's Road, built over the famous Indian trail known during the
first half of the eighteenth century as Nemacolin's Path. In certain
parts all three courses are identical, the two latter being generally
so; and between these three "streams of human history" you may read the
record of the two old centuries now passed away.
Come and walk for a distance on the old Indian trail. We leave the
turnpike, where it swings around the mountain, and mount the ascending
ridge. The course is hard, but the path is plain before us. Small trees
are growing in the center of it, but no large ones. The track, worn a
foot into the ground by the hoofs of Indian ponies laden with peltry,
remains, still, an open aisle along the mountain crest. Now, we are
looking down--from the Indian's point of vantage. Perhaps the red man
rarely looked up, save to the sun and stars or the storm cloud, for he
lived on the heights and his paths were not only highways, they were the
highestways. As you move on, if your mind is keen toward the long ago,
the cleared hillsides become wooded again, you see the darkling valley
and hear its rivulet; far beyond, the next mountain range appears as it
did to other eyes in other days--and soon you are looking through the
eyes of the heroes of these valleys, Washington, or his comrades Stephen
or Lewis, Gladwin, hero of Detroit, or Gates, conqueror at Saratoga, or
Mercer, who was to give his life to his country at Princeton. You are
moving, now, with the thin line of scarlet uniformed Virginians; you are
standing in the hastily constructed earthen fort; if it rains, you look
up to the dim outlines of the wooded hills as the tireless young
Washington did when his ignorant interpreter betrayed him to the
intriguing French commander; you march with Braddock's thin red line to
that charnel ground beyond the bloody ford--you stand at Braddock's
grave while the army wagons hurry over it to obliterate its sight from
savage eyes.
Explain it as you will, our study of these historic routes and the
memorials which are left of them becomes, soon, a study of its hero,
that young Virginian lieutenant-colonel. Even the battles fought here
seem to have been of little real consequence, for New France fell, never
to rise, with the capture of Quebec. But it is not of little consequence
that here a brave training school was to be had for the future heroes of
the Revolution. For in what did Washington, for instance, need a
training more than in the art of maneuvering a handful of ill-equipped,
discouraged men out of the hands of a superior army? What lesson did
that youth need more than the lesson that Right becomes Might in God's
own good time? And here in these Alleghany glades we catch the most
precious pictures of the lithe, keen-eyed, sober lad, who, taking his
lessons of truth and uprightness from his widowed mother's knee, his
strength hardened by the power of the mountain rivers, his heart, now
thrilled by the songs of the mountain birds, now tempered by a St.
Pierre's hauteur, a Braddock's rebuke, or the testy suspicions of a
provincial governor, became the hero of Valley Forge and Yorktown, the
immeasurable superior of St. Pierre, Dinwiddie, Forbes, Kaunitz, or
Newcastle.
For consider the record of the Washington of 1775, beneath the Cambridge
elm. Twenty-one years before, he had capitulated, with the first army he
ever commanded, after the first day's battle he ever fought. He marched
with Braddock's ill-starred army, in which he had no official position
whatever, until defeat and rout threw on his shoulders a large share of
the responsibility of saving the army from complete annihilation. For
the past sixteen years he had led a quiet life on his farms. Why, now,
in 1775, should he have had the unstinted confidence of all men in the
hour of his country's great crisis? Why should his march from Mount
Vernon to Cambridge have been a triumphal march? Professor McMaster
asserts that the General and the President are known to us, "but George
Washington is an unknown man." How untrue this was, at least, in 1775!
How the nation believed it knew the man! How much reputation he had
gained, while those by his side lost all of theirs! What a hero--of many
defeats! What a man to fight England to a standstill after many a wary,
difficult retreat and dearly fought battle-field! Aye--but he had been
to school with Gates and Mercer and Gladwin, Lewis and Boone, and
Stephen, on Braddock's twelve-foot swath of a road in the Alleghanies!
It was more than a century ago that George Washington died at Mount
Vernon. "I die hard," he said, "but I am not afraid to go." Motley's
true words of the death of William the Silent may be aptly quoted of
Washington: "As long as he lived, he was the guiding-star of a whole
brave nation, and when he died, the little children wept on the
streets."
If, as Professor McMaster has boldly said, "George Washington is an
unknown man," it is not, as might be inferred, because the man himself
was an enigma to his own generation, or that which immediately succeeded
him; it is because the General and the President have been remembered by
us, and the man, forgotten. If this is true, it is because our school
histories, the principal source from which the mass of the people
receive their information, are portraying only one of the fractions
which made the great man what he was. It is said: "He was as fortunate
as great and good." Do our school histories inform the youth of the land
why he was "fortunate" to the exclusion of why he was "great and good?"
If so, George Washington is, or soon will be, "an unknown man."
One hundred years ago he was not unknown as a man. "Washington is
dead," exclaimed Napoleon in the orders of the day, when he learned the
sad news; "this great man fought against tyranny; he consolidated the
liberty of his country. His memory will ever be dear to the French
people, as to all freemen in both hemispheres." Said Charles James Fox,
"A character of virtues, so happily tempered by one another and so
wholly unalloyed by any vices, is hardly to be found on the pages of
history." And these men spoke of whom--the General, the President, or
the man? If, as legend states, "the Arab of the desert talks of
Washington in his tent, and his name is familiar to the wandering
Scythian," what of other "fortunate" heroes, of William of Orange,
Gustavus Adolphus, and Cromwell, who, like Washington, consolidated the
liberties of their countries, and with an eclat far more likely to win
the admiration of an oriental?
Half a century ago, the attention of multitudes was directed to the man
Washington in the superb oratory of Edward Everett. Quoting that
memorable extract from the letter of the youthful surveyor, who boasted
of earning an honest dubloon a day, the speaker set before his
audiences "not an ideal hero, wrapped in cloudy generalities and a mist
of vague panegyric, but the real, identical man." And, again, he quoted
Washington's letter written to Governor Dinwiddie after Braddock's
defeat, that his hearers might "see it all--see the whole man." Was
Edward Everett mistaken, are these letters not extant today, or are they
unread? Surely, the last supposition must be the true one, if the man
Washington is being forgotten.
And look back to the school histories of Edward Everett's time. The
"reader" and "history" were one text-book in that day, and one of the
best known, "Porter's Rhetorical Reader," lies before me, prefaced May,
1831. From it notice two quotations which must have influenced youthful
ideas of Washington. One is the last verse of Pierpont's "Washington:"
"God of our sires and sons,
Let other Washingtons
Our country bless,
And, like the brave and wise
Of by-gone centuries,
Show that true greatness lies
In righteousness."
The other, from the address "America," of the Irish orator Phillips;
having exalted Washington as general, statesman, and conqueror, he
continues:
"If he had paused there, history might have doubted what station to
assign him; whether at the head of her citizens, or her soldiers, her
heroes, or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career,
and banishes the hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having
emancipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, and preferred the
retirement of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be
almost said to have created? Happy, proud America! The lightnings of
heaven yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not
seduce your patriotism!"
A candid review of the more popular school histories will bring out the
fact that the man Washington is almost forgotten, in so far as the
general and the statesman do not portray him. In one, "Young Folks'
History of the United States" (to name the production of an author whom
criticism cannot injure), there seems to be but one line, of five words,
which describes the character of Washington. Could we not forego, for
once, what the Indian chieftain said of the "charmed life" Washington
bore at Braddock's defeat, to make room for one little reason why
Washington was "completer in nature" and of "a nobler human type" than
any and all of the heroes of romance?
Mr. Otis Kendall Stuart has written a most interesting account of "The
Popular Opinion of Washington" as ascertained by inquiry among persons
of all ages, occupations, and conditions. He found that Washington was
held to be a "broad," "brave," "thinking," "practical," man; an
aristocrat, so far as the dignity of his position demanded, but willing
to "work with his hands," and with a credit that was "A1!" And "when he
did a thing, he did it;" and, if to the question, "Was he a great
general and statesman?" there was some hesitation, to the question, "Was
he a great man?" the answer was an unhesitating "Yes."
One may hold that such opinions as these have been gained from our
school histories, but I think they are not so much from the histories,
as from the popular legends of Washington, which, true and false, will
never be forgotten by the common people until they cease to represent
the _man_--not the patient, brave, and wary general, or the calm,
far-seeing statesman, but that "simple, stainless, and robust
character," as President Eliot has so aptly described it, "which served
with dazzling success the precious cause of human progress through
liberty, and so stands, like the sunlit peak of Matterhorn, unmatched in
all the world."
The real essence of that "simple, stainless, and robust character" is
nowhere so clearly seen as on these Alleghany trails. In the West with
Washington we may still "see it all--see the whole man."
To us of the Central West, the memory of Washington and his dearest
ambitions must be precious beyond that of any other American, whether
statesman, general, or seer. Under strange providential guidance the
mind and heart of that first American was turned toward the territories
lying between the Alleghanies and the Mississippi, and it is to be
doubted if any other portion of his country received so much of his
attention and study as this. Washington was the original
expansionist--not for expansion's sake, truly, but for country's sake
and duty's. If Washington was the father of his country, he was in a
stronger and more genuine sense the father of the West. It was begotten
of him. Others might have led the Revolutionary armies through the
valleys as deep and dark as those through which Washington passed, and
have eventually fought England to a similar standstill as did
Washington; at least | 917.353587 |
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Transcribed from the 1878, (third) Hatchards edition by David Price,
email [email protected]
Sanctification
* * * * *
BY THE
REV. EDWARD HOARE, M.A.
_Vicar of Trinity_, _Tunbridge Wells_; _and Hon. Canon of Canterbury_.
* * * * *
Third Edition, Enlarged.
* * * * *
LONDON:
HATCHARDS, PICCADILLY.
1878.
* * * * *
LONDON:
PRINTED BY JOHN STRANGEWAYS,
Castle St. Leicester Sq.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
THE following pages contain the substance of some Sermons preached in the
course of my parochial ministry, on the subject of Sanctification, and
are published at the request of several members of my congregation.
They contain nothing new, and, being parochial sermons, they are not in
the form of a systematic treatise. But I hope they exhibit the doctrine
of Sanctification as revealed in Scripture, as embodied in the teaching
of the Church of England, and as preached by those who are generally
termed the Evangelical Clergy.
They are not so much controversial as practical. My desire has not been
to discuss new opinions, but to bring out old truths. I shall be truly
thankful if this shall prove to have been done; and I commit them to God,
with the earnest prayer that He may make them useful, by the power of the
Holy Spirit, to those who long for the fulfilment of the prayer of their
most blessed Saviour,—‘Sanctify them through Thy truth, Thy Word is
truth.’
E. H.
TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
SEPARATION UNTO GOD 1
LEGAL CLEANSING:
SANCTIFICATION THROUGH BLOOD 14
THE CLEANSING BLOOD 27
PERSONAL HOLINESS:
THE SANCTIFIED 40
PROGRESS 50
INFECTION OF NATURE 64
GRACE 78
HOLINESS THROUGH FAITH 91
CONSECRATION 103
PRAYER 117
GOD’S NAME SANCTIFIED 132
EXPOSITORY NOTES:
ROMANS, VII. 143
1 JOHN, III. 6 146
THE WORD ‘PERFECT’ 149
TEMPTATION, HEB. IV. 15 152
DOCTRINAL NOTES 154
SEPARATION UNTO GOD.
‘Elect according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, through
sanctification of the Spirit, unto obedience and sprinkling of the
blood of Jesus Christ; Grace unto you, and peace, be multiplied.’—1
PET. i. 2.
It is one of the encouraging features of the present day that many of the
Lord’s people are aiming at a higher standard of Christian holiness than
they have ever yet known, and are looking to the great grace of their
most blessed Saviour to raise them by His Spirit above the various
hindrances which have hitherto impeded their progress. They desire that
there should be no impediment in the service of their blessed Saviour.
In their worship they would draw very near to Him, and in their life they
would glorify His name. But yet, when they seek to do so, and when they
fairly look at God’s character, God’s claims, God’s will, and God’s
glory, they find reason to be humbled to the dust; and the more they
realize His infinite mercy in Christ Jesus, the more they learn of the
magnitude and multitude of their own shortcomings. Thus it sometimes
comes to pass that in many true believers their greatest discouragements
are intimately connected with their efforts after holiness, and many of
their doubts and difficulties arise from their real desire for true
sanctification. The more that they aim at the holiness of God, the more
they feel their sin, and the more earnestly that they strive to rise, the
more keenly do they feel the pain and humiliation of the ruin of their
fallen nature. It is important therefore for those who desire holiness
to look carefully into the teaching of Scripture on the great subject of
Sanctification; to examine what is really promised, and to learn what the
Word of God teaches us to expect. Does it, or does it not, make
provision for such difficulties? And if it does, what is the provision?
These are some of the questions which I desire now to consider, and I
hope it may please God to fulfil to both writer and reader the prayer of
the Apostle: ‘The very God of peace sanctify you wholly; and I pray God
your whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto the
coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.’
Now one of the great difficulties of the subject is, that in all
languages certain words are employed to express more than one idea, and
that the idea connected with the word often changes as time advances. To
a certain extent this applies to the word ‘sanctification’ in sacred
Scripture. It has no less than four distinct meanings in the Word of
God; and, if we treat them all as if they were the same, we are sure to
be confused. It has its original sense, and three others that have grown
out of it. The original sense is separation unto God, or dedication; and
the three that have grown out of it are legal cleansing, personal
holiness, and the exaltation of the holiness of God. If therefore we
wish to understand the teaching of Scripture, we must clearly examine the
use of the word in these four senses. May the Lord Himself help us to do
so!
If we turn then to the beginning, we shall find that the original sense
of the word ‘to sanctify’ is to set apart unto God.
So in the Old Testament the Hebrew is frequently rendered ‘to hallow,’ or
to set apart as a holy thing.
In this sense it is used of the Sabbath (Gen. ii. 3): ‘God blessed the
seventh day, and sanctified it.’ He separated it from the ordinary
purposes of common life, and set it apart as a day peculiar to Himself.
So again the first-born were set apart unto God, and therefore said to be
sanctified; as we read, Exod. xiii. 2: ‘Sanctify unto Me all the
first-born—both of man and of beast: it is mine.’ So of the Temple, God
said (2 Chron. vii. 16), ‘I have chosen and sanctified this house, that
my name may be there for ever.’ The same is said of the priests, the
vessels of the sanctuary, and the lamb taken from the flock for
sacrifice: they were all separated unto God, and thus said to be
sanctified. It is in this sense that our blessed Saviour made use of the
word, when He said in John, xvii. 19, ‘For their sakes I sanctify
myself.’ No one can suppose for one moment that He made Himself more
holy, or cleansed Himself from actual sin, for He had been from all
eternity holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners. There was
no possibility of any increase of holiness in Him. But He did, from the
deep love that filled His heart, set Himself apart unto God, to be the
one perfect sin-offering for man. As the lamb was sanctified when it was
taken from the flock, and set apart for sacrifice, so did He sanctify
Himself when He separated Himself from all human fellowship, and, as one
set apart unto God, bore alone the whole burden of human guilt.
Now, this is the sense in which the word is used whenever sanctification
is spoken of as something past, or complete | 917.549192 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.6270330 | 1,789 | 9 |
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and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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Journals.)
Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected and
footnotes moved to the end of the relevant article. Greek
transliterations are surrounded by ~tildes~.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCLVIII. AUGUST, 1845. VOL. LVIII.
CONTENTS.
ON PUNISHMENT. 129
PUSHKIN, THE RUSSIAN POET. CONCLUDED. 140
MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN. PART XVIII. 157
A LETTER FROM LONDON. BY A RAILWAY WITNESS, 173
PRIESTS, WOMEN, AND FAMILIES, 185
MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. NO. II.--HORACE LEICESTER, 197
ZUMALACARREGUI, 210
NORTH'S SPECIMENS OF THE BRITISH CRITICS. NO. VII.--MAC-FLECNOE
AND THE DUNCIAD, 229
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET; AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON.
_To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCLVIII. AUGUST, 1845. VOL. LVIII.
ON PUNISHMENT.
How to punish crime, and in so doing reform the criminal; how to uphold
the man as a terror to evil-doers, and yet at the same time be
implanting in him the seeds of a future more happy and prosperous
life--this is perhaps the most difficult problem of legislation. We are
far from despairing of some approximation to a solution, which is the
utmost that can be looked for; but we are also convinced that even this
approximation will not be presented to us by those who seem willing to
blind themselves to the difficulties they have to contend with. Without,
therefore, assuming the air of opposition to the schemes of
philanthropic legislators, we would correct, so far as lies in our
power, some of those misconceptions and oversights which energetic
reformers are liable to fall into, whilst zealously bent on viewing
punishment in its reformatory aspect.
We have selected for our comments the pamphlets of Captain Maconochie,
not only because they illustrate the hasty and illogical reasonings, the
utter forgetfulness of elementary principles, into which such reformers
are apt to lapse; but also for the still better reason, that they
contain a suggestion of real value; a contribution towards an efficient
prison-discipline, which merits examination and an extensive trial. We
have added to these pamphlets a brief work of Zschokke's, the venerable
historian of Switzerland, on death-punishment, in order that we might
extend our observations over this topic also. It is evident that the
question of capital punishment, and the various questions relating to
prison discipline, embrace all that is either very interesting or very
important in the prevailing discussions on penal legislation.
Transportation forms no essentially distinct class of punishment, as the
transported convict differs from others in this only, that he has to
endure his sentence of personal restraint and compulsory labour in a
foreign climate.
Reformatory punishment! Alas, there is an incurable contradiction in the
very terms! Punishment is pain, is deprivation, despondency, affliction.
But, would you reform, you must apply kindness, and a measure of
prosperity, and a greater measure still of hope. There is no genial
influence in castigation. It may deter from the recommission of the
identical offence it visits, but no conversion, no renewal of the heart,
waits on its hostile presence; the disposition will remain the same,
with the addition of those angry sentiments which pain endured is sure
to generate. No philosopher or divine of these days would invent a
purgatory for the purifying of corrupted souls. No--he would say--your
purgatory may be a place of preparation if you will, but _not_ for
heaven. You may make devils there--nothing better; he must be already
twice a saint whom the smoke of your torments would not blacken to a
demon.
We may rest assured of this, that the actual infliction of the
punishment must always be an evil, as well to mind as body--as well to
society at large as to the culprit. If the threat alone could be
constantly efficacious--if the headlong obstinacy, the passion, and the
obtuseness of men would not oblige, from time to time, the execution of
the penalty, for the very purpose of sustaining the efficacy of the
threat--all would be well, and penal laws might be in full harmony with
the best educational institutions, and the highest interests of
humanity. But the moment the law from a threat becomes an act, and the
sentence goes forth, and the torture begins, a new but unavoidable train
of evils encounters us. There is war implanted in the very bosom of
society--hatred, and the giving and the sufferance of pain. And here, we
presume, is to be found the reason of the proverbially severe laws of
Draco, which, being instituted by a man of virtue and humanity, were yet
said to have been written in blood: he desired that the threat should be
effective, and that thus the evils of punishment, as well as of crime,
should be avoided.
Whatever is to be effected towards the genuine reformation of the
culprit, must be the result, not of the punishment itself, but of some
added ingredient, not of the essence of the punishment; as when hopes
are held out of reward, or part remission of the penalty, on the
practice of industry and a continuance of good behaviour.
And yet--some one may here object--we correct a child, we punish it, and
we reform. The very word correction has the double meaning of penalty
and amendment. If the plan succeeds so well with the infant, that he who
spares the rod is supposed to spoil the child, why should it utterly
fail with the adult? But mark the difference. You punish a child, and a
short while after you receive the little penitent back into your love;
nay, you caress it into penitence; and the reconcilement is so sweet,
that the infant culprit never, perhaps, has his affections so keenly
awakened as in these tearful moments of sorrow and forgiveness. The
heart is softer than ever, and the sense of shame at having offended is
kept sensitively alive. But if you withdrew your love--if, after
punishment inflicted, you still kept an averted countenance--if no
reconcilement were sought and fostered, there would be no reformation in
your chastisement. Between society and the adult culprit, this is
exactly the case. Here the hostile parent strikes, but makes no after
overture of kindness. The blow, and the bitterness of the blow, are left
unhealed. Nothing is done to take away the sting of anger, to keep the
heart tender to reproof, to prevent the growing callousness to shame,
and the rising rebellion of the spirit. And here reveals itself, in all
its force, another notorious difficulty with which the reformer of penal
codes has to contend.
In drawing the picture of the helpless condition of the convicted and
punished criminal, how often and how justly does he allude to the
circumstance, that the reputation of the man is so damaged that honest
people are loath to employ him--that his return to an untainted | 917.647073 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.8243370 | 2,194 | 13 |
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Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by the Library of Congress)
HOCUS POCUS; OR THE WHOLE ART OF LEGERDEMAIN, IN PERFECTION. BY HENRY
DEAN.
[Illustration:
Strange feats are herein taught by slight of hand,
With which you may amuse yourself and friend,
The like in print was never seen before,
And so you’ll say when once you’ve read it o’er.
]
HOCUS POCUS;
OR THE WHOLE ART OF
_LEGERDEMAIN_,
IN PERFECTION.
By which the meaneſt capacity may perform the
whole without the help of a teacher.
_Together with the Uſe of all the Inſtruments_
_belonging thereto._
TO WHICH IS NOW ADDED,
Abundance of New and Rare Inventions.
BY HENRY DEAN.
_The ELEVENTH EDITION, with large_
_Additions and Amendments._
PHILADELPHIA:
PRINTED FOR MATHEW CAREY, NO. 118,
MARKET-STREET.
1795.
THE PREFACE TO THE READER.
KIND READER,
Having _in my former_ book _of_ LEGERDEMAIN, _promiſed you farther
improvements, accordingly I have diſcovered herein to you the greateſt
and moſt wonderful ſecrets of this_ ART, _never written or publiſhed
by any man before: therefore I do not doubt but herein you will find
pleaſure to your full ſatisfaction; which is all my deſire_.
HENRY DEAN.
The Whole ART of LEGERDEMAIN; OR, HOCUS POCUS IN PERFECTION, &c.
Legerdemain is an operation whereby one may seem to work wonderful,
impossible, and incredible things, by agility, nimbleness, and slight
of hand. The parts of this ingenious art, are principally four.
First, In conveyance of balls.
Secondly, In conveyance of money.
Thirdly, In cards,
Fourthly, In confederacy.
_A Description of the Operation._
1. He must be one of a bold and undaunted resolution, so as to set a
good face upon the matter.
2. He must have strange terms, and emphatical words, to grace and adorn
his actions; and the more to amaze and astonish the beholders.
3. And lastly, He must use such gestures of body, as may take off the
spectators eyes from a strict and diligent beholding his manner of
performance.
_How to pass the Balls through the Cups._
You must place yourself at the farther end of the table, and then you
must provide yourself three cups, made of tin, and then you must have
your black sticks of magic to shew your wonders withal; then you must
provide four small cork balls to play with; but do not let more than
three of them be seen upon the table.
Note. Always conceal one ball in the right hand, between your middle
finger and ring finger: and be sure make yourself perfect to hold it
there, for, by this means, all the tricks of the cups are done.
Then say as followeth.
_Gentlemen, three cups—’tis true_
_They are but tin, the reason why,_
_Silver is something dear._
_I’ll turn them in gold, if I live, &c._
_No equivocation at all:_
_But if your eyes are not as quick as my hands_
_I shall deceive you all._
_View them within,_
_View them all round about,_
_Where there is nothing in,_
_There’s nothing can come out._
Then take your four balls privately between your fingers, and so sling
one of them upon the table, and say thus,
_The first trick that e’er learn’d to do,_
_Was, out of one ball to make it into two:_
_Ah! since it cannot better be,_
_One of these two, I’ll divide them into three,_
_Which is call’d the first trick of dexterity._
So then you have three balls on the table to play with, and one left
between the fingers of your right hand.
_The Operation of the Cups is thus._
[Illustration]
Lay your three balls on the table, then say, Gentlemen, you see here
are three balls, and here are three cups, that is, a cup for each ball,
and a ball for each cup. Then, taking that ball that you had in your
right hand, (which you are always to keep private) and clapping it
under the first cup, then taking up one of the three balls, with your
right hand, seeming to put it into your left hand, but retain it still
in your right, shutting your left hand in due time, then say, _Presto,
be gone_.
[Illustration]
Then taking the second cup up, say, Gentlemen, you see there is nothing
under my cup; so clap the ball that you have in your right hand under
it, and then take the second ball up with your right hand, and seem to
put it into your left, but retain it in your right hand, shutting your
left in due time, as before, saying, _Verda, be gone_.
[Illustration]
Then take the third cup, saying, Gentlemen, you see there is nothing
under my last cup; then clapping the ball you have in your right hand
under it, then take the third ball up with your right hand, and seeming
to put it into your left hand, but retain it in your right; shutting
your left hand in due time, as before, saying, _Presto, make haste_; so
you have your three balls come under your three cups, as thus: and so
lay your three cups down on the table.
[Illustration]
Then with your right hand take up the first cup, and there clap that
ball under, that you have in your right hand; then saying, Gentlemen,
this being the first ball, I will put it into my pocket; but that you
must still keep in your hand to play withal.
[Illustration]
So take up the second cup with your right hand, and clap that ball you
have concealed under it, and then take up the second ball with your
right hand, and say, this likewise, I take and put into my pocket.
[Illustration]
Likewise, take up the third cup, and clapping the cup down again,
convey that ball you have in your right hand under the cup, then taking
the third ball, say, Gentlemen, this being the last ball, I take and
put this into my pocket. Afterwards say to the company, Gentlemen, by
a little of my fine powder of experience, I will command these balls
under the cups again. As thus,
[Illustration]
So lay them all along upon the table to the admiration of all the
beholders.
Then take up the first cup, and clap the ball you have in your right
hand under it, then taking the first ball up with your right hand, seem
to put the same into your left hand, but retain it still in your right,
then say, _Vade, quick be gone when I bid you, and run under the cup_.
[Illustration]
Then taking that cup up again, and flinging that you have in your
right hand under it, you must take up the second ball, and seem to
put it into your left hand, but retain it in your right hand, saying,
Gentlemen, see how the ball runs on the table.
So seemingly fling it away, and it will appear as thus.
[Illustration]
So taking the same cup again, then clapping the ball under again, as
before, then taking the third ball in your right hand, and seem to put
it under your left, but still retain it in your right, then with your
left hand seem to fling it in the cup, and it will appear thus; all the
three balls to be under one cup.
[Illustration]
And if you can perform these actions with the cups, you may change the
balls into apples pears, or plumbs, or to living birds, to what your
fancy leads you to. I would have given you more examples, but I think
these are sufficient for the ingenious, so that, by these means, you
may perform all manner of actions with the cups.
Note. The artificial cups cannot well be described by words, but you
may have them of me, for they are accounted the greatest secrets in
this art: therefore, I advise you to keep them as such, for this was
never known to the world before.
_How to shew the wonderful_ Magic Lanthorn.
This is the magic lanthorn that has made so much wonder in the world,
and that which Friar Bacon used to shew all his magical wonders withal.
This lanthorn is called magic, with respect to the formidable
apparitions that by virtue of light it shews upon the white wall of a
dark room. The body of it is generally made of tin, and of a shape of
the lamp; towards the back part, is a concave looking glass of metal,
which may either be spherical or parabolical, and which, by a grove
made in the bottom of the lanthorn, may either be advanced nearer or
put farther back from the lamp, in which is oil or spirit of wine, and
the match ought to be a little thick, that when it is lighted, it may
cast a good light that may easily reflect from the glass to the fore
part of the lanthorn, where there is an aperture with the perspective
in it, composed of two glasses that make the rays converge and magnify
the object.
When you mean to make use of this admirable machine, light the lamp,
the light of which will be much augmented by the looking glass at a
reasonable distance. | 917.844377 |
2023-11-16 18:32:21.8677270 | 3,307 | 50 | WORSHIP OF THE DEAD, VOLUME I (OF 3)***
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THE BELIEF IN IMMORTALITY AND THE WORSHIP OF THE DEAD
by
J. G. FRAZER, D.C.L., LL.D., Litt.D.
Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge
Professor of Social Anthropology in the University of Liverpool.
VOL. I
The Belief Among the Aborigines of Australia, the Torres Straits
Islands, New Guinea and Melanesia
The Gifford Lectures, St. Andrews 1911-1912
MacMillan and Co., Limited
St. Martin's Street, London
1913
_Itaque unum illud erat insitum priscis illis, quos cascos
appellat Ennius, esse in morte sensum neque excessu vitae sic
deleri hominem, ut funditus interiret; idque cum multis aliis
rebus; tum e pontificio jure et e caerimoniis sepulchrorum
intellegi licet, quas maxumis ingeniis praediti nec tanta cura
coluissent nec violatas tam inexpiabili religione sanxissent,
nisi haereret in corum mentibus mortem non interitum esse omnia
tollentem atque delentem, sed quandam quasi migrationem
commutationemque vitae._
Cicero, _Tuscul. Disput._ i. 12.
TO
MY OLD FRIEND
JOHN SUTHERLAND BLACK, LL.D.
I DEDICATE AFFECTIONATELY
A WORK
WHICH OWES MUCH TO HIS ENCOURAGEMENT
PREFACE
The following lectures were delivered on Lord Gifford's Foundation
before the University of St. Andrews in the early winters of 1911 and
1912. They are printed nearly as they were spoken, except that a few
passages, omitted for the sake of brevity in the oral delivery, have
been here restored and a few more added. Further, I have compressed the
two introductory lectures into one, striking out some passages which on
reflection I judged to be irrelevant or superfluous. The volume
incorporates twelve lectures on "The Fear and Worship of the Dead" which
I delivered in the Lent and Easter terms of 1911 at Trinity College,
Cambridge, and repeated, with large additions, in my course at St.
Andrews.
The theme here broached is a vast one, and I hope to pursue it hereafter
by describing the belief in immortality and the worship of the dead, as
these have been found among the other principal races of the world both
in ancient and modern times. Of all the many forms which natural
religion has assumed none probably has exerted so deep and far-reaching
an influence on human life as the belief in immortality and the worship
of the dead; hence an historical survey of this most momentous creed and
of the practical consequences which have been deduced from it can hardly
fail to be at once instructive and impressive, whether we regard the
record with complacency as a noble testimony to the aspiring genius of
man, who claims to outlive the sun and the stars, or whether we view it
with pity as a melancholy monument of fruitless labour and barren
ingenuity expended in prying into that great mystery of which fools
profess their knowledge and wise men confess their ignorance.
J. G. FRAZER.
Cambridge,
_9th February 1913._
CONTENTS
Dedication
Preface
Table of Contents
Lecture I.--Introduction
Natural theology, three modes of handling it, the dogmatic, the
philosophical, and the historical, pp. 1 _sq._; the historical method
followed in these lectures, 2 _sq._; questions of the truth and moral
value of religious beliefs irrelevant in an historical enquiry, 3 _sq._;
need of studying the religion of primitive man and possibility of doing
so by means of the comparative method, 5 _sq._; urgent need of
investigating the native religion of savages before it disappears, 6
_sq._; a portion of savage religion the theme of these lectures, 7
_sq._; the question of a supernatural revelation dismissed, 8 _sq._;
theology and religion, their relations, 9; the term God defined, 9
_sqq._; monotheism and polytheism, 11; a natural knowledge of God, if it
exists, only possible through experience, 11 _sq._; the nature of
experience, 12 _sq._; two kinds of experience, an inward and an outward,
13 _sq._; the conception of God reached historically through both kinds
of experience, 14; inward experience or inspiration, 14 _sq._;
deification of living men, 16 _sq._; outward experience as a source of
the idea of God, 17; the tendency to seek for causes, 17 _sq._; the
meaning of cause, 18 _sq._; the savage explains natural processes by the
hypothesis of spirits or gods, 19 _sq._; natural processes afterwards
explained by hypothetical forces and atoms instead of by hypothetical
spirits and gods, 20 _sq._; nature in general still commonly explained
by the hypothesis of a deity, 21 _sq._; God an inferential or
hypothetical cause, 22 _sq._; the deification of dead men, 23-25; such a
deification presupposes the immortality of the human soul or rather its
survival for a longer or shorter time after death, 25 _sq._; the
conception of human immortality suggested both by inward experience,
such as dreams, and by outward experience, such as the resemblances of
the living to the dead, 26-29; the lectures intended to collect evidence
as to the belief in immortality among certain savage races, 29 _sq._;
the method to be descriptive rather than comparative or philosophical,
30.
Lecture II.--The Savage Conception of Death
The subject of the lectures the belief in immortality and the worship of
the dead among certain of the lower races, p. 31; question of the nature
and origin of death, 31 _sq._; universal interest of the question, 32
_sq._; the belief in immortality general among mankind, 33; belief of
many savages that death is not natural and that they would never die if
their lives were not cut prematurely short by sorcery, 33 _sq._;
examples of this belief among the South American Indians, 34 _sqq._;
death sometimes attributed to sorcery and sometimes to demons, practical
consequence of this distinction, 37; belief in sorcery as the cause of
death among the Indians of Guiana, 38 _sq._, among the Tinneh Indians of
North America, 39 _sq._, among the aborigines of Australia, 40-47, among
the natives of the Torres Straits Islands and New Guinea, 47, among the
Melanesians, 48, among the Malagasy, 48 _sq._, and among African tribes,
49-51; effect of such beliefs in thinning the population by causing
multitudes to die for the imaginary crime of sorcery, 51-53; some
savages attribute certain deaths to other causes than sorcery, 53;
corpse dissected to ascertain cause of death, 53 _sq._; the possibility
of natural death admitted by the Melanesians and the Caffres of South
Africa, 54-56; the admission marks an intellectual advance, 56 _sq._;
the recognition of ghosts or spirits, apart from sorcery, as a cause of
disease and death also marks a step in moral and social progress, 57
_sq._
Lecture III.--Myths of the Origin of Death
Belief of savages in man's natural immortality, p. 59; savage stories of
the origin of death, 59 _sq._; four types of such stories:--
(1) _The Story of the Two Messengers_.--Zulu story of the chameleon and
the lizard, 60 _sq._; Akamba story of the chameleon and the thrush, 61
_sq._; Togo story of the dog and the frog, 62 _sq._; Ashantee story of
the goat and the sheep, 63 _sq._
(2) _The Story of the Waxing and Waning Moon_.--Hottentot story of the
moon, the hare, and death, 65; Masai story of the moon and death, 65
_sq._; Nandi story of the moon, the dog, and death, 66; Fijian story of
the moon, the rat, and death, 67; Caroline, Wotjobaluk, and Cham stories
of the moon, death, and resurrection, 67; death and resurrection after
three days suggested by the reappearance of the new moon after three
days, 67 _sq._
(3) _The Story of the Serpent and his Cast Skin_.--New Britain and
Annamite story of immortality, the serpent, and death, 69 _sq._; Vuatom
story of immortality, the lizard, the serpent, and death, 70; Nias story
of immortality, the crab, and death, 70; Arawak and Tamanchier stories
of immortality, the serpent, the lizard, the beetle, and death, 70
_sq._; Melanesian story of the old woman and her cast skin, 71 _sq._;
Samoan story of the shellfish, two torches, and death, 72.
(4) _The Story of the Banana_.--Poso story of immortality, the stone,
the banana, and death, 72 _sq._; Mentra story of immortality, the
banana, and death, 73.
Primitive philosophy in the stories of the origin of death, 73 _sq._;
Bahnar story of immortality, the tree, and death, 74; rivalry for the
boon of immortality between men and animals that cast their skins, such
as serpents and lizards, 74 _sq._; stories of the origin of death told
by Chingpaws, Australians, Fijians, and Admiralty Islanders, 75-77;
African and American stories of the fatal bundle or the fatal box, 77
_sq._; Baganda story how death originated through the imprudence of a
woman, 78-81; West African story of Death and the spider, 81-83;
Melanesian story of Death and the Fool, 83 _sq._
Thus according to savages death is not a natural necessity, 84; similar
view held by some modern biologists, as A. Weismann and A. R. Wallace,
84-86.
Lecture IV.--The Belief in Immortality among the Aborigines of Central
Australia
In tracing the evolution of religious beliefs we must begin with those
of the lowest savages, p. 87; the aborigines of Australia the lowest
savages about whom we possess accurate information, 88; savagery a case
of retarded development, 88 _sq._; causes which have retarded progress
in Australia, 89 _sq._; the natives of Central Australia on the whole
more primitive than those of the coasts, 90 _sq._; little that can be
called religion among them, 91 _sq._; their theory that the souls of the
dead survive and are reborn in their descendants, 92 _sq._; places where
the souls of the dead await rebirth, and the mode in which they enter
into women, 93 _sq._; local totem centres, 94 _sq._; totemism defined,
95; traditionary origin of the local totem centres (_oknanikilla_) where
the souls of the dead assemble, 96; sacred birth-stones or birth-sticks
(_churinga_) which the souls of ancestors are thought to have dropped at
these places, 96-102; elements of a worship of the dead, 102 _sq._;
marvellous powers attributed to the remote ancestors of the _alcheringa_
or dream times, 103 _sq._; the Wollunqua, a mythical water-snake,
ancestor of a totemic clan of the Warramunga tribe, 104-106; religious
character of the belief in the Wollunqua, 106.
Lecture V.--The Belief in Immortality among the Aborigines of Central
Australia (_continued_)
Beliefs of the Central Australian aborigines concerning the
reincarnation of the dead, p. 107; possibility of the development of
ancestor worship, 107 _sq._; ceremonies performed by the Warramunga in
honour of the Wollunqua, the mythical ancestor of one of their totem
clans, 108 _sqq._; union of magic and religion in these ceremonies, 111
_sq._; ground drawings of the Wollunqua, 112 _sq._; importance of the
Wollunqua in the evolution of religion and art, 113 _sq._; how totemism
might develop into polytheism through an intermediate stage of ancestor
worship, 114 _sq._; all the conspicuous features of the country
associated by the Central Australians with the spirits of their
ancestors, 115-118; dramatic ceremonies performed by them to commemorate
the deeds of their ancestors, 118 _sq._; examples of these ceremonies,
119-122; these ceremonies were probably in origin not merely
commemorative or historical but magical, being intended to procure a
supply of food and other necessaries, 122 _sq._; magical virtue actually
attributed to these dramatic ceremonies by the Warramunga, who think
that by performing them they increase the food supply of the tribe, 123
_sq._; hence the great importance ascribed by these savages to the due
performance of the ancestral dramas, 124; general attitude of the
Central Australian aborigines to their dead, and the lines on which, if
left to themselves, they might have developed a regular worship of the
dead, 124-126.
Lecture VI.--The Belief in Immortality among the other Aborigines of
Australia
Evidence for the belief in reincarnation among the natives of other
parts of Australia than the centre, p. 127; beliefs of the Queensland
aborigines | 917.887767 |
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Transcriber Notes
Text emphasis is denoted as _Italics_.
THE
BIRD WATCHER IN THE SHETLANDS
WITH SOME NOTES ON SEALS--AND DIGRESSIONS
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: _A Seal's Dormitory._]
THE
BIRD WATCHER
IN THE SHETLANDS
WITH SOME NOTES ON SEALS--AND
DIGRESSIONS
BY
EDMUND SELOUS
[Illustration: Shadows we are and
Like shadows depart]
WITH 10 ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
J. SMIT
LONDON: J. M. DENT & CO.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
1905
PREFACE
In the spring of 1900 I paid my first visit to the Shetlands, and most
of what I then saw is embodied in my work _Bird Watching_. Two years
afterwards I went there again, arriving somewhat later, and it is the
notes made by me during this second stay which fill the greater number
of these pages. They are my journal, written from day to day, amidst
the birds with whom I lived without another companion, nor did I look
upon them as more than the rough material out of which I might, some
day, make a book. When it came to making one, however, it struck me more
and more forcibly that I was taking elaborate pains to stereotype and
artificialise what was, at any rate, as it stood, an unforced utterance
and natural growth. I found, in fact, that I could make it worse, but not
better, so I resolved not to make it worse. Except for a few peckings,
therefore, and minor interpolations--mostly having to do with the working
out of ideas jotted down in the rough--I send it to press with this very
negative sort of recommendation, and with only the hope added that what
interested me so much will interest others also, even through the veil
of my writing. Besides birds, I was lucky enough this time to have
seals to watch, and I watched them hour after hour and day after day. I
believe I know them better now, than I do anybody, or than anybody does
me; but that is not to say much, for, as the true Russian proverb has it,
"Another man's soul is darkness." But I have them in my heart for ever,
and I would take them out of the Zoological Society's basins, and throw
them back into the sea, if I could.
I have no doubt that these pages contain some errors of observation or
inference which I am not yet aware of--but those who only glance at
them may sometimes be inclined to correct me, where, later, I correct
myself. It is best, I think, to let one's mistakes stand recorded
against one, for mistakes have their interest, and often emphasize some
truth. Honesty, too, would suffer in their suppression--and besides,
if one has got in some idea or reflection that pleases one, or a
piece of descriptive writing that does not seem amiss, how tiresome
to have to scratch it out, merely because it is founded on a wrong
apprehension!--the spire to come tumbling just for the want of a base!
For these reasons, therefore--especially the last, when it applies--I
have not suppressed my errors, even where I happen to know them. There
they stand, if only to encourage others who may be labouring in the same
field as myself--which makes one more high-minded motive.
For my digressions, etc.--for which I have been taken to task--I hope
this fresh crop of them will make it apparent that they are a part of
my method, or, rather, a part of myself. I have still a temperament I
find--and it gives me a good deal of trouble--but as soon as I have
become a nonentity, I will follow the advice given me, and write like
one. I would say more if I could, but I must not promise what it is not
in my power to perform.
EDMUND SELOUS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. My Island Again! 1
II. Spoiler and Spoiled 9
III. From Darkness to Light 15
IV. Duckings and Bobbings 26
V. A Vengeful Community 31
VI. Metempsychosis 37
VII. Bird Sympathy 39
VIII. Enchanted Caverns 47
IX. Ducks and Divers 59
X. From the Edge of a Precipice 68
XI. Darwinian Eider-ducks 74
XII. On the Great Ness-side 81
XIII. Mother and Child 88
XIV. "Dream Children" 95
XV. New Developments 104
XVI. Flight and Fancy 110
XVII. Mouths with Meanings 122
XVIII. Learning to Soar 133
XIX. The Dance of Death 138
XX. "By _Any_ Other Name"! 150
XXI. "Not Always to the Strong" 156
XXII. Children of the Mists 160
XXIII. Love on the Ledges 172
XXIV. Grouse Aspirations 190
XXV. Unorthodox Attitudes 203
XXVI. Pied Pipers 218
XXVII. A Bitter Disappointment 225
XXVIII. Tammy-Norie-land 234
XXIX. Thoughts in a Sentry-box 249
XXX. Intersexual Selection 261
XXXI. An All-day Sitting 284
XXXII. Three Murderers 297
XXXIII. Gulls and Gibbon 314
XXXIV. All about Seals 327
XXXV. The Devil's Advocate 342
XXXVI. Comparing Notes 365
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A Seal's Dormitory _Photogravure Frontispiece_
Bird Sympathy _Facing page_ 42
From the Rocks of Raasey Isle " 84
On the Edge of the Precipice " 92
Aerial Piracy " 133
A Seal's Plaything " 216
A Perilous Journey " 288
"One More Unfortunate" " 308
"Nature Red in Tooth and Claw" " 316
Polite but Insistent " 346
THE BIRD WATCHER
IN THE SHETLANDS
WITH SOME NOTES ON SEALS--AND
DIGRESSIONS
CHAPTER I
MY ISLAND AGAIN!
My island again!--and all the birds still there, looking just as they did
when I left it. More, too, have come. At night, but in a sort of murky
daylight, I walk over the breeding-ground of the terns, a long flat strip
of pebbly beach--or rather the heather a little way above it, for on
the beach itself they do not appear to have laid. Rising, all at once,
as is their wont, they make a second smaller canopy, above me, floating
midway beneath the all-overshadowing one of dreary low-lying cloud. Out
of it, ever and anon, some single bird shoots down, with a cry so sharp
and shrill that it seems to pierce the ear like a pointed instrument.
Occasionally an oyster-catcher darts in amongst them all, on quickly
quivering wings, its quavering high-pitched note of "teep, teep!--teep,
teep, teep!" threading, as it were, the general clamour, whilst like
a grey, complaining shadow, the curlew circles, beyond and solitary,
shunning even the outer margin of the crowd. How lonely is this island,
and yet how populous! The terns--a "shrieking sisterhood"--make, as I
say, a canopy above me, when I pace or skirt their territories; but what
is that to the great perpetual canopy of gulls that accompanies and
shrieks down at me, almost wherever I go? Were it beneath any roof but
that of heaven, how deafening, how ear-splitting would be the noise,
how utterly unendurable! But going forth into the immensity of sky and
air it sounds almost softly, harsh as it is, and even its highest, most
distressful notes, sink peacefully at last into the universal murmur of
the sea, making the treble to the bass of its lullaby.
Most of the cries seem to resolve themselves into the one note or
syllable "ow," out of which, through varied tone and inflection, a
language has been evolved. "Ow-_ow_, ow-_ow_, ow-_ow_!" sadly prolonged
and most disconsolately upturned upon the last, saddest syllable--a
despair, a dirge in "ow." Then a series of shrieking "ows," disjoined,
but each the echo of the last, so that when the last has sounded, the
memory hears but one. Then again a wail, intoned a little differently,
but as mournful as the other. And now a laugh--discordant, mirthless,
but a laugh, and with even a chuckle in it--"ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!" the
syllables huddling one another like the "_petit glou-glou_" of water out
of a bottle. All "ow" or variants of "ow," till the great black-backed
(the bulk are herring-gulls) swooping upon you, almost like the great
skua itself, breaks the spell with a "gugga, gugga, gugga!" or, right
over your head, says "er" with a stress and feeling that amounts almost
to solemnity.
How lonely and yet how populous! Does life, other than human life,
around one, in any way diminish the sense of solitude? I do not think
it does myself, except through human association, and for this, human
surroundings are more or less requisite. Thus woodland birds seem homely
and companionable in woods near which one has a home, and gulls upon the
roofs of houses take the place of pigeons or poultry in the feelings they
arouse. So, too, as long as a natural alacrity of the spirits prevails
over that dead, void feeling which prolonged solitude brings to the most
solitary, the wildest creatures in the wildest and loneliest places may
seem to cheer us with their presence. But the feeling is a false one,
dependent | 917.935469 |
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THE
SAPPHIRE SIGNET
[Illustration: "I had the _worst_ time puzzling this out!" she said]
THE
SAPPHIRE SIGNET
BY
AUGUSTA HUIELL SEAMAN
Author of "The Boarded-Up House," etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
C. M. RELYEA
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1916
Copyright, 1915, 1916, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published, September, 1916_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE HOUSE IN CHARLTON STREET 3
II SOMETHING TURNS UP 16
III THE DISCOVERY IN THE ATTIC 32
IV A KEY TO THE MYSTERY 53
V "THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL" 65
VI A SURPRISE 79
VII THE DISCOVERIES CORINNE MADE 91
VIII BAFFLED! 102
IX INTRODUCING ALEXANDER 114
X ALEXANDER TAKES HOLD 126
XI ALEXANDER SPRINGS A SURPRISE 135
XII THE MYSTERY UNRAVELS FURTHER 149
XIII ALEXANDER ENGAGES IN SOME HISTORICAL
RESEARCH 162
XIV A BELATED DISCOVERY AND A SOLEMN CONCLAVE 179
XV SARAH TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME 192
XVI THE SAPPHIRE SIGNET 209
XVII IN WHICH SARAH CHANGES HER MIND 228
XVIII TWO SURPRISES 245
XIX THE MISSING LINKS 255
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"I had the _worst_ time puzzling this out!" she said _Frontispiece_
"Corinne noticed that the bottom of the trunk seemed
all wrong." 37
"He gazed hard at me as I stood on the lawn." 71
"Madame Mortier warned Alison that she wasn't to have
any communication with the rebels." 109
"I poked around it, top, bottom, and sides." 143
"You must welcome the latest member of the Antiquarian
Club, Miss President!" 205
He began to tap the inside of the trunk all over, carefully,
with the handle of his penknife 223
"For a minute or two she didn't answer." 265
THE SAPPHIRE SIGNET
THE SAPPHIRE SIGNET
OR
"THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL"
CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE IN CHARLTON STREET
It was five o'clock and a very dull, dark afternoon in Charlton
Street. One by one lights had twinkled out in all the little
two-story-and-dormer-windowed houses on the block,—in all but one.
The parlor windows of this house were still unlit, but behind the
flower-box in one of them a hand could be seen moving aside the white
curtains at frequent intervals and a dim face peering anxiously into
the dusk.
At ten minutes past five precisely, two trim girl-figures turned the
corner of Varick Street, hurried down the block, raced up the steps
of this same house, and waved frantically at the dark windows. An
answering wave saluted them from between the parted curtains. At the
same moment lights twinkled out from the windows, and a quick hand
pulled down the shades with a jerk, shutting out the dim street for the
night. But back of the drawn shades a small figure in an invalid-chair
held out welcoming arms to the girls who had just entered.
"My! How long you were! I thought you'd never get here to-day. And it's
been so dark and dismal all the afternoon, too!" The two girls, who
were plainly twins, knelt down, one on each side of the invalid-chair.
"We _were_ an age, I know, Margaret dear," began Bess, "but there was a
good reason. It's quite exciting,—all about the new girl!"
"Yes, you can never guess what, either!" echoed Jess, winding one of
Margaret's dark curls around her finger.
"Oh, tell me—quick!" The child's big, beautiful gray eyes fairly
sparkled with eagerness, and a faint flush tinted her delicate face.
"Is it that queer girl you told me about, who only came into the class
a few days ago?"
"That's the one,—but let's get our things off first and see if Sarah
made any cookies to-day. We're starving!"
A huge woman who had been moving about the room lighting gas-jets,
pulling down shades, and straightening the furniture, now broke into
the conversation: "Ye kin save yerselves the trouble! I ain't made no
cookies this day—an' me wid all that wash! What d' ye think I be?"
"Go 'long, Sarah!" laughed Bess. "You know there's probably a whole
jarful in the pantry, and we don't care whether you made them to-day or
a week ago. They're always dandy!"
Sarah gave a chuckle that shook her huge frame, and tucked a light
shawl lovingly about the knees of the girl in the chair.
"Ye'll have a hard time findin' any!" she warned, as the two ran off.
"Won't they, Margie, macushla?"
In five minutes the twins were back, each with a massive chunk of
chocolate layer-cake in her hand and a mouth full of the same.
"You told the truth, Sarah, for once! There weren't any cookies, but
this is heaps better!"
"If ye get any crumbs on me floor," threatened Sarah, ominously,
"ye'll have no more cake of any kind, the week out!" And she departed
downstairs in great (pretended) displeasure.
"Now for it! Tell me right away," demanded Margaret. "I'm _so_
impatient to hear!"
"Well," began Bess, in muffled tones, struggling to swallow a large
mouthful of cake, "you remember we told you about that nice girl who
came into our section three days ago, but who seemed so offish and
queer and quiet. She's always staring out of the window, as if she were
dreaming. And when she isn't studying, she's reading some book the
whole time. And she hardly ever talks to a soul. Jess and I thought
she must feel rather lonesome and strange. You know it is rather hard
to come into the first year of High School more than a month after
everything's started, and every one else has got acquainted, and try
to pick up! I think one must feel so awfully out of it!
"So Jess and I decided we'd ask her to eat lunch with us to-day. She
always eats by herself, and yesterday she didn't eat at all,—just read
a book the whole time! I went up to her at lunch-period and said—"
"What's her name?" interrupted Margaret.
"Corinne Cameron,—isn't it a dandy name? Corinne! It has such a
_distinguished_ sound!—Well, she was reading, as usual, and looked
up at me sort of dazed and far-away when I asked her if she'd care to
eat with us. But she seemed very glad to do it and came right over. We
had a very interesting talk, and she asked us right away to call her
'Corinne,' instead of 'Miss Cameron,' as they do in High School. She
said it made her feel about a hundred miles away from every one to be
called 'Miss.' So of course we asked her to call us 'Elisabeth' and
'Jessica.'"
"But why didn't you tell her just 'Bess' and 'Jess'?" interrupted
Margaret again. "That's so much more natural."
"Well, you see, 'Corinne' sounds so sort of distinguished and—and
dignified! And somehow our names don't. They just seem ordinary
and—and so like small children. And at least 'Elisabeth' and 'Jessica'
seem more—grown-up!"
"What does she look like?" questioned Margaret, going off on another
tack.
"Oh, she's, well, sort of distinguished-looking, too—like her name.
She's tall and slim and has very dark brown wavy hair, and big, dark
eyes, almost black, and the prettiest straight nose,—not a little
_snub_ like ours (I don't mean yours, Margaret! _That's_ all right!).
But she always acts as though her thoughts were about a thousand miles
away. She talked about books mostly, and asked us if we didn't just
_love_ to read. And when we said no, not so awfully, she seemed so
astonished. I said we'd rather play basket-ball, and she laughed and
said we couldn't play that _all_ the time, and what did we do with our
spare moments. I told her we didn't have many, because, at home here,
we were always | 917.971201 |
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[Illustration]
The Conquest
_The Story of a <DW64> Pioneer_
BY THE PIONEER
1913
THE WOODRUFF PRESS
Lincoln, Nebr.
Entered according to the Act of Congress in the year 1913,
by the Woodruff Bank Note Co., in the office of the
Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.
First Edition, May 1, 1913
_To the_
_HONORABLE BOOKER T. WASHINGTON_
_INTRODUCTORY_
_This is a true story of a <DW64> who was discontented and the
circumstances that were the outcome of that discontent._
INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Became number one in the opening 56
Everybody for miles around had journeyed thither to
celebrate 113
Made a declaration that he would build a town 128
Although the valley could not be surpassed in the production
of grain and alfalfa, the highlands on
either side were great mountains of sand 133
On the east the murky waters of the Missouri seek
their level 140
The real farmer was fast replacing the homesteader 145
Everything grew so rank, thick and green 160
Had put 280 acres under cultivation 177
Bringing stock, household goods and plenty of money 192
Were engaged in ranching and owned great herds in
Tipp county 209
As the people were all now riding in autos 241
A beautiful townsite where trees stood 251
Ernest Nicholson takes a hand 256
The crops began to wither 289
The cold days and long nights passed slowly by, and I
cared for the stock 304
LIST OF CHAPTERS
PAGE
I Discontent--Spirit of the Pioneer 9
II Leaving Home--A Maiden 18
III Chicago, Chasing a Will-O-The-Wisp 24
IV The P----n Company 34
V "Go West Young Man" 48
VI "And Where is Oristown?" 54
VII Oristown, the "Little Crow" Reservation 61
VIII Far Down the Pacific--The Proposal 67
IX The Return--Ernest Nicholson 72
X The Oklahoma Grafter 74
XI Dealin' in Mules 79
XII The Homesteaders 86
XIII Imaginations Run Amuck 91
XIV The Surveyors 94
XV "Which Town Will the R.R. Strike?" 104
XVI Megory's Day 108
XVII Ernest Nicholson's Return 117
XVIII Comes Stanley, the Chief Engineer 123
XIX In the Valley of the Keya Paha 126
XX The Outlaw's Last Stand 132
XXI The Boom 134
XXII The President's Proclamation 140
XXIII Where the <DW64> Fails 142
XXIV And the Crowds Did Come--The Prairie Fire 148
XXV The Scotch Girl 153
XXVI The Battle 164
XXVII The Sacrifice--Race Loyalty 168
XXVIII The Breeds 175
XXIX In the Valley of the Dog Ear 182
XXX Ernest Nicholson Takes a Hand 186
XXXI The McCralines 193
XXXII A Long Night 201
XXXIII The Survival of the Fittest 208
XXXIV East of State Street 216
XXXV An Uncrowned King 233
XXXVI A Snake in the Grass 241
XXXVII The Progressives and the Reactionaries 251
XXXVIII Sanctimonious Hypocrisy 265
XXXIX Beginning of the End 273
XL The Mennonites 280
XLI The Drouth 284
XLII A Year of Coincidences 294
XLIII "And Satan Came Also" 297
The Conquest
CHAPTER I
DISCONTENT--SPIRIT OF THE PIONEER
Good gracious, has it been that long? It does not seem possible; but it
was this very day nine years ago when a fellow handed me this little
what-would-you-call-it, Ingalls called it "Opportunity." I've a notion
to burn it, but I won't--not this time, instead, I'll put it down here
and you may call it what you like.
Master of human destinies am I.
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk. I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by
Hovel, and mart, and palace--soon or late
I knock unbidden once at every gate.
If sleeping, wake--if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore,
I answer not, and I return no more.
Yes, it was that little poem that led me to this land and sometimes I
wonder well, I just wonder, that's all. Again, I think it would be
somewhat different if it wasn't for the wind. It blows and blows until
it makes me feel lonesome and so far away from that little place and the
country in southern Illinois.
I was born twenty-nine years ago near the Ohio River, about forty miles
above Cairo, the fourth son and fifth child of a family of thirteen, by
the name of Devereaux--which, of course, is not my name but we will call
it that for this sketch. It is a peculiar name that ends with an "eaux,"
however, and is considered an odd name for a <DW52> man to have, unless
he is from Louisiana where the French crossed with the Indians and
slaves, causing many Louisiana <DW64>s to have the French names and many
speak the French language also. My father, however, came from Kentucky
and inherited the name from his father who was sold off into Texas
during the slavery period and is said to be living there today.
He was a farmer and owned eighty acres of land and was, therefore,
considered fairly "well-to-do," that is, for a <DW52> man. The county
in which we lived bordered on the river some twenty miles, and took its
name from an old fort that used to do a little cannonading for the
Federal forces back in the Civil War.
The farming in this section was hindered by various disadvantages and at
best was slow, hard work. Along the valleys of the numerous creeks and
bayous that empty their waters into the Ohio, the soil was of a rich
alluvium, where in the early Spring the back waters from the Ohio
covered thousands of acres of farm and timber lands, and in receding
left the land plastered with a coat of river sand and clay which greatly
added to the soil's productivity. One who owned a farm on these bottoms
was considered quite fortunate. Here the corn stalks grew like saplings,
with ears dangling one and two to a stalk, and as sound and heavy as
green blocks of wood.
The heavy rains washed the loam from the hills and deposited it on these
bottoms. Years ago, when the rolling lands were cleared, and before the
excessive rainfall had washed away the loose surface, the highlands were
considered most valuable for agricultural purposes, equally as valuable
as the bottoms now are. Farther back from the river the more rolling the
land became, until some sixteen miles away it was known as the hills,
and here, long before I was born, the land had been very valuable. Large
barns and fine stately houses--now gone to wreck and deserted--stood
behind beautiful groves of chestnut, locust and stately old oaks, where
rabbits, quail and wood-peckers made their homes, and sometimes a
raccoon or opossum founded its den during the cold, bleak winter days.
The orchards, formerly the pride of their owners, now dropped their
neglected fruit which rotted and mulched with the leaves. The fields,
where formerly had grown great crops of wheat, corn, oats, timothy and
clover, were now grown over and enmeshed in a tangled mass of weeds and
dew-berry vines; while along the branches and where the old rail fences
had stood, black-berry vines had grown up, twisting their thorny stems
and forming a veritable hedge fence. These places I promised mother to
avoid as I begged her to allow me to follow the big boys and carry their
game when they went hunting.
In the neighborhood and throughout the country there had at one time
been many farmers, or ex-slaves, who had settled there after the
war. Many of them having built up nice homes and cleared the valley of
tough-rooted hickory, gum, pecan and water-oak trees, and the highlands
of the black, white, red or post oak, sassafras and dogwood. They later
grubbed the stumps and hauled the rocks into the roads, or dammed
treacherous little streams that were continually breaking out and
threatening the land with more ditches. But as time wore on and the
older generation died, the younger were attracted to the towns and
cities in quest of occupations that were more suitable to their
increasing desires for society and good times. Leaving the farms to care
for themselves until the inevitable German immigrant came along and
bought them up at his own price, tilled the land, improved the farm and
roads, straightened out the streams by digging canals, and grew
prosperous.
As for me, I was called the lazy member of the family; a shirker who
complained that it was too cold to work in the winter, and too warm in
the summer. About the only thing for which I was given credit was in
learning readily. I always received good grades in my studies, but was
continually criticised for talking too much and being too inquisitive.
We finally moved into the nearby town of M--pls. Not so much to get off
the farm, or to be near more <DW52> people (as most of the younger
<DW64> farmers did) as to give the children better educational
facilities.
The local school was held in an old building made of plain
boards standing straight up and down with batten on the cracks. It was
inadequate in many respects; the teachers very often inefficient, and
besides, it was far from home. After my oldest sister graduated she went
away to teach, and about the same time my oldest brother quit school and
went to a near-by town and became a table waiter, much to the
dissatisfaction of my mother, who always declared emphatically that she
wanted none of her sons to become lackeys.
When the Spanish-American War broke out the two brothers above me
enlisted with a company of other patriotic young fellows and were taken
to Springfield to go into camp. At Springfield their company was
disbanded and those of the company that wished to go on were accepted
into other companies, and those that desired to go home were permitted
to do so. The younger of the two brothers returned home by freight; the
other joined a Chicago company and was sent to Santiago and later to San
Luis DeCuba, where he died with typhoid pneumonia.
M--pls was an old town with a few factories, two flour mills, two or
three saw mills, box factories and another concern where veneering was
peeled from wood blocks softened with steam. The timber came from up the
Tennessee River, which emptied into the Ohio a few miles up the river.
There was also the market house, such as are to be seen in towns of the
Southern states--and parts of the Northern. This market house, or
place, as it is often called, was an open building, except one end
enclosed by a meat-market, and was about forty by one hundred feet with
benches on either side and one through the center for the convenience of
those who walked, carrying their produce in a home-made basket. Those in
vehicles backed to a line guarded by the city marshall, forming an
alleyway the width of the market house for perhaps half a block,
depending on how many farmers were on hand. There was always a rush to
get nearest the market house; a case of the early bird getting the worm.
The towns people who came to buy, women mostly with baskets, would file
leisurely between the rows of vehicles, hacks and spring wagons of
various descriptions, looking here and there at the vegetables
displayed.
We moved back to the country after a time where my father complained of
my poor service in the field and in disgust I was sent off to do the
marketing--which pleased me, for it was not only easy but gave me a
chance to meet and talk with many people--and I always sold the goods
and engaged more for the afternoon delivery. This was my first
experience in real business and from that time ever afterward I could
always do better business for myself than for anyone else. I was not
given much credit for my ability to sell, however, until my brother, who
complained that I was given all the easy work while he had to labor and
do all the heavier farm work, was sent to do the marketing. He was not a
salesman and lacked the aggressiveness to approach people with a basket,
and never talked much; was timid and when spoken to or approached
plainly showed it.
On the other hand, I met and became acquainted with people quite
readily. I soon noticed that many people enjoy being flattered, and how
pleased even the prosperous men's wives would seem if bowed to with a
pleasant "Good Morning, Mrs. Quante, nice morning and would you care to
look at some fresh roasting ears--ten cents a dozen; or some nice ripe
strawberries, two boxes for fifteen cents?" "Yes Maam, Thank you! and O,
Mrs. Quante, would you care for some radishes, cucumbers or lettuce for
tomorrow? I could deliver late this afternoon, you see, for maybe you
haven't the time to come to market every day." From this association I
soon learned to give to each and every prospective customer a different
greeting or suggestion, which usually brought a smile and a nod of
appreciation as well as a purchase.
Before the debts swamped my father, and while my brothers were still at
home, our truck gardening, the small herd of milkers and the chickens
paid as well as the farm itself. About this time father fell heir to a
part of the estate of a brother which came as a great relief to his ever
increasing burden of debt.
While this seeming relief to father was on I became very anxious to get
away. In fact I didn't like M--pls nor its surroundings. It was a river
town and gradually losing its usefulness by the invasion of railroads up
and down the river; besides, the <DW52> people were in the most part
wretchedly poor, ignorant and envious. They were set in the ways of
their localisms, and it was quite useless to talk to them of anything
that would better oneself. The social life centered in the two churches
where praying, singing and shouting on Sundays, to back-biting,
stealing, fighting and getting drunk during the week was common among
the men. They remained members in good standing at the churches,
however, as long as they paid their dues, contributed to the numerous
rallies, or helped along in camp meetings and festivals. Others were
regularly turned out, mostly for not paying their dues, only to warm up
at the next revival on the mourners bench and come through converted and
be again accepted into the church and, for awhile at least, live a
near-righteous life. There were many good Christians in the church,
however, who were patient with all this conduct, while there were and
still are those who will not sanction such carrying-on by staying in a
church that permits of such shamming and hypocrisy. These latter often
left the church and were then branded either as infidels or human devils
who had forsaken the house of God and were condemned to eternal
damnation.
My mother was a shouting Methodist and many times we children would slip
quietly out of the church when she began to get happy. The old and less
religious men hauled slop to feed a few pigs, cut cord-wood at fifty
cents per cord, and did any odd jobs, or kept steady ones when such
could be found. The women took in washing, cooked for the white folks,
and fed the preachers. When we lived in the country we fed so many of
the Elders, with their long tailed coats and assuming and authoritative
airs, that I grew to almost dislike the sight of a <DW52> man in a
Prince Albert coat and clerical vest. At sixteen I was fairly disgusted
with it all and took no pains to keep my disgust concealed.
This didn't have the effect of burdening me with many friends in M--pls
and I was regarded by many of the boys and girls, who led in the
whirlpool of the local <DW52> society, as being of the
"too-slow-to-catch-cold" variety, and by some of the Elders as being
worldly, a free thinker, and a dangerous associate for young Christian
folks. Another thing that added to my unpopularity, perhaps, was my
persistent declarations that there were not enough competent <DW52>
people to grasp the many opportunities that presented themselves, and
that if white people could possess such nice homes, wealth and luxuries,
so in time, could the <DW52> people. "You're a fool", I would be told,
and then would follow a lecture describing the time-worn long and cruel
slavery, and after the emancipation, the prejudice and hatred of the
white race, whose chief object was to prevent the progress and
betterment of the <DW64>. This excuse for the <DW64>'s lack of ambition
was constantly dinned into my ears from the Kagle corner loafer to the
minister in the pulpit, and I became so tired of it all that I declared
that if I could ever leave M--pls I would never return. More, I would
disprove such a theory and in the following chapters I hope to show that
what I believed fourteen years ago was true.
CHAPTER II
LEAVING HOME--A MAIDEN
I was seventeen when I at last left M--pls. I accepted a rough job at a
dollar and a quarter a day in a car manufacturing concern in a town of
eight thousand population, about eight hundred being. I was
unable to save very much, for work was dull that summer, and I was only
averaging about four days' work a week. Besides, I had an attack of
malaria at intervals for a period of two months, but by going to work at
five o'clock A.M. when I was well I could get in two extra hours, making
a dollar-fifty. The concern employed about twelve hundred men and paid
their wages every two weeks, holding back one week's pay. I came there
in June and it was some time in September that I drew my fullest pay
envelope which contained sixteen dollars and fifty cents.
About this time a "fire eating" evangelist, who apparently
possessed great converting powers and unusual eloquence, came to town.
These qualities, however, usually became very uninteresting toward the
end of a stay. He had been to M--pls the year before I left and at that
place his popularity greatly diminished before he left. The greater part
of the <DW52> people in this town were of the emotional kind and to
these he was as attractive as he had been at M--pls in the beginning.
Coincident with the commencement of Rev. McIntyre's soul stirring
sermons a big revival was inaugurated, and although the little church
was filled nightly to its capacity, the aisles were kept clear in order
to give those that were "steeping in Hell's fire" (as the evangelist
characterized those who were not members of some church) an open road to
enter into the field of the righteous; also to give the mourners
sufficient room in which to exhaust their emotions when the spirit
struck them--and it is needless to say that they were used. At times
they virtually converted the entire floor into an active gymnasium,
regardless of the rights of other persons or of the chairs they
occupied. I had seen and heard people shout at long intervals in church,
but here, after a few soul stirring sermons, they began to run outside
where there was more room to give vent to the hallucination and this
wandering of the mind. It could be called nothing else, for after the
first few sermons the evangelist would hardly be started before some
mourner would begin to "come through." This revival warmed up to such
proportions that preaching and shouting began in the afternoon instead
of evening. Men working in the yards of the foundry two block away could
hear the shouting above the roaring furnaces and the deafening noise of
machinery of a great car manufacturing concern. The church stood on a
corner where two streets, or avenues, intersected and for a block in
either direction the influence of fanaticism became so intense that the
converts began running about like wild creatures, tearing their hair and
uttering prayers and supplications in discordant tones.
At the evening services the sisters would gather around a mourner that
showed signs of weakening and sing and babble until he or she became so
befuddled they would jump up, throw their arms wildly into the air,
kick, strike, then cry out like a dying soul, fall limp and exhausted
into the many arms outstretched to catch them. This was always
conclusive evidence of a contrite heart and a thoroughly penitent soul.
Far into the night this performance would continue, and when the
mourners' bench became empty the audience would be searched for sinners.
I would sit through it all quite unemotional, and nightly I would be
approached with "aren't you ready?" To which I would make no answer. I
noticed that several boys, who were not in good standing with the
parents of girls they wished to court, found the mourners' bench a
convenient vehicle to the homes of these girls--all of whom belonged to
church. Girls over eighteen who did not belong were subjects of much
gossip and abuse.
A report, in some inconceivable manner, soon became spread that Oscar
Devereaux had said that he wanted to die and go to hell. Such a
sensation! I was approached on all sides by men and women, regardless of
the time of day or night, by the young men who gloried in their
conversion and who urged me to "get right" with Jesus before it was too
late. I do not remember how long these meetings lasted but they suddenly
came to an end when notice was served on the church trustees by the city
council, which irreverently declared that so many converts every
afternoon and night was disturbing the white neighborhood's rest as
well as their nerves. It ordered windows and doors to be kept closed
during services, and as the church was small it was impossible to house
the congregation and all the converts, so the revival ended and the
community was restored to normal and calm once more prevailed.
That was in September. One Sunday afternoon in October, as I was walking
along the railroad track, I chanced to overhear voices coming from under
a water tank, where a space of some eight or ten feet enclosed by four
huge timbers made a small, secluded place. I stopped, listened and was
sure I recognized the voices of Douglas Brock, his brother Melvin, and
two other well known <DW52> boys. Douglas was betting a quarter with
one of the other boys that he couldn't pass. (You who know the dice and
its vagaries will know what he meant.) This was mingled with words and
commands from Melvin to the dice in trying to make some point. It must
have been four. He would let out a sort of yowl; "Little Joe, can't you
do it?" I went my way. I didn't shoot craps nor drink neither did I
belong to church but was called a dreadful sinner while three of the
boys under the tank had, not less than six weeks before, joined church
and were now full-fledged members in good standing. Of course I did not
consider that all people who belonged to church were not Christians, but
was quite sure that many were not.
The following January a relative of mine got a job for me bailing water
in a coal mine in a little town inhabited entirely by <DW64>s. I worked
from six o'clock P.M. to six A.M., and received two dollars and
twenty-five cents therefor. The work was rough and hard and the mine
very dark. The smoke hung like a cloud near the top of the tunnel-like
room during all the night. This was because the fans were all but shut
off at night, and just enough air was pumped in to prevent the formation
of black damp. The smoke made my head ache until I felt stupid and the
dampness made me ill, but the two dollars and twenty-five cents per day
looked good to me. After six weeks, however, I was forced to quit, and
with sixty-five dollars--more money than I had ever had--I went to see
my older sister who was teaching in a nearby town.
I had grown into a strong, husky youth of eighteen and my sister was
surprised to see that I was working and taking care of myself so well.
She shared the thought of nearly all of my acquaintances that I was too
lazy to leave home and do hard work, especially in the winter time.
After awhile she suddenly looked at me and spoke as though afraid she
would forget it, "O, Oscar! I've got a girl for you; what do you think
of that?" smiling so pleasantly, I was afraid she was joking. You see, I
had never been very successful with the girls and when she mentioned
having a girl for me my heart was all a flutter and when she hesitated I
put in eagerly.
"Aw go on--quit your kidding. On the level now, or are you just chiding
me?" But she took on a serious expression and speaking thoughtfully, she
went on.
"Yes, she lives next door and is a nice little girl, and pretty. The
prettiest <DW52> girl in town."
Here I lost interest for I remembered my sister was foolish about
beauty and I said that I didn't care to meet her. I was suspicious when
it came to the pretty type of girls, and had observed that the prettiest
girl in town was oft times petted and spoiled and a mere butterfly.
"O why?" She spoke like one hurt. Then I confessed my suspicions. "O,
You're foolish," she exclaimed softly, appearing relieved. "Besides,"
she went on brightly "Jessie isn't a spoiled girl, you wait until you
meet her." And in spite of my protests she sent the landlady's little
girl off for Miss Rooks. She came over in about an hour and I found her
to be demure and thoughtful, as well as pretty. She was small of
stature, had dark eyes and beautiful wavy, black hair, and an olive
complexion. She wouldn't allow me to look into her eyes but continued to
cast them downward, sitting with folded hands and answering when spoken
to in a tiny voice quite in keeping with her small person.
During the afternoon I mentioned that I was going to Chicago, "Now
Oscar, you've got no business in Chicago," my sister spoke up with a
touch of authority. "You're too young, and besides," she asked "do you
know whether W.O. wants you?" W.O. was our oldest brother and was then
making Chicago his home.
"Huh!" I snorted "I'm going on my own hook," and drawing up to my full
six feet I tried to look brave, which seemed to have the desired effect
on my sister.
"Well" she said resignedly, "you must be careful and not get into bad
company--be good and try to make a man of yourself."
CHAPTER III
CHICAGO, CHASING A WILL-O-THE-WISP
That was on Sunday morning three hundred miles south of Chicago, and at
nine-forty that night I stepped off the New Orleans and Chicago fast
mail into a different world. It was, I believe, the coldest night that I
had ever experienced. The city was new and strange to me and I wandered
here and there for hours before I finally found my brother's address on
Armour Avenue. But the wandering and anxiety mattered little, for I was
in the great city where I intended beginning my career, and felt that
bigger things were in store for me.
The next day my brother's landlady appeared to take a good deal of
interest in me and encouraged me so that I became quite confidential,
and told her of my ambitions for the future and that it was my intention
to work, save my money and eventually become a property owner. I was
rather chagrined later, however, to find that she had repeated all this
to my brother and he gave me a good round scolding, accompanied by the
unsolicited advice that if I would keep my mouth shut people wouldn't
know I was so green. He had been traveling as a waiter on an eastern
railroad dining car, but in a fit of independence--which had always been
characteristic of him--had quit, and now in mid-winter, was out of a
job. He was not enthusiastic concerning my presence in the city and I
had found him broke, but with a lot of fine clothes and a diamond or
two. Most folks from the country don't value good clothes and diamonds
in the way city folks do and I, for one, didn't think much of his
finery.
I was greatly disappointed, for I had anticipated that my big brother
would have accumulated some property or become master of a bank account
during these five or six years he had been away from home. He seemed to
sense this disappointment and became more irritated at my presence and
finally wrote home to my parents--who had recently moved to
Kansas--charging me with the crime of being a big, awkward, ignorant
kid, unsophisticated in the ways of the world, and especially of the
city; that I was likely to end my "career" by running over a street car
and permitting the city to irretrievably lose me, or something equally
as bad. When I heard from my mother she was worried and begged me to
come home. I knew the folks at home shared my brother's opinion of me
and believed all he had told them, so I had a good laugh all to myself
in spite of the depressing effect it had on me. However, there was the
reaction, and when it set in I became heartsick and discouraged and then
and there became personally acquainted with the "blues", who gave me
their undivided attention for some time after that.
The following Sunday I expected him to take me to church with him, but
he didn't. He went alone, wearing his five dollar hat, fifteen dollar
made-to-measure shoes, forty-five dollar coat and vest, eleven dollar
trousers, fifty dollar tweed overcoat and his diamonds. I found my way
to church alone and when I saw him sitting reservedly in an opposite
pew, I felt snubbed and my heart sank. However, only momentarily, for a
new light dawned upon me and I saw the snobbery and folly of it all and
resolved that some day I would rise head and shoulders above that
foolish, four-flushing brother of mine in real and material success.
I finally secured irregular employment at the Union Stock Yards. The
wages at that time were not the best. Common labor a dollar-fifty per
day and the hours very irregular. Some days I was called for duty at
five in the morning and laid off at three in the afternoon or called
again at eight in the evening to work until nine the same evening. I
soon found the mere getting of jobs to be quite easy. It was getting a
desirable one that gave me trouble. However, when I first went to the
yards and looked at the crowds waiting before the office in quest of
employment, I must confess I felt rather discouraged, but my new
surroundings and that indefinable interesting feature about these crowds
with their diversity of nationalities and ambitions, made me forget my
own little disappointments. Most all new arrivals, whether skilled or
unskilled workmen, seeking "jobs" in the city find their way to the
yards. Thousands of unskilled laborers are employed here and it seems to
be the Mecca for the down-and-out who wander thither in a last effort to
obtain employment.
The people with whom I stopped belonged to the servant class and lived
neatly in their Armour Avenue flat. The different classes of people who
make up the population of a great city are segregated more by their
occupations than anything else. The laborers usually live in a laborer's
neighborhood. Tradesmen find it more agreeable among their fellow
| 918.036644 |
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CURIOS | 918.056092 |
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Edition d'Elite
Historical Tales
The Romance of Reality
By
CHARLES MORRIS
_Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors," "Tales from
the Dramatists," etc._
IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES
Volume XII
Japanese and Chinese
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
Copyright, 1898, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1908, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
[Illustration: GREAT GATE NIKKO.]
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
THE FIRST OF THE MIKADOS 5
HOW CIVILIZATION CAME TO JAPAN 12
YAMATO-DAKE, A HERO OF ROMANCE 19
JINGU, THE AMAZON OF JAPAN 27
THE DECLINE OF THE MIKADOS 35
HOW THE TAIRA AND THE MINAMOTO FOUGHT FOR POWER 41
THE BAYARD OF JAPAN 51
THE HOJO TYRANNY 59
THE TARTAR INVASION OF JAPAN 67
NOBUNAGA AND THE FALL OF THE BUDDHISTS 73
HOW A PEASANT BOY BECAME PREMIER 80
THE FOUNDER OF YEDO AND OF MODERN FEUDALISM 86
THE PROGRESS OF CHRISTIANITY IN JAPAN 97
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF CHRISTIANITY IN JAPAN 106
THE CAPTIVITY OF CAPTAIN GOLOWNIN 113
THE OPENING OF JAPAN 123
THE MIKADO COMES TO HIS OWN AGAIN 133
HOW THE EMPIRE OF CHINA AROSE AND GREW 142
CONFUCIUS, THE CHINESE SAGE 150
THE FOUNDER OF THE CHINESE EMPIRE 156
KAOTSOU AND THE DYNASTY OF THE HANS 172
THE EMPRESS POISONER OF CHINA 180
THE INVASION OF THE TARTAR STEPPES 186
THE "CRIMSON EYEBROWS" 192
THE CONQUEST OF CENTRAL ASIA 197
THE SIEGE OF SINCHING 202
FROM THE SHOEMAKER'S BENCH TO THE THRONE 205
THREE NOTABLE WOMEN 212
THE REIGN OF TAITSONG THE GREAT 217
A FEMALE RICHELIEU 223
THE TARTARS AND GENGHIS KHAN 228
HOW THE FRIARS FARED AMONG THE TARTARS 236
THE SIEGE OF SIANYANG 242
THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF CHINA 249
THE PALACE OF KUBLAI KHAN 255
THE EXPULSION OF THE MONGOLS 264
THE RISE OF THE MANCHUS 272
THE MANCHU CONQUEST OF CHINA 281
THE | 918.13831 |
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Produced by Emmy, Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe and the Online
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by the University of Florida Digital Collections.)
[Illustration: "She was very pleased to have her mug filled--the mug
which she had brought on purpose."]
[Illustration: New York.
Sheldon & Company.]
LITTLE ROSY'S TRAVELS.
SIX VOLUMES.
ON THE JOURNEY.
A WALK AND A DRIVE.
THE DUCKS AND PIGS.
THE WOUNDED BIRD.
A SAD ADVENTURE.
THE DOCTOR'S VISIT.
Little Rosy's Travels.
A WALK AND A DRIVE.
ILLUSTRATED.
New York:
SHELDON AND COMPANY.
1870.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868,
By SHELDON AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
Southern
District of New York.
Electrotyped at the
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
No. 19 Spring Lane.
A Walk and a Drive.
VISIT TO THE DAIRY.
WHEN Rosy opened her eyes the next morning the sun was shining so
brightly that she was obliged to shut them again. But a great many
thoughts came into her little head, and she was in a great hurry to get
up.
Nurse said it was not time yet, and that she was very sleepy; but when
the little girl had climbed into her bed, and given her a great many
soft kisses, and told her how much she wanted to take a walk before
breakfast, the kind nursey first rubbed her eyes, then opened them, and
then got out of bed.
While she was dressing, Rosy began to put on her own shoes and stockings
and some of her clothes; for she had already learnt to do a great deal
for herself.
She peeped out of window to look for the birds, but for some time she
could not see any.
Rosy thought this very strange, for she remembered how she used to hear
the dear little birdies sing when she had been in the country in
England; but nurse could not explain the puzzle; so Rosy settled that it
was to be a question for her papa. Of course he would know; he always
knew everything.
When they were quite ready, nurse said,--
"Now, my darling, if you like, we will go and get your milk for
breakfast; for I know where it is to be had, and nice, new, good milk I
hope it may be, to make my little Trotty very fat."
"Is not Rosy fat now?" asked the little girl, in surprise, and feeling
first her plump cheeks and then her round arms with her stumpy little
fingers.
"O, pretty well," said nurse laughing, "but you may be fatter yet, and I
like fat little girls."
They had not to walk far before they came to the place where the milk
was sold. It was called a farm; and nurse took Rosy in, and said she
should see the dairy if the good woman would let her.
Rosy did not know what a dairy meant; but she supposed that it was
something curious, and tripped merrily along, wondering what she should
see, till they came to a room which had a floor made of red tiles, on
which stood at least ten or twelve large open bowls full of new milk.
Now Rosy happened to be very fond of milk; and as she was just then
quite ready for her breakfast, she was very pleased to have her mug
filled,--the mug which she had brought on purpose, as nurse told
her,--and then take a good drink.
"Ah, nurse, how good it is!" she cried; "but what is all this sticking
to my lips? It is not white like our milk. See, there is something on
the top of it!" and she held out her mug to show her.
"Ah, that's cream, good cream. We did not get milk like this in Paris,"
said nurse; "and I'm sure we don't in London. There's no water here, is
there, madame?"
But madame did not understand English; so nurse was obliged, by looking
very pleased, to make her see that she thought her milk very good.
"But it's very bad of the other people to put water in my milk," said
Rosy, frowning. "I shall ask my papa to scold them when we go home; and
I shall take a great mugful of this nice milk to show my grandmamma."
"Well, now say good by prettily in French, as your papa teaches you,"
said nurse, "and then we'll go home, and I dare say we shall find some
more milk there."
"Adieu, madame," said the little girl, and off she trotted again, as
ready to go as she had been to come.
They say "madame" to every one in France, you know, and not to rich
ladies only.
Now there are beautiful hills all round the back of Cannes, and a little
way up one of these was the house where Rosy was going to live. She did
so like running up and down hills! and there were two or three little
ones between the farm and this house, which was called a villa.
When she got on to the top of one, she cried out,--
"Ah, there's the sea, I do declare! and there's a boat on it with a
white sail! Shall we go in a boat some day?"
"I don't know," said nurse, "you must ask your mamma; but you don't want
to be sick, do you?"
"I won't be sick," cried the little girl. "Rosy is never sick in a
beau'ful boat like that. I'll ask my mamma," and she bustled on.
"Stay, stay!" cried nurse, "you're going too far, my pet; this is the
way; look, who stands up there?"
Rosy looked up, and there was the villa with its green blinds high up
over her head; and some one stood outside the door calling her by name.
O, what a number of steps there were for those little legs to climb
before she reached her papa!
They went up by the side of a garden, which was itself like a lot of
wide steps, and on each step there was a row of vines, not trained
against a wall as we train our vines in England, but growing on the
ground like bean plants.
Rosy saw lots of such nice grapes that her little mouth quite watered,
and she would have liked to have stopped to pick some; but then she knew
that would be stealing, because they were not hers. And I hope that Rosy
would not have stolen even if nurse had not been following her, or her
papa watching her.
She got the grapes, too, without picking them; for when she had climbed
up to the very top, there was papa waiting for her with a beautiful
bunch in his hand. And he said,--
"Come in, Rosy; mamma wants her breakfast very badly. See, mamma, what a
pair of roses your little girl has been getting already!"
Rosy knew very well what that meant, for she rubbed her cheeks with her
little fat hands, and then tumbled her merry little head about her
mamma's lap to "roll the roses off," as she said.
But that little head was too full of thoughts to stay there long.
There was so much to tell and to talk about, and that dairy took a long
time to describe. Then when papa asked if she had seen the dear cows
that gave the milk, she thought that that would be a capital little
jaunt for to-morrow, and clapped her hands with glee.
"So you are going to find some new pets, Rosy," he said, "to do instead
of Mr. Tommy and the kittens?"
"Ah, papa, but there are no dickies here--I mean, hardly any," she
answered. "We looked so for the birdies all, all the time; but only two
came, and went away again directly."
"We must go out and see the reason of that," said papa, smiling,--"you
and I, Rosy, directly after breakfast. We must go and tell the dear
birds that Rosy has come."
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THE GIRL FROM SUNSET RANCH
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BOOKS FOR GIRLS
By AMY BELL MARLOWE
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
THE OLDEST OF FOUR
Or Natalie's Way Out
THE GIRLS OF HILLCREST FARM
Or The Secret of the Rocks
A LITTLE MISS NOBODY
Or With the Girls of Pinewood Hall
THE GIRL FROM SUNSET RANCH
Or Alone in a Great City
WYN'S CAMPING DAYS
Or The Outing of the Go-Ahead Club
FRANCES OF THE RANGES
Or The Old Ranchman's Treasure
THE GIRLS OF RIVERCLIFF SCHOOL
Or Beth Baldwin's Resolve
THE ORIOLE BOOKS
WHEN ORIOLE CAME TO HARBOR LIGHT
WHEN ORIOLE TRAVELED WESTWARD
(Other volumes in preparation)
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: "CAB, MISS? TAKE YOU ANYWHERE YOU SAY."
Frontispiece (Page 67).]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GIRL FROM SUNSET RANCH
OR
ALONE IN A GREAT CITY
BY
AMY BELL MARLOWE
AUTHOR OF
THE OLDEST OF FOUR, THE GIRLS OF HILLCREST
FARM, WYN'S CAMPING DAYS, ETC.
Illustrated
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1914, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
The Girl from Sunset Ranch
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "Snuggy" and the Rose Pony 1
II. Dudley Stone 14
III. The Mistress Of Sunset Ranch 26
IV. Headed East 36
V. At Both Ends Of The Route 45
VI. Across The Continent 56
VII. The Great City 65
VIII. The Welcome 72
IX. The Ghost Walk 83
X. Morning 92
XI. Living Up To One's Reputation 102
XII. "I Must Learn The Truth" 111
XIII. Sadie Again 128
XIV. A New World 142
XV. "Step--Put; Step--Put" 152
XVI. Forgotten 164
XVII. A Distinct Shock 176
XVIII. Probing For Facts 196
XIX. "Jones" 204
XX. Out Of Step With The Times 216
XXI. Breaking The Ice 227
XXII. In The Saddle 238
XXIII. My Lady Bountiful 252
XXIV. The Hat Shop 262
XXV. The Missing Link 271
XXVI. Their Eyes Are Opened 279
XXVII. The Party 287
XXVIII. A Statement Of Fact 304
XXIX. "The Whip Hand" 311
XXX. Headed West 317
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GIRL FROM SUNSET
RANCH
CHAPTER I
"SNUGGY" AND THE ROSE PONY
"Hi, Rose! Up, girl! There's another party making for the View by the far
path. Get a move on, Rosie."
The strawberry roan tossed her cropped mane and her dainty little hoofs
clattered more quickly over the rocky path which led up from the
far-reaching grazing lands of Sunset Ranch to the summit of the rocky
eminence that bounded the valley upon the east.
To the west lay a great, rolling plain, covered with buffalo grass and
sage; and dropping down the arc of the sky was the setting sun,
ruddy-countenanced, whose almost level rays played full upon the face of
the bluff up which the pony climbed so nimbly.
"On, Rosie, girl!" repeated the rider. "Don't let him get to the View
before us. I don't see why anybody would wish to go there," she added,
with a jealous pang, "for it was father's favorite outlook. None of our
boys, I am sure, would come up here at this hour."
Helen Morrell was secure in this final opinion. It was but a short month
since Prince Morrell had gone down under the hoofs of the steers in an
unfortunate stampede that had cost the Sunset Ranch much beside the life
of its well-liked owner.
The View--a flat table of rock on the summit overlooking the valley--had
become almost sacred in the eyes of the punchers of Sunset Ranch since Mr.
Morrell's death. For it was to that spot the ranchman had betaken
himself--usually with his daughter--on almost every fair evening, to
overlook the valley and count the roaming herds which grazed under his
brand.
Helen, who was sixteen and of sturdy build, could see the nearer herds now
dotting the plain. She had her father's glasses slung over her shoulder,
and she had come to-night partly for the purpose of spying out the strays
along the watercourses or hiding in the distant _coulees_.
But mainly her visit to the View was because her father had loved to ride
here. She could think about him here undisturbed by the confusion and
bustle at the ranch-house. And there were some things--things about her
father and the sad conversation they had had together before his taking
away--that Helen wanted to speculate upon alone.
The boys had picked him up after the accident and brought him home; and
doctors had been brought all the way from Helena to do what they could for
him. But Mr. Morrell had suffered many bruises and broken bones, and there
had been no hope for him from the first.
He was not, however, always unconscious. He was a masterful man and he
refused to take drugs to deaden the pain.
"Let me know what I am about until I meet death," he had whispered.
"I--am--not--afraid."
And yet, there was one thing of which he had been sorely afraid. It was
the thought of leaving his daughter alone.
"Oh, Snuggy!" he groaned, clinging to the girl's plump hand with his own
weak one. "If there were some of your own kind to--to leave you with. A
girl like you needs women about--good women, and refined women. Squaws,
and Greasers, and half-breeds aren't the kind of women-folk your mother
was brought up among.
"I don't know but I've done wrong these past few years--since your mother
died, anyway. I've been making money here, and it's all for you, Snuggy.
That's fixed by the lawyer in Elberon.
"Big Hen Billings is executor and guardian of you and the ranch. I know I
can trust him. But there ought to be nice women and girls for you to live
with--like those girls who went to school with you the four years you were
in Denver.
"Yet, this is your home. And your money is going to be made here. It would
be a crime to sell out now.
"Ah, Snuggy! Snuggy! If your mother had only lived!" groaned Mr. Morrell.
"A woman knows what's right for a girl better than a man. This is a rough
place out here. And even the best of our friends and neighbors are crude.
You want refinement, and pretty dresses, and soft beds, and fine
furniture----"
"No, no, Father! I love Sunset Ranch just as it is," Helen declared,
wiping away her tears.
"Aye. 'Tis a beauty spot--the beauty spot of all Montana, I believe,"
agreed the dying man. "But you need something more than a beautiful
landscape."
"But there are true hearts here--all our friends!" cried Helen.
"And so they are--God bless them!" responded Prince Morrell, fervently.
"But, Snuggy, you were born to something better than being a 'cowgirl.'
Your mother was a refined woman. I have forgotten most of my college
education; but I had it once.
"_This_ was not our original environment. It was not meant that we should
be shut away from all the gentler things of life, and live rudely as we
have. Unhappy circumstances did that for us."
He was silent for a moment, his face working with suppressed emotion.
Suddenly his grasp tightened on the girl's hand and he continued:
"Snuggy! I'm going to tell you something. It's something you ought to
know, I believe. Your mother was made unhappy by it, and I wouldn't want a
knowledge of it to come upon you unaware, in the after time when you are
alone. Let me tell you with my own lips, girl."
"Why, Father, what is it?"
"Your father's name is under a cloud. There is a smirch on my reputation.
I--I ran away from New York to escape arrest, and I have lived here in the
wilderness, without communicating with old friends and associates, because
I did not want the matter stirred up."
"Afraid of arrest, Father?" gasped Helen.
"For your mother's sake, and for yours," he said. "She couldn't have borne
it. It would have killed her."
"But you were not guilty, Father!" cried Helen.
"How do you know I wasn't?"
"Why, Father, you could never have done anything dishonorable or mean--I
know you could not!"
"Thank you, Snuggy!" the dying man replied, with a smile hovering about
his pain-drawn lips. "You've been the greatest comfort a father ever had,
ever since you was a little, cuddly baby, and liked to snuggle up against
father under the blankets.
"That was before the big ranch-house was built, and we lived in a shack. I
don't know how your mother managed to stand it, winters. _You_ just
snuggled into my arms under the blankets--that's how we came to call you
'Snuggy.'"
"'Snuggy' is a good name, Dad," she declared. "I love it, because _you_
love it. And I know I gave you comfort when I was little."
"Indeed, yes! _What_ a comfort you were after your poor mother died,
Snuggy! Ah, well! you shall have your reward, dear. I am sure of that.
Only I am worried that you should be left alone now."
"Big Hen and the boys will take care of me," Helen said, stifling her
sobs.
"Nay, but you need women-folk about. Your mother's sister, now--The
Starkweathers, if they knew, might offer you a home."
"That is, | 918.169013 |
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[Illustration: THE MEETING OF SIEGFRIED AND MIMI]
Stories of the
Nibelungen
_for_
Young People
_Arranged by_
Gertrude R. Schottenfels
Chicago Public Schools
Illustrated
Chicago
A. Flanagan Company
COPYRIGHT, 1905
BY
A. FLANAGAN COMPANY
STORIES OF THE NIBELUNGEN
I. YOUNG SIEGFRIED 7
II. MIMI'S STORY 21
III. SIEGFRIED'S SWORD 34
IV. THE DEATH OF THE DRAGON 43
V. THE STORY OF BRUNHILDA 53
VI. GUNTHER AND KRIEMHILD 61
VII. SIEGFRIED'S RETURN TO IRELAND 72
VIII. HOW GUNTHER WON HIS BRIDE 81
IX. KRIEMHILD AND BRUNHILDA'S QUARREL 91
X. KRIEMHILD'S REVENGE 112
PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY
Transcriber's note:
The following notation is used to show the pronunciation symbols used in
this text. An image of this page may be found in the HTML edition.
[=x] = macron above a letter
[)x] = breve above a letter
[.x] = dot above a letter
[x.] = dot below a letter
[+x] = tack above a letter
['x] = accent above a letter
NIBELUNGEN n[=e]'b[)e]-l[u.]ng-[+e]n
SANTUM s[)a]n't[)u]m
SIEGMUND s[=e]g'm[u.]nd
NIEDERLAND n[=e]'der-l[)a]nd
SIEGELINDA s[=e]-[+g][)e]l-in'd[)a]
SIEGFRIED s[=e]g'frid
MIMI m[=e]'m[=e]
FAFNER f[)a]f'ner
ALBERICH [)a]l'ber-[)i]ck
WOTAN w[=o]'t[)a]n
LOKI l[=o]'k[=e]
BRUNHILDA br[u.]n-h[=i]l'd[)a]
ISENHEIM [=e]'s[)e]n-h[=i]me
GUNTHER g[)u]n'ter
HAGEN hae'gen
UOTA [=u]-[=o]'t[)a]
KRIEMHILD kr[=e]m'h[=i]ld
GISELHERR ['g][=e]'s[)e]l-hare
GERNOT g[=e]r'n[=o]
ETZEL et'z[)e]l
ORTLIEB ort'l[=e]b
RUDIGER ru'd[)i]g-er
BECHLARN b[)e]ck'laern
DIETRICH d[=e]t'r[=i]ck
ETZELBURG [)e]t'z[)e]l-berg
DANKWART daenk'wert
WALKYRIE w[)o]l-k[=i]r'[=i]
Stories of the Nibelungen
I
YOUNG SIEGFRIED
IN THE good old days of Long Ago, when kings had absolute power over all
their subjects, even in the matter of life and death, there dwelt in the
city of Santum, on the beautiful Rhine River, a great and good king
named Siegmund.
He was very powerful, and ruled over the kingdom of Niederland so wisely
and so well that he was loved and honored by all his people. He shared
his throne with Siegelinda, his beautiful wife, who also was noble and
kind of heart.
Siegmund and Siegelinda had one son, called Siegfried--a handsome,
well-built lad, with eyes as blue and sunny as the sky above on a fair
spring morning. He was the only child of the king and queen, but he was
more of a sorrow than a joy to them, for he was as willful and
disobedient as he was beautiful. He could not bear to be crossed in any
way, and wished that he were a man, so that he might do exactly as he
pleased.
Siegfried's parents loved him dearly in spite of his faults and all the
sorrow his wild ways caused them. But one fine morning, while the king
and queen were still asleep, he quietly took his hat, and stole out of
the castle, for he had made up his mind to go out into the wide world to
seek his fortune.
Siegfried walked through the beautiful city, and then for some time
followed a winding country road, until at length he found himself in
the midst of a dense forest. But he was not afraid; he could hear the
birds singing and calling to one another in the green trees overhead,
and now and then a rabbit or a timid squirrel ran across his pathway,
and disappeared in the bushes.
So he wandered along, quite happy. Sometimes he would come to a little
brook, winding its way through the trees and grass, and babbling and
singing among its pebbles. Across the stream he would leap, as lightly
as a hare.
Thus the day wore on, and as twilight gathered, he began to feel very
tired and hungry. He was just beginning to wonder what he should do,
when he noticed that he was nearing the edge of the forest, and a little
farther on what should he see but a blacksmith's shop among the bushes.
In the doorway stood the smith himself in his leathern apron--a little,
odd, misshapen dwarf named Mimi. He looked in wonder at the beautiful
boy, who smiled upon him in a friendly way, and said:
"Good-evening. I am almost dead with thirst and hunger; will you not
take me in, and let me be your helper?"
Mimi was about to say no, when he chanced to look at Siegfried the
second time. He noticed how strong and well built the boy was; so he
said:
"I am not really in need of a helper, for in this out-of-the-way place
there is very little work to be done; but if you wish to learn my
trade, I am willing to give you a trial."
Siegfried was happy to hear this, and with a hearty relish he ate the
coarse brown bread and bowl of milk which Mimi brought to him.
The next morning the blacksmith showed Siegfried how to blow the
bellows, and swing the sledge-hammer, and also how to shape a horseshoe.
"Now, you try it," he said, laying a red-hot piece of iron on the
anvil.
Siegfried was eager to try. He raised the hammer above his head, and
brought it down with such force that the iron flew to pieces and the
anvil was buried in the ground.
Mimi was very angry. He gave the boy a box on the ear that nearly
knocked him over. Now, Siegfried was a king's son, and never before in
all his life had any one but | 918.169851 |
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with page numbers open or download the Latin-1 file 58585-8.txt.
THE PROPHET
By Kahlil Gibran
New York: Alfred A. Knopf
1923
_The Twelve Illustrations In This Volume
Are Reproduced From Original Drawings By
The Author_
“His power came from some great reservoir
of spiritual life else it could not have
been so universal and so potent, but the
majesty and beauty of the language with
which he clothed it were all his own?”
--Claude Bragdon
THE BOOKS OF KAHLIL GIBRAN
The Madman. 1918 Twenty Drawings. 1919
The Forerunner. 1920 The Prophet. 1923
Sand and Foam. 1926 Jesus the Son of
Man. 1928 The Forth Gods. 1931 The
Wanderer. 1932 The Garden of the Prophet
1933 Prose Poems. 1934 Nymphs of the
Valley. 1948
CONTENTS
The Coming of the Ship.......7
On Love.....................15
On Marriage.................19
On Children.................21
On Giving...................23
On Eating and Drinking......27
On Work.....................31
On Joy and Sorrow...........33
On Houses...................37
On Clothes..................41
On Buying and Selling.......43
On Crime and Punishment.....45
On Laws.....................51
On Freedom..................55
On Reason and Passion.......57
On Pain.....................60
On Self-Knowledge...........62
On Teaching.................64
On Friendship...............66
On Talking..................68
On Time.....................70
On Good and Evil............72
On Prayer...................76
On Pleasure.................79
On Beauty...................83
On Religion.................87
On Death....................90
The Farewell................92
THE PROPHET
|Almustafa, the{7} chosen and the
beloved, who was a dawn unto his own
day, had waited twelve years in the city
of Orphalese for his ship that was to
return and bear him back to the isle of
his birth.
And in the twelfth year, on the seventh
day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he
climbed the hill without the city walls
and looked seaward; and he beheld his
ship coming with the mist.
Then the gates of his heart were flung
open, and his joy flew far over the sea.
And he closed his eyes and prayed in the
silences of his soul.
*****
But as he descended the hill, a sadness
came upon him, and he thought in his
heart:
How shall I go in peace and without
sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the
spirit shall I leave this city. {8}Long
were the days of pain I have spent
within its walls, and long were the
nights of aloneness; and who can depart
from his pain and his aloneness without
regret?
Too many fragments of the spirit have I
scattered in these streets, and too many
are the children of my | 918.248737 |
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(This file was produced from images generously made
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[Illustration: Asa Gray]
LETTERS OF ASA GRAY
EDITED BY
JANE LORING GRAY
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1894
Copyright, 1893,
BY JANE LORING GRAY.
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
V. SECOND JOURNEY IN EUROPE.--CORRESPONDENCE. 1830-1859 369
VI. LETTERS TO DARWIN AND OTHERS. 1800-1868 454
VII. TRAVEL IN EUROPE AND AMERICA. 1808-1880 565
VIII. FINAL JOURNEYS AND WORK. 1880-1888 701
NOTE ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS. The frontispiece portrait of Dr. Gray is a
photogravure from a photograph taken in 1880. The plate of Dr. Gray in
his study, facing page 529, is from a photograph taken in 1879. The view
of the present Range of Buildings in the Botanic Garden, facing page
614, is from a photograph taken for this work.
LETTERS OF ASA GRAY.
CHAPTER V.
SECOND JOURNEY IN EUROPE.--CORRESPONDENCE.
1850-1859.
Dr. Gray sailed for England with Mrs. Gray in a sailing packet June 11,
1850. The steamers made regular trips, but the fine packets were still
running, and it was thought desirable to try the longer voyage for Mrs.
Gray’s health.
Dr. Gray renewed acquaintance with his old friends, and made many new
ones, meeting at his friend Mr. Ward’s, where they first stayed, many of
the younger men, Henfrey, Forbes, etc., who had become known in science
since his former visit in 1839.
TO JOHN TORREY.
GHENT, BELGIUM, July 16, 1850.
I surely meant that you should have heard of us long ere this. But there
seemed not to be a moment of time during the fortnight we spent in
England; Mr. Ward kept us so busy with every sort of engagement and
sight-seeing that J. could enjoy. I meant to have written at Dover last
evening; but it was not convenient, so now that we are for the first
night in a strange country (which England is not) I must tell you, what
I trust you have learned from Carey (to whom I had occasion to write
hurriedly, last mail), that we had a very pleasant voyage of seventeen
and a half days and came near making it in fourteen, as we made land
early on the morning of the twelfth day out, no storms, but gentle
favoring breezes till we made the Irish coast; and then, to our
disappointment, we had head winds to beat against all the way up to
Holyhead, and reached Liverpool Saturday morning....
On Monday we left Liverpool, which has vastly improved since you saw it;
stopping at Coventry and turning off to Leamington to see, at
Darlington’s desire, the descendants of old Peter Collinson,[1] and
deliver some books and letters from him, which I did. Mrs. Collinson was
ill with a severe fall, but her daughter received the things I brought,
and showed me a portrait of Peter. Then Mrs. Gray and I made an
excursion to Warwick Castle, the fine ruins of Kenilworth, and
Stoneleigh Abbey, driving through six or seven miles of fine park. The
next day on to London, to Ward, who had insisted on our visiting him. He
lives three and a half miles out of London, in a pleasant and quiet
suburban house; his son being established in Wellclose Square.
Boott I saw the same evening I arrived, and two days later, with J., but
not later. He has been quite sick with an influenza, and a slight but
not altogether pleasant inflammation of the lungs.
To Hooker I went at once also, and got your kind letter there, and saw
Kew. Hooker is quite well; but Lady H. is very poorly.... She inquired
most particularly and affectionately after yourself, and asked about all
your family....
On Monday I made another visit to Kew Gardens, (a grand affair) to show
the lions of the place to four or five young Americans I knew, one of
them young Brace,[2] J.’s cousin, who is making with two friends a
pleasant and profitable pedestrian excursion in England.[3] I cannot
begin to tell you the half we have done and seen in England, but we were
most busy: Saturday, conversazione of Royal Botanical Society in
Regent’s Park. Wednesday, excursion with Linnæan Club to Hertford; saw a
great Pinetum, 600 species of Coniferæ, etc., and the Panshanger Oak. (I
wrote Carey a few words of this.) Thursday, a most pleasant day with
Hooker. Miss Hooker looks quite well; all send their love to you, all
most kind and sweet to us. Hooker has altered little, but looks older.
Brown looks older perhaps, but decidedly stronger, is as healthy as
possible and very lively. In talking with him and showing him about it
he gave up about Krameria, and said I must be right. He formerly
unequivocally referred it to Polygalaceæ. Bennett is large and fat. I
fear he does not work hard enough.
Yesterday we came down to Dover early in the afternoon (a striking
place), and embarked late in the evening on steamer for Ostend, which we
reached early this morning; came right on to Bruges, which listless and
very curious old-world town, and its curiosities, we have all day been
exploring, till six o’clock, when we came on twenty-eight miles further
by railway to the famous and more lively town of Ghent,--where I have
been running about till the dusk arrived, and must now to bed, as we
have to finish Ghent to-morrow before dinner, and go on to Antwerp
afterwards, thence to Cologne. I think we shall cut Brussels.
At Ghent saw the Belfry and the strange old Town Hall.... I went to the
Botanic Garden (did not find Professor Kickx),--hardly as large as ours
at Cambridge, and by no means so rich or half so well kept, though said
to be the best in Belgium; explored the university library, and strolled
through the streets and along the canals....
Antwerp.--Imagine us settled comfortably at Hotel du Parc, Wednesday
evening, overlooking the Place Verte, our windows commanding a near and
most advantageous view of the finest cathedral in Belgium, with light
enough still to see pretty well against the sky the graceful outlines
and much of the light tracery and Gothic work of this gem of a steeple,
one of the loftiest in the world (403 feet, 7 inches) and probably
unsurpassed by any for lightness, grace, and the elaborateness of the
carved work. Napoleon compared it to Mechlin lace. And such sweet
chimes, every fifteen minutes! The chime at the beginning of the hour
still rings in our ears. We have never tired of listening to it....
BONN, July 22.
We drove through the city (Cologne) to the station of the Bonn railroad.
But on the way the driver, of his own motion, stopped at the door of the
cathedral. Finding that we had time enough to take a good look before
the train left, we could not resist, and saw this wonder and masterpiece
of true Gothic architecture; which by the united efforts of most North
German powers is going on toward completion, in the style and plan on
which it was commenced seven hundred or eight hundred years ago, and in
which the choir was finished, and the transepts and nave commenced. It
is most grand; the grandest thing we ever saw, though the nave bears
only a temporary roof, at thirty or forty feet less than the full
height. The ancient stained glass comes fully up to one’s expectation. I
have never seen the like.
We went up to Poppelsdorf; such charming and picturesque view of the
Siebengebirge (seven mountains) and the Godesberg, etc., from the
professor’s windows and the Botanic Garden; the museums rich and
curious, and parts of the old château in which they are (now surrendered
to the university) not less so. The botanical professors, Treviranus[4]
and Dr. Roemer, very kind; some collections to be made ready here for me
to examine when we come back, so that I must then spend a day here....
TO GEORGE ENGELMANN.
GENEVA, August 16, 1850.
We went up the Rhine to Coblenz, Bingen, and Mayence; thence to
Frankfort. By some mistake in the post office in giving me the address,
your letter to Dr. Fresenius[5] I took to a law-doctor Fresenius, who
was away in Switzerland. So I gave up all hopes of seeing him, and we
fell to seeing the sights by ourselves, when, a few hours before we had
arranged to go to Heidelberg, the true Dr. Fresenius came in. We may see
him again on our way back. We went to Heidelberg, for an hour or two
only....
It is now the 20th,--time passed fast. I work to-day in herbariums De
Candolle and Boissier, and to-morrow morning we go to Freiburg and Berne
and the Bernese Oberland. We cannot be back now in England so early as
we expected; but still hope to be there by the 20th September....
Thursday morning, after an early breakfast, went on by railroad to Kehl;
left our luggage and took a carriage over the bridge of boats, across
the lines of the French republic (?) into Strasburg. Saw Schimper;[6]
then we went to the cathedral, viewed the grand front of this imposing
structure, and the wonderful spire, the tallest in the world; were much
struck with the grandeur of the interior, wholly lighted by stained
glass, the greater part of it 400 or 500 years old. After visiting the
Museum of Natural History, and arranging with Schimper to meet him in
Switzerland, where he is to pass with his wife (a Swiss lady) a long
vacation, we took our carriage and returned to the Baden side of the
river, and came on to Freiburg (in the Breisgau) that evening, reaching
it in the rain....
Professor Braun,[7] the brother of the first Mrs. Agassiz, was very kind
to us. He is a very interesting man, of charming manners; his wife very
sweet and charming, his children most engaging. Saturday afternoon we
took a carriage, and with Professor Braun rode up a beautiful valley to
the Höllenthal (French, Vallée d’Enfer), a rocky and wooded gorge of
very striking scenery; wild and majestic, rather than terrible, as its
name imports....
In the afternoon visited the cathedral, one of the finest and oldest in
Europe, that is well preserved. Here nearly every part, and all the
stained glass, of a most curious kind, is perfectly preserved; and the
spire, though not so high as that of Strasburg, is as elaborate and
light,--as it were of woven stone thread,--and even more beautiful....
Tuesday we rode from Bâle to Bienne (fifty-six miles) in a diligence,
from eight A.M. to five P.M., through the Münster Thal, the grandest and
most picturesque scenery of the Jura.
Wednesday, a ride of three hours along lakes of Bienne and Neuchâtel
brought us to Neuchâtel at eleven o’clock A.M.... Professor Godet,[8]
who received me most cordially, took me (with Mr. Coulon) up the
Chaumont, 2,500 feet; but the Alps were obscured by clouds, at least the
higher Alps, and we had no fine view of them; otherwise the view was
very fine. We returned by the great boulder Pierre à Bot. All asked
after Agassiz with much interest. Excursions are planned for us when we
return....
* * * * *
Dr. Gray enjoyed the visit to Geneva, where he renewed his friendship
with MM. Alphonse De Candolle and Boissier, accomplishing some useful
work, and having pleasant social meetings and excursions. He went to
Chamouni and the Bernese Oberland; then to Munich, especially to meet
again Martius, with whom he had been in constant correspondence, and who
made the journey from Tyrol to greet his old friend. Their few days
together were greatly enjoyed.
He returned to England, going down the Neckar by steamboat to
Heidelberg, then down the Rhine, and through Holland, where he saw
Miquel[9] in Amsterdam, rambling with him on a fête-day through the
streets at evening, enjoying the queer sights; went to Leyden, meeting
De Vriese,[10] with whom was R. Brown (then staying in Leyden for a few
days), and seeing the Botanic Garden, one of the oldest in Europe, and
well known to Linnæus. Blume[11] he missed, but he saw Siebold’s[12]
collection of Japanese curios, then most rare. He took steamer from
Rotterdam to London, and after a few days went down to Mr. Bentham’s, in
Herefordshire.
Here were spent two months of very hard work with Mr. Bentham, who most
kindly went over with him the plants of the United States Exploring
Expedition, which had been brought over the Atlantic for the purpose.
Pontrilas is in a pretty, hilly country on the border of Wales, with
many old churches, almost of Saxon time, in the neighborhood, to give
interest to walks, and very interesting, agreeable neighbors for a day
or two’s visiting, among them the authoress, Mrs. Archer Clive, who was
very kind.
He left Pontrilas early in December to make a visit, at Dublin, to his
friend Professor Harvey, to stay in the family of Mr. and Mrs.
Todhunter, Dr. Harvey’s sister. Going on board the steamer at ten in the
evening, he met with the severe accident of which he gives an account in
his letters. Dr. Harvey came from Dublin to help in nursing him. His
vigor and elasticity helped him to a speedy recovery, but it increased a
general tendency to stoop, and he was never so erect afterwards.
He was able to get to Kew the last of December, and spent the winter in
hard work in Sir William Hooker’s herbarium, which was then in his house
at West Park.
TO A. DE CANDOLLE.
CUMBERLAND PLACE, KEW, December 28, 1850.
Your kind favor of December 6th, forwarded to me by Bentham, to Dublin,
would have been sooner acknowledged, but that it found me an invalid. On
our way from Hereford to Dublin I had just gone on board a steamer at
Holyhead, early in the evening; had left Mrs. Gray in the ladies’ cabin,
when, coming on deck again, I stepped over an open hatchway which had
been left for the moment very carelessly unguarded and unlighted. I fell
full eighteen feet, they say, to the bottom of the hold, striking partly
on my right hand and the side of my right leg, bruising and straining
both, but principally on my right side against a timber projecting from
the floor, fracturing two of my ribs. It is truly wonderful that I was
not more seriously and permanently injured. I was taken on shore at once
and had good medical attendance. I recovered so rapidly that in a week I
was comfortably taken across to Dublin, where I was kindly cared for by
good friends; in two weeks more I left for London, able to walk without
difficulty; and to-day, just four weeks after the accident, I have begun
to work at plants again, in Sir William Hooker’s herbarium. But my side
is still tender, and my strength is not great.
Having said thus much of my bodily condition, let me no longer delay to
thank you heartily for the very unexpected compliment that you have
caused to be paid me, and to ask you to convey, in fitting terms, my
grateful acknowledgments to the Société de Physique et d’Histoire
Naturelle, for the honor they have conferred upon me in choosing me as
one of their corresponding members. I was not aware that I had rendered
any particular services to your society, but I shall be very glad to do
so if any opportunity offers. Although, generally, I am far from
coveting compliments of this kind, I assure you I am much pleased to be
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THE SEABOARD PARISH
BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D.
VOL. II.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
I. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING
II. NICEBOOTS
III. THE BLACKSMITH
IV. THE LIFE-BOAT
V. MR. PERCIVALE
VI. THE SHADOW OF DEATH
VII. AT THE FARM
VIII. THE KEEVE
IX. THE WALK TO CHURCH
X. THE OLD CASTLE
XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE
XII. A SMALL ADVENTURE
XIII. THE HARVEST
CHAPTER I.
ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING.
In the evening we met in Connie's room, as usual, to have our talk. And
this is what came out of it.
The window was open. The sun was in the west. We sat a little aside out
of the course of his radiance, and let him look full into the room.
Only Wynnie sat back in a dark corner, as if she would get out of his
way. Below him the sea lay bluer than you could believe even when you
saw it--blue with a delicate yet deep silky blue, the exquisiteness of
which was thrown up by the brilliant white lines of its lapping on the
high coast, to the northward. We had just sat down, when Dora broke out
with--
"I saw Niceboots at church. He did stare at you, papa, as if he had
never heard a sermon before."
"I daresay he never heard such a sermon before!" said Connie, with the
perfect confidence of inexperience and partiality--not to say
ignorance, seeing she had not heard the sermon herself.
Here Wynnie spoke from her dark corner, apparently forcing herself to
speak, and thereby giving what seemed an unpleasant tone to what she
said.
"Well, papa, I don't know what to think. You are always telling us to
trust in Him; but how can we, if we are not good?"
"The first good thing you can do is to look up to him. That is the
beginning of trust in him, and the most sensible thing that it is
possible for us to do. That is faith."
"But it's no use sometimes."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you--I mean I--can't feel good, or care about it at all."
"But is that any ground for saying that it is no use--that he does not
heed you? that he disregards the look cast up to him? that, till the
heart goes with the will, he who made himself strong to be the helper
of the weak, who pities most those who are most destitute--and who so
destitute as those who do not love what they want to love--except,
indeed, those who don't want to love?--that, till you are well on
towards all right by earnestly seeking it, he won't help you? You are
to judge him from yourself, are you?--forgetting that all the misery in
you is just because you have not got his grand presence with you?"
I spoke so earnestly as to be somewhat incoherent in words. But my
reader will understand. Wynnie was silent. Connie, as if partly to help
her sister, followed on the same side.
"I don't know exactly how to say what I mean, papa, but I wish I could
get this lovely afternoon, all full of sunshine and blue, into unity
with all that you teach us about Jesus Christ. I wish this beautiful
day came in with my thought of him, like the frame--gold and red and
blue--that you have to that picture of him at home. Why doesn't it?"
"Just because you have not enough of faith in him, my dear. You do not
know him well enough yet. You do not yet believe that he means you all
gladness, heartily, honestly, thoroughly."
"And no suffering, papa?"
"I did not say that, my dear. There you are on your couch and can't
move. But he does mean you such gladness, such a full sunny air and
blue sea of blessedness that this suffering shall count for little in
it; nay more, shall be taken in for part, and, like the rocks that
interfere with the roll of the sea, flash out the white that glorifies
and intensifies the whole--to pass away by and by, I trust, none the
less. What a chance you have, my Connie, of believing in him, of
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Produced by David McClamrock
MEMOIR OF QUEEN ADELAIDE,
CONSORT OF KING WILLIAM IV.
BY DR. DORAN,
AUTHOR OF "LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND OF THE HOUSE OF HANOVER," ETC.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1861.
[The right of Translation is reserved.]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY G. PHIPPS, 13 & 14, TOTHILL STREET, WESTMINSTER.
ADELAIDE OF SAXE-MEINENGEN.
Und ich an meinem Abend, wollte,
Ich haette, diesem Weibe gleich,
Erfuellt was ich erfuellen sollte
In meinen Graenzen und Bereich.
A. VON CHAMISSO.
The pocket Duchy--Old customs--Early training--The Father of the
Princess Adelaide--Social life at the ducal court--Training of the
Princess Adelaide--Marriage preliminaries--English parliament--The Duke
of Clarence--Arrival in London of the Princess--Quaint royal
weddings--At home and abroad--Duke and Duchess of Clarence at
Bushey--"State and Dirt" at St. James's--William IV. and Queen
Adelaide--Course of life of the new Queen Consort--King's gallantry to
an old love--Royal simplicity--The Sovereigns and the Sovereign
people--Court anecdotes--Drawing rooms--Princess Victoria--The
coronation--Incidents of the day--Coronation finery of George
IV.--Princess Victoria not present--Revolutionary period--Reform
question--Unpopularity of the Queen--Attacks against her on the part of
the press--Violence of party-spirit--Friends and foes--Bearing of the
King and Queen--Duchess of Augouleme--King a republican--His
indiscretion--Want of temper--Continental press adverse to the
Queen--King's declining health--Conduct of Queen Adelaide--King
William's death--Declining health of the Queen--Her travels in search
of health--Her last illness--Her will--Death--And funeral.
THE little Duchy of Saxe-Meinengen was once a portion of the
inheritance of the princely Franconian house of Henneberg. The failure
of the male line transferred it, in 1583, to the family of reigning
Saxon princes. In 1680, it fell to the third son of the Saxon Duke,
Ernest the Pious. The name of this son was Bernard. This Duke is looked
upon as the founder of the House of Meinengen. He was much devoted to
the study of Alchemy, and was of a pious turn, like his father, as far,
as may be judged by the volumes of manuscript notes he left behind
him--which he had made on the sermons of his various court-preachers.
The law of primogeniture was not yet in force when Duke Bernard died,
in 1706. One consequence was, that Bernard's three sons, with Bernard's
brother, ruled the little domain in common. In 1746, the sole surviving
brother, Antony Ulrich, the luckiest of this ducal Tontine, was monarch
of all he surveyed, within a limited space. The conglomerate ducal
sovereigns were plain men, formal, much given to ceremony, and not much
embarrassed by intellect. There was one man, however, who had enough
for them all: namely, George Spanginburg, brother of the Moravian
bishop of the latter name, and who was, for some time, the Secretary of
State at the court of Saxe-Meinengen.
Antony Ulrich reigned alone from 1746 to 1763. He was of a more
enlightened character than any of the preceding princes, had a taste
for the arts, when he could procure pictures cheaply, and strong
inclination towards pretty living pictures, which led to lively rather
than pleasant controversies at court. His own marriage with Madame
Scharmann disgusted the young ladies of princely houses in Germany, and
especially exasperated the aristocracy of Meinengen. They were scarcely
pacified by the fact, that the issue of the marriage was declared
incapable of succeeding to the inheritance.
The latter fell in 1763 to two young brothers, kinsfolk of Antony, and
sons of the late Duke of Gotha, who reigned for some years together.
The elder, Charles, died in 1782. From that period till 1803, the other
brother, George, reigned alone. He had no sooner become sole sovereign,
than he married the Princess Louisa of Hohenlohe Langenburg. At the end
of ten years, the first child of this marriage was born, namely
Adelaide, the future Queen of England.
Eight years later, in the last year of the last century A.D. 1800, a
male heir to the pocket-duchy was born, and then was introduced into
Meinengen the law which fixed the succession in the eldest male heir
only. Saxe-Meinengen was the last country in Europe in which this law
was established.
The father of the Princess Adelaide, like his brother Charles, was a
man of no mean powers. Both were condescending enough to visit even the
burgher families of Saxe-Meinengen; and Charles had so little respect
for vice in high places, that when a German prince acted contrary to
the rights of his people, the offender found himself soundly lashed in
paper and pamphlet, the pseudonymous signature to which could not
conceal the person of the writer--the hasty Duke Charles. If this
sometimes made him unpopular over the frontier, he was beloved within
it. How could the people but love a sovereign Duke who, when a child
was born to him, asked citizens of good repute rather than of high rank
to come and be gossips?
In the revolutionary war, Duke George fought like a hero. At home, he
afforded refuge to bold but honest writers, driven from more mighty
states. He beautified his city, improved the country; and, without
being of great mental cultivation himself, he loved to collect around
him, scholars, philosophers, artists, authors, gentlemen. With these he
lived on the most familiar terms, and when I say that Schiller and John
Paul Richter were of the number, I afford some idea of the society
which Duke George cared chiefly to cultivate. He buried his own mother
in the common church-yard, because she was worthy, he said, of lying
among her own subjects. The majority of these were country folk, but
George esteemed the country folk, and at rustic festivals he was not
unwilling to share a jug of beer with any of them. Perhaps the rustics
loved him more truly than the sages, to whom he proved, occasionally,
something wearisome. But these were often hard to please. All, however,
felt an honest grief, when, on the Christmas night, of 1803, Duke
George died, after a brief illness, caused, it is said, by a neglected
cold, and the rage at an urgent demand from the Kaiser, of 60,000
florins, fine-money for knightly orders, ducally declined.
The Duke left a young family, Adelaide, Ida, and his son and successor,
Bernard, then only three years of age. The mother of these fatherless
children took upon herself the office of guardian, with that of Regent
of the duchy. The duties of both were performed with rare judgment and
firmness, during a time of much trouble and peril, especially when the
French armies were overrunning and devastating Germany.
On the young ladies, gently and wisely reared in this little court,
Queen Charlotte had begun to look with the foresight of a mother who
had elderly and wayward sons to marry. When the | 918.436941 |
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[Illustration: Dr. Gunning's House, overlooking the Valley of Macacos]
BRAZIL
AND
THE RIVER PLATE
IN 1868:
BY
WILLIAM HADFIELD,
SHOWING THE PROGRESS OF THOSE COUNTRIES SINCE HIS FORMER VISIT IN 1853.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
BATES, HENDY AND CO., 4, OLD JEWRY, E.C.
1869.
ENT. STA. HALL.
DUNLOP & CO., PRINTERS,
King's Head Court, Shoe Lane, E.C.
CONTENTS.
THE VOYAGE OUT 9
THE CITY OF MONTE VIDEO 25
THE CITY OF RIO DE JANEIRO 31
THE WAR IN PARAGUAY 45
THE PROVINCE OF SAN PAULO 51
THE SAN PAULO RAILWAY 55
THE CITY OF SAN PAULO 66
SAN PAULO TO SANTOS AND RIO DE JANEIRO 83
TRIP TO JUIZ DE FORA.—THE DON PEDRO SEGUNDO RAILWAY 86
RIO DE JANEIRO TO THE RIVER PLATE, SECOND TRIP 99
CITY OF BUENOS AYRES 103
BUENOS AYRES TO COLONIA—ESTANZUELLA 107
TRIP ON THE CENTRAL ARGENTINE RAILWAY 112
THE WESTERN RAILWAY OF BUENOS AYRES 125
BUENOS AYRES—SECOND NOTICE 131
PROGRESS OF STEAM NAVIGATION ON LA PLATA 142
RAILWAYS IN THE RIVER PLATE 146
EMIGRATION TO BRAZIL 154
EMIGRATION TO THE RIVER PLATE 158
RAILWAYS IN BRAZIL 164
COMMERCE OF BRAZIL AND THE RIVER PLATE 173
THE RIVER AMAZON 185
TELEGRAPHIC COMMUNICATIONS 197
RELIGIOUS INSTITUTIONS 200
THE AFFLUENTS OF LA PLATA 203
THE REPUBLIC OF PARAGUAY 206
BRAZILIAN CURRENCY 217
ARGENTINE FINANCES 231
THE PORT AND HARBOUR OF SANTOS 239
THE VOYAGE HOME 245
APPENDIX OF OFFICIAL AND OTHER DOCUMENTS 253
ERRATA.
Page 132.—For Club “El Temple” read “Del Parque.”
Page 167.—Transpose in table words “Revenue” and “Working.”
Page 169.—For “£150,000” read “£15,000.”
PREFACE.
This work makes no pretentions to literary merit, but, as its title
indicates, is simply a narrative descriptive of the progress of the
countries specially referred to, which, though England has long
maintained intimate commercial relations with them, are still but very
imperfectly known to the British public. In the Old World generations
follow each other without any very perceptible alteration being
observable in the characteristic surroundings, but in the New World, as
America is still termed, a few years often effect changes of the most
important and striking description. This is notably the case as respects
Brazil and the River Plate, the growth of which has been very
remarkable.
Since the year 1854, when my former work was published, a large amount
of English capital has been invested in various enterprises connected
with Brazil and the River Plate, and particularly for the construction
of railways, the formation of banks, and the promotion of steam
navigation on the great Rivers communicating with the interior. If the
results have not, in several instances, proved wholly satisfactory as
regards the distribution of dividends, the fact is in a considerable
degree, if not entirely, owing to mismanagement of some kind or other;
and I think there can be no doubt that a prosperous future yet lies
before all the companies in question. On the other hand, large gains
have been secured, showing that those regions present a profitable and
wide field for the further employment of our surplus capital.
The commercial tendencies of Brazil and the Platine States are most
liberal, and their policy is the very opposite of that pursued under the
exclusive domination of Portugal and Spain. The Empire, not long since,
received the approval of all civilised nations for its decree opening up
the waters of the noble Amazon to free commerce, and the unrestricted
navigation of the upper riverine streams will be one of the chief
advantages the victory of the allies in the present war will confer upon
mankind.
The extent of territory embraced within the limits of Brazil, and what
are commonly called the Platine States, cannot easily be realised by
those who have never travelled out of Europe; and it is equally
difficult to convey any adequate idea of their wonderful fertility and
productiveness. Nature has blessed them with her choicest gifts, and, to
take the highest rank amongst the nations, their sole want is increased
population; and this is precisely what overcrowded Europe can very well
spare. I am glad to be able to state that the respective Governments are
fully impressed with the necessity of adopting comprehensive and
effective measures with a view to attracting emigrants to their shores.
My intended movements during my visit were much interfered with by the
cholera in the Plate and the protracted duration of hostilities in
Paraguay, but I was enabled to satisfy myself of the complete
realisation in 1868 of my most sanguine predictions in 1853.
BRAZIL AND THE RIVER PLATE
IN
1868.
THE VOYAGE OUT.
A beaten track does not present the same novelty as a fresh one, except
in the case of countries in what is still termed the New World, and
which are again about to be described. It was in 1853 I last visited
Brazil and the River Plate, and published my observations upon them. An
interval of fifteen years has wrought many changes and produced
wonderful progress there, and if the Southern portion of the American
Continent has not kept pace with the Northern it may be chiefly ascribed
to the continued great influx of emigrant population to the latter from
all parts of Europe, but consisting chiefly of the Anglo-Saxon race.
From this cause, even the loss of at least a million of American
citizens by the great civil war has caused no perceptible diminution in
the American census, because it is constantly replenished from Europe.
The African race has, however, come to the surface in a most
unlooked-for manner, their shackles having been removed by a violent
shock, which has, for a time at least, caused great social disturbance,
and left the Southern States more or less at the mercy of the “<DW65>s,”
as the blacks are generally termed. What may be the ultimate result, or
how things will “settle down,” is yet a problem to be solved. Meantime,
slavery in Brazil remains a domestic institution, but it is doomed to
inevitable extinction. The process of emancipation will be watched with
much interest by all who desire to see the Brazilian Empire rise to the
position it is capable of attaining. The tide of emigration to Brazil,
spite of this disadvantage, has, however, fairly set in, and the subject
will be treated of in its proper place. Happily, in the River Plate
there exists no such hindrance to the development of free labour, for
which it also presents a boundless field, and it will be the study of
the writer to show how a portion, at all events, of the surplus
population of Europe can be located there, to the great advantage of
those who embrace the opening as well as of the country itself, whose
chief and most urgent want is labour. The Paraguayan war and the
terrible ravages of the cholera have been a great drawback to internal
improvement in the Argentine Republic, but it is gratifying to think
that the encouraging picture drawn by the writer on his first visit to
the Plate has been more than realised—the motto of the Platine States
should now be “_Peace and Progress_.” The “log” of an outward-bound
passenger on board an ocean steamer now possesses but little interest;
still, a record of the changes which have taken place in the means of
transit since my last voyage, made fifteen years ago, may be worthy of
notice, and will also afford information to those who contemplate a trip
to Brazil or the River Plate. Success does not always attend even the
best organised and most promising enterprises, but all experience had
even then proved that there was ample scope for the employment of
capital in promoting intercourse by means of steam with those countries
that can only be reached by crossing the ocean. The South American
Company, with which at that time I was connected, started under
unfortunate circumstances. Ships were high in price, and rates of fuel
were exorbitant by reason of the Crimean War. They lost in addition two
of their steamers in a most unlooked-for manner, which sadly deranged
their operations; but emphatically the two grave errors committed by the
company were, first, in building more ships than they could raise
capital to pay for; and, secondly, in abandoning the line after their
experience had thus been paid for, and at the very moment when the
traffic was becoming lucrative; for there can be no question that had
they continued to run their steamers, instead of being seduced by the
tempting terms of charter offered by Government, they would now have
been in existence as a powerful company, paying good dividends. This was
not to be however, and on the abandonment of the line, the Royal Mail
Company was left without a competitor, and so enabled to realise large
profits. Had this latter company read rightly the signs of the times, or
met the requirements of _commerce_ by despatching a steamer once a month
from Liverpool, alternately with their regular mail from Southampton,
they would not only have made more money, but to a considerable extent
rendered themselves independent of Government subsidies. Their monopoly
was exercised injuriously for the interests of the countries they were
trading to, of which the French Emperor had the sagacity to take
advantage, by subsidizing a company from Bordeaux, which has continued a
most successful career, for it cannot be disputed that French steam
navigation and the development of French commerce are almost entirely
due to his Imperial Majesty's remarkable prescience. As a natural
consequence of increased facilities the passenger traffic with Brazil
and the River Plate has wonderfully increased, and at times both lines
are inconveniently crowded, the French one being for some reason
preferred by South Americans and foreigners. Subsequently some
unsuccessful attempts were made to establish other steam lines to
Brazil. What was termed the Brokers' line was started from Liverpool to
the River Plate, but it was not until Messrs. Lamport and Holt took the
business in hand that private steam navigation was established on a firm
basis from that port, and the fine fleet of the astronomical line now
supersedes to a considerable extent the use of sailing ships. They have
also entered into a contract with the British Government to despatch a
mail steamer on the 20th of every month, the first (the Hipparchus)
having left Liverpool on the 20th August last. Last on the list comes
what is now generally known as “Tait's” line, on board one of the
steamers of which, the City of Limerick, I am now embarked. They are
fine steamers, with superior accommodation for first-class passengers at
very moderate rates. A line from London, calling at Falmouth, has long
been a favourite project, which Messrs. Tait have at length carried into
effect with every prospect of success. They have wisely appreciated the
growing requirements of population in Brazil and the River Plate, and
are preparing to convey a number of third-class passengers by their
steamers at a cheap rate. By confining their operations to Rio de
Janeiro and the River Plate they are enabled to land goods and
passengers at Monte Video and Buenos Ayres under 30 days. The importance
of this line has been greatly enhanced by the contract entered into with
the Belgian Government, under which the steamers are to call at Antwerp
on their way out and home, the latter after landing passengers at
Falmouth.[1]
This brief reference to the progress of steam navigation to Brazil and
the River Plate will show the growth of passenger traffic during the
last few years, and sufficiently indicate the great increase of commerce
with these countries, not only as regards Great Britain, but also as
respects continental ports, which will be more clearly illustrated in
later portions of this volume; meantime, as an index to passenger
traffic, it is my intention to obtain statistics from the different
companies, and to present them in a table which will speak for itself. I
may further remark that a steam company has been formed to run from
Marseilles to the River Plate, and another between the United States and
Brazil, the latter with a subsidy from these two Governments, which
cannot fail to be mutually advantageous, and to promote the great object
of emigration. Altogether a very large amount of capital is employed in
linking this portion of the old world and the new by means of steam
navigation. That it will further increase no one can doubt, particularly
should the tide of emigration from Europe set in freely towards those
countries, as I firmly believe will soon be the case.
And now we are moving along towards St | 918.535586 |
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LADY HESTER;
OR,
URSULA'S NARRATIVE.
by
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. SAULT ST. PIERRE
CHAPTER II. TREVORSHAM
CHAPTER III. THE PEERAGE CASE
CHAPTER IV. SKIMPING'S FARM
CHAPTER V. SPINNEY LAWN
CHAPTER VI. THE WHITE DOE'S WARNING
CHAPTER VII. HUNTING
CHAPTER VIII. DUCK SHOOTING
CHAPTER IX. TREVOR'S LEGACY
CHAPTER I.
SAULT ST. PIERRE.
I write this by desire of my brothers and sisters, that if any reports
of our strange family history should come down to after generations the
thing may be properly understood.
The old times at Trevorsham seem to me so remote, that I can hardly
believe that we are the same who were so happy then. Nay, Jaquetta
laughs, and declares that it is not possible to be happier than we have
been since, and Fulk would have me remember that all was not always
smooth even in those days.
Perhaps not--for him, at least, dear fellow, in those latter times; but
when I think of the old home, the worst troubles that rise before me
are those of the back-board and the stocks, French in the school-room,
and Miss Simmonds' "Lady Ursula, think of your position!"
And as to Jaquetta, she was born under a more benignant star. Nobody
could have put a back-board on her any more than on a kitten.
Our mother had died (oh! how happily for herself!) when Jaquetta was a
baby, and Miss Simmonds most carefully ruled not only over us, but over
Adela Brainerd, my father's ward, who was brought up with us because
she had no other relation in the world.
Besides, my father wished her to marry one of my brothers. It would
have done very well for either Torwood or Bertram, but unluckily, as it
seemed, neither of them could take to the notion. She was a dear
little thing, to be sure, and we were all very fond of her; but, as
Bertram said, it would have been like marrying Jaquetta, and Torwood
had other views, to which my father would not then listen.
Then Bertram's regiment was ordered to Canada, and that was the real
cause of it all, though we did not know it till long after.
Bertram was starting out on a sporting expedition with a Canadian
gentleman, when about ten miles from Montreal they halted at a farm
with a good well-built house, named Sault St. Pierre, all looking
prosperous and comfortable, and a young farmer, American in his
ways--free-spoken, familiar, and blunt--but very kindly and friendly,
was at work there with some French-Canadian labourers.
Bertram's friend knew him and often halted there on hunting
expeditions, so they went into the house--very nicely furnished, a
pretty parlour with muslin curtains, a piano, and everything pleasant;
and Joel Lea called his wife, a handsome, fair young woman. Bertram
says from the first she put him in mind of some one, and he was trying
to make out who it could be. Then came the wife's mother, a neat
little delicate, bent woman, with dark eyes, that looked, Bertram said,
as if they had had some great fright and never recovered it. They
called her Mrs. Dayman.
She was silent at first, and only helped her daughter and the maid to
get the dinner, and an excellent dinner it was; but she kept on looking
at Bertram, and she quite started when she heard him called Mr. Trevor.
When they were just rising up, and going to take leave, she came up to
him in a frightened agitated manner, as if she could not help it, and
said--
"Sir, you are so like a gentleman I once knew. Was any relation of
yours ever in Canada?"
"My father was in Canada," answered Bertram.
"Oh no," she said then, very much affected, "the Captain Trevor I knew
was killed in the Lake Campaign in 1814. It must be a mistake, yet you
put me in mind of him so strangely."
Then Bertram protested that she must mean my father, for that he had
been a captain in the --th, and had been stationed at York (as Toronto
was then called), but was badly wounded in repulsing the American
attack on the Lakes in 1814.
"Not dead?" she asked, with her cheeks getting pale, and a sort of
excitement about her, that made Bertram wonder, at the moment, if there
could have been any old attachment between them, and he explained how
my father was shipped off from England between life and death; and how,
when he recovered, he found his uncle dying, and the title and property
coming to him.
"And he married!" she said, with a bewildered look; and Bertram told
her that he had married Lady Mary Lupton--as his uncle and father had
wished--and how we four were their children. I can fancy how kindly
and tenderly Bertram would speak when he saw that she was anxious and
pained; and she took hold of his hand and held him, and when he said
something of mentioning that he had seen her, she cried out with a sort
of terror, "Oh no, no, Mr. Trevor, I beg you will not. Let him think
me dead, as I thought him." And then she drew down Bertram's tall head
to her, and fairly kissed his forehead, adding, "I could not help it,
sir; an old woman's kiss will do you no harm!"
Then he went away. He never did tell us of the meeting till long
after. He was not a great letter writer, and, besides, he thought my
father might not wish to have the flirtations of his youth brought up
against him. So we little knew!
But it seems that the daughter and son-in-law were just as much amazed
as Bertram, and when he was gone, and the poor old lady sank into her
chair and burst out crying, and as they came and asked who or what this
was, she sobbed out, "Your brother Hester! Oh! so like him--my
husband!" or something to that effect, as unawares. She wanted to take
it back again, but of course Hester would not let her, and made her
tell the whole.
It seems that her name was Faith Le Blanc; she was half English, half
French-Canadian, and lived in a village in a very unsettled part, where
Captain Trevor used to come to hunt, and where he made love to her, and
ended by marrying her--with the knowledge of her family and his brother
officers, but not of his family--just before he was ordered to the Lake
frontier. The war had stirred up the Indians to acts of violence they
had not committed for many years, and a tribe of them came down on the
village, plundering, burning, killing, and torturing those whom they
had known in friendly intercourse.
Faith Le Blanc had once given some milk to a papoose upon its mother's
back, and perhaps for this reason she was spared, but everyone
belonging to her was, she believed, destroyed, and she was carried away
by the tribe, who wanted to make her one of themselves; and she knew
that if she offended them, such horrors as she had seen practised on
others would come on her.
However, they had gone to another resort of theirs, where there was a
young hunter who often visited them, and was on friendly terms. When
he found that there was a white woman living as a captive among them,
he spared no effort to rescue her. Both he and she were often in
exceeding danger; but he contrived her escape at last, and brought her
through the woods to a place of safety, and there her child was born.
It was over the American frontier, and it was long before she could
write to her husband. She never knew what became of her letter, but
the hunter friend, Piers Dayman, showed her an American paper which
mentioned Captain Trevor among the officers killed in their attack.
Dayman was devoted to her, and insisted on marrying her, and bringing
up her daughter as his own. I fancy she was a woman of gentle passive
temper, and had been crushed and terrified by all she had gone through,
so as to have little instinct left but that of clinging to the
protector who had taken her up when she had lost everything else; and
she married him. Nor did Hester guess till that very day that Piers
Dayman was not her father!
There were other children, sons who have given themselves to hunting
and trapping in the Hudson's Bay Company's territory; but Hester
remained the only daughter, and they educated her well, sending her to
a convent at Montreal, where she learnt a good many accomplishments.
They were not Roman Catholics; but it was the only way of getting an
education.
Dayman must have been a warm-hearted, tenderly affectionate person.
Hester loved him very much. But he had lived a wild sportsman's life,
and never was happy at rest. They changed home often; and at last he
was snowed up and frozen to death, with one of his boys, on a bear
hunting expedition.
Not very long after, Hester married this sturdy American, Joel Lea, who
had bought some land on the Canadian side of the border, and her mother
came home to live with them. They had been married four or five years,
but none of their children had lived.
So it was when the discovery came upon poor old Mrs. Dayman (I do not
know what else to call her), that Fulk Torwood Trevor, the husband of
her youth, was not dead, but was Earl of Trevorsham; married, and the
father of four children in England.
Poor old thing! She would have buried her secret to the last, as much
in pity and love to him as in shame and grief for herself; and
consideration, too, for the sons, for whom the discovery was only less
bad than for us, as they had less to lose. Hester herself hardly fully
understood what it all involved, and it only gradually grew on her.
That winter her mother fell ill, and Mr. Lea felt it right that the
small property she had had for her life should be properly secured to
her sons, according to the division their father had intended. So a
lawyer was brought from Montreal and her will was made. Thus another
person knew about it, and he was much struck, and explained to Hester
that she was really a lady of rank, and probably the only child of her
father who had any legal claim to his estates. Lea, with a good deal
of the old American Republican temper, would not be stirred up. He
desp | 918.541785 |
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TUEN, SLAVE AND EMPRESS
by
KATHLEEN GRAY NELSON
Illustrations by William M. Cary
[Illustration: TUEN AT WORK ON THE TUNIC.--_Page 65_]
New York
Copyright by
E. P. Dutton & Company
31 West Twenty-Third Street
1898
[Illustration: _Frontispiece._ THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. Page 190.]
PREFACE.
This story is founded upon facts in the life of the Empress-dowager of
China, the mother of the present Emperor.
She was sold as a slave by her father to a renowned government
official, who after a few years adopted her as his daughter, and
afterwards presented her to the Emperor.
The Emperor was altogether charmed with the gift. In a few years the
slave girl became the wife of the Emperor, second in rank only to the
Empress. From this time she was a power at the Imperial Court. Her
administrative ability in governmental affairs became invaluable to the
Emperor.
After the death of the Empress, and the death of the Emperor and eldest
son, she became Empress-dowager of China, and reigned as regent during
the minority of her son, who is the present Emperor of China, now about
twenty-four years of age.
Bishop Galloway tells us this wonderful woman's sixtieth birthday,
celebrated last year, "was to have been the greatest event in Chinese
history for a century or more." The war, however, prevented this
display. He says, too: "It is significant that in this country, in which
women are at a discount, are secluded and kept in ignorance, are
protested against at birth, and regarded as a calamity in youth, the
ruling spirit in all national affairs is a woman."
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
NIU TSANG AND FAMILY 2
THE VICEROY AND NIU TSANG 24
TUEN AND WANG 43
TUEN AT WORK ON THE TUNIC (_on title-page_) 65
"I WOULD LIKE TO LEARN TO READ" 78
THE SAIL UP THE RIVER 159
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT (_frontispiece_) 190
TUEN, SLAVE AND EMPRESS.
CHAPTER I.
The sun had set in the land where the dragon reigns, and darkness and
silence and rest and sleep, the ministers of the night, waited to come
to their own. But their presence was not needed in the eastern portion
of the province of Hunan, for a wonderful stillness hung over all the
barren landscape, and there was no sign of life. On the banks of the
streams the patient buffalo no longer went his ceaseless rounds, working
the pumps that sent water over the thirsty earth; the shrill cries of
the boatmen that were wont to echo on the river were hushed; not even a
bird crossed the quiet sky; and where the waving rice-fields had once
stretched out proud and green under the summer sun, was now but a lonely
waste that gave no hope of harvest, for man and beast had either
perished or fled. The great Tai-ping rebellion had stirred this peaceful
country to its very centre, and war and war's grim follower, famine, had
swept through this once fertile province, and naught was left to tell of
what had been, save a few scattered ruins.
[Illustration: NIU TSANG AND FAMILY. Page 2.]
Suddenly, against the purplish shadows of the distant mountains, a
little group could be seen moving slowly along, the only living things
in all this vast solitude. On they came over the parched levels, but the
man who was leading the way walked with bowed head, as one that saw not,
but only went forward because he must. He was small in stature, and thin
and lithe, while his complexion showed through its dark, the pallor of
the student. His face was of the Oriental type peculiar to the Chinese
Empire, and his carefully braided cue also indicated his nationality. He
had dark, sloping eyes that you might have thought sleepy if you had not
seen them light up as he talked, his forehead was low and broad, his
mouth large, and most amiable in its expression, and when the long
sleeves of his tunic fell back, they disclosed soft, delicate hands,
unused to toil. His costume consisted of an outer tunic of worn and
faded silk, girded at the waist with a sash, from which hung a bag
containing flint and steel for lighting his pipe, a soiled pouch that
had once held tobacco, but was now empty, another bag for his pipe, and
a satin case shaped like the sheath for a short sword, from which
protruded nothing more formidable, however, than the handle of a fan.
His loose pantaloons, dust-stained and frayed, were met below the knees
by cloth stockings, once white, but now dyed with mud, and his shoes of
embroidered felt, the toes of which curled up in a curious fashion,
showed many gaping holes. Upon his head he wore a cone-shaped hat of
bamboo, the peak at the top adorned with a blue button from which fell a
blue silk fringe, and his tunic being cut low at the neck and buttoned
diagonally across his breast, left exposed his slender bronzed neck.
He was followed by a woman whose dress was similar to his own, and also
much the worse for wear, who led by the hand a little boy about four
years old, while on her other side was a daughter, now almost as tall as
her mother.
But as the father walked slowly, even majestically, at the head of his
little family, bearing on a pole thrown across his shoulders, all his
worldly goods, there was an independence in his carriage, a pride in his
mien, that told of better days not yet forgotten, and made the evident
poverty of his appearance seem of but little moment.
A learned man once advanced the theory that in the olden days the
children of Abraham and Keturah, driven forth by unkind kinsmen,
wandered on until they reached the flowery Kingdom, and there the family
of the old patriarch multiplied as the stars of heaven, as the sand upon
the sea-shore, and became a mighty nation. But the centuries came and
went in silence, and man kept no record of their flight; and of the
early settlers of this, one of the first countries inhabited by human
beings, history can tell us nothing. The sons of Han have lived their
lives calmly, borrowing nothing from other nations, asking nothing of
the outside world, caring naught for what lay beyond their vast borders,
and change has been an unknown word in their shut-in kingdom. Progress,
the daring child of modern times, has not found entrance there, and the
Niu Tsang of to-day, leading his family through the forsaken country,
was but a repetition of his long dead forefathers. That was the reason
why, even now, as he toiled wearily along, his mind left the scenes of
the present, so full of sorrow and suffering, and dwelt in placid
contemplation on the events of the past. He was musing on the wisdom of
the sages, on the maxims of Confucius, when, chancing to raise his head,
he saw in the distance the dim outlines of a building.
"It is the temple of Buddha," he cried, joyfully, turning to his wife.
"There we shall find food and shelter for the night."
She made a gesture of assent, but her pale lips framed no word, and they
pressed hurriedly forward. When they came nearer the temple, he noticed
the traces of many footsteps, as if a great throng had entered there,
but the same mysterious silence reigned everywhere. There was no murmur
of voices raised in chants of praise, no priests waiting at the
entrance, no din of gongs and drums, not even a sound from the
consecrated animals that had once waited within the enclosure in
pampered stupidity for release from their beastly forms. Bewildered,
oppressed by a nameless fear, Niu Tsang ran past the open portal, and
there he stopped, dismayed at the scene before him, for the rebels,
drunk with success, had in their wild zeal turned against the dumb gods
of the land, and wrought havoc in the temple. Gilded and painted
fragments of helpless idols strewed the floor, the great stone altar,
carved in writhing dragons, had been broken into many pieces, and
incense vases of priceless porcelain, candlesticks of richest cloisonne,
tables of carved ebony, stands of polished jade, and rosaries torn from
the hands of frightened priests, had been ruthlessly destroyed, and now
lay in great heaps of rubbish. The guardians of the temple had fled
before the wrath of the rebel reformers, and the dead gods were left
alone in their temple. Niu Tsang made his way sadly through these ruins
of the | 918.738265 |
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The Sowdone of Babylone.
Early English Text Society.
Extra Series. No. XXXVIII.
1881.
BERLIN: ASHER & CO., 13, UNTER DEN LINDEN.
NEW YORK: C. SCRIBNER & CO.; LEYPOLDT & HOLT.
PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
THE
ENGLISH CHARLEMAGNE ROMANCES.
PART V.
The Romaunce of
The Sowdone of Babylone
and of
Ferumbras his Sone who conquerede Rome.
RE-EDITED
FROM THE UNIQUE MS. OF THE LATE SIR THOMAS PHILLIPPS,
with Introduction, Notes, and Glossary,
BY
EMIL HAUSKNECHT, PH. D.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED FOR THE EARLY ENGLISH TEXT SOCIETY
BY KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & Co.,
PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING-CROSS ROAD, W.C.
MDCCCLXXXI.
[«Reprinted 1891, 1898.»]
Extra Series,
XXXVIII.
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, LONDON & BUNGAY.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION … v
Popularity of the Carlovingian Romances … v
Popularity of the Ferumbras Poem … vi
The Provençal Ferabras … ix
The Fierabras Poem an Enlarged and Recast Portion of the Old Balan
Romance … xi
The Poem of the Destruction de Rome … xiii
MSS. of the French Fierabras … xv
The English Sir Ferumbras, its Source, etc. … xvi
The Poem of the Sowdan of Babylon, its Sources, its Differences
from the Original Balan Romance and from the Ashmolean Ferumbras …
xxii
Dialect of the Sowdan … xxxiv
Metre and Rhymes of the Sowdan … xl
Date and Author of the Sowdan … xlv
MS. of the Sowdan … xlvii
Roxburghe Club Edition of the Sowdan … xlviii
ADDITIONS … xlix
The Hanover MS. of the French Fierabras Compared With the Sowdan …
xlix
The Hanover Version Compared With Sir Ferumbras … lii
SKETCH OF THE STORY … liv
THE ROMAUNCE OF THE SOWDONE OF BABYLONE AND OF FERUMBRAS HIS SONE
WHO CONQUEREDE ROME … 1
NOTES … 95
GLOSSARIAL INDEX … 133
INDEX OF NAMES … 141
[p-v]
INTRODUCTION.
The exploits of Charles the Great, who by his achievements as conqueror
and legislator, as reformer of learning and missionary, so deeply
changed the face of Western Europe, who during a reign of nearly half
a century maintained, by his armies, the authority of his powerful
sceptre, from the southern countries of Spain and Italy to the more
northern regions of Denmark, Poland, and Hungary, must have made a
profound and unalterable impression in the minds of his contemporaries,
so that for centuries afterwards they continued to live in the memory
of the people. Evidence of this high pitch of popularity is given
by the numerous «chansons de geste» or romances, which celebrate
the deeds, or are connected with the name, of the great and valiant
champion of Christendom.
It is true that the sublime figure of Charlemagne, who with his
imaginary twelve peers perpetually warred against all heathenish
or Saracen people, in the romances of a later period, has been
considerably divested of that nimbus of majestic grandeur, which the
composers of the earlier poems take pains to diffuse around him.
Whereas, in the latter, the person of the Emperor appears adorned with
high corporeal, intellectual, and warlike gifts, and possessed of all
royal qualities; the former show us the splendour of Royalty tarnished
and debased, and the power of the feodal vassals enlarged to the
prejudice of the royal authority. Roland, in speaking of Charlemagne,
says, in the «Chanson de Roland», l. 376:—
“Jamais n’iert hum qui encuntre lui vaillet,”
and again the same Roland says of the Emperor, in «Guy de Bourgoyne»,
l. 1061:—
“Laissomes ce viellart qui tous est assotez.”
[p-vi]
This glorification of the great Christian hero took its rise in France,
but soon spread into the neighbouring countries, and before long
Charlemagne was celebrated in song by almost all European nations.
Indeed, there are translations, reproductions, compilations of French
Charlemagne romances to be met with in Italy, Spain, and Portugal, as
well as in Scandinavia and Iceland. Even in Hungary and Russia these
«chansons» of the Charlemagne cycle seem to have been known.[1]
A full account of almost all Charlemagne romances will be found
in Gaston Paris’s exhaustive work of the «Histoire poétique de
Charlemagne» (Paris, 1865), and in Léon Gautier’s «Epopées françaises»
(Paris, 1867).
Of all the Charlemagne romances, that of Fierabras or Ferumbras has
certainly obtained the highest degree of popularity, as is shown by
the numerous versions and reproductions of this romance, from the 13th
century down to the present day.
When the art of printing first became general, the first romance that
was printed was a prose version of «Fierabras»; and when the study of
mediæval metrical romances was revived in this century, the «Fierabras»
poem was the first to be re-edited.[2]
The balm of Fierabras especially seems to have been celebrated for
its immediately curing any wound; we find it referred to and minutely
described in Florian’s «Don Quichotte», I. chap. 10. The scene of
Fierabras challenging to a combat the twelve peers of France, and of
his vaunting offer to fight at once with six (or twelve) of them,[3]
must also have been pretty familiar to French readers, as the name of
Fierabras is met with in the sense of a simple common noun, signifying
“a bragging bully or swaggering hector.”[4]
Rabelais[5] also alludes to Fierabras, thinking him renowned enough as
to figure in the pedigree of Pantagruel.
In 1833, on a tour made through the Pyrenees, M. Jomard witnessed
[p-vii] a kind of historical drama, represented by villagers, in which
Fierabras and Balan were the principal characters.[6]
That in our own days, the tradition of Fierabras continues to live,
is evident from the fact, that copies of the Fierabras story, in the
edition of the «Bibliothèque Bleue», still circulate amongst the
country people of France.[7] There is even an illustrated edition,
published in 1861, the pictures of which have been executed by no less
an artist than Gustave Doré. And like Oberon, that other mediæval hero
of popular celebrity,[8] Fierabras has become the subject of a musical
composition. There is an Opera «Fierabras» composed by Franz Schubert
(words by Joseph Kupelwieser) in 1823, the overture of which has been
arranged for the piano in 1827, by Carl Czerny.[9]
The different versions and the popularity of the present romance
in France, Italy, Spain, and Germany, having been treated in the
Introduction to «Sir Ferumbras», we need not repeat it again here.[10]
As to the popularity of the «Fierabras» romance in the Netherlands, the
following passage from Hoffmann, «Horæ Belgicæ» (Vratislaviæ, 1830), I.
50, may be quoted here[11]:—
“Quam notæ Belgis, sec. xiii. et xiv., variæ variarum nationum
fabulæ fuerint, quæ ex Gallia septemtrionali, ubi originem ceperunt,
translatæ sunt, pauca hæc testimonia demonstrabunt:— . . . . in
exordio Sidraci:—[12]
‘Dickent hebbic de gone ghescouden,
die hem an boeken houden
daer si clene oerbare in leren,
also sijn jeesten van heeren,
van Paerthenopeuse, van Amidase,
van Troijen ende van «Fierabrase»,
ende van menighen boeken, die men mint
ende daer men litel oerbaren in vint, [p-viii]
ende dat als leghene es ende mere,
ende anders en hebben ghene lere,
danne vechten ende vrowen minnen
ende lant ende steden winnen . . . . . .’—
“Nec rarius tanguntur fabulæ de Carolo Magno, «Speculum Historiale»,
IV. 1. xxix (cf. Bilderdijk, «Verscheidenh», I. D. bl. 161–2):—
‘Carel es menichwaerf beloghen
in groten boerden ende in hoghen,
alse boerders doen ende oec dwase,
diene beloghen van «Fierabrase»,
dat nie ghesciede noch en was . . . .
die scone walsce valsce poeten,
die mer rimen dan si weten,
belieghen groten Caerle vele
in sconen worden ende bispele
van «Fierabrase van Alisandre»,
van «Pont Mautrible» ende andre,
dat algader niet en was . . . .’”
That the «Fierabras» romance must have been well known and highly
popular in England and Scotland, may be gathered from the numerous
references to this poem in various Middle English works.
Thus the whole subject of the «Fierabras» romance is found in the
following passage, taken from «Barbour’s Bruce», ed. Skeat, 3, 435 ss.,
where the King is described as relating to his followers:—
“Romanys off worthi Ferambrace,
That worthily our-commyn was
Throw the rycht douchty Olywer;
And how the duz Peris wer
Assegyt intill Egrymor,
Quhar King Lawyne lay thaim befor
With may thowsandis then I can say,
And bot elewyn within war thai,
And a woman; and wa sa stad,
That thai na mete thar within had,
Bot as thai fra thair fayis wan.
Y heyte, sua contenyt thai thaim than;
That thai the tour held manlily,
Till that Rychard off Normandy,
Magre his fayis, warnyt the king,
That wes joyfull off this tithing:
For he wend, thai had all bene slayne,
Tharfor he turnyt in hy agayne,
And wan Mantrybill and passit Flagot;
And syne Lawyne and all his flot
Dispitusly discumfyt he:
And deliueryt his men all fre,
And wan the «naylis», and the «sper»,
And the croune that Ihesu couth ber; [p-ix]
And off the «croice» a gret party
He wan throw his chew | 918.755143 |
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TWO ARROWS
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE'S SERIES
NEW LARGE-TYPE EDITION
TOBY TYLER James Otis
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER James Otis
TIM AND TIP James Otis
RAISING THE "PEARL" James Otis
ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL W. F. Cody
DIDDIE, DUMPS AND TOT Mrs. L. C. Pyrnelle
MUSIC AND MUSICIANS Lucy C. Lillie
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB W. L. Alden
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST" W. L. Alden
MORAL PIRATES W. L. Alden
A NEW ROBINSON CRUSOE W. L. Alden
PRINCE LAZYBONES Mrs. W. J. Hays
THE FLAMINGO FEATHER Kirk Munroe
DERRICK STERLING Kirk Munroe
CHRYSTAL, JACK & CO. Kirk Munroe
WAKULLA Kirk Munroe
THE ICE QUEEN Ernest Ingersoll
THE RED MUSTANG W. O. Stoddard
THE TALKING LEAVES W. O. Stoddard
TWO ARROWS W. O. Stoddard
HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS
[Illustration: TWO ARROWS EXPLORES THE RUINS]
TWO ARROWS
A STORY OF RED AND WHITE
BY
WILLIAM O. STODDARD
Author of "THE TALKING LEAVES"
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD
F.-Y.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE HUNGRY CAMP 1
II. A YOUNG HERO 9
III. A BRAVE NAME 17
IV. THE MINING EXPEDITION 24
V. A VERY OLD TRAIL 32
VI. A THIRSTY MARCH 40
VII. THE GREAT CANON 48
VIII. WATER! WATER! 56
IX. INTO A NEW WORLD 64
X. SILE'S POCKET 71
XI. A TRAPPED BOY 80
XII. THE ERRAND OF ONE-EYE 88
XIII. GREAT SCOUTING 96
XIV. A WRESTLING MATCH 103
XV. A GREAT CAPTAIN 111
XVI. VISITING 117
XVII. MORE FUN 126
XVIII. TWO WAR-PARTIES 136
XIX. WONDERFUL FISHING 146
XX. A FULL CORRAL 157
XXI. THE GOLD MINE 166
XXII. A NEW SETTLEMENT 174
XXIII. DANGER 182
XXIV. SILE'S VICTORY 191
XXV. A MIDNIGHT MARCH 199
XXVI. PREPARING FOR AN ATTACK 207
XXVII. FROM BOW TO RIFLE 216
XXVIII. THE APACHES HAVE COME 224
XXIX. STIRRING TIMES 232
XXX. A DARING RIDE 239
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Two arrows explores the ruins" _Frontispiece_
"Not a boy or girl among them had such a
treasure as that mirror" _Facing p._ 120
"The midnight march of the Nez Perces" " 206
"His right hand with his palm up to show
that he was peaceful" " 230
TWO ARROWS
TWO ARROWS
A STORY OF RED AND WHITE
CHAPTER I
THE HUNGRY CAMP
The mountain countries of all the earth have always been wonder-lands.
The oldest and best known of them are to this day full of things that
nobody has found out. That is the reason why people are always exploring
them, but they keep their secrets remarkably well, particularly the
great secret of how they happened to get there in that shape.
The great western mountain country of the United States is made up of
range after range of wonderful peaks and ridges, and men have peered in
among them here and there, but for all the peering and searching nothing
of the wonder to speak of has been rubbed away.
Right in the eastern, edge of one of these mountain ridges, one warm
September morning, not long ago, a band of Nez Perce Indians were
encamped. It was in what is commonly called "the Far West," because
always when you get there the West is as far away as ever. The camp was
in a sort of nook, and it was not easy to say whether a spur of the
mountain jutted out into the plain, or whether a spur of the plain made
a dent in the ragged line of the mountains. More than a dozen "lodges,"
made of skins upheld by poles, were scattered around on the smoother
spots, not far from a bubbling spring of water. There were some trees
and bushes and patches of grass near the spring, but the little brook
which trickled away from it did not travel a great way into the world,
from the place where it was born, before it was soaked up and
disappeared among the sand and gravel. Up and beyond the spring, the
farther one chose to look, the rockier and the ruggeder everything
seemed to be.
Take it all together, it was a forlorn looking, hot, dried-up, and
uncomfortable sort of place. The very lodges themselves, and the human
beings around them, made it appear pitifully desolate. The spring was
the only visible thing that seemed to be alive and cheerful and at work.
There were Indians and squaws to be seen, a number of them, and boys and
girls of all sizes, and some of the squaws carried pappooses, but they
all looked as if they had given up entirely and did not expect to live
any longer. Even some of the largest men had an air of not caring much,
really, whether they lived or not; but that was the only regular and
dignified way for a Nez Perce or any other Indian warrior to take a
thing he can't help or is too lazy to fight with. The women showed more
signs of life than the men, for some of them were moving about among the
children, and one poor, old, withered, ragged squaw sat in the door of
her lodge, with her gray hair all down over her face, rocking backward
and forward, and singing a sort of droning chant.
There was not one quadruped of any kind to be seen in or about that
camp. Behind this fact was the secret of the whole matter. Those Indians
were starving! Days and days before that they had been away out upon the
plains to the eastward, hunting for buffalo. They had not found any, but
they | 918.847361 |
2023-11-16 18:32:22.8274960 | 101 | 9 |
Produced by Andrew Sly and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net, produced from
scans provided by Al Haines.
CAPRICIOUS CAROLINE
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Susannah and One Other
Love and Louisa
Peter a Parasite
The Blunder of an Innocent
CAPRICIOUS CAROLINE
BY
E. MARIA ALBANESI
"GOD HAS A FE | 918.847536 |
2023-11-16 18:32:22.8275140 | 772 | 7 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by the
Digital & Multimedia Center, Michigan State University
Libraries.)
ROMANTIC SPAIN:
A Record of Personal Experiences.
BY
JOHN AUGUSTUS O'SHEA,
AUTHOR OF
"LEAVES FROM THE LIFE or A SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT,"
"AN IRON-BOUND CITY," ETC.
"Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!"
CHILDE HAROLD.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1887.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
TO
WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT, ESQ.,
IN TOKEN OF ESTEEM FOR
HIS BOLD AND TRUTHFUL CHARACTER,
AND OF
GLADNESS THAT WE HAVE SO MANY KINDRED SYMPATHIES,
This Book is Enscribed
BY THE WRITER.
PREFACE.
This simple recital of personal haps and mishaps in perturbed Spain from
the abdication of Amadeus to the entry of Don Carlos, puts forward no
claim to the didactic or dogmatic. Its chief aim is to amuse. Of course,
if I succeed in conveying knowledge and dispelling illusions--in Tasso's
words, if I administer a pill under a coating of jam--I shall be
cock-a-hoop with delight. But I warn the reader I am not an unprejudiced
witness. I am passionately fond of Spain and her people. Although years
have elapsed since the events dealt with occurred, I fancy the narrative
will not be hackneyed, for in Spain public life repeats itself with a
fidelity which is never monotonous. I do not pretend to cast the
horoscope of the poor little monarch who is in the nurse's arms, but
Heaven guard him! 'Twere better for him that he had been born in a
Highland shieling.
Should there be much individualism in these pages, it is intentional,
and to be ascribed to the instance of friends. They said, "Bother
history; give us plenty of your own experiences." It is to be hoped they
have not led me astray by their well-meant advice.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Which, being non-essential, treats partly of Spain,
but principally of the Writer 1-23
CHAPTER II.
The Old-Fashioned Invocation--"Them 'ere Spanish
Kings!"--Candidates for a Throne--_En Voyage_--Bordeaux
and the Back-ache--An Unmannerly
Alsatian--The Patriot gets a Roland for his Oliver--Small
Change for a Hot Bath--Plan for Universal
Coinage--Daughters of Israel--The Jews Diagnosed--Across
the Border--The Writer is Saluted "Caballero"--Bugaboo
Santa Cruz--Over a Brasero 24-42
CHAPTER III.
A Make-Believe Spain--The Mountain Convoy--A
Tough Road to Travel--Spanish Superiority in
Blasphemy--Short Essay on Oaths--The Basque
Peasants--Carlism under a Cloak--How Guerilla-Fighting
is Conducted--A Hyperborean Landscape--A
Mysterious Grandee--An Adventurous Frenchman--The
Shebeen on the Summit--Armed Alsasua--Base
Coin 43-60
CHAPTER IV.
| 918.847554 |
2023-11-16 18:32:22.8307600 | 3,220 | 52 |
The Project Gutenberg Etext of The 1913 Webster Unabridged Dictionary
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Begin file 6 of 11: M, N and O. (Version 0.50) of
An electronic field-marked version of:
Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary
Version published 1913
by the C. & G. Merriam Co.
Springfield, Mass.
Under the direction of
Noah Porter, D.D., LL.D.
This electronic version was prepared by MICRA, Inc. of Plainfield, NJ.
Last edit February 11, 1999.
MICRA, Inc. makes no proprietary claims on this version of the
1913 Webster dictionary. If the original printed edition of the
1913 Webster is in the public domain, this version may also be
considered as public domain.
This version is only a first typing, and has numerous typographic errors, including errors in the field-marks. Assistance in bringing this dictionary to a more accurate and useful state will be greatly appreciated.
This electronic dictionary is made available as a potential starting point for development of a modern on-line comprehensive encyclopedic dictionary, by the efforts of all individuals willing to help build a large and freely available knowledge base. Anyone willing to assist in any way in constructing such a knowledge base should contact:
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(908) 561-3416
M.
M (m). 1. M, the thirteenth letter of the English alphabet, is a vocal consonant, and from the manner of its formation, is called the labio-nasal consonant. See | 918.8508 |
2023-11-16 18:32:22.8367740 | 2,086 | 7 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II--NO. 82. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, May 24, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF CARUS.]
A STORY OF THE COLOSSEUM.
BY MRS. LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.
In the days of the Emperor Caracalla the Colosseum had ceased to be used
for terrible conflicts between man and beast. But the young student
Valentinian could not forget that eighty thousand spectators at a time
had looked down from its seats, only a few years before, to see
Christian martyrs given to the lions to be torn in pieces.
And Valentinian was a Christian. The persecutions had ceased. No more
cruel Emperor than Caracalla had ever occupied the throne of Rome; but
his cruelty found its victims in his own family and among his political
enemies, and the Christians were overlooked and forgotten. Even
Caracalla may have been sick of the blood spilled in assassinations,
executions, and battle; and so, as a mere change of scene, ordered that
the sports at the Colosseum should be of a bloodless character. At any
rate, chariot races were now the vogue, the population of Rome were now
all "horsy" men, and betting was the popular way of gaining or losing
their fortunes.
The Emperor, as reigning over and above all like the air, chose white to
mark his horses; the steeds of the soldiers were designated by red
badges and trappings--red, the appropriate color of Mars, of blood and
flame; the sailors of course chose blue; and the landed proprietors,
farmers, citizens, etc., grouped under green. When the enthusiasm
extended thus to all classes, it was impossible that Valentinian should
not feel it too. He was a soldier's son, and though he felt that it
would be a crime even to enter the building in which the martyrs had
been murdered, he could not repress a throb of exultation when the
scarlet-spangled horses were led out with shoutings as victors in the
race.
Valentinian loved a fine horse, and, boy though he was, he owned one
that had long been the envy and admiration of the different racing
fraternities of Rome. Those who knew the animal's history did not wonder
that Valentinian and his mother, the stately lady Placidia, had refused
a noble's ransom for the magnificent creature. It was the beginning of
the warm season, and Placidia had removed to her summer villa in shady
Præneste. Valentinian still remained in Rome to prosecute his studies,
but in the cool of the evening the youth would frequently drive out to
see his mother, and the horse on every such visit was certain of being
decorated with garlands by the fair hand of its mistress. On one of
these occasions Rufinus accompanied his friend. Valentinian knew that
the visit was not prompted by any fondness for his mother, for the lady
Placidia did not regard Rufinus as a sufficiently refined companion for
her son, and the dislike was mutual. He gave Rufinus credit for a
feeling of good-fellowship toward himself, and for an appreciation of a
moonlight ride to Rome. But Rufinus had a deeper motive on this
occasion; he had determined to persuade Valentinian to join in the
races, and he thought wisely that the long, solitary ride would give him
a good opportunity for persuasion. He began skillfully by praising his
friend's horse, and then spoke with some surprise of the affection that
Placidia lavished upon it.
Valentinian replied that Carus deserved all the love and distinction
that he received, for he was indeed a hero; and then he told how as a
war-horse he had followed the Roman standards with honor throughout all
the late disastrous campaign in Britain, and though he had fled with the
legions from the battle on the river Carun, where Fingal and his
Caledonian troops sang their exultant chant of victory in the ears of
the cowardly Caracalla, it was not his fault, for he was only a horse.
When Carus had felt his master, Valentinian's father, fall wounded upon
his neck, the feeble hands entwined in his mane, and the warm life-blood
bathing his glossy side, the faithful animal, who until then had rushed
on inflamed with all the fury of conflict, joined the general retreat,
and paced swiftly but carefully from the battle-field. The Captain of
the Legion, whose stiffening fingers were tangled in Carus's mane, did
not hear the loud boast of the Britons, and when Carus knelt at the door
of his tent, and other soldiers of the great "King of the World" (as
Ossian calls the Roman Emperor) lifted the rider from the steed, the
Roman heart had poured out all its blood on British soil; the brave
Centurion was dead.
At the death of his father, the Emperor Severus, Caracalla gave up the
war in Britain, and, impatient to assume his new dignities, hurried back
to Rome. The war-horse Carus was brought back too, and entered the
imperial city marching riderless at the head of its dead master's troop.
As the army approached the gates of Rome, the broad imperial highway
became more and more crowded. The return of the army was known, and the
citizens of Rome, small and great, swarmed out in vehicles, on horses,
or on foot, soldiers and slaves, the aristocracy and the beggars, old
families of Rome and foreigners.
Painfully the army forced its way through the surging crowd, attending
Caracalla, who so little deserved this enthusiastic welcome, to the
porch of the imperial palace "the house of Cæsar." Then the cohorts,
with the exception of the imperial body-guard, returned to the great
Prætorium camp outside, the city walls. One knight, a member of the
Equites that the master of Carus had so lately commanded, led the
Centurion's horse to the aristocratic street of the Carinæ, which ran
along the <DW72> of the Esquiline Hill, until he reached a house whose
portal was decorated with laurel, and where, from the swarms of entering
guests, pastry-cooks, and musicians, one might judge a feast was in
progress. As the knight paused at the door, a boy bounded into the
street, and sprang upon the back of the war-horse, lavishing upon the
noble creature the most eager caresses. At the same moment a stately
Roman matron appeared at the door, and greeted the knight, while a glad
eager light shone in her eyes.
"Welcome, my good Galerius," said the lady. "Where is my husband? Is he
detained at the palace with the young Emperor?"
"Nay, madam," replied the knight, gravely, "thy husband was happy in
knowing no Emperor but Severus."
Then the unhappy lady knew that her husband would never come to the
welcoming feast which she had prepared, and the young Valentinian
slipped from his father's horse to hide the tears which would come, but
which he as a Roman felt were womanish and shameful.
Rufinus, though a mere cub of a young man, with very little
susceptibility, seemed touched by this story. "Where did your father get
Carus?" he asked. "He is certainly not of the common Italian breed,
neither does he resemble the light, swift African barbs."
"No," replied Valentinian. "He is a much heavier and more powerful
animal. My father captured him from a Goth at the battle of Lyons, where
his own horse had been killed under him. Some of our Roman jockeys
affect to despise the Gothic horses as big and lumpish, but they are
swift."
"They are the best horses for chariots," replied Rufinus. "The Equites
have one set of four which they will enter for the next race. They are
black as night, like Carus there, and are, so far as I know, the only
other Gothic horses in Rome. How fine they will look in their red
trappings! They are sure of winning. I have invested all my ready money
in bets, and I shall quadruple them all."
A few days later the following note was handed to Valentinian:
"LOVED VALENTINIAN,--I am ruined. The races are lost beforehand.
One of the Gothic horses has fallen lame. The team is pledged for
the race; we can only supply its place with a Roman beast, for we
know not of another Gothic horse to be obtained in Rome, and there
is no time to send to the provinces, else would we do it, for the
entire military order are interested; some, like myself, have
staked their all, and now see ruin stare them in the face. We have
sent in a petition, through the Empress Julia, to have the races
postponed until we can obtain another horse from Gaul, but there | 918.856814 |
2023-11-16 18:32:22.9152720 | 2,037 | 9 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed Proofreaders
BECKET AND OTHER PLAYS
BY
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE
CONTENTS
BECKET
THE CUP
THE FALCON
THE PROMISE OF MAY
BECKET
TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR, THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL OF SELBORNE.
MY DEAR SELBORNE,
_To you, the honoured Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this
dramatic memorial of your great predecessor;--which, altho' not
intended in its present form to meet the exigencies of our modern
theatre, has nevertheless--for so you have assured me--won your
approbation.
Ever yours_,
TENNYSON.
_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_.
HENRY II. (_son of the Earl of Anjou_).
THOMAS BECKET, _Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of
Canterbury_.
GILBERT FOLIOT, _Bishop of London_.
ROGER, _Archbishop of York_.
_Bishop of Hereford_.
HILARY, _Bishop of Chichester_.
JOCELYN, _Bishop of Salisbury_.
JOHN OF SALISBURY |
HERBERT OF BOSHAM | _friends of Becket_.
WALTER MAP, _reputed author of 'Golias,' Latin poems against
the priesthood_.
KING LOUIS OF FRANCE.
GEOFFREY, _son of Rosamund and Henry_.
GRIM, _a monk of Cambridge_.
SIR REGINALD FITZURSE |
SIR RICHARD DE BRITO | _the four knights of the King's_
SIR WILLIAM DE TRACY | _household, enemies of Becket_.
SIR HUGH DE MORVILLE |
DE BROC OF SALTWOOD CASTLE.
LORD LEICESTER.
PHILIP DE ELEEMOSYNA.
TWO KNIGHT TEMPLARS.
JOHN OF OXFORD (_called the Swearer_).
ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE, _Queen of England (divorced from Louis of France)_.
ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD.
MARGERY.
_Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc_.
PROLOGUE.
_A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the Hall. Roofs of a City seen
thro' Windows_.
HENRY _and_ BECKET _at chess_.
HENRY.
So then our good Archbishop Theobald
Lies dying.
BECKET.
I am grieved to know as much.
HENRY.
But we must have a mightier man than he
For his successor.
BECKET.
Have you thought of one?
HENRY.
A cleric lately poison'd his own mother,
And being brought before the courts of the Church,
They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.
I would have hang'd him.
BECKET.
It is your move.
HENRY.
Well--there. [_Moves_.
The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's time
Hath climb'd the throne and almost clutch'd the crown;
But by the royal customs of our realm
The Church should hold her baronies of me,
Like other lords amenable to law.
I'll have them written down and made the law.
BECKET.
My liege, I move my bishop.
HENRY.
And if I live,
No man without my leave shall excommunicate
My tenants or my household.
BECKET.
Look to your king.
HENRY.
No man without my leave shall cross the seas
To set the Pope against me--I pray your pardon.
BECKET.
Well--will you move?
HENRY.
There. [_Moves_.
BECKET.
Check--you move so wildly.
HENRY.
There then! [_Moves_.
BECKET.
Why--there then, for you see my bishop
Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.
HENRY (_kicks over the board_).
Why, there then--down go bishop and king together.
I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancy
Upon the game I should have beaten thee,
But that was vagabond.
BECKET.
Where, my liege? With Phryne,
Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?
HENRY.
My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket;
And yet she plagues me too--no fault in her--
But that I fear the Queen would have her life.
BECKET.
Put her away, put her away, my liege!
Put her away into a nunnery!
Safe enough there from her to whom thou art bound
By Holy Church. And wherefore should she seek
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more
Than that of other paramours of thine?
HENRY.
How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?
BECKET.
How should I know?
HENRY.
That is my secret, Thomas.
BECKET.
State secrets should be patent to the statesman
Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king
Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.
HENRY.
Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop,
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.
I would to God thou wert, for I should find
An easy father confessor in thee.
BECKET.
St. Denis, that thou shouldst not. I should beat
Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten it.
HENRY.
Hell take thy bishop then, and my kingship too!
Come, come, I love thee and I know thee, I know thee,
A doter on white pheasant-flesh at feasts,
A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish,
A dish-designer, and most amorous
Of good old red sound liberal Gascon wine:
Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou flatter it?
BECKET.
That palate is insane which cannot tell
A good dish from a bad, new wine from old.
HENRY.
Well, who loves wine loves woman.
BECKET.
So I do.
Men are God's trees, and women are God's flowers;
And when the Gascon wine mounts to my head,
The trees are all the statelier, and the flowers
Are all the fairer.
HENRY.
And thy thoughts, thy fancies?
BECKET.
Good dogs, my liege, well train'd, and easily call'd
Off from the game.
HENRY.
Save for some once or twice,
When they ran down the game and worried it.
BECKET.
No, my liege, no!--not once--in God's name, no!
HENRY.
Nay, then, I take thee at thy word--believe thee
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's hall.
And so this Rosamund, my true heart-wife,
Not Eleanor--she whom I love indeed
As a woman should be loved--Why dost thou smile
So dolorously?
BECKET.
My good liege, if a man
Wastes himself among women, how should he love
A woman, as a woman should be loved?
HENRY.
How shouldst thou know that never hast loved one?
Come, I would give her to thy care in England
When I am out in Normandy or Anjou.
BECKET.
My lord, I am your subject, not your--
HENRY.
Pander.
God's eyes! I know all that--not my purveyor
Of pleasures, but to save a life--her life;
Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell-fire.
I have built a secret bower in England, Thomas,
A nest in a bush.
BECKET.
And where, my liege?
HENRY (_whispers_).
Thine ear.
BECKET.
That's lone enough.
HENRY (_laying paper on table_).
This chart here mark'd '_Her Bower_,'
Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a circling wood,
A hundred pathways running everyway,
And then a brook, a bridge; and after that
This labyrinthine brickwork maze in maze,
And then another wood, and in the midst
A garden and my Rosamund. Look, this line--
The rest you see is colour'd green--but this
Draws thro' the chart to her.
BECKET.
This blood-red line?
HENRY.
Ay! blood, perchance, except thou see to her.
BECKET.
And where is she? There in her English nest?
HENRY.
Would God she were--no, here within the city.
We take her from her secret bower in Anjou
And pass her to her secret bower in England.
She is ignorant of all but that I love her.
BECKET.
My liege, I pray thee let me hence: a widow
And orphan child, whom one of thy wild barons--
HENRY.
Ay, ay, but swear to see to her in England.
BECKET.
Well, well, I swear, but not to please myself.
HENRY.
Whatever come between us?
BECKET.
What should come
Between us, Henry?
HENRY.
Nay--I know not, Thomas.
BECKET.
What need then? Well--whatever come between us. [_Going_.
HENRY.
A moment! thou didst help me to my throne
In Theob | 918.935312 |
2023-11-16 18:32:22.9163620 | 718 | 8 |
Produced by Tor Martin Kristiansen, Joseph Cooper and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "THEY SAILED ON, IN THE MOONLIGHT"
(See page 297)]
The Sandman:
His Sea
Stories
By
William J. Hopkins
Author of "The Sandman: His Farm Stories,"
"The Sandman: More Farm Stories," "The
Sandman: His Ship Stories," etc.
With Forty Illustrations by
Diantha W. Horne
This special edition is published by arrangement
with the publisher of the regular edition,
The Page Company.
CADMUS BOOKS
E. M. HALE
AND COMPANY
CHICAGO
_Copyright, 1908_
BY THE PAGE COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
Made in U.S.A.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE SEPTEMBER-GALE STORY 1
THE FIRE STORY 31
THE PORPOISE STORY 44
THE SEAWEED STORY 57
THE FLYING-FISH STORY 74
THE LOG-BOOK STORY 85
THE SHARK STORY 102
THE CHRISTMAS STORY 120
THE SOUNDING STORY 139
THE TEAK-WOOD STORY 153
THE STOWAWAY STORY 171
THE ALBATROSS STORY 185
THE DERELICT STORY 194
THE LIGHTHOUSE STORY 210
THE RUNAWAY STORY 222
THE TRAFALGAR STORY 243
THE CARGO STORY 253
THE PRIVATEER STORY 270
THE RACE STORY 291
THE PILOT STORY 310
THE DRIFTWOOD STORY 325
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"They sailed on, in the moonlight." (See page 297) _Frontispiece_
"Sometimes he had to hold on to the fences" 11
"They saw all sorts of things going up the river" 23
"A great tree that was blown down" 29
"It floated, burning, for a few minutes" 42
"They swam in a funny sort of way" 48
"They had more porpoises on deck than you would
have thought that they could possibly use" 55
"The surface of the sea seemed covered with them" 65
"They amused themselves for a long time" 72
"A school of fish suddenly leaped out of the water" 78
"The sailors were having a good time" 81
The Hour Glass 90
"Little Jacob liked to watch Captain Solomon" 93
"'Right there,' he said, 'you can see his back fin'" 109
The Shark 114
"'Yes, little lad,' he said. 'For you--if you want it'" 129
Christmas Island, 1st View, bearing N by E 132
Christmas Island, 2nd View, bearing SW 133
| 918.936402 |
2023-11-16 18:32:22.9431140 | 1,967 | 361 |
Produced by Chuck Greif, Broward County Libraries and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: George William Curtis]
FROM THE
EASY CHAIR
BY
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
_THIRD SERIES_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARPER AND BROTHERS
MDCCCXCIV
Copyright, 1894, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS
PAGE
HAWTHORNE AND BROOK FARM 1
BEECHER IN HIS PULPIT AFTER THE DEATH OF LINCOLN 20
KILLING DEER 28
AUTUMN DAYS 37
FROM COMO TO MILAN DURING THE WAR OF 1848 43
HERBERT SPENCER ON THE YANKEE 56
HONOR 65
JOSEPH WESLEY HARPER 72
REVIEW OF UNION TROOPS, 1865 78
APRIL, 1865 88
WASHINGTON IN 1867 94
RECEPTION TO THE JAPANESE AMBASSADORS AT THE WHITE HOUSE 102
THE MAID AND THE WIT 112
THE DEPARTURE OF THE _GREAT EASTERN_ 120
CHURCH STREET 127
HISTORIC BUILDINGS 140
THE BOSTON MUSIC HALL 151
PUBLIC BENEFACTORS 162
MR. TIBBINS'S NEW-YEAR'S CALL 169
THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH 178
THE REUNION OF ANTISLAVERY VETERANS, 1884 185
REFORM CHARITY 193
BICYCLE RIDING FOR CHILDREN 204
THE DEAD BIRD UPON CYRILLA'S HAT AN ENCOURAGEMENT OF "SLARTER" 210
CHEAPENING HIS NAME 214
CLERGYMEN'S SALARIES 221
HAWTHORNE AND BROOK FARM
In his preface to the _Marble Faun_, as before in that to _The
Blithedale Romance_, Hawthorne complained that there was no romantic
element in American life; or, as he expressed it, "There is as yet no
such Faery-land so like the real world that, in a suitable remoteness,
one cannot tell the difference, but with an atmosphere of strange
enchantment, beheld through which the inhabitants have a propriety of
their own." This he says in _The Blithedale_ preface, and then adds
that, to obviate this difficulty and supply a proper scene for his
figures, "the author has ventured to make free with his old and
affectionately remembered home at Brook Farm as being certainly the most
romantic episode of his own life, essentially a day-dream, and yet a
fact, and thus offering an available foothold between fiction and
reality." Probably a genuine Brook-Farmer doubts whether Hawthorne
remembered the place and his life there very affectionately, in the
usual sense of that word, and although in sending the book to one of
them, at least, he said that it was not to be considered a picture of
actual life or character. "Do not read it as if it had anything to do
with Brook Farm [which essentially it has not], but merely for its own
story and characters," yet it is plain that it is a very faithful
picture of the kind of impression that the enterprise made upon him.
Strangely enough, Hawthorne is likely to be the chief future authority
upon "the romantic episode" of Brook Farm. Those who had it at heart
more than he whose faith and hope and energy were all devoted to its
development, and many of whom have every ability to make a permanent
record, have never done so, and it is already so much of a thing of the
past that it will probably never be done. But the memory of the place
and of the time has been recently pleasantly refreshed by the lecture of
Mr. Emerson and the _Note-Book_ of Hawthorne. Mr. Emerson, whose mind
and heart are ever hospitable, was one of the chief, indeed the
chiefest, figure in this country of the famous intellectual
"Renaissance" of twenty-five years ago, which, as is generally the case,
is historically known by its nickname of "Transcendentalism," a
spiritual fermentation from which some of the best modern influences of
this country have proceeded.
In his late lecture upon the general subject, Mr. Emerson says that the
mental excitement began to take practical form nearly thirty years ago,
when Dr. Channing counselled with George Ripley upon the practicability
of bringing thoughtful and cultivated people together and forming a
society that should be satisfactory. "That good attempt," says Emerson,
with a sly smile, "ended in an oyster supper with excellent wines." But
a little later it was revived under better auspices, and as Brook Farm
made a name which will not be forgotten. Mr. Emerson was never a
resident, but he was sometimes a visitor and guest, and the more ardent
minds of the romantic colony were always much under his influence. With
his sensitively humorous eye he seizes upon some of the ludicrous
aspects of the scene and reports them with arch gravity. "The ladies
again," he says, "took cold on washing-days, and it was ordained that
the gentlemen shepherds should hang out the clothes, which they
punctually did; but a great anachronism followed in the evening, for
when they began to dance the clothes-pins dropped plentifully from their
pockets." And again: "One hears the frequent statement of the country
members that one man was ploughing all day and another was looking out
of the window all day--perhaps drawing his picture, and they both
received the same wages."
In Hawthorne's just published _Note-Book_ he records a great deal of his
daily experience at Brook Farm. But he was never truly at home there.
Hawthorne lived in the very centre of the Transcendental revival, and he
was the friend of many of its leaders, but he was never touched by its
spirit. He seems to have been as little affected by the great
intellectual influences of his time as Charles Lamb in England. The
Custom-house had become intolerable to him. He was obliged to do
something. The enterprise at Brook Farm seemed to him to promise
Arcadia. But he forgot that the kingdom of heaven is within you, and
when he went to the tranquil banks of the Charles he found himself in a
barn-yard shovelling manure, and not at all in Arcadia. "Before
breakfast I went out to the barn and began to chop hay for the cattle,
and with such 'righteous vehemence,' as Mr. Ripley says, did I labor,
that in the space of ten minutes I broke the machine. Then I brought
wood and replenished the fires, and finally went down to breakfast and
ate up a huge mound of buckwheat cakes. After breakfast Mr. Ripley put a
four-pronged instrument into my hands, which he gave me to understand
was called a pitchfork, and he and Mr. Farley being armed with similar
weapons, we all three commenced a gallant attack upon a heap of manure."
Hawthorne was a sturdy and resolute man, and any heap of manure that he
attacked must yield; but he had not come to Arcadia to sweat and blister
his hands, and his blank and amused disappointment is evident. He had a
subtle and pervasive humor, but no spirits. He sees the pleasantness of
the place and the beauty of the crops, having knowledge of them and a
new interest in them; and he has a quiet conscience because he feels
that he is really doing some of the manual work of the world; but he is
always a spectator, a critic. He went to Brook Farm as he might have
gone to an anchorite's cell; but the fervor that warms and adorns the
cold bare rock he does not have, and the mere consciousness of
well-doing is a chilly abstraction. "I do not believe that I should be
patient here if I were not engaged in a righteous and heaven-blessed way
of life. I fear it is time for me, sod-compelling as I am, to take the
field again. Even my Custom-house experience was not such a thraldom and
weariness; my mind and heart were free. Oh, labor is the curse of the
world, and nobody can meddle with it without becoming proportionally
brutified!" Very soon, of course, the pilgrim to Arcadia escapes from
the manure-yard, and declares as he runs that it was not he, it was a
spectre of him | 918.963154 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Hunting the Skipper, by George Manville Fenn.
CHAPTER ONE.
H.M.S. "SEAFOWL."
"Dicky, dear boy, it's my impression that we shall see no blackbird's
cage to-day."
"And it's my impression, Frank Murray, that if you call me Dicky again I
shall punch your head."
"Poor fellow! Liver, decidedly," said the first speaker, in a mock
sympathetic tone. "Look here, old chap, if I were you, I'd go and ask
Jones to give me a blue pill, to be followed eight hours later by one of
his delicious liqueurs, all syrup of senna."
"Ugh!" came in a grunt of disgust, followed by a shudder. "Look here,
Frank, if you can't speak sense, have the goodness to hold your tongue."
The speakers were two manly looking lads in the uniform of midshipmen of
the Royal Navy, each furnished with a telescope, through which he had
been trying to pierce the hot thick haze which pretty well shut them in,
while as they leaned over the side of Her Majesty's ship _Seafowl_, her
sails seemed to be as sleepy as the generally smart-looking crew, the
light wind which filled them one minute gliding off the next, and
leaving them to flap idly as they apparently dozed off into a heavy
sleep.
"There, don't be rusty, old fellow," said the first speaker.
"Then don't call me by that absurd name--_Dicky_--as if I were a bird!"
"Ha, ha! Why not?" said Frank merrily. "You wouldn't have minded if I
had said `old cock.'"
"Humph! Perhaps not," said the young man sourly.
"There, I don't wonder at your being upset; this heat somehow seems to
soak into a fellow and melt all the go out of one. I'm as soft as one
of those medusae--jellyfish--what do you call them?--that float by
opening and shutting themselves, all of a wet gasp, as one might say."
"It's horrible," said the other, speaking now more sociably.
"Horrible it is, sir, as our fellows say. Well, live and learn, and
I've learned one thing, and that is if I retire from the service as
Captain--no, I'll be modest--Commander Murray, R.N., I shall not come
and settle on the West Coast of Africa."
"Settle on the West Coast of Africa, with its fevers and horrors? I
should think not!" said the other. "Phew! How hot it is! Bah!" he
half snorted angrily.
"What's the matter now?"
"That brass rail. I placed my hand upon it--regularly burned me."
"Mem for you, old chap--don't do it again. But, I say, what is the good
of our hanging about here? We shall do no good, and it's completely
spoiling the skipper's temper."
"Nonsense! Can't be done."
"Oh, can't it, Ricardo!"
"There you go again."
"_Pardon, mon ami_! Forgot myself. Plain Richard--there. But that's
wrong. One can't call you plain Richard, because you're such a
good-looking chap."
"Bah!" in a deep angry growl.
"What's that wrong too? Oh, what an unlucky beggar I | 919.145527 |
2023-11-16 18:32:23.2255000 | 1,791 | 8 |
Produced by James Wright and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.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/).)
[Illustration: MAJOR-GENERAL BROCK.
(_From miniature painting by J. Hudson._)
Copyrighted in the U. S. A. and Canada.
--From Nursey's "Story of Isaac Brock" (Briggs).]
BROCK CENTENARY
1812-1912
ACCOUNT OF THE CELEBRATION AT
QUEENSTON HEIGHTS, ONTARIO,
ON THE 12th OCTOBER, 1912
ALEXANDER FRASER, LL.D.
Editor
TORONTO
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED FOR THE COMMITTEE BY
WILLIAM BRIGGS
1913
DEDICATED
TO
THE DESCENDANTS OF THE DEFENDERS
Copyright, Canada, 1913, by
ALEXANDER FRASER
PREFATORY NOTE
The object of this publication is to preserve an account of the
Celebration, at Queenston Heights, of the Brock Centenary, in a more
convenient and permanent form than that afforded by the reports
(admirable as they are) in the local newspapers.
Celebrations were held in several places in Ontario, notably at St.
Thomas, where Dr. J. H. Coyne delivered a fervently patriotic address.
Had reports of these been available, extended reference would have been
gladly and properly accorded to them in this book. Considerable effort,
involving delay in publication, was made to secure the name of every
person who attended at Queenston Heights in a representative capacity,
and the list is probably complete.
For valuable assistance acknowledgment is due to Colonel Ryerson,
Chairman of the General and Executive Committees; to Miss Helen M.
Merrill, Honorary Secretary, and to Mr. Angus Claude Macdonell, K.C.,
M.P., Toronto. Also to Mr. Walter R. Nursey, for the use of the pictures
of General Brock, Col. Macdonell, and Brock's Monument, from his
interesting work: "The Story of Brock," in the Canadian Heroes Series;
and to the Ontario Archives, Toronto, for the use of the picture of the
first monument erected to Brock on Queenston Heights.
ALEXANDER FRASER.
[Illustration: From a Silhouette in possession of John Alexander
Macdonnell, K.C., Alexandria.
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOHN MACDONELL.
Provincial Aide-de-Camp to Major-General Sir Isaac Brock; M.P. for
Glengarry; Attorney-General of Upper Canada.
--From Nursey's "Story of Isaac Brock" (Briggs).]
CONTENTS
PAGE
Prefatory Note 3
Introduction--J. Stewart Carstairs, B.A. 9
Preliminary Steps 21
General Committee Formed 25
Programme Adopted 26
Reports of Committees 29
Celebrating the Day 32
At Queenston Heights--
Representatives Present 34
Floral Decorations 40
A Unique Scene 42
Historic Flags and Relics 43
Letters of Regret for Absence 44
The Speeches--
Colonel G. Sterling Ryerson 45
Mr. Angus Claude Macdonell, M.P. 50
Hon. Dr. R. A. Pyne, M.P.P. 55
Colonel George T. Denison 58
Mr. J. A. Macdonell, K.C. 61
Dr. James L. Hughes 67
Chief A. G. Smith 71
Warrior F. Onondeyoh Loft 74
Mr. Charles R. McCullough 75
Appendix I.--Highland Heroes in the War of 1812-14
--Dr. Alexander Fraser 77
Appendix II.--Programme of Toronto Garrison Service
in Massey Hall 82
Appendix III.--Indian Contributions to the Reconstruction
of Brock's Monument 88
Appendix IV.--Meetings of the Executive Committee
subsequent to the Celebration 91
Appendix V.--Captain Joseph Birney 93
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Major-General Brock _Frontispiece_
Lieutenant-Colonel John Macdonell, Provincial Aide-de-Camp
to Major-General Sir Isaac Brock 5
Executive Committee 28
First Monument to General Brock at Queenston Heights 33
Brock's Monument 34
Central section of a panoramic picture of the gathering at
Queenston Heights 36
Floral Tribute placed on Cenotaph, where Brock fell, by the
Guernsey Society, Toronto 38
Brock Centenary Celebration at Queenston Heights 38
Memorial Wreaths placed on the Tombs, at Queenston Heights,
of Major-General Sir Isaac Brock, Kt., and Colonel John
Macdonell, P.A.D.C., Attorney-General of Upper Canada 41
Wreath placed on Brock's Monument in St. Paul's Cathedral,
London, Eng., by the Government of Canada 42
Wreath placed on Brock's Monument, Queenston Heights, by
the Imperial Order of the Daughters of the Empire 42
Conferring Tribal Membership on Miss Helen M. Merrill 43
Six Nation Indians celebrating Brock's Centenary at Queenston
Heights 44
Colonel George Sterling Ryerson, Chairman of Committee 45
Angus Claude Macdonell, K.C., M.P., addressing the gathering 51
Hon. R. A. Pyne, M.D., M.P.P., Minister of Education of Ontario 58
James L. Hughes, LL.D., Chief Inspector of Schools, Toronto 58
Colonel George T. Denison, Toronto 58
J. A. Macdonell, K.C., Glengarry, addressing the gathering 61
Chief A. G. Smith, Six Nation Indians, Grand River Reserve 71
Captain Charles R. McCullough, Hamilton, Ont. 71
Warrior F. Onondeyoh Loft, Six Nation Indians, Toronto 71
Members of Committee at Queenston Heights 77
Group of Indians (Grand River Reserve) celebrating Brock's
Centenary at Queenston Heights 88
Captain Joseph Birnie 93
INTRODUCTION
BROCK AND QUEENSTON
By John Stewart Carstairs, B.A., Toronto
Brock's fame and Brock's name will never die in our history. The past
one hundred years have settled that. And in this glory the craggy
heights of Queenston, where in their splendid mausoleum Brock and
Macdonell sleep side by side their last sleep, will always have its
share. Strangely enough, who ever associates Brock's name with Detroit?
Yet, here was a marvellous achievement: the left wing of the enemy's
army annihilated, its eloquent and grandiose leader captured and two
thousand five hundred men and abundant military stores, with the State
of Michigan thrown in!
But Britain in those days was so busy doing things that we a hundred
years later can scarcely realize them. However, so much of our historic
perspective has been settled during the past hundred years. Perhaps in
another hundred years, when other generations come together to
commemorate the efforts of these men that with Brock and Macdonell
strove to seek and find and do and not to yield, the skirmish at
Queenston may be viewed in a different light.
Perhaps then the British Constitution will have bridged the oceans and
the "Seven Seas"; perhaps then Canada will be more British than Britain
itself--the very core, the centre, the heart of the Empire in territory
and population, in wealth and in influence, in spirit and in vital
activities. Then Queenston Heights may be regarded not merely as a
victory that encouraged | 919.24554 |
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How To Do It.
By
Edward Everett Hale.
Contents.
Chapter I. Introductory.--How We Met
Chapter II. How To Talk
Chapter III. Talk
Chapter IV. How To Write
Chapter V. How To Read. I.
Chapter VI. How To Read. II.
Chapter VII. How To Go Into Society
Chapter VIII. How To Travel
Chapter IX. Life At School
Chapter X. Life In Vacation
Chapter XI. Life Alone
Chapter XII. Habits In Church
Chapter XIII. Life With Children
Chapter XIV. Life With Your Elders
Chapter XV. Habits Of Reading
Chapter XVI. Getting Ready
How To Do It.
Chapter I.
Introductory.--How We Met.
The papers which are here collected enter in some detail into the success
and failure of a large number of young people of my acquaintance, who are
here named as
Alice Faulconbridge,
Bob Edmeston,
Clara,
Clem Waters,
Edward Holiday,
Ellen Liston,
Emma Fortinbras,
Enoch Putnam, _brother of_ Horace,
Esther,
Fanchon,
Fanny, _cousin to_ Hatty Fielding
Florence,
Frank,
George Ferguson (Asaph Ferguson's _brother_),
Hatty Fielding,
Herbert,
Horace Putnam,
Horace Felltham (_a very different person_),
Jane Smith,
Jo Gresham,
Laura Walter,
Maud Ingletree,
Oliver Ferguson, _brother to_ Asaph _and_ George,
Pauline,
Rachel,
Robert,
Sarah Clavers,
Stephen,
Sybil,
Theodora,
Tom Rising,
Walter,
William Hackmatack,
William Withers.
It may be observed that there are thirty-four of them. They make up a
very nice set, or would do so if they belonged together. But, in truth,
they live in many regions, not to say countries. None of them are too
bright or too stupid, only one of them is really selfish, all but one or
two are thoroughly sorry for their faults when they commit them, and all
of them who are good for anything think of themselves very little. There
are a few who are approved members of the Harry Wadsworth Club. That means
that they "look up and not down," they "look forward and not back," they
"look out and not in," and they "lend a hand." These papers were first
published, much as they are now collected, in the magazine "Our Young
Folks," and in that admirable weekly paper "The Youth's Companion," which
is held in grateful remembrance by a generation now tottering off the
stage, and welcomed, as I see, with equal interest by the grandchildren as
they totter on. From time to time, therefore, as the different series have
gone on, I have received pleasant notes from other young people, whose
acquaintance I have thus made with real pleasure, who have asked more
explanation as to the points involved. I have thus been told that my
friend, Mr. Henry Ward Beecher, is not governed by all my rules for young
people's composition, and that Miss Throckmorton, the governess, does not
believe Archbishop Whately is infallible. I have once and again been asked
how I made the acquaintance of such a nice set of children. And I can well
believe that many of my young correspondents would in that matter be glad
to be as fortunate as I.
Perhaps, then, I shall do something to make the little book more
intelligible, and to connect its parts, if in this introduction I tell of
the one occasion when the _dramatis personae_ met each other; and in order
to that, if I tell how they all met me.
First of all, then, my dear young friends, I began active life, as soon as
I had left college, as I can well wish all of you might do. I began in
keeping school. Not that I want to have any of you do this long, unless an
evident fitness or "manifest destiny" appear so to order. But you may be
sure that, for a year or two of the start of life, there is nothing that
will teach you your own ignorance so well as having to teach children the
few things you know, and to answer, as best you can, their questions on
all grounds. There was poor Jane, on the first day of that charming visit
at the Penroses, who was betrayed by the simplicity and cordiality of the
dinner-table--where she was the youngest of ten or twelve strangers--into
taking a protective lead of all the conversation, till at the very last I
heard her explaining to dear Mr. Tom Coram himself,--a gentleman who had
lived in Java ten years,--that coffee-berries were red when they were
ripe. I was sadly mortified for my poor Jane as Tom's eyes twinkled. She
would never have got into that rattletrap way of talking if she had kept
school for two years. Here, again, is a capital letter from Oliver
Ferguson, Asaph's younger brother, describing his life on the Island at
Paris all through the siege. I should have sent it yesterday to Mr.
Osgood, who would be delighted to print it in the Atlantic Monthly, but
that the spelling is disgraceful. Mr. Osgood and Mr. Howells would think
Oliver a fool before they had read down the first page. "L-i-n, lin,
n-e-n, nen, linen." Think of that! Oliver would never have spelled "linen"
like that if he had been two years a teacher. You can go through four
years at Harvard College spelling so, but you cannot go through two years
as a schoolmaster.
Well, I say I was fortunate enough to spend two years as an assistant
schoolmaster at the old Boston Latin School,--the oldest institution of
learning, as we are fond of saying, in the United States. And there first
I made my manhood's acquaintance with boys.
"Do you think," said dear Dr. Malone to me one day, "that my son Robert
will be too young to enter college next August?" "How old will he be?"
said I, and I was told. Then as Robert was at that moment just six months
younger than I, who had already graduated, I said wisely, that I thought
he would do, and Dr. Malone chuckled, I doubt not, as I did certainly, at
the gravity of my answer. A nice set of boys I had. I had above me two of
the most loyal and honorable of gentlemen, who screened me from all
reproof for my blunders. My discipline was not of the best, but my
purposes were; and I and the boys got along admirably.
It was the old schoolhouse. I believe I shall explain in another place,
in this volume, that it stood where Parker's Hotel stands, and my room
occupied the spot in space where you, Florence, and you, Theodora, dined
with your aunt Dorcas last Wednesday before you took the cars for
Andover,--the ladies' dining-room looking on what was then Cook's Court,
and is now Chapman Place. Who Cook was I know not. The "Province Street"
of to-day was then much more fitly called "Governor's Alley." For boys
do not know that that minstrel-saloon so long known as "Ordway's," just
now changed into Sargent's Hotel, was for a century, more or less, the
official residence of the Governor of Massachusetts. It was the
"Province House."
On the top of it, for a weathercock, was the large mechanical brazen
Indian, who, whenever he heard the Old South clock strike twelve, shot off
his brazen arrow. The little boys used to hope to see this. But just as
twelve came was the bustle of dismissal, and I have never seen one who did
see him, though for myself I know he did as was said, and have never
questioned it. That opportunity, however, was up stairs, in Mr. Dixwell's
room. In my room, in the basement, we had no such opportunity.
The glory of our room was that it was supposed, rightly or not, that a
part of it was included in the old schoolhouse which was there before the
Revolution. There were old men still living who remembered the troublous
times, the times that stirred boys' souls, as the struggle for
independence began. I have myself talked with Jonathan Darby Robbins, who
was himself one of the committee who waited on the British general to
demand that their coasting should not be obstructed. There is a reading
piece about it in one of the school-books. This general was not Gage, as
he is said to be in the histories, but General Haldimand; and his
quarters were at the house which stood nearly where Franklin's statue
stands now, just below King's Chapel. His servant had put ashes on the
coast which the boys had made, on the sidewalk which passes the Chapel as
you go down School Street. When the boys remonstrated, the servant
ridiculed them,--he was not going to mind a gang of rebel boys. So the
boys, who were much of their fathers' minds, appointed a committee, of
whom my friend was one, to wait on General Haldimand himself. They called
on him, and they told him that coasting was one of their inalienable
rights and that he must not take it away. The General knew too well that
the people of the town must not be irritated to take up his servant's
quarrel, and he told the boys that their coast should not be interfered
with. So they carried their point. The story-book says that he clasped his
hands and said, "Heavens! Liberty is in the very air! Even these boys
speak of their rights as do their patriot sires!" But of this Mr. Robbins
told me nothing, and as Haldimand was a Hessian, of no great enthusiasm
for liberty, I do not, for my part, believe it.
The morning of April 19, 1775, Harrison Gray Otis, then a little boy of
eight years old, came down Beacon Street to school, and found a brigade of
red-coats in line along Common Street,--as Tremont Street was then
called,--so that he could not cross into School Street. They were Earl
Percy's brigade. Class in history, where did Percy's brigade go that day,
and what became of them before night? A red-coat corporal told the Otis
boy to walk along Common Street, and not try to cross the line. So he did.
He went as far as Scollay's Building before he could turn their flank,
then he went down to what you call Washington Street, and came up to
school,--late. Whether his excuse would have been sufficient I do not
know. He was never asked for it. He came into school just in time to hear
old Lovel, the Tory schoolmaster, say, "War's begun and school's done.
_Dimittite libros_"--which means, "Put away your books." They put them
away, and had a vacation of a year and nine months thereafter, before the
school was open again.
Well, in this old school I had spent four years of my boyhood, and here,
as I say, my manhood's acquaintance with boys began. I taught them Latin,
and sometimes mathematics. Some of them will remember a famous Latin poem
we wrote about Pocahontas and John Smith. All of them will remember how
they capped Latin verses against the master, twenty against one, and put
him down. These boys used to cluster round my table at recess and talk.
Danforth Newcomb, a lovely, gentle, accurate boy, almost always at the
head of his class,--he died young. Shang-hae, San Francisco, Berlin,
Paris, Australia,--I don't know what cities, towns, and countries have the
rest of them. And when they carry home this book for their own boys to
read, they will find some of their boy-stories here.
Then there was Mrs. Merriam's boarding-school. If you will read the
chapter on travelling you will find about one of the vacations of her
girls. Mrs. Merriam was one of Mr. Ingham's old friends,--and he is a man
with whom I have had a great deal to do. Mrs. Merriam opened a school for
twelve girls. I knew her very well, and so it came that I knew her ways
with them. Though it was a boarding-school, still the girls had just as
"good a time" as they had at home, and when I found that some of them
asked leave to spend vacation with her I knew they had better times. I
remember perfectly the day when Mrs. Phillips asked them down to the old
mansion-house, which seems so like home to me, to eat peaches. And it was
determined that the girls should not think they were under any "company"
restraint, so no person but themselves was present when the peaches were
served, and every girl ate as many as for herself she determined best.
When they all rode horseback, Mrs. Merriam and I used to ride together
with these young folks | 919.246328 |
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Produced by John Bilderback, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
MEN, WOMEN, AND BOATS
By Stephen Crane
Edited With an Introduction by Vincent Starrett
NOTE
A Number of the tales and sketches here brought together appear now for
the first time between covers; others for the first time between covers
in this country. All have been gathered from out-of-print volumes and
old magazine files.
"The Open Boat," one of Stephen Crane's finest stories, is used with
the courteous permission of Doubleday, Page & Co., holders of the
copyright. Its companion masterpiece, "The Blue Hotel," because of
copyright complications, has had to be omitted, greatly to the regret
of the editor.
After the death of Stephen Crane, a haphazard and undiscriminating
gathering of his earlier tales and sketches appeared in London under
the misleading title, "Last Words." From this volume, now rarely met
with, a number of characteristic minor works have been selected, and
these will be new to Crane's American admirers; as follows: "The
Reluctant Voyagers," "The End of the Battle," "The Upturned Face," "An
Episode of War," "A Desertion," "Four Men in a Cave," "The Mesmeric
Mountain," "London Impressions," "The Snake."
Three of our present collection, printed by arrangement, appeared in
the London (1898) edition of "The Open Boat and Other Stories,"
published by William Heinemann, but did not occur in the American
volume of that title. They are "An Experiment in Misery," "The Duel
that was not Fought," and "The Pace of Youth."
For the rest, "A Dark Brown Dog," "A Tent in Agony," and "The Scotch
Express," are here printed for the first time in a book.
For the general title of the present collection, the editor alone is
responsible.
V. S.
MEN, WOMEN AND BOATS
CONTENTS
STEPHEN CRANE: _An Estimate_
THE OPEN BOAT
THE RELUCTANT VOYAGERS
THE END OF THE BATTLE
THE UPTURNED FACE
AN EPISODE OF WAR
AN EXPERIMENT IN MISERY
THE DUEL THAT WAS NOT FOUGHT
A DESERTION
THE DARK-BROWN DOG
THE PACE OF YOUTH
SULLIVAN COUNTY SKETCHES
A TENT IN AGONY
FOUR MEN IN A CAVE
THE MESMERIC MOUNTAIN
THE SNAKE
LONDON IMPRESSIONS
THE SCOTCH EXPRESS
STEPHEN CRANE: _AN ESTIMATE_
It hardly profits us to conjecture what Stephen Crane might have
written about the World War had he lived. Certainly, he would have been
in it, in one capacity or another. No man had a greater talent for war
and personal adventure, nor a finer art in describing it. Few writers
of recent times could so well describe the poetry of motion as
manifested in the surge and flow of battle, or so well depict the
isolated deed of heroism in its stark simplicity and terror.
To such an undertaking as Henri Barbusse's "Under Fire," that powerful,
brutal book, Crane would have brought an analytical genius almost
clairvoyant. He possessed an uncanny vision; a descriptive ability
photographic in its clarity and its care for minutiae--yet
unphotographic in that the big central thing often is omitted, to be
felt rather than seen in the occult suggestion of detail. Crane would
have seen and depicted the grisly horror of it all, as did Barbusse,
but also he would have seen the glory and the ecstasy and the wonder of
it, and over that his poetry would have been spread.
While Stephen Crane was an excellent psychologist, he was also a true
poet. Frequently his prose was finer poetry than his deliberate essays
in poesy. His most famous book, "The Red Badge of Courage," is
essentially a psychological study, a delicate clinical dissection of
the soul of a recruit, but it is also a _tour de force_ of the
imagination. When he wrote the book he had never seen a battle: he had
to place himself in the situation of another. Years later, when he came
out of the Greco-Turkish _fracas_, he remarked to a friend: "'The Red
Badge' is all right."
Written by a youth who had scarcely passed his majority, this book has
been compared with Tolstoy's "Sebastopol" and Zola's "La Debacle," and
with some of the short stories of Ambrose Bierce. The comparison with
Bierce's work is legitimate; with the other books, I think, less so.
Tolstoy and Zola see none of the traditional beauty of battle; they
apply themselves to a devoted--almost obscene--study of corpses and
carnage generally; and they lack the American's instinct for the rowdy
commonplace, the natural, the irreverent, which so materially aids his
realism. In "The Red Badge of Courage" invariably the tone is kept down
where one expects a height: the most heroic deeds are accomplished with
studied awkwardness.
Crane was an obscure free-lance when he wrote this book. The effort, he
says, somewhere, "was born of pain--despair, almost." It was a better
piece of work, however, for that very reason, as Crane knew. It is far
from flawless. It has been remarked that it bristles with as many
grammatical errors as with bayonets; but it is a big canvas, and I am
certain that many of Crane's deviations from the rules of polite
rhetoric were deliberate experiments, looking to effect--effect which,
frequently, he gained.
Stephen Crane "arrived" with this book. There are, of course, many who
never have heard of him, to this day, but there was a time when he was
very much talked of. That was in the middle nineties, following
publication of "The Red Badge of Courage," although even before that he
had occasioned a brief flurry with his weird collection of poems called
"The Black Riders and Other Lines." He was highly praised, and highly
abused and laughed at; but he seemed to be "made." We have largely
forgotten since. It is a way we have.
Personally, I prefer his short stories to his novels and his poems;
those, for instance, contained in "The Open Boat," in "Wounds in the
Rain," and in "The Monster." The title-story in that first collection
is perhaps his finest piece of work. Yet what is it? A truthful record
of an adventure of his own in the filibustering days that preceded our
war with Spain; the faithful narrative of the voyage of an open boat,
manned by a handful of shipwrecked men. But Captain Bligh's account of
_his_ small boat journey, after he had been sent adrift by the
mutineers of the _Bounty_, seems tame in comparison, although of the
two the English sailor's voyage was the more perilous.
In "The Open Boat" Crane again gains his effects by keeping down the
tone where another writer might have attempted "fine writing" and have
been lost. In it perhaps is most strikingly evident the poetic cadences
of his prose: its rhythmic, monotonous flow is the flow of the gray
water that laps at the sides of the boat, that rises and recedes in
cruel waves, "like little pointed rocks." It is a desolate picture, and
the tale is one of our greatest short stories. In the other tales that
go to make up the volume are wild, exotic glimpses of Latin-America. I
doubt whether the color and spirit of that region have been better
rendered than in Stephen Crane's curious, distorted, staccato sentences.
"War Stories" is the laconic sub-title of "Wounds in the Rain." It was
not war on a grand scale that Crane saw in the Spanish-American
complication, in which he participated as a war correspondent; no such
war as the recent horror. But the occasions for personal heroism were
no fewer than always, and the opportunities for the exercise of such
powers of trained and appreciative understanding and sympathy as Crane
possessed, were abundant. For the most part, these tales are episodic,
reports of isolated instances--the profanely humorous experiences of
correspondents, the magnificent courage of signalmen under fire, the
forgotten adventure of a converted yacht--but all are instinct with the
red fever of war, and are backgrounded with the choking smoke of
battle. Never again did Crane attempt the large canvas of "The Red
Badge of Courage." Before he had seen war, he imagined its immensity
and painted it with the fury and fidelity of a Verestchagin; when he
was its familiar, he singled out its minor, crimson passages for
briefer but no less careful delineation.
In this book, again, his sense of the poetry of motion is vividly
evident. We see men going into action, wave on wave, or in scattering
charges; we hear the clink of their accoutrements and their breath
whistling through their teeth. They are not men going into action at
all, but men going about their business, which at the moment happens to
be the capture of a trench. They are neither heroes nor cowards. Their
faces reflect no particular emotion save, perhaps, a desire to get
somewhere. They are a line of men running for a train, or following a
fire engine, or charging a trench. It is a relentless picture, ever
changing, ever the same. But it contains poetry, too, in rich,
memorable passages.
In "The Monster and Other Stories," there is a tale called "The Blue
Hotel". A Swede, its central figure, toward the end manages to get
himself murdered. Crane's description of it is just as casual as that.
The story fills a dozen pages of the book; but the social injustice of
the whole world is hinted in that space; the upside-downness of
creation, right prostrate, wrong triumphant,--a mad, crazy world. The
incident of the murdered Swede is just part of the backwash of it all,
but it is an illuminating fragment. The Swede was slain, not by the
gambler whose knife pierced his thick hide: he was the victim of a
condition for which he was no more to blame than the man who stabbed
him. Stephen Crane thus speaks through the lips of one of the
characters:--
"We are all in it! This poor gambler isn't even
a noun. He is a kind of an adverb. Every sin is
the result of a collaboration. We, five of us, have
collaborated in the murder of this Swede. Usually
there are from a dozen to forty women really involved
in every murder, but in this case it seems
to be only five men--you, I, Johnnie, Old Scully,
and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came
merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement,
and gets all the punishment."
And then this typical and arresting piece of irony:--
"The corpse of the Swede, alone in the saloon,
had its eyes fixed upon a dreadful legend that
dwelt atop of the cash-machine: 'This registers the
amount of your purchase.'"
In "The Monster," the ignorance, prejudice and cruelty of an entire
community are sharply focussed. The realism is painful; one blushes for
mankind. But while this story really belongs in the volume called
"Whilomville Stories," it is properly left out of that series. The
Whilomville stories are pure comedy, and "The Monster" is a hideous
tragedy.
Whilomville is any obscure little village one may happen to think of.
To write of it with such sympathy and understanding, Crane must have
done some remarkable listening in Boyville. The truth is, of course, he
was a boy himself--"a wonderful boy," somebody called him--and was
possessed of the boy mind. These tales are chiefly funny because they
are so true--boy stories written for adults; a child, I suppose, would
find them dull. In none of his tales is his curious understanding of
human moods and emotions better shown.
A stupid critic once pointed out that Crane, in his search for striking
effects, had been led into "frequent neglect of the time-hallowed
rights of certain words," and that in his pursuit of color he "falls
occasionally into almost ludicrous mishap." The smug pedantry of the
quoted lines is sufficient answer to the charges, but in support of
these assertions the critic quoted certain passages and phrases. He
objected to cheeks "scarred" by tears, to "dauntless" statues, and to
"terror-stricken" wagons. The very touches of poetic impressionism that
largely make for Crane's greatness, are cited to prove him an
ignoramus. There is the finest of poetic imagery in the suggestions
subtly conveyed by Crane's tricky adjectives, the use of which was as
deliberate with him as his choice of a subject. But Crane was an
imagist before our modern imagists were known.
This unconventional use of adjectives is marked in the Whilomville
tales. In one of them Crane refers to the "solemn odor of burning
turnips." It is the most nearly perfect characterization of burning
turnips conceivable: can anyone improve upon that "solemn odor"?
Stephen Crane's first venture was " | 919.278825 |
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Produced by Lewis Jones
The Project Gutenberg EBook of _Harris's List of
Covent-Garden Ladies for the Year 1788_ by Anonymous.
This eBook was produced by Lewis Jones.
HARRIS's LIST
OF
COVENT-GARDEN LADIES:
OR,
MAN OF PLEASURE's
KALENDER,
For the YEAR, 1788.
CONTAINING
The Histories and some Curious Anec-
dotes of the most celebrated Ladies
now on the Town, or in keeping, and
also many of their Keepers.
___________________________________
LONDON:
Printed for H. RANGER, (formerly at No. 23.
_Fleet-Street_,) at No. 9, _Little Bridge-Street_, near
_Drury-Lane Play-House_
Where may be had,
The separate LISTS of many preceding Years
___________________________________
___________________________________
Transcriber's Note.
Words in italics in the book are enclosed between
underscores in this ebook. The original capitalisation,
italics, spellings, line breaks, hyphenation and (as
far as possible) page layout, are retained; the aim
thereby is to convey more accurately the flavour of
the original. Most errors (for example inconsistent use
of round and square brackets, and the misnumbering of
page 17 as page 71) have also been kept. However, a
small number of corrections have been made for the
convenience of the reader (where, for example, there
are no spaces between words).
___________________________________
___________________________________
CONTENTS.
A
Antr*b*s, Mrs--Page 126
B
B*nd, Miss--49
B*lt*n, Miss--36
Br*wn, Miss--46
Bl*ke, Miss--54
Betsy--78
Br*wn, Miss--94
B*r*n, Miss Phoebe--113
B*rn, Miss--22
C
Cr*sb*y, Mrs.--25
C*rt*n*y
( vi )
C*rtn**, Miss Fanny--33
Cl*nt*n, Miss--42
Cl*rk, Miss Betsy--43
Ch*sh*line, Mrs.--62
C*p*r, Miss--70
Ch*ld, Miss--96
C*sd*l, Miss Charlotte--103
C*p, Miss--104
C*tt*n, Miss Charlotte--115
Cl*rk, Miss--117
C*rb*t, Miss--122
D
D*d, Mrs.--52
D*v*p*rt, Miss--38
D*g*ss, Miss--44
D*f*ld Mrs.--47
D*v*nsh*re, Miss--91
D*v*s, Miss Nancy--106
D*rl*z, Madam--129
E
Emmey--111
Ell*t, Miss Emma--131
F
Fr*s*r, Mrs.--99
F*n*, Mrs. Charlotte--139
Gr*n,
( vii )
G
Gr*n, Miss--51
G**g*, Miss--41
Gr*c*r, Miss--86
G*rdn*r, Miss--123
Gr*ff*n, Mrs.--141
H
H*ds*n, Miss Betse--45
H*rv*y, Mrs.--60
H*ll*ngb*rg, Mrs.--73
H**d, Mrs.--72
H*st**ng, Miss Betsy--89
H*ll*n, Miss--128
H*nl*y, Miss Fann--137
H*ll*nd, Miss--17
H*rd*y, Miss--21
J
J*n*s, Miss Harriet--27
J*hn*t*n, Miss--68
J*n*s, Miss--101
J*ns*n, Miss--19
K
K*n, Miss--58
K*lp*n, Miss--107
K*bb*rd, Miss Jenny--138
L
L*nds*y, Miss--75
L*ws, Mrs.--77
Ll*d Miss Harriet--82
L*st*r,
( viii )
L*st*r, Miss--15
L*ns*y, Miss--20
L*c*s, Miss--24
M
M*rt*n, Miss Sophia--31
M*nt*n, Miss--57
M*rr*s, Miss--63
M*lt*n, Miss--85
M*lsw*rth, Miss--88
M*ns*n, Miss Louisa--124
N
N*ble, Miss--31
N*t*n, Mrs.--92
P
P*mbr*k*, Miss--80
Du Par Mademoiselle--143
R
R*ss, Miss--34
R*b*ns*n, Mrs.--74
R*l*ns, Miss Betsy--66
R*ch*rds*n, Miss--23
S*ms
( ix )
S
S*ms, Miss--35
S*tt*n, Mrs.--69
S*dd*ns, Miss Sarah--83
Sp*ns*r, Mrs.--35
T
T*wnsd*n, Miss--97
T*s*n, Miss--133
T*rb*t, Mrs--22
W
W*lkins*n, Miss--29
W*d, Miss--32
W*tk*ns, Miss Elizabeth--64
W*rd, Mrs.--100
W*d, Mrs.--67
W*ls*n, Miss--113
W*bst*r, Mrs.--119
W*ll*ms, Miss--135
W*rp*l, Mrs.--140
W*rn*r, Miss--144
ERRATA,
( x )
ERRATA.
In page 42, Miss Cl--nt--n, at No.
17, _read_ -------- Street.
Page 72 _read_ No. 4, _instead_ of No.
14.
Page 77, _read_ Mrs L--w--s, at No. 68.
___________________________________
___________________________________
INTRODUCTION.
Again the coral berry'd holly glads the eye,
The ivy green again each window decks,
And mistletoe, kind friend to _Bassia_'s cause,
Under each merry roof invites the kiss;
Come then, my friends, ye friends to _Harris_ come,
And more than kisses share, drink love supreme
From his ambrosial cup, tho' oft replete
Satiety ne'er gives, but leaves the ravish'd sense
Supremely blest, and ever craving more.
Come ye gay sons of pleasure, come and feast
Your _every_ sense, and lave your souls in love,
Fearless advance, nor think of ills to come;
Here taste variety, of love's sweet gifts,
Pure and unstain'd as at kind nature's birth.
THE parterre of Venus was never
more elegantly filled, never did
the loves and graces shine, with more
splendor than at present; Marylebone,
the now grand paradise of love, and
Covent Garden, her elder born, beam
with uncommon ardor; nor is our
antient Drury unfrequented; no sooner
do the stars above shed their benign in-
fluence, but our more attracting ones
below
[ 14 ]
below bespangle every walk, and make
a heaven on earth; Bagnigge, St. George's
Spa, with all their sister shops, deal
out each night their choiceft gifts of love;
nor with the sons of pleasure be dis-
appointed should they extend their travels
still farther east, and visit the purlieus
of White Chapel. The Royalty is
over full, and Wapping, Shadwell, and
the neighbouring _fields_ lend all their
lovely train to glad each night; these
then shall be our walks; from these gay
spots of pleasure shall we call love's
purest sweets,
And without thorn the rose.
By thus extending our researches we
shall be able to suit every constitution,
and every pocket, every whim and
fancy that the most extravagant sensua-
list can desire. Here may they learn to
shun the dreadful quicksands of pain and
mortification, and land safe on the terra
firma of delight and love.
___________________________________
___________________________________
HARRIS's LIST
OF
COVENT-GARDEN LADIES
___________________________________
Miss L--st--r, No. 6, _Union-Street,
Oxford-Road_.
Oh, pleasing talk, to paint the ripen'd charms
Of youth untutor'd in the female arts;
To see instinctively desire blaze out,
And warm the mind with all its burning joys.
The _tell-tale eyes_ in liquid pools sustain'd,
The throbbing breast now rising, now suppress't;
The _thrilling bliss_ quick darting thro' the frame,
The _short fetch'd sighs_, the snow white twining
limbs,
The sudden gush, and the extatic oh.
SUCH our all pleasing L--st--r
leads the train, and, smiling like
the morn, unfolds her heaven of beauties.
Oh, for a _Guido's touch_, or _Thomson's
thought_,
( 16 )
thought_, to paint the richness of her
unequall'd charms; every perfection
that can possibly adorn the face and
mind of Woman seem centered in this be-
witching girl; hither resort then, ye
genuine lovers of beauty and good
sense; here, whilst _Plutus_ reigns, may
you revel nor know satiety; here feast
the longing appetite, and return with
fresh _vigor_ to every _attack_. Now arrived
at the tempting age of nineteen, her ima-
gination is filled with every luscious
idea, _refined_ sensibiiity, and _fierce desire_
can unite, her form is majestic, tall, and
elegant; her make truly genteel, her
complexion
-----As April's lily fair,
And blooming as June's brightest rose.
Painted by the masterly hand of nature,
shaded by tresses of the darkest brown,
and enlivened by two stars that swim in
all the essence of unsatiated love.
Her pouting lips distil nectarious balm,
And thro' the frame its thrilling transports
dart;
which, when parted, display a casket
of snow white pearls, ranged in the nicest
regularity, the _neighbouring hills_ below
full
( 71 )
full ripe for manual pressure, firm, and
elastic, and heave at every touch. The
| 919.434721 |
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Libraries)
VASSALL MORTON.
A Novel.
BY
FRANCIS PARKMAN,
AUTHOR OF "HISTORY OF THE CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC," AND "PRAIRIE AND
ROCKY MOUNTAIN LIFE."
Ecrive qui voudra! Chacun a ce metier,
Peut perdre impunement de l'encre et du papier.
BOILEAU.
BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY.
1856.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1856, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
STEREOTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
Vassall Morton.
CHAPTER I.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race.--_Goldsmith_.
"Macknight on the Epistles,--that's the name of the book?"
"Yes, sir, if you please. I am desirous of consulting it with a
view--"
"Well, this way, Mr. Jacobs. Here's the librarian. Mr. Stillingfleet,
let me introduce my friend, the Reverend Mr. Jacobs, of West
Weathersfield."
"I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir," said Mr. Jacobs, taking
the librarian's hand with an air of diffident veneration.
"Mr. Jacobs wishes to consult Mackwright on the Epistles."
"Macknight, if you please, Dr. Steele."
"O, Macknight. Will you be so kind as to let him have the use of it in
my name?"
"If you will go with Mr. Rubens, sir," said the librarian, "he will
show you the book."
"Thank you, sir," replied Mr. Jacobs, to whom the words were
addressed; and he followed the assistant among the alcoves in a timid,
tiptoe progress, for, to him, the very air he breathed seemed redolent
of learning, and the dust beneath his feet consecrated to science.
Dr. Steele remained behind, conversing with the librarian.
"My friend has something of the ancient apostolic simplicity hanging
about him still. He looks with as much awe at Harvard College library
as I did myself forty-five years ago, when I came down from Steuben to
join the freshman class."
"So you came from Steuben! Did not old John Morton come from the same
place?"
"To be sure he did. He was the glory of the town. He pulled down the
old clapboard meeting house that his father used to preach in, and
built a new one for him: besides giving a start in business to half
the young men of the village."
"Do you see that undergraduate at the end of the hall, standing by the
last alcove, reading?"
"Yes; what about him? He seems a hardy, good-looking young fellow
enough."
"He is John Morton's son."
"Is it possible? I remember him when he was a child, but have not seen
him for these ten years. After his father's death, his mother took him
to Europe, to be educated; but she never came back; she died in
Paris."
"He is Mr. Morton's only child--is he not?"
"Yes; his first wife had no children; and after he had buried
her,--which, by the way, I believe was the happiest hour of his
life,--he married a very different sort of person, Margaret Vassall,
this boy's mother."
"What, one of the old Vassall race?"
"Exactly; and, I suppose, the last survivor. I used to know her. She
was a handsome woman, and, bating her family pride, altogether a very
fine character. She managed her husband admirably."
"Why, what need had John Morton of being managed?"
"O, Morton was a noble old gentleman, a merchant of the old school,
and generous as the day; but he had his faults. He made nothing of his
three bottles of Madeira at dinner, and besides-- Ah, Mr. Jacobs, so
you have found Macknight."
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Jacobs, coming up, "I have the volumes."
"See that young man, yonder. That's the son of your old friend, Mr.
Morton."
"Really! upon my word! Ah! Mr. Morton _was_ a friend to me, sir--a
very kind friend."
And, in the simplicity of his heart, Mr. Jacobs glided up to the
student, and blandly accosted him.
"How do you do, young gentleman? I knew your worthy father. I knew him
well. I have often sat at his hospitable board on anniversary week."
Thus addressed, Vassall Morton looked up from his book,--it was
Froissart's Chronicle,--inclined his head in acknowledgment, and
waited to hear more.
"Ahem!" coughed Mr. Jacobs, a little embarrassed: "your father was a
most worthy and estimable gentleman: a true friend of the feeble and
destitute. Ahem!--what class are you in, Mr. Morton?"
"The junior class," said the young man, a suppressed smile flickering
at the corner of his mouth.
"Ahem! I hope, sir, that, like your father, you will long live to be
an honor to your native town."
"Thank you, sir."
"I wish you good morning."
"Good morning, sir," said Morton, divided between an inclination to
smile at the odd, humble little figure before him, and an
unwillingness to wound the other's feelings.
"Are you ready to go, Mr. Jacobs?" said Dr. Steele.
"If you please, sir, we will now take our departure;"--gathering the
four volumes of Macknight on the Epistles under his arm;--"Good
morning, Mr. Stillingfleet; good morning, Mr. Rubens. I am indebted to
your kindness, gentlemen--ahem!"
"This is the way out, Mr. Jacobs," said Steele to his diffident friend
from West Weathersfield, who, in his embarrassment, was going out at
the wrong door.
"I beg your pardon, sir--ahem!" replied Mr. Jacobs, with a bashful
smile. And Dr. Steele, pointing to the true exit, ushered his rustic
and reverend protege from the sacred precinct of learning.
CHAPTER II.
Richt hardie baith in ernist and play.--_Sir David Lyndsay_.
"Morton, what was the little old fogy in the white cravat saying to
you just now in the library?"
"Telling me that my father was a worthy man, and that he hoped I
should make just such another."
"Ah, that was kind of him."
"What a pile of books you are lugging! Here, let me take half a dozen
of them for you. You look as if you were training to be a hotel
porter."
"I am laying in for vacation."
"What sense is there in that? Let alone your Latin, Greek, and
mathematics; what the deuse is vacation made for? Take to the woods,
as I do, breathe the fresh air, and see the world at large."
"Do you call it seeing the world at large, to go off into some
barbarous, uninhabitable place, among mosquitoes, snakes, wolves,
bears, and catamounts? What sense is there in that? What can you do
when you get there?"
"Shoot muskrats, and fish for mudpouts. Will you go with me?"
"Thank you, no. There's no one in the class featherwitted enough to go
with you, except Meredith, and he ought to know better."
"Stay at home, then, and improve your mind. I shall be off to-morrow."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
Mr. Horace Vinal shrugged his shoulders, a movement which caused
Sophocles and Seneca to escape from under his arm. Morton gathered
them out of the mud, and thrusting them back again into their place,
left his burdened fellow-student to make the best of his way towards
his den in Stoughton Hall.
CHAPTER III.
O, love, in such a wilderness as this!--_Gertrude of Wyoming_.
Morton, _en route_ for the barbarous districts of which Vinal had
expressed his disapproval, stopped by the way at a spot which, though
wild enough at that time, had ceased to be a wilderness. This was the
Notch of the White Mountains, perverted, since, into a resort of
_quasi_ fashion. Here, arriving late at the lonely hostelry of one Tom
Crawford, he learned from that worthy person, to whom his face was
well known, that other guests, from Boston, like himself, were seated
at the tea table. Accordingly, descending thither, he saw four
persons. The first was a quiet-looking man, with the air of a
gentleman, and something in his appearance which seemed to indicate
military habits and training. Morton remembered to have seen him
before. At his side, and under his tutelary care, sat two personages,
who, from their dimensions, must have been boys of some seven years
old, but from the solemnity of their countenances, might have passed
for a brace of ancient philosophers. They looked so much alike that
Morton thought he saw double. Each was seated on a volume of Clark's
Commentaries, to raise his chin to the needful height above the table
cloth. Both were encased in tunics, strapped about them with shining
morocco belts. Their small persons were terminated at one end by
morocco shoes of somewhat infantile pattern, and at the other by
enormous heads, with chalky complexions, pale, dilated eyes, wrinkled
foreheads, and mouths pursed up with an expression of anxious care,
abstruse meditation, and the most experienced wisdom.
In amazement at these phenomena, Morton turned next towards the fourth
member of the party; and here he encountered a new emotion, of a kind
quite different. Hitherto, in his college seclusion, he had not very
often met, except in imagination, with that union of beauty, breeding,
and refinement which belongs to the best life of cities, and which he
now saw in the person of a young lady, a year or two his junior. He
longed for a pretext to address her, but found none; when her
father--for such he seemed--broke silence, and accosted him.
"I beg your pardon; is it possible that you are the son of John
Morton?"
"Yes."
"He was my father's old friend. I thought I could scarcely mistake
your likeness to your mother."
"I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Colonel Leslie."
Leslie inclined his head.
"My title clings to me, I find, though I have no right to it now."
He had left the army long before, exchanging the rough frontier
service for pursuits more to his taste.
"Upon my word," pursued Leslie, after conversing for some time with
the new comer on the scenery and game of the mountains | 919.448111 |
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[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
signs, it is impossible to do much more than speculate as to their
derivation; and the fact that it has been found possible to ascribe such
large numbers to a probable heraldic origin affords, to my thinking, all
the excuse that is needed for so many attempts having been made to show
that others have been derived from the same source.
No one is more fully aware than I am of the incompleteness of my work.
Many very interesting facts relating to Essex inns and their signs have
unquestionably been omitted. But the search after all such facts is
practically an endless one. If, for instance, I had been able to state
the history of all the inns and their signs in every town and village in
the county with the completeness with which (thanks to Mr. H. W. King) I
have been enabled to treat those of Leigh, I should have swelled my book
to encyclopædic dimensions, and should have had to ask for it a
prohibitory price.
In a treatise involving such an immense amount of minute detail, it is
impossible to avoid some errors. My hope is, however, that these are not
many. I shall always be glad to have pointed out to me any oversights
which may be detected, and I shall be not less glad at all times to
receive any additional facts which my readers may be kind enough to send
me.
I regret that it has been necessary to make use of some old heraldic
terms which the general reader will probably not at first understand.
This, however, was quite unavoidable. The meaning of these terms will be
at once made clear on reference to the Glossary given at the end of the
work, as an Appendix.
According to the list given in the last edition of the _Essex Post
Office Directory_ there are now existing in the county no less than one
thousand, three hundred and fifty-five inns and public-houses. The signs
of all these have been classified, arranged under various headings, and
treated of in turn, together with a very large number of others which
have existed in the county during the last two centuries and a half, but
have now disappeared. Information as to these has been collected by
means of a careful examination of the trade-tokens of the seventeenth
century, old Essex Directories, early books and pamphlets relating to
the county, old deeds and records, the early issues of the _Chelmsford
Chronicle_ (now the _Essex County Chronicle_), and other newspapers,
&c., &c. Altogether it will be found I have been able to enumerate no
less than 693 distinct signs as now or formerly occurring in Essex.
I am indebted to a large number of gentlemen who have most kindly
assisted me by supplying me with information, suggestions, &c., during
the eight years I have been gathering material for the present book.
First and foremost among these I must mention Mr. H. W. King of Leigh,
Hon. Secretary to the Essex Archæological Society, who, as he says,
“knows the descent of nearly every house and plot of ground in the
parish for two or three generations, and the name of every owner.” Among
other gentlemen to whom I am indebted in varying degrees, I may mention
Mr. G. F. Beaumont, Mr. Fred. Chancellor, that veteran Essex
archæologist Mr. Joseph Clarke, F.S.A., Mr. Wm. Cole, F.E.S., Hon.
Secretary of the Essex Field Club, Mr. Thos. B. Daniell, the Rev. H. L.
Elliot, Mr. C. K. Probert, Mr. G. N. Maynard, Mr. H. Ecroyd Smith, and
others, I have also to express my thanks to the following gentlemen,
magistrates’ clerks to the various Petty Sessional Divisions of Essex,
who have most kindly supplied me with lists of such beer-houses as have
signs in their respective divisions:--Messrs. A. J. Arthy (Rochford),
Jos. Beaumont (Dengie), W. Bindon Blood (Witham), J. and J. T. Collin
(Saffron Walden), G. Creed (Epping and Harlow), Augustus Cunnington
(Freshwell and South Hinckford), W. W. Duffield (Chelmsford), H. S.
Haynes (Havering), A. H. Hunt (Orsett), and Chas. Smith (Ongar). I have
also to thank the Essex Archæological Society for the use of the four
blocks of the De Vere badges appearing on p. 70; the Essex Field Club
for that of the Rose Inn, Peldon, on p. 118; Messrs. Chambers & Sons of
22, Wilson Street, Finsbury, for that of the Brewers’ Arms on p. 32;
Messrs. Couchman & Co. of 14, Throgmorton Street, E.C., for that of the
Drapers’ Arms on p. 40; and the Brewers’, Drapers’ and Butchers’
Companies for kindly allowing me to insert cuts of their arms. To my
cousin, Miss S. Christy, I am indebted for kindly drawing the
illustrations appearing on pp. 87 and 140.
Portions of the Introduction and other parts of the book have already
appeared in an altered form in _Chambers’s Journal_ (Jan., 1887, p.
785), and I am indebted to the editor for permission to reprint.
Finally, I have to thank the Subscribers, who, by kindly ordering
copies, have diminished the loss which almost invariably attends the
publication of works of this nature. As the book has already extended to
considerably more space than was originally intended, I trust the
Subscribers will excuse the omission of the customary list.
[Illustration: signature of _Miller Christy_]
CHELMSFORD,
_February 1, 1887_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration] CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
CHAPTER II.
HERALDIC SIGNS 29
CHAPTER III.
MAMMALIAN SIGNS 46
CHAPTER IV.
ORNITHOLOGICAL SIGNS 91
CHAPTER V.
PISCATORY, INSECT, AND REPTILIAN SIGNS 103
CHAPTER VI.
BOTANICAL SIGNS 107
CHAPTER VII.
HUMAN SIGNS 120
CHAPTER VIII.
NAUTICAL SIGNS 134
CHAPTER IX.
ASTRONOMICAL SIGNS 148
CHAPTER X.
MISCELLANEOUS SIGNS 153
GLOSSARY OF HERALDIC TERMS USED 176
INDEX TO NAMES OF SIGNS, &C. 177
[Illustration] The Trade Signs of Essex.
CHAPTER I.
_INTRODUCTION._
“The county god,...
Whose blazing wyvern weather-cocked the spire,
Stood from his walls, and winged his entry-gates,
And swang besides on many a windy sign.”
TENNYSON: _Aylmer’s Field_.
The use of signs as a means of distinguishing different houses of
business, is a custom which has come down to us from times of great
antiquity. Nevertheless, | 919.550404 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Turgut Dincer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+----------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's note: |
| |
| The combination "vv" which occurs at some places for |
| "w" and the word "Jonick" used sometimes for "Ionick" |
| has been kept to conserve the original appearance of the |
| book. No changes have been made in the text except the |
| correction of obvious typos. |
+----------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration: ARCHITECTVRE 1692]
AN
ABRIDGMENT
OF THE
ARCHITECTURE
OF
VITRUVIUS.
CONTAINING
A System of the whole WORKS
| 919.651246 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
MATINS
Francis Sherman
[Illustration: Title page decoration]
BOSTON
COPELAND AND DAY
MDCCCXCVI
COPYRIGHT 1896 BY COPELAND AND DAY
TO
MY FATHER
CONTENTS
At the Gate
A Life
At Matins
Ave
The Foreigner
Cadences
Easter-Song
The Rain
A Memory
Among the Hills
To Summer
The Path
The Last Flower
After Harvest
Heat in September
On the Hillside
Summer Dying
A November Vigil
Nunc Dimittis
Between the Battles
The Quiet Valley
The Kingfisher
The Conqueror
The King's Hostel
Between the Winter and the Spring
The Mother
The Window of Dreams
The Relief of Wet Willows
The Builder
Te Deum Laudamus
AT THE GATE
Swing open wide, O Gate,
That I may enter in
And see what lies in wait
For me who have been born!
Her word I only scorn
Who spake of death and sin.
I know what is behind
Your heavy brazen bars;
I heard it of the wind
Where I dwelt yesterday:
The wind that blows alway
Among the ancient stars.
Life is the chiefest thing
The wind brought knowledge of,
As it passed, murmuring:
Life, with its infinite strength,
And undiminished length
Of years fulfilled with love.
The wind spake not of sin
That blows among the stars;
And so I enter in
(Swing open wide, O Gate!)
Fearless of what may wait
Behind your heavy bars.
A LIFE
I.
_Let us rise up and live!_ Behold, each thing
Is ready for the moulding of our hand.
Long have they all awaited our command;
None other will they ever own for king.
Until we come no bird dare try to sing,
Nor any sea its power may understand;
No buds are on the trees; in every land
Year asketh year some tidings of some Spring.
Yea, it is time,--high time we were awake!
Simple indeed shall life be unto us.
What part is ours?--To take what all things give;
To feel the whole world growing for our sake;
To have sure knowledge of the marvellous;
To laugh and love.--_Let us rise up and live!_
II.
_Let us rule well and long_. We will build here
Our city in the pathway of the sun.
On this side shall this mighty river run;
Along its course well-laden ships shall steer.
Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear,
That from their sides our jewels may be won.
Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done;
Under our sway all far things fall and near!
All time is ours! _Let us rule long and well!_
So we have reigned for many a long, long day.
No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell,
Who dares to stop us on our royal way?
"O King, last night within thy garden fell,
From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray."
III.
_Let us lie down and sleep!_ All things are still,
And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet.
No more is heard the sound of hurrying feet
Athrough the land their echoes once did fill.
Even the wind knows not its ancient will,
For each ship floats with undisturbed sheet:
Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greet
His handmaiden, the utmost western hill.
Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold!
Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair;
We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere!
O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled!
Across even you long shadows soon must sweep.
We too have lived. _Let us lie down and sleep!_
IV.
_Nay, let us kneel and pray!_ The fault was ours,
O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we.
The Spring was with us and we praised not thee;
We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers.
We built us many ships, and mighty towers,
And held awhile the whole broad world in fee:
Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree!
The stars, the winds,--all they were subject-powers.
All things we had for slave. We knew no God;
We saw no place on earth where His feet trod--
This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway,
Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep.
We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep,
O Unknown God,--_Let us kneel down and pray!_
AT MATINS
Because I ever have gone down Thy ways
With joyous heart and undivided praise,
I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness,
Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!"
(At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand,
Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand:
The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindness
Lay still upon the unawakened land;
But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed,
Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid:
I knew that it was one might never falter
Although the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.)
"O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing:
Send out Thy rapid messengers to bring
Me to the shadows which about Thine altar
Are ever born and always gathering.
"For I am weary now, and would lie dead
Where I may not behold my old days shed
Like withered leaves around me and above me;
Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!"
"O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind"
(The Body's words were borne in on the wind);
"Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love me
Although I sin, and lead me who am blind;
Because of all these things, hear me who pray!
Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more day
To worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living.
Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey."
(The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold;
And over them both was shed the sun's red gold;
And though I knew this day had in its giving
Unnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold,
I counted it a sad and bitter thing
That this weak, drifting Soul must alway cling
Unto this Body--wrought in such a fashion
It must have set the gods, even, marvelling.
And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries,
As it turned round and saw the eastern skies)
"O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passion
For this that has grown perfect in mine eyes!
"O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair,
This Body Thou hast given me to wear,--
Lest I fall out of love with death and dying,
And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear!
"Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so--
O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow!
O Lord, forget the words I have been crying,
And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!"
(At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand,
Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand,
Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonder
As they beheld the glorious eastern land;
I saw them, in the strong light of the sun,
Go down into the day that had begun;
I knew, as they, that night might never sunder
This Body from the Soul that it had won.)
AVE!
To-morrow, and a year is born again!
(To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.)
Will it bring joys the old year did not know,
Or will it burthen us with the old pain?
Shall we seek out the Spring--to see it slain?
Summer,--and learn all flowers have ceased to grow?
Autumn,--and find it overswift to go?
(The memories of the old year yet remain.)
To-morrow, and another year is born!
(Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!)
Let us go forth and welcome in the morn,
Following bravely on where Hope hath led.
(O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!)
O Love, we shall not be uncomforted!
THE FOREIGNER
He walked by me with open eyes,
And wondered that I loved it so;
Above us stretched the gray, gray skies;
Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.
Before us slept a dark, dark wood.
Hemlocks were there, and little pines
Also; and solemn cedars stood
In even and uneven lines.
The branches of each silent tree
Bent downward, for the snow's hard weight
Was pressing on them heavily;
They had not known the sun of late.
(Except when it was afternoon,
And then a sickly sun peered in
A little while; it vanished soon
And then they were as they had been.)
There was no sound (I thought I heard
The axe of some man far away)
There was no sound of bee, or bird,
Or chattering squirrel at its play.
And so he wondered I was glad.
--There was one thing he could not see;
Beneath the look these dead things had
I saw Spring eyes agaze at me.
CADENCES
(Mid-Lent)
The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill,
Silent and all untenanted;
From the trees also all glad sound hath fled,
Save for the little wind that moaneth still
Because it deemeth Earth is surely dead.
For many days no woman hath gone by,
Her gold hair knowing, as of old,
The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold;
--Perchance even she hath thought it best to die
Because all things are sad things to behold.
(Easter Morning)
She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shine
On face and limbs and hair!
Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fair
A Lady ever as this one is of mine?
Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere?
See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleet
Past the thrush-haunted trees,
How glad the lilies are that touch her knees!
How glad the grasses underneath her feet!
And how even I am yet more glad than these!
EASTER-SONG
Maiden, awake! For Christ is born again!
And let your feet disdain
The paths whereby of late they have been led.
Now Death itself is dead,
And Love hath birth,
And all things mournful find no place on earth.
This morn ye all must go another way
Than ye went yesterday.
Not with sad faces shall ye silent go
Where He hath suffered so;
But where there be
Full many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.
Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,
As if the ended night
Were but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing.
And ye must also sing
In angel-wise:
So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.
Maidens, arise! I know where many flowers
Have grown these many hours
To make more perfect this glad Easter-day;
Where tall white lilies sway
On slender stem,
Waiting for you to come and garner them;
Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,
Which will Him well delight;
And yellow buttercups, and growing grass
Through which the Spring winds pass;
And mosses wet,
Well strown with many a new-born violet.
All these and every other flower are here.
Will ye not draw anear
And gather them for Him, and in His name,
Whom all men now proclaim
Their living King?
Behold how all these wait your harvesting!
Moreover, see the darkness of His house!
Think ye that He allows
Such glory of glad color and perfume,
But to destroy the gloom
That hath held fast
His altar-place these many days gone past?
For this alone these blossoms had their birth,--
To show His perfect worth!
Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apace
To that strange garden-place
And gather all
These living flowers for His high festival.
For now hath come the long-desired day,
Wherein Love hath full sway!
Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,
His handmaidens are come!
Open them wide,
That all may enter in this Easter-tide!
Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,
And all your wild flowers bring
And strew them on His altar; while the sun--
Seeing what hath been done--
Shines | 919.766183 |
2023-11-16 18:32:23.7817120 | 1,206 | 14 |
Produced by Shaun Pinder, 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)
KIT AND KITTY
LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.,
ST. JOHN’S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C.
KIT AND KITTY
A Story of West Middlesex
BY
R. D. BLACKMORE
AUTHOR OF LORNA DOONE, SPRINGHAVEN, CHRISTOWELL, ETC.
“Si tu Caia, ego Caius.”
_NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION_
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
_Limited_
St. Dunstan’s House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1894
[_All rights reserved_]
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
_Crown 8vo. 6s. each in handsome uniform cloth binding._
ALICE LORRAINE.*
CLARA VAUGHAN.*
LORNA DOONE.*
CHRISTOWELL.*
CRADOCK NOWELL.*
CRIPPS THE CARRIER.*
MARY ANERLEY.*
TOMMY UPMORE.
SPRINGHAVEN.
KIT AND KITTY.
_Volumes marked * can be had in boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. 6d. each._
Crown 4to. about 530 pp., with very numerous full-page
and other Illustrations, cloth extra, gilt edges,
31_s._ 6_d._, very handsomely bound in vellum, 35_s._,
an _Edition de Luxe_ of LORNA DOONE. Beautifully
illustrated Edition. (A choice presentation volume.)
SPRINGHAVEN: a Tale of the Great War. By R. D.
BLACKMORE, author of ‘Lorna Doone.’ With 64
Illustrations by ALFRED PARSONS and F. BARNARD. Square
demy 8vo. cloth extra, gilt edges, price 12_s._ and
7_s._ 6_d._
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY,
_Limited_,
St. Dunstan’s House, Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.—UNCLE CORNY 1
II.—MY KITTY 3
III.—THE TIMBER-BRIDGE 7
IV.—PEACHES, AND PEACHING 12
V.—A LITTLE TIFF 18
VI.—THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE 22
VII.—DE GUSTIBUS 29
VIII.—BAD COUNSEL 37
IX.—A DOG VIOLATE 42
X.—AN UPWARD STROKE 50
XI.—THE FINE ARTS 55
XII.—AN EMPTY PILE 61
XIII.—MY UNCLE BEGINS 67
XIV.—AND ENDS WITH A MORAL 74
XV.—MORAL SUPPORT 82
XVI.—TRUE LOVE 89
XVII.—TRUE FATHER 96
XVIII.—FALSE MOTHER 102
XIX.—DOE DEM. ROE 109
XX.—AUNT PARSLOW 115
XXI.—A TULIP BLOOM 122
XXII.—COLDPEPPER HALL 128
XXIII.—AT BAY, AND IN THE BAY 135
XXIV.—HARO! 141
XXV.—ON THE SHELF 149
XXVI.—A DOWNY COVE 155
XXVII.—OFF THE SHELF 162
XXVIII.—OUT OF ALL REASON 168
XXIX.—A FINE TIP 175
XXX.—BASKETS 183
XXXI.—THE GIANT OF THE HEATH 189
XXXII.—A DREAM 199
XXXIII.—URGENT MEASURES 206
XXXIV.—TWO TO ONE 214
XXXV.—UNDER THE GARDEN WALL 216
XXXVI.—FROST IN MAY 229
XXXVII.—COLD COMFORT 233
XXXVIII.—NONE 241
XXXIX.—ON TWO CHAIRS 248
XL.—JOB’S COMFORT 256
XLI.—TRUE COMFORT 262
XLII.—BEHIND THE FIDDLE 268
XLIII.—THE GREAT LADY 275
XLIV.—MET AGAIN 282
XLV.—ROGUES FALL OUT 288
XLVI.—TONY TONKS 296
XLVII.—TOADSTOOLS 303
XLVIII.—THE DUCHESS 310
XLIX.—CRAFTY, AND SIMPLE 317
L.—A POCKETFUL OF MONEY 325
LI.—NOT IN A HURRY 332
LII.—A WANDERING GLEAM 338
LIII.—A BAD | 919.801752 |
2023-11-16 18:32:23.8274710 | 4,019 | 6 |
Produced by David Widger
HISTORY OF FRIEDRICH II. OF PRUSSIA
FREDERICK THE GREAT
By Thomas Carlyle
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BOOKS CHAPTERS
22 VOLUMES
Project Gutenberg Editor's Note
Reproofing this old Project Gutenberg edition of the History of
Frederick the Great has been both rewarding and disappointing. Each of
the first 21 original volumes had many hundreds of errors corrected--many
remain. The editor was fortunate to have a good printed set of all 22
volumes available for reference when there were questions in the etext.
The original PG edition had some severe basic problems: two of the most
important were first, that the etext was posted in the ASCII character
set--a heavy defect in books full of words in German; and second, the
footnotes were not marked as such in the etext but rather the footnote
material was simply inserted into the main text making it impossible
most of the time to tell what is text and what footnote. Another of the
peculiarities in this set: many words are a combination of lower and
upper case--likely done in the original contributor's print copy for
emphasis of certain syllables.
In spite of the many months taken in correcting the 22 volumes, they are
reposted with regret they are not better and with the realization the
renovated edition is a poor representation of this great work. This
reposting I consider an interim step, with the hope another volunteer
will someday produce a new PG edition from new scans saved in unicode or
Latin-1 with linked footnotes--a project I am unlikely to have time to
accomplish.
David Widger
June 12, 2008
BOOKS BOOK I. -- BIRTH AND PARENTAGE. - 1712.
BOOK II. -- OF BRANDENBURG AND THE HOHENZOLLERNS. - 928-1417.
BOOK III. -- THE HOHENZOLLERNS IN BRANDENBURG. - 1412-1718
BOOK IV. -- FRIEDRICH'S APPRENTICESHIP, FIRST STAGE. - 1713-1728.
BOOK V. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE PROJECT, AND WHAT ELEMENT IT FELL INTO. -
1723-1726.
BOOK VI. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE PROJECT, AND CROWN-PRINCE, GOING ADRIFT
UNDER THE STORM-WINDS. - 1727-1730.
BOOK VII. -- FEARFUL SHIPWRECK OF THE DOUBLE-MARRIAGE PROJECT. - Feb.-
Nov., 1730.
BOOK VIII. -- CROWN-PRINCE REPRIEVED: LIFE AT CUSTRIN - Nov. 1730-
February, 1732.
BOOK IX. -- LAST STAGE OF FRIEDRICH'S APPRENTICESHIP: LIFE IN RUPPIN. -
1732-1736.
BOOK X. -- AT REINSBERG. - 1736-1740.
BOOK XI. -- FRIEDRICH TAKES THE REINS IN HAND. -- June-December, 1740.
BOOK XII. -- FIRST SILESIAN WAR, AWAKENING A GENERAL EUROPEAN ONE,
BEGINS. -- December, 1740-May, 1741.
BOOK XIII. -- FIRST SILESIAN WAR, LEAVING THE GENERAL EUROPEAN ONE
ABLAZE ALL ROUND, GETS ENDED. -- May, 1741-July, 1742.
TABLE OF CONTENTS OF ALL CHAPTERS
BOOK I. -- BIRTH AND PARENTAGE. -- 1712.
Chapter I. -- PROEM: FRIEDRICH'S HISTORY FROM THE DISTANCE WE ARE AT. 1.
FRIEDRICH THEN, AND FRIEDRICH NOW. 2. EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 3. ENGLISH
PREPOSSESSIONS. 4. ENCOURAGEMENTS, DISCOURAGEMENTS.
Chapter II. -- FRIEDRICH'S BIRTH.
Chapter III. -- FATHER AND MOTHER: THE HANOVERIAN CONNECTION.
Chapter IV. -- FATHER'S MOTHER.
Chapter V. -- KING FRIEDRICH I.
BOOK II. -- OF BRANDENBURG AND THE HOHENZOLLERNS. - 928-1417.
Chapter I. -- BRANNIBOR: HENRY THE FOWLER.
Chapter II. -- PREUSSEN: SAINT ADALBERT.
Chapter III. -- MARKGRAVES OF BRANDENBURG. END OF THE FIRST SHADOWY
LINE. SECOND SHADOWY LINE. SUBSTANTIAL MARKGRAVES: GLIMPSE OF THE
CONTEMPORARY KAISERS.
Chapter IV. -- ALBERT THE BEAR.
Chapter V. -- CONRAD OF HOHENZOLLERN; AND KAISER BARBAROSSA. CONRAD HAS
BECOME BURGGRAF OF NURNBERG (A.D. 1170). OF THE HOHENZOLLERN BURGGRAVES
GENERALLY.
Chapter VI. -- THE TEUTSCH RITTERS OR TEUTONIC ORDER. HEAD OF TEUTSCH
ORDER MOVES TO VENICE. TEUTSCH ORDER ITSELF GOES TO PREUSSEN. THE STUFF
TEUTSCH RITTERS WERE MADE OF CONRAD OF THURINGEN: SAINT ELIZABETH; TOWN
OF MARBURG.
Chapter VII. -- MARGRAVIATE OF CULMBACH: BAIREUTH, ANSPACH. BURGGRAF
FRIEDRICH III.; AND THE ANARCHY OF NINETEEN YEARS. KAISER RUDOLF AND
BURGGRAF FRIEDRICH III.
Chapter VIII. -- ASCANIER MARKGRAVES IN BRANDENBURG. OF BERLIN CITY.
MARKGRAF OTTO IV., OR OTTO WITH THE ARROW
Chapter IX. -- BURGGRAF FRIEDRICH IV. CONTESTED ELECTIONS IN THE REICH:
KAISER ALBERT I.; AFTER WHOM SIX NON-HAPSBURG KAISERS. OF KAISER HENRY
VII. AND THE LUXEMBURG KAISERS. HENRY'S SON JOHANN IS KING OF BOHEMIA;
AND LUDWIG THE BAVARIAN, WITH A CONTESTED ELECTION, IS KAISER.
Chapter X. -- BRANDENBURG LAPSES TO THE KAISER.
Chapter XI. -- BAYARIAN KURFURSTS IN BRANDENBURG. A RESUSCITATED
ASCANIER; THE FALSE WALDEMAR. MARGARET WITH THE POUCH-MOUTH.
Chapter XII. -- BRANDENBURG IN KAISER KARL'S TIME; END OF THE BAVARIAN
KURFURSTS. END OF RESUSCITATED WALDEMAR; KURFURST LUDWIG SELLS OUT.
SECOND, AND THEN THIRD AND LAST, OF THE BAVARIAN KURFURSTS IN
BRANDENBURG.
Chapter XIII. -- LUXEMBURG KURFURSTS IN BRANDENBURG.
Chapter XIV. -- BURGGRAF FRIEDRICH VI. SIGISMUND IS KURFURST OF
BRANDENBURG, BUT IS KING OF HUNGARY ALSO. COUSIN JOBST HAS BRANDENBURG
IN PAWN. BRANDENBURG IN THE HANDS OF THE PAWNBROKERS; RUPERT OF THE
PFALZ IS KAISER. SIGISMUND, WITH A STRUGGLE, BECOMES KAISER. BRANDENBURG
IS PAWNED FOR THE LAST TIME. THE SEVEN INTERCALARY OR NON-HAPSBURG
KAISERS.
BOOK III. -- THE HOHENZOLLERNS IN BRANDENBURG. - 1412-1718
Chapter I. -- KURFURST FRIEDRICH I.
Chapter II. -- MATINEES DU ROI DE PRUSSE.
Chapter III. -- KURFURST FRIEDRICH II.
Chapter IV. -- KURFURST ALBERT ACHILLES, AND HIS SUCCESSOR. JOHANN THE
CICERO IS FOURTH KURFURST, AND LEAVES TWO NOTABLE SONS.
Chapter V. -- OF THE BAIREUTH-ANSPACH BRANCH. TWO LINES IN CULMBACH OR
BAIREUTH-ANSPACH: THE GERA BOND OF 1598. THE ELDER LINE OF CULMBACH:
FRIEDRICH AND HIS THREE NOTABLE SONS THERE. FRIEDRICH'S SECOND SON,
MARGRAF GEORGE OF ANSPACH.
Chapter VI. -- HOCHMEISTER ALBERT, THIRD NOTABLE SON OF FRIEDRICH.
Chapter VII. -- ALBERT ALCIBIADES.
Chapter VIII. -- HISTORICAL MEANING OF THE REFORMATION.
Chapter IX. -- KURFURST JOACHIM I.
Chapter X. -- KURFURST JOACHIM II. JOACHIM GETS CO-INVESTMENT IN
PREUSSEN. JOACHIM MAKES "HERITAGE-BROTHERHOOD" WITH THE DUKE OF
LIEGNITZ.
Chapter XI. -- SEVENTH KURFURST, JOHANN GEORGE.
Chapter XII. -- OF ALBERT FRIEDRICH, THE SECOND DUKE OF PREUSSEN. OF
DUKE ALBERT FRIEDRICH'S MARRIAGE: WHO HIS WIFE WAS, AND WHAT HER
POSSIBLE DOWRY. MARGRAF GEORGE FRIEDRICH COMES TO PREUSSEN TO
ADMINISTER.
Chapter XIII. -- NINTH KURFURST, JOHANN SIGISMUND. HOW THE CLEVE
HERITAGE DROPPED, AND MANY SPRANG TO PICK IT UP. THE KAISER'S THOUGHTS
ABOUT IT, AND THE WORLD'S.
Chapter XIV. -- SYMPTOMS OF A GREAT WAR COMING. FIRST SYMPTOM;
DONAUWORTH, 1608. SYMPTOM THIRD: A DINNER-SCENE AT DUSSELDORF, 1613:
SPANIARDS AND DUTCH SHOULDER ARMS IN CLEVE. SYMPTOM FOURTH, AND
CATASTROPHE UPON THE HEELS OF IT. WHAT BECAME OF THE CLEVE-JULICH
HERITAGE, AND OF THE PREUSSEN ONE.
Chapter XV. -- TENTH KURFURST, GEORGE WILHELM.
Chapter XVI. -- THIRTY-YEARS WAR. SECOND ACT, OR EPOCH, 1624-1629. A
SECOND UNCLE PUT TO THE BAN, AND POMMERN SNATCHED AWAY. THIRD ACT, AND
WHAT THE KURFURST SUFFERED IN IT.
Chapter XVII. -- DUCHY OF JAGERNDORF. DUKE OF JAGERNDORF, ELECTOR'S
UNCLE, IS PUT UNDER BAN.
Chapter XVIII. -- FRIEDRICH WILHELM, THE GREAT KURFURST, ELEVENTH OF THE
SERIES. WHAT BECAME OF POMMERN AT THE PEACE; FINAL GLANCE INTO CLEVE-
JULICH. THE GREAT KURFURST'S WARS: WHAT HE ACHIEVED IN WAR AND PEACE.
Chapter XIX. -- KING FRIEDRICH I. AGAIN. HOW AUSTRIA SETTLED THE
SILESIAN CLAIMS. HIS REAL CHARACTER.
Chapter XX. -- DEATH OF KING FRIEDRICH I. THE TWELVE HOHENZOLLERN
ELECTORS. GENEALOGICAL DIAGRAM: THE TWO CULMBACH LINES.
BOOK IV. -- FRIEDRICH'S APPRENTICESHIP, FIRST STAGE. - 1713-1728.
Chapter I. -- CHILDHOOD: DOUBLE EDUCATIONAL ELEMENT. FIRST EDUCATIONAL
ELEMENT, THE FRENCH ONE.
Chapter II. -- THE GERMAN ELEMENT. OF THE DESSAUER, NOT YET "OLD."
Chapter III. -- FRIEDRICH WILHELM IS KING.
Chapter IV. -- HIS MAJESTY'S WAYS.
Chapter V. -- FRIEDRICH WILHELM'S ONE WAR. THE DEVIL IN HARNESS: CREUTZ
THE FINANCE-MINISTER.
Chapter VI. -- THE LITTLE DRUMMER.
Chapter VII. -- TRANSIT OF CZAR PETER.
Chapter VIII. -- THE CROWN-PRINCE IS PUT TO HIS SCHOOLING.
Chapter IX. -- WUSTERHAUSEN.
Chapter X. -- THE HEIDELBERG PROTESTANTS. OF KUR-PFALZ KARL PHILIP: HOW
HE GOT A WIFE LONG SINCE, AND DID FEATS IN THE WORLD. KARL PHILIP AND
HIS HEIDELBERG PROTESTANTS. FRIEDRICH WILHELM'S METHOD;--PROVES REMEDIAL
IN HEIDELBERG. PRUSSIAN MAJESTY HAS DISPLEASED THE KAISER AND THE KING
OF POLAND.
Chapter XI. -- ON THE CROWN-PRINCE'S PROGRESS IN HIS SCHOOLING. THE
NOLTENIUS-AND-PANZENDORF DRILL-EXERCISE.
Chapter XII. -- CROWN-PRINCE FALLS INTO DISFAVOR WITH PAPA.
Chapter XIII. -- RESULTS OF THE CROWN-PRINCE'S SCHOOLING.
BOOK V. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE PROJECT, AND WHAT ELEMENT IT FELL INTO. --
1723-1726.
Chapter I. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE IS DECIDED ON. QUEEN SOPHIE DOROTHEE HAS
TAKEN TIME BY THE FORELOCK. PRINCESS AMELIA COMES INTO THE WORLD.
FRIEDRICH WILHELM'S TEN CHILDREN.
Chapter II. -- A KAISER HUNTING SHADOWS. IMPERIAL MAJESTY ON THE TREATY
OF UTRECHT. IMPERIAL MAJESTY HAS GOT HAPPILY WEDDED. IMPERIAL MAJESTY
AND THE TERMAGANT OF SPAIN. IMPERIAL MAJESTY'S PRAGMATIC SANCTION. THIRD
SHADOW: IMPERIAL MAJESTY'S OSTEND COMPANY.
Chapter III. -- THE SEVEN CRISES OR EUROPEAN TRAVAIL-THROES. CONGRESS OF
CAMBRAI. CONGRESS OF CAMBRAI GETS THE FLOOR PULLED FROM UNDER IT. FRANCE
AND THE BRITANNIC MAJESTY TRIM THE SHIP AGAIN: HOW FRIEDRICH WILHELM
CAME INTO IT. TREATY OF HANOVER, 1725. TRAVAIL-THROES OF NATURE FOR BABY
CARLOS'S ITALIAN APANAGE; SEVEN IN NUMBER.
Chapter IV. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE TREATY CANNOT BE SIGNED.
Chapter V. -- CROWN-PRINCE GOES INTO THE POTSDAM GUARDS. OF THE POTSDAM
GIANTS, AS A FACT. FRIEDRICH WILHELM'S RECRUITING DIFFICULTIES. QUEEN
SOPHIE'S TROUBLES: GRUMKOW WITH THE OLD DESSAUER, AND GRUMKOW WITHOUT
HIM.
Chapter VI. -- ORDNANCE-MASTER SECKENDORF CROSSES THE PALACE ESPLANADE.
Chapter VII. -- TOBACCO-PARLIAMENT. OF GUNDLING, AND THE LITERARY MEN IN
TOBACCO-PARLIAMENT.
Chapter VIII. -- SECKENDORF'S RETORT TO HER MAJESTY.
BOOK VI. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE PROJECT, AND CROWN-PRINCE, GOING ADRIFT
UNDER THE STORM-WINDS. -- 1727-1730.
Chapter I. -- FIFTH CRISIS IN THE KAISER'S SPECTRE-HUNT. CROWN-PRINCE
SEEN IN DRYASDUST'S GLASS, DARKLY.
Chapter II. -- DEATH OF GEORGE I. HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY FALLS INTO ONE OF
HIS HYPOCHONDRIACAL FITS.
Chapter III. -- VISIT TO DRESDEN. THE PHYSICALLY STRONG PAYS HIS
COUNTER-VISIT. OF PRINCESS WHILHELMINA'S FOUR KINGS AND OTHER
INEFFECTUAL SUITORS.
Chapter IV. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE PROJECT IS NOT DEAD. CROWN-PRINCE
FRIEDRICH WRITES CERTAIN LETTERS. DOUBLE-MARRIAGE PROJECT RE-EMERGES IN
AN OFFICIAL SHAPE. HIS MAJESTY SLAUGHTERS 3,602 HEAD OF WILD SWINE.
FALLS ILL, IN CONSEQUENCE; AND THE DOUBLE-MARRIAGE CANNOT GET FORWARD.
Chapter V. -- CONGRESS OF SOISSONS, SIXTH CRISIS IN THE SPECTRE-HUNT.
Chapter VI. -- IMMINENCY OF WAR OR DUEL BETWEEN THE BRITANNIC AND
PRUSSIAN MAJESTIES. CAUSE FIRST: THE HANOVER JOINT-HERITAGES, WHICH ARE
NOT IN A LIQUID STATE. CAUSE SECOND: THE TROUBLES OF MECKLENBURG. CAUSES
THIRD AND FOURTH:--AND CAUSE FIFTH, WORTH ALL THE OTHERS. TROUBLES OF
MECKLENBURG, FOR THE LAST TIME. ONE NUSSLER SETTLES THE AHLDEN
HERITAGES; SENDS THE MONEY HOME IN BOXES.
Chapter VII. -- A MARRIAGE: NOT THE DOUBLE-MARRIAGE: CROWN-PRINCE DEEP
IN TROUBLE. CROWN-PRINCE'S DOMESTICITIES SEEN IN A FLASH OF LIGHTNING.
Chapter VIII. -- CROWN-PRINCE GETTING BEYOND HIS DEPTH IN TROUBLE.
Chapter IX. -- DOUBLE-MARRIAGE SHALL BE OR SHALL NOT BE. WILHELMINA TO
BE MARRIED OUT OF HAND. CRISIS FIRST: ENGLAND SHALL SAY YES OR SAY NO.
DUBOURGAY STRIKES A LIGHT FOR THE ENGLISH COURT. WILHELMINA TO BE
| 919.847511 |
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This etext was prepared by Christopher Hapka, Sunnyvale, California
Digital Editor's Note:
Italics are represented in the text with _underscores_. In the
interest of readability, where italics are used to indicate
non-English words, I have silently omitted them or replaced them
with quotation marks.
Haggard's spelling, especially of Zulu terms, is wildly inconsistent;
likewise his capitalization, especially of Zulu terms. For example,
Masapo is the chief of the Amansomi until chapter IX; thereafter his
tribe is consistently referred to as the "Amasomi". In general, I
have retained Haggard's spellings. Some obvious spelling mistakes
(as "Quartermain" for "Quatermain" in one instance) have been silently
corrected.
Some diacriticals in the text could not be represented in 7-bit
ASCII text and have been approximated here. To restore all
formatting, do the following throughout the text:
Replace the pound symbol "#" with the English pound symbol
Place an acute accent over the "e" in "Nombe", "acces",
"Amawombe", and "fiance", and the first "e" in "Bayete"
Place a circumflex accent over the "u" in "Harut" and
the "o" in "role"
Place a grave accent over the "a" and circumflex accents
over the first and third "e" in "tete-a-tete"
Replace "oe" with the oe ligature in "manoeuvring"
FINISHED
by H. RIDER HAGGARD
DEDICATION
Ditchingham House, Norfolk,
May, 1917.
My dear Roosevelt,--
You are, I know, a lover of old Allan Quatermain, one who
understands and appreciates the views of life and the aspirations
that underlie and inform his manifold adventures.
Therefore, since such is your kind wish, in memory of certain
hours wherein both of us found true refreshment and companionship
amidst the terrible anxieties of the World's journey along that
bloodstained road by which alone, so it is decreed, the pure Peak
of Freedom must be scaled, I dedicate to you this tale telling of
the events and experiences of my youth.
Your sincere friend,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
To COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT,
Sagamore Hill, U.S.A.
CONTENTS:
I. ALLAN QUATERMAIN MEETS ANSCOMBE
II. MR. MARNHAM
III. THE HUNTERS HUNTED
IV. DOCTOR RODD
V. A GAME OF CARDS
VI. MISS HEDA
VII. THE STOEP
VIII. RODD'S LAST CARD
IX. FLIGHT
X. NOMBE
XI. ZIKALI
XII. TRAPPED
XIII. CETEWAYO
XIV. THE VALLEY OF BONES
XV. THE GREAT COUNCIL
XVI. WAR
XVII. KAATJE BRINGS NEWS
XVIII. ISANDHLWANA
XIX. ALLAN AWAKES
XX. HEDA'S TALE
XXI. THE KING VISITS ZIKALI
XXII. THE MADNESS OF NOMBE
XXIII. THE KRAAL JAZI
INTRODUCTION
This book, although it can be read as a separate story, is the
third of the trilogy of which _Marie_ and _Child of Storm_ are
the first two parts. It narrates, through the mouth of Allan
Quatermain, the consummation of the vengeance of the wizard
Zikali, alias The Opener of Roads, or
"The-Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born," upon the royal Zulu
House of which Senzangacona was the founder and Cetewayo, our
enemy in the war of 1879, the last representative who ruled as a
king. Although, of course, much is added for the purposes of
romance, the main facts of history have been adhered to with some
faithfulness.
With these the author became acquainted a full generation ago,
Fortune having given him a part in the events that preceded the
Zulu War. Indeed he believes that with the exception of Colonel
Phillips, who, as a lieutenant, commanded the famous escort of
twenty-five policemen, he is now the last survivor of the party
who, under the leadership of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, or Sompseu
as the natives called him from the Zambesi to the Cape, were
concerned in the annexation of the Transvaal in 1877. Recently
also he has been called upon as a public servant to revisit South
Africa and took the opportunity to travel through Zululand, in
order to refresh his knowledge of its people, their customs,
their mysteries, and better to prepare himself for the writing of
this book. Here he stood by the fatal Mount of Isandhlawana
which, with some details of the battle, is described in these
pages, among the graves of many whom once he knew, Colonels
Durnford, Pulleine and others. Also he saw Ulundi's plain where
the traces of war still lie thick, and talked with an old Zulu
who fought in the attacking Impi until it crumbled away before
the fire of the Martinis and shells from the heavy guns. The
battle of the Wall of Sheet Iron, he called it, perhaps because
of the flashing fence of bayonets.
Lastly, in a mealie patch, he found the spot on which the corn
grows thin, where King Cetewayo breathed his last, poisoned
without a doubt, as he has known for many years. It is to be
seen at the Kraal, ominously named Jazi or, translated into
English, "Finished." The tragedy happened long ago, but even now
the quiet-faced Zulu who told the tale, looking about him as he
spoke, would not tell it all. "Yes, as a young man, I was there
at the time, but I do not remember, I do not know--the Inkoosi
Lundanda (i.e., this Chronicler, so named in past years by the
Zulus) stands on the very place where the king died--His bed was
on the left of the door-hole of the hut," and so forth, but no
certain word as to the exact reason of this sudden and violent
death or by whom it was caused. The name of that destroyer of a
king is for ever hid.
In this story the actual and immediate cause of the declaration
of war against the British Power is represented as the appearance
of the white goddess, or spirit of the Zulus, who is, or was,
called Nomkubulwana or Inkosazana-y-Zulu, i.e., the Princess of
Heaven. The exact circumstances which led to this decision are
not now ascertainable, though it is known that there was much
difference of opinion among the Zulu Indunas or great captains,
and like the writer, many believe that King Cetewayo was
personally averse to war against his old allies, the English.
The author's friend, Mr. J. Y. Gibson, at present the
representative of the Union in Zululand, writes in his admirable
history: "There was a good deal of discussion amongst the
assembled Zulu notables at Ulundi, but of how counsel was swayed
it is not possible now to obtain a reliable account."
The late Mr. F. B. Fynney, F.R.G.S., who also was his friend in
days bygone, and, with the exception of Sir Theophilus Shepstone,
who perhaps knew the Zulus and their language better than any
other official of his day, speaking of this fabled goddess wrote:
"I remember that just before the Zulu War Nomkubulwana appeared
revealing something or other which had a great effect throughout
the land."
The use made of this strange traditional Guardian Angel in the
following tale is not therefore an unsupported flight of fancy,
and the same may be said of many other incidents, such as the
account of the reading of the proclamation annexing the Transvaal
at Pretoria in 1877, which have been introduced to serve the
purposes of the romance.
Mameena, who haunts its pages, in a literal as well as figurative
sense, is the heroine of _Child of Storm,_ a book to which she
gave her own poetic title.
1916.
THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER I
ALLAN QUATERMAIN MEETS ANSCOMBE
You, my friend, into whose hand, if you live, I hope these
scribblings of mine will pass one day, must well remember the
12th of April of the year 1877 at Pretoria. Sir Theophilus
Shepstone, or Sompseu, for I prefer to call him by his native
name, having investigated the affairs of the Transvaal for a
couple of months or so, had made up his mind to annex that
country to the British Crown. It so happened that I, Allan
Quatermain, had been on a shooting and trading expedition at the
back of the Lydenburg district where there was plenty of game to
be killed in those times. Hearing that great events were toward
I made up my mind, curiosity being one of my weaknesses, to come
round by Pretoria, which after all was not very far out of my
way, instead of striking straight back to Natal. As it chanced I
reached the town about eleven o'clock on this very morning of the
12th of April and, trekking to the Church Square, proceeded to
outspan there, as was usual in the Seventies. The place was full
of people, English and Dutch together, and I noted that the
former seemed very elated and were talking excitedly, while the
latter for the most part appeared to be sullen and depressed.
Presently I saw a man I knew, a tall, dark man, a very good
fellow and an excellent shot, named Robinson. By the way you
knew him also, for afterwards he was an officer in the Pretoria
Horse at the time of the Zulu war, the corps in which you held a
commission. I called to him and asked what was up.
"A good deal, Allan," he said as he shook my hand. "Indeed we
shall be lucky if all isn't up, or something like it, before the
day is over. Shepstone's Proclamation annexing the Transvaal is
going to be read presently."
I whistled and asked,
"How will our Bo | 919.84896 |
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Produced by Lisa Bennett
A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
By Anna Katharine Green
OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
The House of the Whispering Pines Miss Hurd. An Enigma
Leavenworth Case That Affair Next Door
Strange Disappearance Lost Man's Lane
Sword of Damocles Agatha Webb
Hand and Ring One of My Sons
The Mill Mystery Defence of the Bride,
Behind Closed Doors and Other Poems
Cynthia Wakeham's Money Risifi's Daughter. A Drama
Marked "Personal" The Golden Slipper
To the Minute
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I A NOVEL CASE
CHAPTER II A FEW POINTS
CHAPTER III THE CONTENTS OF A BUREAU DRAWER
CHAPTER IV THOMPSON'S STORY
CHAPTER V A NEW YORK BELLE
CHAPTER VI A BIT OF CALICO
CHAPTER VII THE HOUSE AT THE GRANBY CROSS ROADS
CHAPTER VIII A WORD OVERHEARD
CHAPTER IX A FEW GOLDEN HAIRS
CHAPTER X THE SECRET OF MR. BLAKE'S STUDIO
CHAPTER XI LUTTRA
CHAPTER XII A WOMAN'S LOVE
CHAPTER XIII A MAN'S HEART
CHAPTER XIV MRS. DANIELS
CHAPTER XV A CONFAB
CHAPTER XVI THE MARK OF THE RED CROSS
CHAPTER XVII THE CAPTURE
CHAPTER XVIII LOVE AND DUTY
CHAPTER XIX EXPLANATIONS
CHAPTER XX THE BOND THAT UNITES
A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
CHAPTER I. A NOVEL CASE
"Talking of sudden disappearances the one you mention of Hannah in that
Leavenworth case of ours, is not the only remarkable one which has come
under my direct notice. Indeed, I know of another that in some respects,
at least, surpasses that in points of interest, and if you will promise
not to inquire into the real names of the parties concerned, as the
affair is a secret, I will relate you my experience regarding it."
The speaker was Q, the rising young detective, universally acknowledged
by us of the force as the most astute man for mysterious and
unprecedented cases, then in the bureau, always and of course excepting
Mr. Gryce; and such a statement from him could not but arouse our
deepest curiosity. Drawing up, then, to the stove around which we
were sitting in lazy enjoyment of one of those off-hours so dear to
a detective's heart, we gave with alacrity the required promise; and
settling himself back with the satisfied air of a man who has a good
story to tell that does not entirely lack certain points redounding to
his own credit, he began:
I was one Sunday morning loitering at the ----- Precinct Station, when
the door opened and a respectable-looking middle-aged woman came in,
whose agitated air at once attracted my attention. Going up to her, I
asked her what she wanted.
"A detective," she replied, glancing cautiously about on the faces of
the various men scattered through the room. "I don't wish anything said
about it, but a girl disappeared from our house last night, and"--she
stopped here, her emotion seeming to choke her--"and I want some one to
look her up," she went on at last with the most intense emphasis.
"A girl? what kind of a girl; and what house do you mean when you say
our house?"
She looked at me keenly before replying. "You are a young man," said
she; "isn't there some one here more responsible than yourself that I
can talk to?"
I shrugged my shoulders and beckoned to Mr. Gryce who was just then
passing. She at once seemed to put confidence in him. Drawing him aside,
she whispered a few low eager words which I could not hear. He listened
nonchalantly for a moment but suddenly made a move which I knew
indicated strong and surprised interest, though from his face--but you
know what Gryce's face is. I was about to walk off, convinced he had
got hold of something he would prefer to manage himself, when the
Superintendent came in.
"Where is Gryce?" asked he; "tell him I want him."
Mr. Gryce heard him and hastened forward. As he passed me, he whispered,
"Take a man and go with this woman; look into matters and send me word
if you want me; I will be here for two hours."
I did not need a second permission. Beckoning to Harris, I reapproached
the woman. "Where do you come from," said I, "I am to go back with you
and investigate the affair it seems."
"Did he say so?" she asked, pointing to Mr. Gryce who now stood with his
back to us busily talking with the Superintendent.
I nodded, and she at once moved towards the door. "I come from No.----
Second Avenue: Mr. Blake's house," she whispered, uttering a name so
well known, I at once understood Mr. Gryce's movement of sudden interest
"A girl--one who sewed for us--disappeared last night in a way to
alarm us very much. She was taken from her room--" "Yes," she cried
vehemently, seeing my look of sarcastic incredulity, "taken from her
room; she never went of her own accord; and she must be found if I spend
every dollar of the pittance I have laid up in the bank against my old
age."
Her manner was so intense, her tone so marked and her words so vehement,
I at once and naturally asked if the girl was a relative of hers that
she felt her abduction so keenly.
"No," she replied, "not a relative, but," she went on, looking every way
but in my face, "a very dear friend--a--a--protegee, I think they call
it, of mine; I--I--She must be found," she again reiterated.
We were by this time in the street.
"Nothing must be said about it," she now whispered, catching me by the
arm. "I told him so," nodding back to the building from which we had
just issued, "and he promised secrecy. It can be done without folks
knowing anything about it, can't it?"
"What?" I asked.
"Finding the girl."
"Well," said I, "we can tell you better about that when we know a few
more of the facts. What is the girl's name and what makes you think she
didn't go out of the house-door of her own accord?"
"Why, why, everything. She wasn't the person to do it; then the looks of
her room, and--They all got out of the window," she cried suddenly, "and
went away by the side gate into ------ Street."
"They? Who do you mean by they?"
"Why, whoever they were who carried her off."
I could not suppress the "bah!" that rose to my lips. Mr. Gryce might
have been able to, but I am not Gryce.
"You don't believe," said she, "that she was carried off?"
"Well, no," said I, "not in the sense you mean."
She gave another nod back to the police station now a block or so
distant. "He did'nt seem to doubt it at all."
I laughed. "Did you tell him you thought she had been taken off in this
way?"
"Yes, and he said, 'Very likely.' And well he might, for I heard the men
talking in her room, and--"
"You heard men talking in her room--when?"
"O, it must have been as late as half-past twelve. I had been asleep and
the noise they made whispering, woke me."
"Wait," I said, "tell me where her room is, hers and yours."
"Hers is the third story back, mine the front one on the same floor."
"Who are you?" I now inquired. "What position do you occupy in Mr.
Blake's house?"
"I am the housekeeper."
Mr. Blake was a bachelor.
"And you were wakened last night by hearing whispering which seemed to
come from this girl's room."
"Yes, I at first thought it was the folks next door,--we often hear them
when they are unusually noisy,--but soon I became assured it came from
her room; and more astonished than I could say,--She is a good girl,"
she broke in, suddenly looking at me with hotly indignant eyes,
"a--a--as good a girl as this whole city can show; don't you dare, any
of you, to hint at anything else o--"
"Come, come," I said soothingly, a little ashamed of my too
communicative face, "I haven't said anything, we will take it for
granted she is as good as gold, go on."
The woman wiped her forehead with a hand that trembled like a leaf.
"Where was I?" said she. "O, I heard voices and was surprised and got
up and went to her door. The noise I made unlocking my own must have
startled her, for all was perfectly quiet when I got there. I waited a
moment, then I turned the knob and called her: she did not reply and I
called again. Then she came to the door, but did not unlock it. 'What is
it?' she asked. 'O,' said I, 'I thought I heard talking here and I was
frightened,' 'It must have been next door,' said she. I begged pardon
and went back to my room. There was no more noise, but when in the
morning we broke into her room and found her gone, the window open and
signs of distress and struggle around, I knew I had not been mistaken;
that there were men with her when I went to her door, and that they had
carried her off--"
This time I could not restrain myself.
"Did they drop her out of the window?" I inquired.
"O," said she, "we are building an extension, and there is a ladder
running up to the third floor, and it was by means of that they took
her."
"Indeed! she seems at least to have been a willing victim," I remarked.
The woman clutched my arm with a grip like iron. "Don't you believe it,"
gasped she, stopping me in the street where we were. "I tell you if what
I say is true, and these burglars or whatever they were, did carry her
off, it was an agony to her, an awful, awful thing that will kill her if
it has not done so already. You don't know what you are talking about,
you never saw her--"
"Was she pretty," I asked, hurrying the woman along, for more than one
passer-by had turned their heads to look at us. The question seemed in
some way to give her a shock.
"Ah, I don't know," she muttered; "some might not think so, I always
did; it depended upon the way you looked at her."
For the first time I felt a thrill of anticipation shoot through my
veins. Why, I could not say. Her tone was peculiar, and she spoke in a
sort of brooding way as though she were weighing something in her own
mind; but then her manner had been peculiar throughout. Whatever it was
that aroused my suspicion, I determined henceforth to keep a very sharp
eye upon her ladyship. Levelling a straight glance at her face, I asked
her how it was that she came to be the one to inform the authorities of
the girl's | 919.918662 |
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: For a beginner that's the best schedule I ever saw.]
RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER
OR
THE MYSTERY OF THE PAY CAR
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF "RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE," "RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER,"
"RALPH ON THE ENGINE," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
THE RAILROAD SERIES
By Allen Chapman
Cloth. 12mo. Illustrated
RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE Or, Bound to Become a Railroad Man
RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER Or, Clearing the Track
RALPH ON THE ENGINE Or, The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail
RALPH ON THE OVERLAND EXPRESS Or, The Trials and Triumphs of
a Young Engineer
RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER Or, The Mystery of the Pay Car
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York
Copyright, 1911 by GROSSET & DUNLAP
Ralph, the Train Dispatcher
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
CHAPTER II--THE WRECK
CHAPTER III--TROUBLE BREWING
CHAPTER IV--THE WIRE TAPPERS
CHAPTER V--IKE SLUMP
CHAPTER VI--IN THE TUNNEL
CHAPTER VII--DANGER SIGNALS
CHAPTER VIII--THE OLD SWITCH SHANTY
CHAPTER IX--A SUSPICIOUS DISCOVERY
CHAPTER X--THE TRAIN DISPATCHER
CHAPTER XI--MAKING A SCHEDULE
CHAPTER XII--AT THE RELAY STATION
CHAPTER XIII--"HOLD THE LIMITED MAIL!"
CHAPTER XIV--OLD 93
CHAPTER XV--CHASING A RUNAWAY
CHAPTER XVI--THE WRECK
CHAPTER XVII--A STRANGE MESSAGE
CHAPTER XVIII--THE SLUMP "SECRET"
CHAPTER XIX--ON THE LOOKOUT
CHAPTER XX--A TRUSTY FRIEND
CHAPTER XXI--A DASTARDLY PLOT
CHAPTER XXII--HOLDING THE FORT
CHAPTER XXIII--ONE MINUTE AFTER TWELVE
CHAPTER XXIV--THE BATTLE OF WITS
CHAPTER XXV--A WILD NIGHT
CHAPTER XXVI--AN AMAZING ANNOUNCEMENT
CHAPTER XXVII--THE STOLEN PAY CAR
CHAPTER XXVIII--THE "TEST" SPECIAL
CHAPTER XXIX--"CRACK THE WHIP!"
CHAPTER XXX--THE PAY CAR ROBBER
CHAPTER XXXI--QUICK WORK
CHAPTER XXXII--CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
"Those men will bear watching--they are up to some mischief, Fairbanks."
"I thought so myself, Mr. Fogg. I have been watching them for some
time."
"I thought you would notice them--you generally do notice things."
The speaker with these words bestowed a glance of genuine pride and
approbation upon his companion, Ralph Fairbanks.
They were a great pair, these two, a friendly, loyal pair, the grizzled
old veteran fireman, Lemuel Fogg, and the clear-eyed, steady-handed
young fellow who had risen from roundhouse wiper to switchtower service,
then to fireman, then to engineer, and who now pulled the lever on the
crack racer of the Great Northern Railroad, the Overland express.
Ralph sat with his hand on the throttle waiting for the signal to pull
out of Boydsville Tracks. Ahead were clear, as he well knew, and his
eyes were fixed on three men who had just passed down the platform with
a scrutinizing glance at the locomotive and its crew.
Fogg had watched them for some few minutes with an ominous eye. He had
snorted in his characteristic, suspicious way, as the trio lounged
around the end of the little depot.
"Good day," he now said with fine sarcasm in his tone, "hope I see you
again--know I'll see you again. They're up to tricks, Fairbanks, and
don't you forget it."
"Gone, have they?" piped in a new voice, and a brakeman craned his neck
from his position on the reverse step of the locomotive. "Say, who are
they, anyway?"
"Do you know?" inquired the fireman, facing the intruder sharply.
"I'd like to. They got on three stations back. The conductor spotted
them as odd fish from the start. Two of them are disguised, that's
sure--the mustache of one of them went sideways. The old man, the
mild-looking, placid old gentleman they had in tow, is a telegrapher."
"How do you know that?" asked Ralph, becoming interested.
"That's easy. I caught him strumming on the car window sill, and I have
had an apprenticeship in the wire line long enough to guess what he was
tapping out. On his mind, see--force of habit and all that. The two with
him, though, looked like jail birds."
"What struck me," interposed Fogg, "was the way they snooked around the
train at the two last stops. They looked us over as if they were
planning a holdup."
"Yes, and they pumped the train hands dry all about your schedule,"
declared the brakeman. "Cottoned to me, but I cut them short. Seemed
mightily interested in the pay car routine, by the way."
"Did, eh," bristled up Fogg. "Say, tell us about that."
"Why, you see--There goes the starting signal. See you again."
The brakeman dropped back to duty, and the depot and the three men who
had caused a brief ripple in the monotony of a routine run were lost in
the distance. For a few minutes the fireman had his hands full feeding
the fire, and Ralph, eyes, ears and all his senses on the alert, got in
perfect touch with throttle, air gauge and exhaust valve.
Ralph glanced at the clock and took an easy position on his cushioned
seat. Everything was in order for a smooth run to twenty miles away. | 919.947778 |
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Produced by Charlene Taylor, 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/American Libraries.)
Every attempt has been made to replicate the original, printed. Some
typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. Some
illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph for ease of reading.
(etext transcriber's note)
THE EMPRESS FREDERICK
[Illustration]
The
Empress Frederick
A MEMOIR
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
Dodd, Mead and Company
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1913,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
PREFACE
Memoirs of Royal personages form not the least interesting part of the
whole vast field of biography, in spite of the fact that such memoirs
differ from the lives of most persons in a private station because of
the reticence and discretion which are necessary, especially in regard
to affairs of State and political characters. It is often not until a
whole generation has passed that it is possible to publish a full
biography of a member of a Royal House, and in the meantime the exalted
rank of the subject operates both to enhance and to diminish the
interest of the memoir.
This is also true in a modified degree of statesmen, of whom full and
frank biographies are seldom possible until their political associates
and rivals have alike disappeared from the scene. This necessary delay
is a test of the subject's greatness, for it has sometimes happened that
by the time a full memoir can be published the public interest in the
individual has waned.
By heredity, by training, by all the circumstances of | 920.035029 |
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Transcribed from the 1896 Chatto & Windus edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
FAMILIAR STUDIES
OF
MEN AND BOOKS
BY
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
_ELEVENTH EDITION_
* * * * *
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICADILLY
1896
* * * * *
TO
THOMAS STEVENSON
CIVIL ENGINEER
BY WHOSE DEVICES THE GREAT SEA LIGHTS IN EVERY QUARTER
OF THE WORLD NOW SHINE MORE BRIGHTLY
THIS VOLUME IS IN LOVE AND GRATITUDE
DEDICATED BY HIS SON
THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
BY WAY OF CRITICISM.
THESE studies are collected from the monthly press. One appeared in the
_New Quarterly_, one in _Macmillan’s_, and the rest in the _Cornhill
Magazine_. To the _Cornhill_ I owe a double debt of thanks; first, that
I was received there in the very best society, and under the eye of the
very best of editors; and second, that the proprietors have allowed me to
republish so considerable an amount of copy.
These nine worthies have been brought together from many different ages
and countries. Not the most erudite of men could be perfectly prepared
to deal with so many and such various sides of human life and manners.
To pass a true judgment upon Knox and Burns implies a grasp upon the very
deepest strain of thought in Scotland,—a country far more essentially
different from England than many parts of America; for, in a sense, the
first of these men re-created Scotland, and the second is its most
essentially national production. To treat fitly of Hugo and Villon would
involve yet wider knowledge, not only of a country foreign to the author
by race, history, and religion, but of the growth and liberties of art.
Of the two Americans, Whitman and Thoreau, each is the type of something
not so much realised as widely sought after among the late generations of
their countrymen; and to see them clearly in a nice relation to the
society that brought them forth, an author would require a large habit of
life among modern Americans. As for Yoshida, I have already disclaimed
responsibility; it was but my hand that held the pen.
In truth, these are but the readings of a literary vagrant. One book led
to another, one study to another. The first was published with
trepidation. Since no bones were broken, the second was launched with
greater confidence. So, by insensible degrees, a young man of our
generation acquires, in his own eyes, a kind of roving judicial
commission through the ages; and, having once escaped the perils of the
Freemans and the Furnivalls, sets himself up to right the wrongs of
universal history and criticism. Now, it is one thing to write with
enjoyment on a subject while the story is hot in your mind from recent
reading, with recent prejudice; and it is quite another business
to put these writings coldly forth again in a bound volume. We are most
of us attached to our opinions; that is one of the “natural affections”
of which we hear so much in youth; but few of us are altogether free from
paralysing doubts and scruples. For my part, I have a small idea of the
degree of accuracy possible to man, and I feel sure these studies teem
with error. One and all were written with genuine interest in the
subject; many, however, have been conceived and finished with imperfect
knowledge; and all have lain, from beginning to end, under the
disadvantages inherent in this style of writing.
Of these disadvantages a word must here be said. The writer of short
studies, having to condense in a few pages the events of a whole
lifetime, and the effect on his own mind of many various volumes, is
bound, above all things, to make that condensation logical and striking.
For the only justification of his writing at all is that he shall present
a brief, reasoned, and memorable view. By the necessity of the case, all
the more neutral circumstances are omitted from his narrative; and that
of itself, by the negative exaggeration of which I have spoken in the
text, lends to the matter in hand a certain false and specious glitter.
By the necessity of the case, again, he is forced to view his subject
throughout in a particular illumination, like a studio artifice. Like
Hales with Pepys, he must nearly break his sitter’s neck to get the
proper shadows on the portrait. It is from one side only that he has
time to represent his subject. The side selected will either be the one
most striking to himself, or the one most obscured by controversy; and in
both cases that will be the one most liable to strained and sophisticated
reading. In a biography, this and that is displayed; the hero is seen at
home, playing the flute; the different tendencies of his work come, one
after another, into notice; and thus something like a true, general
impression of the subject may at last be struck. But in the short study,
the writer, having seized his “point of view,” must keep his eye steadily
to that. He seeks, perhaps, rather to differentiate than truly to
characterise. The proportions of the sitter must be sacrificed to the
proportions of the portrait; | 920.045554 |
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: There was a sudden blinding flash from the instruments
and a blaze of blue, hissing fire filled the room.]
THE OCEAN WIRELESS BOYS AND THE LOST LINER
BY
CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON
AUTHOR OF "THE BOY AVIATORS' SERIES," "THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS' SERIES,"
"THE OCEAN WIRELESS BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC," ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES L. WRENN
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1914
BY HURST & COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--AT SEA ONCE MORE
CHAPTER II--WIRELESS CONVERSATIONS
CHAPTER III--A STRANGE REQUEST
CHAPTER IV--A PECULIAR COINCIDENCE
CHAPTER V--THE INTERRUPTED MESSAGE
CHAPTER VI--A DARING FEAT
CHAPTER VII--QUARTERMASTER SCHULTZ VOLUNTEERS
CHAPTER VIII--SAFE ONCE MORE
CHAPTER IX--THE MIDNIGHT INTRUDER
CHAPTER X--A MESSAGE IN SECRET CODE
CHAPTER XI--WHAT SAM HEARD
CHAPTER XII--A SUDDEN ALARM
CHAPTER XIII--A DOSE OF SLEEPING POWDER
CHAPTER XIV--THE WINKING EYE
CHAPTER XV--SECRET SIGNALS AT DAWN
CHAPTER XVI--S. O. S.
CHAPTER XVII--A DERELICT OF THE SKIES
CHAPTER XVIII--A LEAP FOR A LIFE
CHAPTER XIX--A CALL IN THE NIGHT
CHAPTER XX--TO THE RESCUE
CHAPTER XXI--A TALE OF THE SEA
CHAPTER XXII--A DECOY MESSAGE
CHAPTER XXIII--FALSE FRIENDSHIP
CHAPTER XXIV--KIDNAPPED
CHAPTER XXV--SAM, A TRUE FRIEND
CHAPTER XXVI--A WICKED PLAN
CHAPTER XXVII--IN THE LION'S MOUTH
CHAPTER XXVIII--A CLIMB FOR LIFE
CHAPTER XXIX--FREEDOM ONCE MORE
CHAPTER XXX--IN SEARCH FOR A CLEW
CHAPTER XXXI--LOOK FOR A WHITE HORSE
CHAPTER XXXII--A BOLD ROBBERY
CHAPTER XXXIII--JARROLD AGAIN
CHAPTER XXXIV--BAD NEWS FOR THE COLONEL
CHAPTER XXXV--JARROLD GETS FRANTIC
CHAPTER XXXVI--ADRIFT
CHAPTER XXXVII--THE IRONY OF FATE
CHAPTER XXXVIII--A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
CHAPTER XXXIX--JACK'S RADIO
CHAPTER XL--THE ANSWER TO THE WIRELESS CALL
CHAPTER I
AT SEA ONCE MORE
The West Indian liner, _Tropic Queen_, one of the great vessels owned by
the big shipping combine at whose head was Jacob Jukes, the New York
millionaire, was plunging southward through a rolling green sea about
two hundred miles to the east of Hatteras. It was evening and the bugle
had just sounded for dinner.
The decks were, therefore, deserted; the long rows of lounging chairs
were vacant, while the passengers, many of them tourists on pleasure
bent, were below in the dining saloon appeasing the keen appetites
engendered by the brisk wind that was blowing off shore.
In a small steel structure perched high on the boat deck, between the
two funnels of the _Tropic Queen_, sat a bright-faced lad reading
intently a text-book on Wireless Telegraphy. Although not much more than
a schoolboy, he was assistant wireless man of the _Queen_. His name was
Sam Smalley, and he had obtained his position on the ship--the crack
vessel of the West Indies and Panama line--through his chum, Jack Ready,
head operator of the craft.
To readers of the first volume of this series, "The Ocean Wireless Boys
on the Atlantic," Jack Ready needs no introduction.
Here he comes into the wireless room where his assistant sits reading in
front of the gleaming instruments and great coherers. Jack has been off
watch, lying down and taking a nap in the small sleeping cabin that,
equipped with two berths, opens off the wireless room proper, thus
dividing the steel structure into two parts.
"Hello, chief," said Sam Smalley, with a laugh, as Jack appeared; "glad
you're going to give me a chance to get to dinner at last. I'm so hungry
I could eat a coherer."
"Skip along then," grinned Jack; "but it's nothing unusual for you to be
hungry. I'll hold down the job till you get through, but leave something
for me."
"I'll try to," chuckled Sam, as he hurried down the steep flight of
steps leading from the wireless station up on the boat deck to the main
saloon.
"Well, this is certainly a different berth from the one I had on the old
_Ajax_," mused Jack, as he looked about him at the well-equipped
wireless room; "still, somehow, I like to look back at those days. But
yet this is a long step ahead for me. Chief wireless operator of the
_Tropic Queen_! Lucky for me that the uncle of the fellow who held down
the job before me left him all that money. Otherwise I might have been
booked for another cruise on the _Ajax_, although Mr. Jukes promised to
give me as rapid promotion as he could."
Readers of the first volume, dealing with Jack Ready and his friends,
will recall how he lived in a queer, floating home with his uncle, Cap'n
Toby. They will also recollect that Jack, who had studied wireless day
and night, was coming home late one afternoon, despondent from a
fruitless hunt for a job, when he was enabled to save the little
daughter of Mr. Jukes from drowning. The millionaire's gratitude was
deep, and Jack could have had anything he wanted from him.
All he asked, though, was a chance to demonstrate his ability as a
wireless man on the _Ajax_, a big oil tanker which had just been
equipped with such an outfit. He got the job, and then followed many
stirring adventures. He took part in a great rescue at sea, and was able
to frustrate the schemes of some tobacco smugglers who formed part of
the crew of the "tanker." This task, however, exposed him to grave
danger and almost resulted in his death.
At sea once more, after the smugglers had been apprehended and locked
up, Jack's keen wireless sense enabled him to solve a problem in
surgery. The _Ajax_ carried no doctor, and when one of the men in the
fireroom was injured, and it appeared that a limb would have to be
amputated, a serious question confronted the captain, who, like most of
his class, possessed a little knowledge of surgery, but not enough to
perform an operation that required so much skill.
The injured man was a chum of Jack's, and he did not want to see him
lose a limb if it could be helped, or have his life imperiled by
unskillful methods. Yet what was he to do? Finally an idea struck him.
He knew that the big passenger liners all carried doctors. He raised one
by means of the wireless and explained the case. The injured man was
carried into the wireless cabin and laid close to the table. Then, while
the liner's doctor flung instructions through space, Jack translated
them to the captain. The result was that the man was soon out of danger,
but Jack kept in touch with doctors of other liners till everything was
all right beyond the shadow of a doubt.
This feat gained him no little commendation from his captain and the
owners. Next he was instrumental in saving Mr. Jukes' yacht which was on
fire at sea. In the panic Mr. Jukes' son Tom, who was the apple of the
ship-owning millionaire's eye, was lost. By means of wireless, Jack
located him and reunited father and son.
His promotion was the result, when the regular operator of the _Tropic
Queen_ went west to receive a big legacy left him. As the services of
the retiring operator's assistant had been unsatisfactory, Jack was
asked to find a successor to him. He selected an old school chum, Sam
Smalley, who had owned and operated a small station in Brooklyn and was
an expert in theory and practice. The ship had now been at sea two days,
and Sam had shown that he was quite capable of the duties of his new
job.
An old quartermaster passed the door of the wireless cabin. He poked his
head in.
"Goot efenings, Yack," he said, with easy familiarity. "How iss der
birdt cage vurking?"
This was Quartermaster Schultz's term for the tenuous aerials swung far
aloft to catch wide-flung, whispered space messages and relay them to
the operator's listening ears.
"The bird cage is all right," laughed Jack. "Dandy weather, eh?"
The old man, weather-beaten and bronzed by the storms and burning suns
of the seven seas, shook his head.
"Idt is nice now, all righdt," he said, "but you ought to see der
glass."
"The barometer? What is the matter with it?"
"Py gollys, I dink der bottom drop oudt off idt. You may have vurk
aheadt of you to-night."
"You mean that we are in for a big storm?"
"I sure do dot same. Undt ven it comes idt be a lollerpaloozitz. Take my
vurd for dat. Hark!"
The old quartermaster held up a finger.
Far above him in the aerials could be heard a sound like the moaning
bass string of a violin as the wind swept among the copper wires.
"Dot's der langwitch of Davy Chones," declared Schultz. "Idt says, 'Look
oudt. Someding didding.' I'fe heardt idt pefore, undt I know."
The old man hurried off on his way forward, and Jack emitted a long
whistle.
"My, won't there be a lot of seasick passengers aboard to-night! The
company will save money on breakfast to-morrow."
Just then Sam came back from dinner and Jack was free to go below to his
meal. He was about to relinquish the instruments when there came a
sudden call.
"To all ships within three hundred miles of Hatteras: Watch out for
storm of hurricane violence.
"Briggs, Operator Neptune Beach U. S. Wireless Service."
CHAPTER II
WIRELESS CONVERSATIONS
Sam was looking over Jack's shoulder as the young wireless chief of the
_Tropic Queen_ rapidly transcribed the message on a blank.
"Phew! Trouble on the way, eh?" he asked.
"Looks like it. But we need not worry, with a craft like this under our
feet."
But Sam looked apprehensive.
"What is the trouble? Not scared, are you?" asked Jack, who knew that,
excellent operator though he had shown himself to be, this was Sam's
first deep-sea voyage.
"N-no. Not that," hesitated Sam, "but seasickness, you know. And I ate
an awful big dinner."
"Well, don't bother about that now. Lots of fellows who have never been
to sea before don't get sick."
"I hope that will be my case," Sam replied, without much assurance in
his voice.
"Here, take this to the captain; hurry it along now," said Jack, handing
him the dispatch. "I guess he'll be interested. Wait a minute," he added
suddenly. "There's the _Tennyson_ of the Lamport & Holt line talking to
the _Dorothea_ of the United Fruit, and the battleship _Iowa_ is cutting
in. All talking weather."
It was true. From ship to ship, borne on soundless waves, the news was
being eagerly discussed.
"Big storm on the way," announced the _Tennyson_.
"We should worry," came flippantly through the ether from the
_Dorothea_.
"You little fellows better take in your sky-sails and furl your funnels;
you'll be blown about like chicken feathers in a gale of wind," came
majestically from Uncle Sam's big warship.
Then the air was filled with a clamor for more news from the Neptune
Beach operator.
"You fellows give me a pain," he flashed out, depressing and releasing
his key snappily. "I've sent out all I can. Don't you think I know my
job?"
"Let us know at once when you get anything more," came commandingly from
the battleship.
"Oh, you _Iowa_, boss of the job, aren't you?" remarked the flippant
_Dorothea_.
"M-M-M!" (laughter) in the wireless man's code came from all the others,
Jack included. The air was vibrant with silent chuckles.
"Say, you fellows, what is going on?" came a fresh voice. Oh, yes, every
wireless operator has a "voice." No two men in the world send alike.
"Hello, who are you?" snapped out Neptune Beach.
"_British King_, of the King Line, Liverpool for Philadelphia. Let us in
on this, will you? What you got?"
"Big storm. Affect all vessels within three hundred miles of Hatteras.
This is Neptune Beach."
"Thanks, old chap. Won't bother us, don't you know," came back from the
_British King_, whose operator was English. "Kind regards to you
fellows. Hope you don't get too jolly well bunged up if it hits you."
"Thanks, Johnny Bull," from the _Dorothea_. "I reckon we can stand
anything your old steam tea-kettle can."
The wireless chat ceased. Sam hastened forward to the sacred precincts
of the captain's cabin, while Jack went below to his belated dinner. As
he went he noticed that the sea was beginning to heave as the dusk
settled down, and the ship was plunging heavily. The wind, too, was
rising. The social hall was brilliantly lighted. From within came
strains of music from the ship's orchestra. Through the ports, as he
passed along to the saloon companionway, Jack could see men and women in
evening clothes, and could catch snatches of gay conversation and
laughter.
"Humph," he thought, "if you'd just heard what I have, a whole lot of
you would be getting the doctor to fix you up seasick remedies."
In the meantime Sam, cap in hand, presented the message to the captain.
The great man took it and read it attentively.
"This isn't a surprise to me," said Captain McDonald, "the glass has
been falling since mid-afternoon. Stand by your instruments, lad, and
let me know everything of importance that you catch."
"Very well, sir." Sam, who stood in great awe of the captain, touched
his cap and hastened back. He adjusted his "ear muffs," but could catch
no floating message. The air was silent. He sent a call for Neptune
Beach, but the operator there told him indignantly not to plague him
with questions.
"I'll send out anything new when I get it," he said. "Gimme a chance to
eat. I'm no weather prophet, anyhow. I only relay reports from the
government sharps, and they're wrong half the time. Crack!"
Sam could sense the big spark that crashed across the instruments at
Neptune Beach as the indignant and hungry operator there, harassed by
half a dozen ships for more news, smashed down his sending key.
CHAPTER III
A STRANGE REQUEST
When Jack came on deck again, he thought to himself that it was entirely
likely that the warning sent through space from Neptune Beach would be
verified to the full by midnight. The merriment in the saloon appeared
to be much subdued. The crowd had thinned out perceptibly and hardly
anybody was dancing.
The ship was rolling and plunging like a porpoise in great swells that
ran alongside like mountains of green water. Although it was dark by
this time, the gleam of the lights from the brilliantly illuminated
decks and saloon showed the white tops of the billows racing by.
Just as Jack passed the door leading from the social hall to the deck, a
masculine figure emerged. At the same instant, with a shuddering,
sidelong motion, the _Tropic Queen_ slid down the side of a big sea. The
man who had just come on deck lost his balance and went staggering
toward the rail. The young wireless man caught and steadied him.
In the light that streamed from the door that the man had neglected to
close, Jack saw that he was a thickset personage of about forty,
black-haired and blue-chinned, with an aggressive cast of countenance.
"What the dickens----" he began angrily, and then broke off short.
"Oh! It's you, is it? The wireless man?"
"The same," assented Jack.
"Well, this is luck. I was on my way up to your station. On the boat
deck, I believe it is. This will save me trouble."
The man's manner was patronizing and offensive. Jack felt his pride
bridling, but fought the feeling back.
"What can I do for you, Mr.--Mr.----"
"Jarrold's the name; James Jarrold of New York. Have you had any
messages from a yacht--the _Endymion_--for me?"
"Why, no, Mr. Jarrold," replied Jack wonderingly. "Is she anywhere about
these waters?"
"If she isn't, she ought to be. How late do you stay on watch?"
"Till midnight. Then my assistant relieves me till eight bells of the
morning watch."
Mr. Jarrold suddenly changed the subject as they stood at the rail on
the plunging, heaving deck. Somebody had closed the door that he had
left open in his abrupt exit, and Jack could not see his face.
"We're going to have bad weather to-night?" he asked.
"So it appears. A warning has been sent out to that effect, and the sea
is getting up every moment."
Mr. Jarrold of New York made a surprising answer to this bit of
information.
"So much the better," he half muttered. "You are, of course, on duty
every second till midnight?"
"Yes, I'm on the job till my assistant relieves me," responded the young
wireless chief of the _Tropic Queen_.
"Do you want to make some money?"
"Well, that all depends," began Jack doubtfully. "You see, I----"
He paused for words. He didn't want to offend this man Jarrold, who,
after all, was a first-cabin passenger, while he was only a wireless
operator. Yet somehow the man's manner had conveyed to Jack's mind that
there was something in his proposal that implied dishonesty to his
employers. Except vaguely, however, he could not have explained why he
felt that way. He only knew that it was so.
Jarrold appeared to read his thoughts.
"You think that I am asking you to undertake something outside your line
of duty?"
"Why, yes. I--must confess I don't quite understand."
"Then I shall try to make myself clear."
"That will be good of you."
The man's next words almost took Jack off his feet.
"When you hear from the _Endymion_, let me know at once. That is all I
ask you."
"Then you are expecting to hear from the yacht to-night?" asked Jack
wonderingly. It was an unfathomable puzzle to him that this somewhat
sinister-looking passenger should have so accurate a knowledge of the
yacht's whereabouts; providing, of course, that he was as certain as he
seemed.
"I am expecting to hear from her to-night. Should have heard before, in
fact," was the brief rejoinder.
"There are friends of yours on board?" asked Jack.
"Never mind that. If you do as I say--notify me the instant you get word
from her, you will be no loser by it."
"Very well, then," rejoined Jack. "I'll see that you get first word
after the captain."
Jarrold took a step forward and thrust his face close to the boy's.
"The captain must not know of it till I say so. That is the condition of
the reward I'll give you for obeying my instructions. When you bring me
word that the _Endymion_ is calling the _Tropic Queen_, I shall probably
have some messages to send before the captain of this ship is aroused
and blocks the wire with inquiries."
"What sort of messages?" asked Jack, his curiosity aroused to the
utmost. He was now almost sure that his first impression that Jarrold
was playing some game far beyond the young operator's ken was correct.
Jarrold tapped him on the shoulder in a familiar way.
"Let's understand each other," he said. "I know you wireless men don't
get any too big money. Well, there's big coin for you to-night if you do
what I say when the _Endymion_ calls. I want to talk to her before
anyone else has a chance. As I said, I want to send her some messages."
"And as I said, what sort of messages?" said Jack, drawing away.
"Cipher messages," was the reply, as Jarrold glanced cautiously around
over his shoulder.
The door behind them had opened and a stout, middle-aged man of military
bearing had emerged. He had a gray mustache and iron-gray hair, and wore
a loose tweed coat suitable for the night. Jack recognized him as a
Colonel Minturn, who had been pointed out to him as a celebrity the day
the ship sailed. Colonel Minturn, it was reported, was at the head of
the military branch of the government attending to the fortifications of
the Panama Canal. The colonel, with a firm stride, despite the heavy
pitching of the _Tropic Queen_, walked toward the bow, puffing at a
fragrant cigar.
When Jack turned again to look for Jarrold, he had gone.
CHAPTER IV
A PECULIAR COINCIDENCE
But the young wireless boy had no time right then to waste in
speculation over the man's strange conduct. It was his duty to relieve
Sam, who would not come on watch again till midnight.
As he mounted the steep ladder leading to the "Wireless Hutch," he could
feel the ship leaping and rolling under his feet like a live thing.
Every now and then a mighty sea would crash against the bow and shake
the stout steel fabric of the _Tropic Queen_ from stem to stern.
The wind, too, was shrieking and screaming through the rigging and up
among the aerials. Jack involuntarily glanced upward, although it was
too dark to see the antennae swaying far aloft between the masts.
"I hope to goodness they hold," he caught himself thinking, and then
recalled that, in the hurry of departure from New York, he had not had a
chance to go aloft and examine the insulation or the security of their
fastenings himself.
In the wireless room he found Sam with the "helmet" on his head. The boy
was plainly making a struggle to stick it out bravely, but his face was
pale.
"Anything come in?" asked Jack.
"Not a thing."
"Caught anything at all from any other ship?"
Sam's answer was to tug the helmet hastily from his head. He hurriedly
handed it to Jack, and then bolted out of the place without a word.
"Poor old Sam," grinned Jack, as he sat down at the instruments and
adjusted the helmet that Sam had just discarded; "he's got his, all
right, and he'll get it worse before morning."
Sam came back after a while. He was deathly pale and threw himself down
on his bunk in the inner room with a groan. He refused to let Jack send
for a steward.
"Just leave me alone," he moaned. "Oh-h, I wish I'd stayed home in
Brooklyn! Do you think I'm going to die, Jack?"
"Not this trip, son," laughed Jack. "Why, to-morrow you will feel like a
two-year-old."
"Yes, I will--not," sputtered the invalid. "Gracious, I wish the ship
would sink!"
After a while Sam sank into a sort of doze, and Jack, helmet on head and
book in hand, sat at the instruments, keeping his vigil through the long
night hours, while the storm shrieked and rioted about the ship.
The boy had been through too much rough weather on the _Ajax_ to pay
much attention to the storm. But as it increased in violence, it
attracted even his attention. Every now and then a big sea would hit the
ship with a thundering buffet that sent the spray flying as high as the
loftily perched wireless station.
The wind, too, was blowing as if it meant to blow the ship out of the
water. Every now and then there would come a lambent flash of lightning.
"It's a Hatteras hummer for sure," mused the boy.
The night wore on till the clock hands above the instruments pointed to
twelve.
Above the | 920.148421 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE NEW BOOK OF NONSENSE
By Anonymous
Contribution to the Great Central Fair
In Aid of the Sanitary Commission
Asmead and Evans
1864
[Illustration: 0001]
A dandy came on from New York,
As pompous and stiff as a stork,
When he said, "if you dont know how to get up a show,"
They just raffled a dandy from York.
[Illustration: 0002]
There lived and Old Maid in the city of Trenton, who to marry a youth,
all her faculties bent on,
She essay'd every art, to inveigle the heart of every young Dandy in Trenton.
[Illustration: 0003]
There was an old King of Dahomey,
Whose realm was more sterile than loamy;
So he bagged little "<DW65>s"
Which he sold at high Jiggers,
To the Yankees who trade at Dahomey.
[Illustration: 0004]
There was a young person of Boston,
And the vaguest of doubts she was tossed on.
Of effect and of cause
She discoursed without pause:
Remarkable person of Boston!
[Illustration: 0005]
There was a young lady who said
"I seldom wear hair on my head;
I carry my locks about in a box,
For such is the fashion" she said.
[Illustration: 0006]
There was ol young lass of Kentucky,
Who tho' little was loyal and plucky:
When her spark turned secesh
Though dear as her flesh.
She drummed him herself from Kentucky.
[Illustration: 0007]
There was a young lady of Cork,
Who partook of her soup with a fork,
"If I eat it like that
I shall never get fat!"
Said this clever young lady of Cork.
[Illustration: 0008]
There was a young lady of Georgia,
Who always admired Lou Borgia,
So she punished her slaves
And danced over their graves,
And was publicly thanked throughout Georgia.
[Illustration: 0009]
There was an old man of the plains,
Who said, "I believe that it rains
So he buttoned his coat, and got into a boat
To wait for a flood on the plains.
[Illustration: 0010]
There was a young Croesus said, "I
Will, whatever you offer me buy"
When a thousand he'd spent, to his banker he went,
And came back with a large supply.
[Illustration: 0011]
There was a young girl who wore bows
Who said, 'if you choose to suppose
This hair is all mine
You are wrong I opine,
And you can't see the length of your nose."
[Illustration: 0012]
There was a young Lady of Lynn,
Who was nothing but bones except skin
So she Wore a false bust,
For says she "well I must,"
This degraded young creature of Lynn.
[Illustration: 0013]
A fine noble fellow is "Bull,"
Of courage and energy full;
But easily led
By a slight cotton thread,
So gentle and mild is our Bull.
[Illustration: 0014]
There was a dear lady of Eden,
Who on apples was quite, fond of feedin,
So she gave one to Adam,
Who said, "thank you madam."
And so they both skedaddled from Eden.
[Illustration: 0015]
There was an old miser who said, "why
Do you still importune me to buy?"
Because its so funny to handle your money,
That's why we importune you to buy.
[Illustration: 0016]
There was a young female of Zab,
Who was cursed, with the gift of gab,
With her husband she wrangled,
And he had her strangled
By the conjugal custom of Zab.
[Illustration: 0017]
There was an odd man of Woonsocket, who carried bomb-shells in his pocket;
Endeavoring to cough one day-they went off, and of course, up he went like a rocket.
[Illustration: 0018]
There was a young girl of Quebec,
Who dressed very low in the neck,
Her friends said, "that's not decent,"
"Oh! the fashion's quite recent
Said this vulgar young girl of Quebec.
[Illustration: 0019]
An innocent stranger asked, "where
Is the funiest place in the fair."
"Where the Nonsense Book lies" the committee replied,
Is the funniest place in the Fair.
[Illustration: 0020]
There once was a small girl of Chilka, who ran at a cow and would milk her;
But it kicked up its heels and said, "see how it feels!
You meddlesome Matty of Chilka.
[Illustration: 0021]
There was a young man of Calcutta, who eat at his meals too much butter;
Till a very kind niece boiled him down into grease:
Which dissolved this young man of Calcutta.
[Illustration: 0022]
There was an old lady of Norfolk, who always was saying before folk,
I to a mean yankee will never say "thankee," this civil old lady of Norfolk.
[Illustration: 0023]
There was a young person in Maine, who, although undeniably plain,
Was possessed of such "chic," that before she could speak, "she did for"
the "male sect in Maine.
[Illustration: 0024]
There was a young man of Lancaster, who walked ever faster and faster,
Till though he began by 'walking, he ran and galloped all over Lancaster.
[Illustration: 0025]
There was an old party in Rome,
Who kept a house in a very fine dome,
With a spavined old bull
That no longer could pull
The coach of this party in Rome.
[Illustration: 0026]
There was a young man with a rose, who said to his girl, "I suppose
This gift is as pretty as my love she is witty-"
So she courtesied, and forthwith arose.
[Illustration: 0027]
There came a young lady, from Hayti, whose complexion was rather too slaty
Whose hair was too curled, and yet the gay world, paid court to this lady from Hayti.
[Illustration: 0028]
There once were five women of Wells, who thought themselves terrible belles;
They never could wald, but the people would talk,
And dilate on these beauties of Wells.
[Illustration: 0029]
There was an old lady of Venezuela,
So ill that no physician could heal her,
She called her kind "nuss"
"A sleepy old cuss,"
This morbid old lady of Venezuela.
[Illustration: 0030]
There was an old man and his wife, who lived in the bitterest strife;
He opened the stove, and pushed her in with a shove,
And cried, "there! you pest of my life."
[Illustration: 0031]
There was a young student at Yale, Who became thin, abstracted and pale;
His friends said it was drinking, He declared it was thinking,
But one can't believe students at Yale.
[Illustration: 0032]
There was a young woman of Zug, who said "do I see a huge bug?
With my heel will I try to make this thing die,
Which might sting all my kinsman of Zug."
[Illustration: 0033]
There was a fine lady of Metz, continually surrounded by pets:
Two cats very small, and three dogs rather tall,
With which she would walk about Metz.
[Illustration: 0034]
There was an old man of the Niger, who was sav | 920.148509 |
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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 FRED PEGRAM
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY THE PEARSON PUBLISHING COMPANY.
_Copyright, 1907,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published January, 1909.
Fourth Printing
[ Illustration: "DO YOU MIND EXPLAINING YOURSELF?" SHE ASKED.
[Page 23.] FRONTISPIECE.]
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER PAGE
I MISTRESS AND AGENT 1
II THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY 13
III FIRST BLOOD 22
IV BEATING HER WINGS 32
V EVICTED 41
VI CRICKET AND PHILOSOPHY 52
VII AN UNDERNOTE OF MUSIC 61
VIII ROSES 70
IX SUMMER LIGHTNING 78
X THE STILL FIGURE IN THE CHAIR 85
XI THE BAYING OF THE HOUNDS 93
XII RETREAT 100
XIII A CREATURE OF IMPULSE 105
XIV SEARCHING THE PAPERS 114
XV ON THE SPREE 121
XVI THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 129
XVII THE VICTIMS OF SOCIETY 138
XVIII LETTY'S DILEMMA 147
XIX A REPORT FROM PARIS 155
XX LIKE A TRAPPED ANIMAL 162
BOOK II
CHAPTER PAGE
I RATHER A GHASTLY PART 172
II PLAYING WITH FIRE 180
III MONSIEUR S'AMUSE 188
IV AT THE "DEAD RAT" 196
V THE AWAKENING 204
VI THE ECHO OF A CRIME 210
VII A COUNTRY WALK 218
VIII THE MISSING LETTY 227
IX FOILED! 235
X MYSTERIES IN MAYFAIR 244
XI THE WAY OF SALVATION 253
XII JEAN LE ROI 262
XIII THE KING OF THE APACHES 271
XIV BEHIND THE PALM TREES 281
XV THE ONLY WAY 289
XVI MAN TO MAN 296
XVII LORD AND LADY BOUNTIFUL 304
THE MISSIONER
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
MISTRESS AND AGENT
The lady of Thorpe was bored. These details as to leases and repairs
were wearisome. The phrases and verbiage confused her. She felt obliged
to take them in some measure for granted; to accept without question the
calmly offered advice of the man who stood so respectfully at the right
hand of her chair.
"This agreement with Philip Crooks," he remarked, "is a somewhat
important document. With your permission, madam, I will read it to you."
She signified her assent, and leaned wearily back in her chair. The
agent began to read. His mistress watched him through half closed eyes.
His voice, notwithstanding its strong country dialect, had a sort of
sing-song intonation. He read earnestly and without removing his eyes
from the document. His listener made no attempt to arrive at the sense
of the string of words which flowed so monotonously from his lips. She
was occupied in making a study of the man. Sturdy and weather-beaten,
neatly dressed in country clothes, with a somewhat old-fashioned stock,
with trim grey side-whiskers, and a mouth which reminded her somehow of
a well-bred foxhound's, he represented to her, in his clearly cut
personality, the changeless side of life, the side of life which she
associated with the mighty oaks in her park, and the prehistoric rocks
which had become engrafted with the soil of the hills beyond. As she saw
him now, so had he seemed to her fifteen years ago. Only what a
difference! A volume to her--a paragraph to him! She had gone out into
the world--rich, intellectually inquisitive, possessing most of the
subtler gifts with which her sex is endowed; and wherever the passionate
current of life had flown the swiftest, she had been there, a leader
always, seeking ever to satisfy the unquenchable thirst for new
experiences and new joys. She had passed from girlhood to womanhood with
every nerve of her body strained to catch the emotion of the moment.
Always her fingers had been tearing at the cells of life--and one by one
they had fallen away. This morning, in the bright sunshine which flooded
the great room, she felt somehow tired--tired and withered. Her maid was
a fool! The two hours spent at her toilette had been wasted! She felt
that her eyes were hollow, her cheeks pale! Fifteen years, and the man
had not changed a jot. She doubted whether he had ever passed the
confines of her estate. She doubted whether he had even had the desire.
Wind and sun had tanned his cheeks, his eyes were clear, his slight
stoop was the stoop of the horseman rather than of age. He had the air
of a man satisfied with life and his place in it--an attitude which
puzzled her. No one of her world was like that! Was it some inborn gift,
she wondered, which he possessed, some antidote to the world's
restlessness which he carried with him, or was it merely lack of
intelligence?
He finished reading and folded up the pages, to find her regarding him
still with that air of careful attention with which she had listened to
his monotonous flow of words. He found her interest surprising. It did
not occur to him to invest it with any personal element.
"The agreement upon the whole," he remarked, "is, I believe, a fair one.
You are perhaps thinking that those clauses----"
"If the agreement is satisfactory to you," she interrupted, "I will
confirm it."
He bowed slightly and glanced through the pile of papers upon the table.
"I do not think that there is anything else with which I need trouble
you, madam," he remarked.
She nodded imperiously.
"Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hurd," she said.
If he felt any surprise, he did not show it. He drew one of the
high-backed chairs away from the table, and with that slight air of
deliberation which characterized all his movements, seated himself. He
was in no way disquieted to find her dark, tired eyes still studying
him.
"How old are you, Mr. Hurd?" she asked.
"I am sixty-three, madam," he answered.
Her eyebrows were gently raised. To her it seemed incredible. She
thought of the men of sixty-three or thereabouts whom she knew, and her
lips parted in one of those faint, rare smiles of genuine amusement,
which smoothed out all the lines of her tired face. Visions of the
promenade at Marienbad and Carlsbad, the Kursaal at Homburg, floated
before her. She saw them all, the men whom she knew, with the story of
their lives written so plainly in their faces, babbling of nerves and
tonics and cures, the newest physician, the latest fad. Defaulters all
of them, unwilling to pay the great debt--seeking always a way out!
Here, at least, this man scored!
"You enjoy good health?" she remarked.
"I never have anything the matter with me," he answered simply. "I
suppose," he added, as though by an afterthought, "the life is a healthy
one."
"You find it--satisfying?" she asked.
He seemed puzzled.
"I have never attempted anything else," he answered. "It seems to be
what I am suited for."
She attempted to abandon the _role_ of questioner--to give a more
natural turn to the conversation.
"It is always," she remarked, "such a relief to get down into the
country at the end of the season. I wonder I don't spend more time here.
I daresay one could amuse oneself?" she added carelessly.
Mr. Hurd considered for a few moments.
"There are croquet and archery and tennis in the neighbourhood," he
remarked. "The golf course on the Park hills is supposed to be
excellent. A great many people come over to play."
She affected to be considering the question seriously. An intimate
friend would not have been deceived by her air of attention. Mr. Hurd
knew nothing of this. He, on his part, however, was capable of a little
gentle irony.
"It might amuse you," he remarked, "to make a tour of your estate. There
are some of the outlying portions which I think that I should have the
honour of showing you for the first time."
"I might find that interesting," she admitted. "By the bye, Mr. Hurd,
what sort of a landlord am I? Am I easy, or do I exact my last pound of
flesh? One likes to know these things."
"It depends upon the tenant," the agent answered. "There is not one of
your farms upon which, if a man works, he cannot make a living. On the
other hand, there is not one of them on which a man can make a living
unless he works. It is upon this principle that your rents have been
adjusted. The tenants of the home lands have been most carefully chosen,
and Thorpe itself is spoken of everywhere as a model village."
"It is very charming to look at," its mistress admitted. "The flowers
and thatched roofs are so picturesque. 'Quite a pastoral idyll,' my
guests tell me. The people one sees about seem contented and respectful,
too."
"They should be, madam," Mr. Hurd answered drily. "The villagers have
had a good many privileges from your family for generations."
The lady inclined her head thoughtfully.
"You think, then," she remarked, "that if anything should happen in
England, like the French Revolution, I should not find unexpected
thoughts and discontent smouldering amongst them? You believe that they
are really contented?"
Mr. Hurd knew nothing about revolutions, and he was utterly unable to
follow the trend of her thoughts.
"If they were not, madam," he declared, "they would deserve to be in the
workhouse--and I should | 920.156891 |
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Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger
LORD ORMONT AND HIS AMINTA, COMPLETE
By George Meredith
CONTENTS.
BOOK 1.
I. LOVE AT A SCHOOL
II. LADY CHARLOTTE
III. THE TUTOR
IV. RECOGNITION
V. IN WHICH THE SHADES OF BROWNY AND MATEY ADVANCE AND RETIRE
BOOK 2.
VI. IN A MOOD OF LANGUOR
VII. EXHIBITS EFFECTS OF A PRATTLER'S DOSES
VIII. MRS. LAWRENCE FINCHLEY
IX. A FLASH OF THE BRUISED WARRIOR
X. A SHORT PASSAGE IN THE GAME PLAYED BY TWO
XI. THE SECRETARY TAKEN AS AN ANTIDOTE
BOOK 3.
XII. MORE OF CUPER'S BOYS
XIII. WAR AT OLMER
XIV. OLD LOVERS NEW FRIENDS
XV. SHOWING A SECRET FISHED WITHOUT ANGLING
XVI. ALONG TWO ROADS TO STEIGNTON
BOOK 4.
XVII. LADY CHARLOTTE'S TRIUMPH
XVIII. A SCENE ON THE ROAD BACK
XIX. THE PURSUERS
XX. AT THE SIGN OF THE JOLLY CRICKETERS
XXI. UNDER-CURRENTS IN THE MINDS OF LADY CHARLOTTE AND LORD ORMONT
XXII. TREATS OF THE FIRST DAY OF THE CONTENTION OF BROTHER AND SISTER
XXIII. THE ORMONT JEWELS
BOOK 5.
XXIV. LOVERS MATED
XXXV. PREPARATIONS FOR A RESOLVE
XXVI. VISITS OF FAREWELL
XXVII. A MARINE DUET
XXVIII. THE PLIGHTING
XXIX. AMINTA TO HER LORD
XXX. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I. LOVE AT A SCHOOL
A procession of schoolboys having to meet a procession of schoolgirls on
the Sunday's dead march, called a walk, round the park, could hardly go
by without dropping to a hum in its chatter, and the shot of incurious
half-eyes the petticoated creatures--all so much of a swarm unless you
stare at them like lanterns. The boys cast glance because it relieved
their heaviness; things were lumpish and gloomy that day of the week.
The girls, who sped their peep of inquisition before the moment of
transit, let it be seen that they had minds occupied with thoughts of
their own.
Our gallant fellows forgot the intrusion of the foreign as soon as it
had passed. A sarcastic discharge was jerked by chance at the usher and
the governess--at the old game, it seemed; or why did they keep
steering columns to meet? There was no fun in meeting; it would never be
happening every other Sunday, and oftener, by sheer toss-penny accident.
They were moved like pieces for the pleasure of these two.
Sometimes the meeting occurred twice during the stupid march-out, when
it became so nearly vexatious to boys almost biliously oppressed by the
tedium of a day merely allowing them to shove the legs along, ironically
naming it animal excise, that some among them pronounced the sham
variation of monotony to be a bothering nuisance if it was going to
happen every Sunday, though Sunday required diversions. They hated
the absurdity in this meeting and meeting; for they were obliged to
anticipate it, as a part of their ignominious weekly performance; and
they could not avoid reflecting on it, as a thing done over again: it
had them in front and in rear; and it was a kind of broadside mirror,
flashing at them the exact opposite of themselves in an identically
similar situation, that forced a resemblance.
Touching the old game, Cuper's fold was a healthy school, owing to the
good lead of the head boy, Matey Weyburn, a lad with a heart for games
to bring renown, and no thought about girls. His emulation, the fellows
fancied, was for getting the school into a journal of the Sports. He
used to read one sent him by a sporting officer of his name, and talk
enviously of public schools, printed whatever they did--a privilege and
dignity of which, they had unrivalled enjoyment in the past, days, when
wealth was more jealously exclusive; and he was always prompting for
challenges and saving up to pay expenses; and the fellows were to laugh
at kicks and learn the art of self-defence--train to rejoice in whipcord
muscles. The son of a tradesman, if a boy fell under the imputation, was
worthy of honour with him, let the fellow but show grip and toughness.
He loathed a skulker, and his face was known for any boy who would
own to fatigue or confess himself beaten. "Go to bed," was one of his
terrible stings. Matey was good at lessons, too--liked them; liked Latin
and Greek; would help a poor stumbler.
Where he did such good work was in sharpening the fellows to excel.
He kept them to the grindstone, so that they had no time for rusty
brooding; and it was fit done by exhortations off a pedestal, like St.
Paul at the Athenians, it breathed out of him every day of the week. He
carried a light for followers. Whatever he demanded of them, he himself
did it easily. He would say to boys, "You're going to be men," meaning
something better than women. There was a notion that Matey despised
girls. Consequently, never much esteemed, they were in disfavour. The
old game was mentioned only because of a tradition of an usher and
governess leering sick eyes until they slunk away round a corner and
married, and set up a school for themselves--an emasculate ending.
Comment on it came of a design to show that the whole game had been
examined dismissed as uninteresting and profitless.
One of the boys alluded in Matey's presence to their general view upon
the part played by womankind on the stage, confident of a backing; and
he had it, in a way: their noble chief whisked the subject, as not worth
a discussion; but he turned to a younger chap, who said he detested
girls, and asked him how about a sister at home; and the youngster
, and Matey took him and spun him round, with a friendly tap on
the shoulder.
Odd remarks at intervals caused it to be suspected that he had ideas
concerning girls. They were high as his head above the school; and there
they were left, with Algebra and Homer, for they were not of a sort to
inflame; until the boys noticed how he gave up speaking, and fell to
hard looking, though she was dark enough to get herself named Browny.
In the absence of a fair girl of equal height to set beside her, Browny
shone.
She had a nice mouth, ready for a smile at the corners, or so it was
before Matey let her see that she was his mark. Now she kept her mouth
asleep and her eyes half down, up to the moment of her nearing to pass,
when the girl opened on him, as if lifting her eyelids from sleep to the
window, a full side--look, like a throb, and no disguise--no slyness
or boldness either, not a bit of languishing. You might think her heart
came quietly out.
The look was like the fall of light on the hills from the first
of morning. It lasted half a minute, and left a ruffle for a good | 920.184688 |
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Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
(http://www.pgdpcanada.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 29380-h.htm or 29380-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29380/29380-h/29380-h.htm)
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29380/29380-h.zip)
THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY
by
MRS. MOLESWORTH
Author of 'Carrots,' 'Us,' Etc.
'I have a boy of five years old:
His face is fair and fresh to see.'
WORDSWORTH
Illustrated by Walter Crane
[Illustration: There was Baby, seated on the grass, one arm fondly
clasping Minet's neck, while with the other he firmly held the famous
money-box.--P. 138.]
London
Macmillan and Co.
and New York
1895
First printed (4to) 1881
Reprinted (Globe 8vo) 1886, 1887, 1890, 1892, 1895
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
FOUR YEARS OLD 1
CHAPTER II.
INSIDE A TRUNK 20
CHAPTER III.
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY 41
CHAPTER IV.
GOING AWAY 60
CHAPTER V.
BY LAND AND SEA 81
CHAPTER VI.
AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE 101
CHAPTER VII.
BABY'S SECRET 125
CHAPTER VIII.
FOUND 145
CHAPTER IX.
"EAST OR WEST, HAME IS BEST" 163
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"OH LOOK, LOOK, BABY'S MADE PEEPY-SNOOZLE INTO
'THE PARSON IN THE PULPIT THAT COULDN'T SAY HIS
PRAYERS,'" CRIED DENNY 6
HE SAT WITH ONE ARM PROPPED ON THE TABLE, AND HIS
ROUND HEAD LEANING ON HIS HAND, WHILE THE OTHER
HELD THE PIECE OF BREAD AND BUTTER--BUTTER DOWNWARDS,
OF COURSE 16
THERE WAS ONE TRUNK WHICH TOOK MY FANCY MORE
THAN ALL THE OTHERS 30
FOR A MINUTE OR TWO BABY COULD NOT MAKE OUT WHAT
HAD HAPPENED 50
"ZOU WILL P'OMISE, BETSY, P'OMISE CERTAIN SURE,
NEBBER TO FORGET" 61
POOR LITTLE BOYS, FOR, AFTER ALL, FRITZ HIMSELF
WASN'T VERY BIG! THEY STOOD TOGETHER HAND IN
HAND ON THE STATION PLATFORM, LOOKING, AND
FEELING, RATHER DESOLATE 84
"ARE THAT JOGRAPHY?" HE SAID 94
"OH AUNTIE," HE SAID, "P'EASE 'TOP ONE MINUTE.
HIM SEES SHINY GLASS JUGS LIKE DEAR LITTLE
MOTHER'S. OH, DO 'TOP" 106
BABY VENTURED TO PEEP ROUND. THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED
WHITE-CAPPED MAN CAME TOWARDS THEM SMILING 121
THERE WAS BABY, SEATED ON THE GRASS, ONE ARM
FONDLY CLASPING MINET'S NECK, WHILE WITH THE
OTHER HE FIRMLY HELD THE FAMOUS MONEY-BOX 138
AUNTIE STOOD STILL A MOMENT TO LISTEN 155
FORGETTING ALL ABOUT EVERYTHING, EXCEPT THAT HER
BABY WAS FOUND, UP JUMPED MOTHER 170
THE ADVENTURES OF HERR BABY
CHAPTER I.
FOUR YEARS OLD
"I was four yesterday; when I'm quite old
I'll have a cricket-ball made of pure gold;
I'll never stand up to show that I'm grown;
I'll go at liberty upstairs or down."
He trotted upstairs. Perhaps trotting is not quite the right word, but I
can't find a better. It wasn't at all like a horse or pony trotting, for
he went one foot at a time, | 920.336486 |
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Transcribed from the 1914 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email
[email protected]
TORD OF HAFSBOROUGH
AND OTHER BALLADS
BY
GEORGE BORROW
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
1914
_Copyright in the United States of America_
_by Houghton_, _Mifflin and Co. for Clement Shorter_.
TORD OF HAFSBOROUGH
It was Tord of Hafsborough,
O'er the verdant wold would ride,
And there he lost his hammer of gold,
'Twas lost for so long a tide.
It was Tord of Hafsborough,
His brother he addressed:
"Thou shalt away to the Norland hills,
My hammer be thy quest."
It was Lokke Leyemand,
A feather robe o'er him drew;
And away to the Norland mountains high
O'er the briny sea he flew.
In the midst of the castle yard
He smoothed his array;
Then straight he took to the castle hall,
To the carlish Count his way.
"Be welcome, Lokke Leyemand,
Be welcome my castle to;
Say! how fare things in Hafsborough?
With the land how does it go?"
"O, well fare things in Hafsborough,
And well in the country all;
Tord has his golden hammer lost,
Therefore seek I your hall."
"Tord he shall not his hammer get,
Thou back may'st carry him word;
Full five-and-ninety fathoms deep
It lies in the earth interred.
"Tord he shall not his hammer get,
To thee I vow and swear,
Save he give me Damsel Fridleifsborg,
With all his goods and gear."
It was Lokke Leyemand,
O'er himself the feather robe drew;
And with his answer back amain
O'er the briny sea he flew.
"Thou never wilt get thy hammer of gold,
Upon that thou may'st rely,
Unless he have Damsel Fridleifsborg,
And all our property."
Then answered straight the proud Damsel,
Upon the bench as she sate:
"Ye'd better give me a Christian man,
Than the laidly trold for mate.
"But we will take our old father,
And deck so fine his head,
And we'll carry him to the Northern hills,
To stand for bride in my stead."
And now to the house of the merry bridegroom
They the young old bride convey;
Upon her dress no gold was spared,
For a verity I say.
And so they took the lovely bride,
On the bride-bench placed her frame;
And to skink before the bride himself
The carlish Count he came.
Then she ate six oxen bodies,
And three fat swine beside;
Loaves seven hundred were her meal,
Ere for a draught she cried.
Before her thirst she could assuage
She drank ten casks of ale;
She set the can once more to her mouth
And to hickuping then she fell.
The carlish Count strode up and down,
And wrung his hands so sore:
"O whence can this young bride be come?
She does so much devour!"
The Count he called to his Botelere:
"Thou hadst better broach away,
For we have here such a wondrous bride,
She'll drink for ever and aye."
Answered then Lokke Leyemand,
'Neath his sleeve he laughed with glee:
"For full eight days she has not ate.
She longed so much for thee."
Outspake the laidly carlish Count,
And thus the Count did cry:
"O, call ye in my serving swains,
Bid them come instantly.
"Go, fetch me hither the hammer of gold,
Glad I'll surrender it;
If I can either in honour or shame,
Of such a young bride be quit."
The Kempions eight in number were,
Who the hammer brought on a tree;
They laid it down so courteously
Across the young bride's knee.
It was then the youthful bride
Took up the hammer big;
I tell to ye for a verity
She swung it like a twig.
First she slew the carlish count,
That throld both laid and tall;
And then as they strove to'scape through the door,
She slew the little trolds all.
The guests and the Norland men each one
So downcast were of mood;
Blows from the hand of the bride they got
That robbed their cheeks of blood.
It was Lokke Leyemand,
He opened his mouth in game:
"Now we will fare to our country home,
And our sire a widow proclaim."
FROM THE ARABIC
O thou who fain would'st wisdom gain,
Live night and day untired;
For by repeated toil and pain
It is alone acquired.
THORVALD
_Svend Tveskjeg havde sig en Maud_
Swayne Tveskieg did a man possess,
Sir Thorvald hight;
Though fierce in war, kind acts in peace
Were his delight.
From port to port his vessels fast
Sailed wide around,
And made, where'er they anchor cast,
His name renown'd.
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
Prisoners he bought--clothes, liberty,
On them bestowed,
And sent men home from slavery
To their abode.
And many an old man got his boy,
His age's stay;
And many a maid her youth's sole joy,
Her lover gay.
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
A brave fight Thorvald loved full dear,
For brave his mood;
But never did he dip his spear
In feeble blood.
He followed Swayne to many a fray
With war-shield bright,
And his mere presence scar'd away
Foul deeds of might.
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
They hoist sail on the lofty mast,
It was King Swayne,
He o'er the bluey billows pass'd
With armed train.
His mind to harry Bretland {13a} boiled;
He leapt on shore
And every, every thing recoiled
His might before.
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
Yet slept not Bretland's chieftain good;
He speedily
Collected a host in the dark wood
Of cavalry.
And evil through that subtle plan
Befell the Dane;
They were ta'en prisoners every man,
And last King Swayne.
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
"Now hear thou prison-foogd! {13b} and pray
My message heed;
Unto the castle take thy way,
Thence Thorvald lead!
Prison and chains become him not,
Whose gallant hand
So many a handsome lad has brought
From slavery's band."
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
The man brought this intelligence
To the bower's door,
But Thorvald, with loud vehemence,
"I'll not go," swore.
"What--go, and leave my sovereign here,
In durance sore?
No! Thorvald then ne'er worthy were
To lift shield more."
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
What cannot noble souls effect?
Both freedom gain
Through Thorvald's prayer, and the respect
His deeds obtain.
And from that hour unto his grave,
Swayne ever show'd
Towards his youth's friend, so true and brave,
Fit gratitude.
_But Thorvald has freed his King_.
Swayne Tveskieg sat with kings one tide,
O'er mead and beer,
The cushion soft he stroaked and cried,
"Sit, Thorvald, here.
Thy father ne'er rul'd land like me
And my compeers!
But yarl and nobleman is he
Whose fame thine nears.
_For Thorvald has freed his King_."
PETER COLBIORNSEN
'Fore Fredereksteen King Carl he lay
With mighty host;
But Frederekshal from day to day,
Much trouble cost.
To seize the sword each citizen
His tools let fall,
And valiant Peter Colbiornsen
Was first of all.
_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.
'Gainst Frederekshal so fierce and grim
Turned Carl his might,
The citizens encountered him
In numbers slight,
But ah, they fought like Northern men,
For much loved land,
And it was Peter Colbiornsen
That led the band.
_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.
Such heavy blows the Norsemen deal
Amid the foe,
Like ripe corn 'fore the reaper's steel
The Swedes sink low.
But sturdiest reaper weary will,
So happ'd it here;
Though many the Norwegians kill,
More, more appear.
_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.
Before superior force they flew,
As Norsemen fly,
They but retired, the fight anew
Unawed to ply.
Now o'er the bodies of his slain
His way Carl makes;
He thinks he has the city ta'en,
But he mistakes.
_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.
A speedy death his soldiers found
Where'er they came;
For Norse were posted all around,
And greeted them;
Then Carl he sent, but sorely vext,
To Fredereksteen,
And begg'd that he might bury next
His slaughtered men.
_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.
"No time, no time to squander e'er
Have Norsemen bold,
He came self-bidden'mongst us here,"
Thus Carl was told;
"If we can drive him back agen,
We now must try!"
And it was Peter Colbiornsen
Made that reply.
_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.
Lo! from the town the flames outburst,
High-minded men!
And he who fired his house the first
Was Colbiornsen.
Eager to quench the fire, the foes
Make quick resort,
But bullets fell as fast as snows
Down from the fort.
_Thus for Norroway fight | 920.435492 |
2023-11-16 18:32:24.4376050 | 2,687 | 23 |
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) dP stands for the partial-derivative symbol, or curled 'd'.
(6) [oo] stands for the infinity symbol, and [int] for the integral
symbol.
(7) The following typographical errors have been corrected:
ARTICLE EKATERINOSLAV: "Nearly 40,000 persons find occupation in
factories, the most important being iron-works and agricultural
machinery works, though there are also tobacco... " 'important'
amended from 'imporant'.
ARTICLE ELASTICITY: "The limits of perfect elasticity as regards
change of shape, on the other hand, are very low, if they exist at
all, for glasses and other hard, brittle solids; but a class of
metals including copper, brass, steel, and platinum are very
perfectly elastic as regards distortion, provided that the
distortion is not too great." Missing 'and' after'steel'.
ARTICLE ELASTICITY: "The parts of the radii vectors within the
sphere..."'vectors' amended from'vectores'.
ARTICLE ELBE: "Its total length is 725 m., of which 190 are in
Bohemia, 77 in the kingdom of Saxony, and 350 in Prussia, the
remaining 108 being in Hamburg and other states of Germany." 'Its'
amended from 'it'.
ARTICLE ELBE: "Finally, in 1870, 1,000,000 thalers were paid to
Mecklenburg and 85,000 thalers to Anhalt, which thereupon abandoned
all claims to levy tolls upon the Elbe shipping, and thus
navigation on the river became at last entirely free. 'Anhalt'
amended from 'Anhal'.
ARTICLE ELBE: "... after driving back at Lobositz the Austrian
forces which were hastening to their assistance; but only nine
months later he lost his reputation for "invincibility" by his
crushing defeat at Kolin..." 'assistance' amended from
'asistance'.
ARTICLE ELECTRICITY: "De la Rive reviews the subject in his large
Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism, vol. ii. ch. iii. The writer
made a contribution to the discussion in 1874..." 'Magnetism'
amended from 'Magnestism'.
ARTICLE ELECTRICITY SUPPLY: "... or by means of overhead wires
within restricted areas, but the limitations proved uneconomical
and the installations were for the most part merged into larger
undertakings sanctioned by parliamentary powers." 'limitations'
amended from 'limitatons'.
ARTICLE ELECTROKINETICS: "A vector can most conveniently be
represented by a symbol such as a + ib, where a stands for any
length of a units measured horizontally and b for a length b units
measured vertically, and the symbol i is a sign of perpendicularity
..."'symbol' amended from'smybol'.
ARTICLE ELECTROSCOPE: "The collapse of the gold-leaf is observed
through an aperture in the case by a microscope, and the time taken
by the gold-leaf to fall over a certain distance is proportional to
the ionizing current, that is, to the intensity of the
radioactivity of the substance.'microscope' amended from
'miscroscope'.
ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
A DICTIONARY OF ARTS, SCIENCES, LITERATURE
AND GENERAL INFORMATION
ELEVENTH EDITION
VOLUME IX, SLICE II
Ehud to Electroscope
ARTICLES IN THIS SLICE:
EHUD ELBERFELD
EIBENSTOCK ELBEUF
EICHBERG, JULIUS ELBING
EICHENDORFF, JOSEPH, FREIHERR VON ELBOW
EICHHORN, JOHANN GOTTFRIED ELBURZ
EICHHORN, KARL FRIEDRICH ELCHE
EICHSTATT ELCHINGEN
EICHWALD, KARL EDUARD VON ELDAD BEN MAHLI
EIDER (river of Prussia) ELDER (ruler or officer)
EIDER (duck) ELDER (shrubs and trees)
EIFEL ELDON, JOHN SCOTT
EIFFEL TOWER EL DORADO
EILDON HILLS ELDUAYEN, JOSE DE
EILENBURG ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE
EINBECK ELEATIC SCHOOL
EINDHOVEN ELECAMPANE
EINHARD ELECTION (politics)
EINHORN, DAVID ELECTION (English law choice)
EINSIEDELN ELECTORAL COMMISSION
EISENACH ELECTORS
EISENBERG ELECTRA
EISENERZ ELECTRICAL MACHINE
EISLEBEN ELECTRIC EEL
EISTEDDFOD ELECTRICITY
EJECTMENT ELECTRICITY SUPPLY
EKATERINBURG ELECTRIC WAVES
EKATERINODAR ELECTROCHEMISTRY
EKATERINOSLAV (Russian government) ELECTROCUTION
EKATERINOSLAV (Russian town) ELECTROKINETICS
EKHOF, KONRAD ELECTROLIER
EKRON ELECTROLYSIS
ELABUGA ELECTROMAGNETISM
ELAM ELECTROMETALLURGY
ELAND ELECTROMETER
ELASTICITY ELECTRON
ELATERITE ELECTROPHORUS
ELATERIUM ELECTROPLATING
ELBA ELECTROSCOPE
ELBE
EHUD, in the Bible, a "judge" who delivered Israel from the Moabites
(Judg. iii. 12-30). He was sent from Ephraim to bear tribute to Eglon
king of Moab, who had crossed over the Jordan and seized the district
around Jericho. Being, like the Benjamites, left-handed (cf. xx. 16), he
was able to conceal a dagger and strike down the king before his
intentions were suspected. He locked Eglon in his chamber and escaped.
The men from Mt Ephraim collected under his leadership and by seizing
the fords of the Jordan were able to cut off the Moabites. He is called
the son of Gera a Benjamite, but since both Ehud and Gera are tribal
names (2 Sam. xvi. 5, 1 Chron. viii. 3, 5 sq.) it has been thought that
this notice is not genuine. The tribe of Benjamin rarely appears in the
old history of the Hebrews before the time of Saul. See further
BENJAMIN; JUDGES.
EIBENSTOCK, a town of Germany, in the kingdom of Saxony, near the Mulde,
on the borders of Bohemia, 17 m. by rail S.S.E. of Zwickau. Pop. (1905)
7460. It is a principal seat of the tambour embroidery which was
introduced in 1775 by Clara Angermann. It possesses chemical and tobacco
manufactories, and tin and iron works. It has also a large cattle
market. Eibenstock, together with Schwarzenberg, was acquired by
purchase in 1533 by Saxony and was granted municipal rights in the
following year.
EICHBERG, JULIUS (1824-1893), German musical composer, was born at
Dusseldorf on the 13th of June 1824. When he was nineteen he entered the
Brussels Conservatoire, where he took first prizes for violin-playing
and composition. For eleven years he occupied the post of professor in
the Conservatoire of Geneva. In 1857 he went to the United States,
staying two years in New York and then proceeding to Boston, where he
became director of the orchestra at the Boston Museum. In 1867 he
founded the Boston Conservatory of Music. Eichberg published several
educational works on music; and his four operettas, _The Doctor of
Alcantara_, _The Rose of Tyrol_, _The Two Cadis_ and _A Night in Rome_,
were highly popular. He died in Boston on the 18th of January 1893.
EICHENDORFF, JOSEPH, FREIHERR VON (1788-1857), German poet and
romance-writer, was born at Lubowitz, near Ratibor, in Silesia, on the
10th of March 1788. He studied law at Halle and Heidelberg from 1805 to
1808. After a visit to Paris he went to Vienna, where he resided until
1813, when he joined the Prussian army as a volunteer in the famous
Lutzow corps. When peace was concluded in 1815, he left the army, and in
the following year he was appointed to a judicial office at Breslau. He
subsequently held similar offices at Danzig, Konigsberg and Berlin.
Retiring from public service in 1844, he lived successively in Danzig,
Vienna, Dresden and Berlin. He died at Neisse on the 26th of November
1857. Eichendorff was one of the most distinguished of the later members
of the German romantic school. His genius was essentially lyrical. Thus
he is most successful in his shorter romances and dramas, where
constructive power is least called for. His first work, written in 1811,
was a romance, _Ahnung und Gegenwart_ (1815). This was followed at short
intervals by several others, among which the foremost place is by
general consent assigned to _Aus dem Leben eines Taugenichts_ (1826),
which has often been reprinted. Of his dramas may be mentioned _Ezzelin
von Romano_ (1828); and _Der letzte Held von Marienburg_ (1830), both
tragedies; and a comedy, _Die Freier_ (1833). He also translated several
of Calderon's religious dramas (_Geistliche Schauspiele_, 1846). It is,
however, through his lyrics (_Gedichte_, first collected 1837) that
Eichendorff is best known; he is the greatest lyric poet of the romantic
movement. No one has given more beautiful expression than he to the
poetry of a wandering life; often, again, his lyrics are exquisite word
pictures interpreting the mystic meaning of the moods of nature, as in
_Nachts_, or the old-time mystery which yet haunts the twilight forests
and feudal castles of Germany, as in the dramatic lyric _Waldesgesprach_
or _Auf einer Burg_. Their language is simple and musical, which makes
them very suitable for singing, and they have been often set, notably by
Schubert and Schumann.
In the later years of his life Eichendorff published several works on
subjects in literary history and criticism such as _Uber die ethische
und religiose Bedeutung der neuen romantischen Poesie in Deutschland_
(1847), _Der deutsche Roman des 18. Jahrhunderts in seinem Verhaltniss
zum Christenthum_ (1851), and _Geschichte der poetischen Litteratur
Deutschlands_ (1856), but the value of these works is impaired by the
author's reactionary standpoint. An edition of his collected works in | 920.457645 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
Two Little Women
Carolyn Wells
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
* * * * *
PATTY SERIES
PATTY FAIRFIELD
PATTY AT HOME
PATTY IN THE CITY
PATTY'S SUMMER DAYS
PATTY IN PARIS
PATTY'S FRIENDS
PATTY'S PLEASURE TRIP
PATTY'S SUCCESS
PATTY'S MOTOR CAR
PATTY'S BUTTERFLY DAYS
PATTY'S SOCIAL SEASON
PATTY'S SUITORS
PATTY'S ROMANCE
MARJORIE SERIES
MARJORIE'S VACATION
MARJORIE'S BUSY DAYS
MARJORIE'S NEW FRIEND
MARJORIE IN COMMAND
MARJORIE'S MAYTIME
MARJORIE AT SEACOTE
* * * * *
[Illustration: IT TOOK A LONG TIME TO SATISFY THE BOYS'
APPETITES.--_Page_ 199]
TWO LITTLE WOMEN
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF
THE PATTY BOOKS,
THE MARJORIE BOOKS, ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
E. C. CASWELL
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE GIRL NEXT DOOR 1
II DOTTY ROSE AND DOLLY FAYRE 15
III THE NEW ROOMS 29
IV THE BIRTHDAY MORNING 43
V THE DOUBLE PARTY 57
VI ROLLER SKATING 71
VII TWO BIG BROTHERS 87
VIII CROSSTREES CAMP 103
IX DOLLY'S ESCAPE 118
X HIDDEN TREASURE 133
XI A THRILLING EXPERIENCE 150
XII WHO WAS THE TALL PHANTOM? 167
XIII THAT LUNCHEON 186
XIV THE CAKE CONTEST 201
XV WHO WON THE PRIZE? 215
XVI A WALK IN THE WOODS 231
XVII SURFWOOD 250
XVIII DOLL OVERBOARD! 260
XIX SPENDING THE PRIZE MONEY 276
XX GOOD-BYE, SUMMER! 288
CHAPTER I
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
Summit Avenue was the prettiest street in Berwick. Spacious and
comfortable-looking homes stood on either side of it, each in its
setting of lawn and shade trees. Most of these showed no dividing fences
or hedges, and boundaries were indiscernible in the green velvety sward
that swept in a gentle <DW72> to the sidewalk.
Of two neighbouring houses, the side windows faced each other across two
hundred feet of intervening turf. The windows of one house were duly
fitted with window-screens, holland shades and clean, fresh white
curtains; for it was May, and Berwick ladies were rarely dilatory with
their "Spring-cleaning." But the other house showed no window dressings,
and the sashes were flung open to the sunny breeze, which, entering,
found rugless floors and pictureless walls.
But at the open front doors other things were entering; beds, chairs,
tables, boxes and barrels, all the contents of the great moving vans
that stood out at the curb. Strong men carried incredibly heavy burdens
of furniture, or carefully manoeuvred glass cabinets or potted palms.
From behind the lace curtains of the other house people were watching.
This was in no way a breach of good manners, for in Berwick the
unwritten law of neighbours' rights freely permitted the inspection of
the arriving household gods of a new family. But etiquette demanded that
the observers discreetly veil themselves behind the sheltering films of
their own curtains.
And so the Fayres, mother and two daughters, watched with interest the
coming of the Roses.
"Rose! what a funny name," commented Dolly Fayre, the younger of the
sisters; "do you s'pose they name the children Moss, and Tea and things
like that?"
"Yes, and Killarney and Sunburst and Prince Camille de Rohan," said
Trudy, who had been studying Florists' catalogues of late.
"Their library furniture is mission; there goes the table," and Mrs.
Fayre noted details with a housekeeper's eye. "And here comes the piano.
I can't bear to see men move a piano; I always think it's going to fall
on them."
"I'm tired of seeing furniture go in, anyway," and Dolly jumped up from
her kneeling position. "I'd rather see the people. Do you s'pose
there's anybody 'bout my age, Mums?"
"I don't know, Dolly. Your father only said their name was Rose, and not
another word about them."
"There's a little girl, anyway," asserted Trudy; "they took in a big
doll's carriage some time ago."
Trudy was nineteen and Dolly not quite fifteen, so the girls, while
chummy as sisters, had few interests in common. Dolly wandered away,
leaving the other two to continue their appraisal of the new neighbours.
She went to her own room, which also looked out toward the Roses' house.
Idly glancing that way from her window, she saw a girl's face in a
window next door. She seemed about Dolly's age, and she had a pretty
bright face with a mop of curly black hair.
She wore a red dress and a red hair-ribbon, and she made a vivid
picture, framed in the open window.
Dolly looked through the scrim of her bedroom curtain, and then to see
better, moved the curtain aside, and watched the black-haired girl.
Dolly, herself, could not be seen, because of the dark wire window
screen, and she looked at the stranger with increasing interest.
At last the new girl put one foot over the window sill and then the
other, and sat with her feet crossed and kicking against the side of the
house. It was a first floor window, and there was little danger of her
falling out, but she stretched out her arms and held the window frame on
either side.
Dolly judged the girl must be about her own age, for she looked so, and
too, her dress came nearly but not quite to her shoetops, which was the
prescribed length of Dolly's own.
It was a pleasant outlook. If this new neighbour should be a nice girl,
Dolly foresaw lots of good times. For most of her girl friends lived at
some distance; the nearest, several blocks away. And to have a chum next
door would be fine!
But was she a nice girl? Dolly had been punctiliously brought up, and a
girl who sat in a window, and swung her feet over the sill, was a bit
unconventional in Berwick.
Dolly was seized with a strong desire to meet this girl, to see her
nearer by and to talk with her. But Dolly was timid. Beside her careful
education in deportment, she was naturally shy and reticent. She was
sure she never could make any advances to become acquainted with this
new girl, and yet, she did want to know her.
She went back to her mother and sister.
"There's an awful big picture," Trudy was saying; "it's all burlapped
up, so you can't tell what it is. It's easy to judge people from their
pictures."
Trudy had graduated the year before from a large and fine girls' school
and she knew all about pictures.
"I think you can tell more by chairs," Mrs. Fayre said; "their easy
chairs are very good ones. I think they're very nice people."
"Have you seen the girl in the window?" asked Dolly. "She's just about
my size."
"So she is," said Mrs. Fayre, glancing at Dolly, and then returning to
her study of the chairs.
"When can I go to see her, Mother?"
"Oh, Trudy and I will call there in a fortnight or so, and after that
you can go to see the little girl | 920.58761 |
2023-11-16 18:32:24.5779370 | 1,693 | 6 |
Produced by David Edwards, Marcia Brooks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
CREATURES OF THE NIGHT
_By the same Author._
IANTO THE FISHERMAN
AND OTHER SKETCHES OF COUNTRY LIFE.
_Illustrated with Photogravures. Large Crown 8vo._
_The Times._--"The quality which perhaps most gives its individuality to
the book is distinctive of Celtic genius.... The characters... are
touched with a reality that implies genuine literary skill."
_The Standard._--"Mr Rees has taken a place which is all his own in the
great succession of writers who have made Nature their theme."
_The Guardian._--"We can remember nothing in recent books on natural
history which can compare with the first part of this book...
surprising insight into the life of field, and moor, and river."
_The Outlook._--"This book--we speak in deliberate superlative--is the
best essay in what may be called natural history biography that we have
ever read."
LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
[Illustration: "THE BROAD RIVER, IN WHICH SHE HAD SPENT HER EARLY LIFE."
(_See_ p. 50.) _Frontispiece._]
[Illustration: Decoration]
CREATURES OF THE NIGHT
A BOOK OF WILD LIFE IN
WESTERN BRITAIN
BY ALFRED W. REES
AUTHOR OF
"IANTO THE FISHERMAN"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
1905
TO
MYFANWY AND MORGAN
"All life is seed, dropped in Time's yawning furrow,
Which, with slow sprout and shoot,
In the revolving world's unfathomed morrow,
Will blossom and bear fruit."
MATHILDE BLIND.
PREFACE.
The Editors of _The Standard_ have kindly permitted me to republish the
contents of this book, and I tender them my thanks.
The original form of these Studies of animal life has been extensively
altered, and, in some instances, the titles have been changed.
I am again greatly indebted to my brother, R. Wilkins Rees. His wide and
accurate knowledge has been constantly at my disposal, and in the
preparation of these Studies he has given me much indispensable advice
and assistance.
Similarity in the habits of some of the animals described has made a
slight similarity of treatment unavoidable in certain chapters.
I may also remark that, in unfrequented districts where beasts and birds
of prey are not destroyed by gamekeepers, the hare is as much a creature
of the night as is the badger or the fox.
ALFRED W. REES.
[Transcriber's Note: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected,
and standardized the hyphenations, otherwise the text has been left as
the original]
CONTENTS.
THE OTTER.
I.
THE HOLT AMONG THE ALDERS.
PAGE
Late fishing--A summer night--River voices--A master-fisher--
The old mansion--Lingering beauty--The otters' "oven"--Observant
youngsters--Careful motherhood--The meadow playground--Falling
leaves--A swollen river--Dabchick's oar-like wings--Mysterious
proceedings--Migrating salmon--Hoar-fringed river-banks--An
adventure with a sheep-dog--Slip-shod builders--Signs of
spring--A change of diet--Fattening trout--The capture of a
"kelt"--"The otter's bite"--Lone wanderings. 1-23
II.
THE POOL BENEATH THE FARMSTEAD.
A song of autumn--The salmon pool--Angling difficulties--Bullying
a sportive fish--An absent-minded fisherman--At dawn and nightfall--A
deserted home--Practical joking--A moorhen's fate--Playfulness
of youth--The torrent below the fall--The garden ponds--Feasting
on frogs--A watcher of the night--Hounds and hunters--Lutra's
discretion--The spell of fear 24-40
III.
THE GORGE OF ALLTYCAFN.
The Hunt again--Fury of despair--A "strong place"--The terrier's
discomfiture--Lutra's widowhood--Summer drought--Life at the
estuary--Returning to the river--Scarce provender--A rare and
unexpected sight--The blacksmith's baited trap--The Rock of
Gwion--Peace 41-50
THE WATER-VOLE.
I.
OUR VILLAGE HOUNDS.
Quiet life--Leisure hours--A winter pastime--A miscellaneous
pack--The bobtail, and his fight with an otter--The terrier,
and his friendship with fishermen--A family party--Expert
diving--Hunt membership, and the landlord as huntsman--Fast
and furious fun--A rival Hunt--The bobtail's death--The terrier's
eccentricities--A pleasant study begins--Brown rats--Yellow
ants--Brighteye's peculiarities--Evening sport 51-67
II.
THE BURROW IN THE RIVER BANK.
At dusk--A picturesque home--Main roads and lanes of the riverside
people--A heron's alertness--A rabbit's danger signal--The
reed-bed--The vole in fear--The wildest of the wild--Tell-tale
footprints--The significance of a blood-stain--A weasel's
ferocity--Maternal warnings--A rat-hunting spaniel--An invaded
sanctuary--The terrier's opportunity--The water-vole chatters
and sings--A gladsome life--Dangers sharpen intellect 68-82
III.
WILD HUNTING.
An otter-hunt--Fading afterglow--Spiritual influence of night--Lutra
and Brighteye--Brighteye's song--Chill waters--A beacon in
the gloom--A squirrel's derision--A silvery phantom--An old,
lean trout--Restless salmon--Change of quarters--Brighteye's
encounter with a "red" fish 83-98
IV.
SAVED BY AN ENEMY.
The "redd" in the gravel--In company with a water-shrew--Ravenous
trout--The salmon's attack--An otter appears--Brighteye's
bewilderment--Increasing vigilance--Playful minnows--A new
water-entrance--The winter granary--Careful harvesting--The
dipper's winter carol--The robin and the wren at vespers--Unsafe
quarters--Rats on the move--A sequestered pool--Icebound
haunts 99-115
V.
THE COURAGE OF FEAR.
The dawn--Restlessness of spring--A bold adventurer--A sharp
fight--Cleared pathways--Differences of opinion--A tight
snuggery--In defence of home--A monster rat--Temporary refuge--The
voles and the cannibal trout--Family troubles--A winter evening
in the village 116-129
THE FIELD-VOLE.
I.
HIDDEN PATHWAYS IN THE GRASS.
A pleasant wilderness--Pitying Nature--Hed | 920.597977 |
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[Illustration: SHE GLIDED AND WHIRLED IN THE MOONLIGHT, GRACEFUL AS A
WIND-BLOWN ROSE. _PAGE 284_]
WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE
BY
RITTER BROWN
AUTHOR OF "MAN'S BIRTHRIGHT"
ILLUSTRATED BY
W. M. BERGER
New York
Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.
Copyright, 1912
By Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.
TO
MY SON
ILLUSTRATIONS
"She glided and whirled in the moonlight, graceful
as a wind-blown rose" _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
"The picture which she presented was one he carried
with him for many a day" 130
"Instinctively he raised the casket with both hands" 272
"'Madre! Madre _mia_!' she cried and flung herself
into Chiquita's arms" 292
"They were startled by a low moan and saw Blanch
sink slowly to the bench" 330
There is a tradition extant among the Indians of the Southwest,
extending from Arizona to the Isthmus of Panama, to the effect
that, Montezuma will one day return on the back of an eagle,
wearing a golden crown, and rule the land once more; typifying
the return of the Messiah and the rebirth and renewal of the race.
WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE
I
The beauty of midsummer lay upon the land--the mountains and plains of
Chihuahua. It was August, the month of melons and ripening corn. High
aloft in the pale blue vault of heaven, a solitary eagle soared in ever
widening circles in its flight toward the sun. Far out upon the plains
the lone wolf skulked among the sage and cactus in search of the rabbit
and antelope, or lay panting in the scanty shade of the yucca.
By most persons this little known land of the great Southwest is
regarded as the one which God forgot. But to those who are familiar with
its vast expanse of plain and horizon, its rugged sierras, its wild
desolate _mesas_ and solitary peaks of half-decayed mountains--its tawny
stretches of desert marked with the occasional skeletons of animal and
human remains--its golden wealth of sunshine and opalescent skies, and
have felt the brooding death-like silence which seems to hold as in a
spell all things living as well as dead, this land becomes one of
mystery and enchantment--a mute witness of some unknown or forgotten
past when the children of men were young, whose secrets it still
withholds, and with whose dust is mingled not only that of unnumbered
and unknown generations of men, but that of Montezuma and the hardy
daring _Conquistadores_ of old Spain.
But whatever may be the general consensus of opinion concerning this
land, such at least was the light in which it was viewed by Captain
Forest, as he and his Indian attendant, Jose, drew rein on the rim of a
broken, wind-swept _mesa_ in the heart of the Chihuahuan desert, a full
day's ride from Santa Fe whither they were bound, to witness the
_Fiesta_, the Feast of the Corn, which was celebrated annually at this
season.
The point where they halted commanded a sweeping view of the surrounding
country. Just opposite, some five leagues distant, on the farther side
of the valley which lay below them, towered the sharp ragged crest of
the Mexican Sierras; their sides and foothills clothed in a thin growth
of chaparral, pine and juniper and other low-growing bushes. Deep,
rugged _arroyos_, the work of the rain and mountain torrents, cut and
scarred the foothills which descended in precipitous <DW72>s to the
valley and plains below. Solitary giant cactus dotted the landscape,
adding to the general desolation of the scene, relieved only by the
glitter of the silvery sage, white poppy and yucca, and yellow and
scarlet cactus bloom which glistened in the slanting rays of the
afternoon sun and the intense radiation of heat in which was mirrored
the distant mirage; transforming the desert into wonderful lakes of
limpid waters that faded in turn on the ever receding horizon.
Below them numerous Indian encampments of some half-wild hill tribe
straggled along the banks of the almost dry stream which wound through
the valley until lost in the thirsty sands of the desert beyond.
"'Tis the very spot, _Capitan_--the place of the skull!" ejaculated
Jose, the first to break the silence. "See--yonder it lies just as we
left it!" and he pointed toward the foot of the _mesa_ where a spring
trickled from the rock, a short distance from which lay a human skull
bleached white by long exposure to the sun.
Instinctively the Captain's thoughts reverted to the incidents of the
previous year when he lay in the desert sick unto death with fever and
his horse, Starlight, had stood over his prostrate body and fought the
wolves and vultures for a whole day and night until Jose returned with
help from the Indian _pueblo_, La Guna. Involuntarily his hand slipped
caressingly to the animal's neck, a chestnut with four white feet and a
white mane and tail that swept the ground and a forelock that hung to
his nostrils, concealing the star on his forehead; a magnificent animal,
lithe and graceful as a lady's silken scarf, untiring and enduring as a
Damascus blade. A horse that comes but once during twenty generations of
Spanish-Arabian stock, and then is rare, and which, through some trick
of nature or reversion, blossoms forth in all the beauty of an original
type, taking upon himself the color and markings of some shy, wild-eyed
dam, the pride of the Bedouin tribe and is known as the "Pearl of the
Desert." The type of horse that bore Alexander and Jenghis Khan and the
Prophet's War Chieftains to victory. As a colt he had escaped the
_rodeo_. No mark of the branding-irons scarred his shoulder or thin
transparent flanks. Again the Captain's thoughts traveled backward and
he beheld a band of wild horses driven past him in review by a troup of
Mexican _vaqueros_, and the beautiful chestnut stallion emerge from the
cloud of dust on their rim and tossing his great white mane in the
breeze, neigh loudly and defiantly as he swept by lithe and supple of
limb.
"Bring me that horse!" he had cried.
"That horse? _Jose y Maria, Capitan!_ He cannot be broken. Besides, it
will take ten men to tie him."
"Then let ten men tie him!" he had replied, flinging a handful of golden
eagles among them.
Many attempts had been made to steal the Arab since he had come into the
Captain's possession. It was a dangerous undertaking, for the horse had
the naive habit of relegating man to his proper place, either by
ignoring his presence, or by quietly kicking him into eternity with the
same indifference that he would switch a fly with his tail. Jose might
feed and groom and saddle him, but not mount him. To one only would he
submit; to him to whom a common destiny had linked him--his master.
"_Sangre de Dios, Capitan!_" began Jose again, breaking in upon the
latter's musings. "Is it not better that we rest yonder by the spring
than sit here in this infernal sun, gazing at nothing? 'Tis hot as the
breath of hell where the Padres tell us all heretics will go after
death!" The grim expression of the Captain's face relaxed for a moment
and he turned toward him with a laugh.
"Aye, who knows," he replied, "we too, may go there some day," and
dismounting, he began to loosen his saddle girths.
"The gods forbid!" answered Jose, making the sign of the cross, as if to
ward off the influence of some evil spell. "I do not understand you
_Americanos_," he continued, also dismounting and untying a small pack
at the back of his saddle. "You are strange--you are ever gay when you
should be sober. You laugh at the gods and the saints and frown at the
_corridos_, and yet toss alms to the most worthless beggar."
The foregoing conversation was carried on in Spanish. Although Jose had
acquired a liberal smattering of English during his service with the
Captain, he nevertheless detested it; obstinately adhering to Spanish
which, though only his mother-tongue by adoption, was in his estimation
at least a language for _Caballeros_.
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VOL. XXXII. No. 12.
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
* * * * *
“To the Poor the Gospel is Preached.”
* * * * *
DECEMBER, 1878.
_CONTENTS_:
EDITORIAL.
ABSTRACT OF THE REPORT OF THE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE OF
THE A. M. A. 353
ANNIVERSARY OF THE AMERICAN MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION 356
ADDRESS OF REV. SYLVANUS HEYWOOD 371
ADDRESS ON CHINESE MISSIONS IN AMERICA: Rev. E. S.
Atwood 373
ADDRESS UPON THE AFRICAN MISSION: REV. G. D. Pike 377
THE ANNUAL MEETING 379
PARAGRAPHS 381
ITEMS FROM SCHOOLS AND CHURCHES 382
THE FREEDMEN.
ATLANTA, GA.--Students’ Reports of Summer Work:
Mrs. T. N. Chase 383
TENNESSEE.--Woman’s Work among Women: Miss Hattie
Milton 385
NORTH CAROLINA.--Students Want to “Batch”: Rev.
Alfred Connett 387
TALLADEGA, ALABAMA.--The Story of Ambrose Headen 388
A GRATEFUL WARD 389
AFRICA.
THE MENDI MISSION: Rev. A. E. Jackson 389
THE INDIANS.
SISSETON AGENCY: E. H. C. Hooper, Agent 392
RECEIPTS 394
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
Published by the American Missionary Association,
ROOMS, 56 READE STREET.
* * * * *
Price, 50 Cents a Year, in advance.
* * * * *
A. Anderson, Printer, 23 to 27 Vandewater St.
_American Missionary Association_,
56 READE STREET, N. Y.
* * * * *
PRESIDENT.
HON. E. S. TOBEY, Boston.
VICE PRESIDENTS.
Hon. F. D. PARISH, Ohio.
Rev. JONATHAN BLANCHARD, Ill.
Hon. E. D. HOLTON, Wis.
Hon. WILLIAM CLAFLIN, Mass.
Rev. STEPHEN THURSTON, D. D., Me.
Rev. SAMUEL HARRIS, D. D., Ct.
Rev. SILAS MCKEEN, D. D., Vt.
WM. C. CHAPIN, Esq., R. I.
Rev. W. T. EUSTIS, Mass.
Hon. A. C. BARSTOW, R. I.
Rev. THATCHER THAYER, D. D., R. I.
Rev. RAY PALMER, D. D., N. Y.
Rev. J. M. STURTEVANT, D. D., Ill.
Rev. W. W. PATTON, D. D., D. C.
Hon. SEYMOUR STRAIGHT, La.
Rev. D. M. GRAHAM, D. D., Mich.
HORACE HALLOCK, Esq., Mich.
Rev. CYRUS W. WALLACE, D. D., N. H.
Rev. EDWARD HAWES, Ct.
DOUGLAS PUTNAM, Esq., Ohio.
Hon. THADDEUS FAIRBANKS, Vt.
SAMUEL D. PORTER, Esq., N. Y.
Rev. M. M. G. DANA, D. D., Ct.
Rev. H. W. BEECHER, N. Y.
Gen. O. O. HOWARD, Oregon.
Rev. EDWARD L. CLARK, N. Y.
Rev. G. F. MAGOUN, D. D., Iowa
Col. C. G. HAMMOND, Ill.
EDWARD SPAULDING, M. D., N. H.
DAVID RIPLEY, Esq., N. J.
Rev. WM. M. BARBOUR, D. D., Ct.
Rev. W. L. GAGE, Ct.
A. S. HATCH, Esq., N. Y.
Rev. J. H. FAIRCHILD, D. D., Ohio.
Rev. H. A. STIMSON, Minn.
Rev. J. W. STRONG, D. D., Minn.
Rev. GEORGE THACHER, LL. D., Iowa.
Rev. A. L. STONE, D. D., California.
Rev. G. H. ATKINSON, D. D., Oregon.
Rev. J. E. RANKIN, D. D., D. C.
Rev. A. L. CHAPIN, D. D., Wis.
S. D. SMITH, Esq., Mass.
Rev. H. M. PARSONS, N. Y.
PETER SMITH, Esq., Mass.
Dea. JOHN WHITING, Mass.
Rev. WM. PATTON, D. D., Ct.
Hon. J. B. GRINNELL, Iowa.
Rev. WM. T. CARR, Ct.
Rev. HORACE WINSLOW, Ct.
Sir PETER COATS, Scotland.
Rev. HENRY ALLON, D. D., London, Eng.
WM. E. WHITING, Esq., N. Y.
J. M. PINKERTON, Esq., Mass.
CORRESPONDING SECRETARY.
REV. M. E. STRIEBY, _56 Reade Street, N. Y._
DISTRICT SECRETARIES.
REV. C. L. WOODWORTH, _Boston_.
REV. G. D. PIKE, _New York_.
REV. JAS. POWELL, _Chicago, Ill._
EDGAR KETCHUM, ESQ., _Treasurer, N. Y._
H. W. HUBBARD, ESQ., _Assistant Treasurer, N. Y._
REV. M. E. STRIEBY, _Recording Secretary_.
EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE.
ALONZO S. BALL,
A. S. BARNES,
EDWARD BEECHER,
GEO. M. BOYNTON,
WM. B. BROWN,
CLINTON B. FISK,
A. P. FOSTER,
E. A. GRAVES,
S. B. HALLIDAY,
SAM’L HOLMES,
S. S. JOCELYN,
ANDREW LESTER,
CHAS. L. MEAD,
JOHN H. WASHBURN,
G. B. WILLCOX.
COMMUNICATIONS
relating to the business of the Association may be addressed to
either of the Secretaries as above.
DONATIONS AND SUBSCRIPTIONS
may be sent to H. W. Hubbard, 56 Reade Street, New York, or, when
more convenient, to either of the branch offices, 21 Congregational
House, Boston, Mass., 112 West Washington Street, Chicago, Ill. Drafts
or checks sent to Mr. Hubbard should be made payable to his order as
_Assistant Treasurer_.
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[Transcriber's Notes: Small-capped text within the stories is
surrounded by +plus signs+ to separate it from the ALL-CAPPED text.
Italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
Mother’s Nursery Tales
[Illustration]
MOTHER’S
NURSERY TALES
_TOLD AND ILLUSTRATED_
_BY_
_KATHARINE PYLE_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1918
BY
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Sleeping Beauty 1
Jack and the Bean Stalk 13
Beauty and the Beast 31
Jack-the-Giant-Killer 47
The Three Wishes 71
The Goose Girl 75
The Little Old Woman and Her Pig 92
The White Cat 100
Brittle-Legs 115
“I Went Up One Pair of Stairs,” etc. 124
The Straw, the Coal, and the Bean 128
The Water-Sprite 132
Star Jewels 139
Sweet Porridge 146
Chicken-Diddle 152
A Pack of Ragamuffins 157
The Frog Prince 165
The Wolf and the Five Little Goats 174
The Golden Goose 183
The Three Spinners 199
Goldilocks and the Three Bears 207
The Three Little Pigs 215
The Golden Key 229
Mother Hulda 232
The Six Companions 241
The Golden Bird 256
The Nail 281
Little Red Riding-Hood 284
Aladdin, or the Magic Lamp 291
The Cobbler and the Fairies 323
Cinderella 328
Jack in Luck 345
Puss in Boots 356
The Town Musicians 369
ILLUSTRATIONS
COLOR PLATES PAGE
Goldilocks and the Three Bears _Frontispiece_
Beauty and the Beast 31
Brittle-Legs 115
The Water-Sprite 132
The Three Spinners 199
Mother Hulda 232
Little Red Riding-Hood 284
BLACK AND WHITE
Contents (_Headband_) v
Introduction (_Headband_) ix
The Sleeping Beauty 10
Jack and the Beanstalk (_Half title_) 13
Beauty and the Beast (_Tailpiece_) 46
The Three Wishes (_Headband_) 71
The Goose Girl (_Half title_) 75
The Goose Girl (_Tailpiece_) 91
“The Pig would not go over the Stile” 94
The White Cat 105
The Straw, the Coal, and the Bean (_Headband_) 128
The Straw, the Coal, and the Bean (_Tailpiece_) 131
Star Jewels (_Half title_) 139
Sweet Porridge (_Headband_) 146
“Come little Pot” 150
A Pack of Ragamuffins (_Headband_) 157
The Frog Prince (_Headband_) 165
The Frog with the Ball 167
The Wolf and the Five Little Goats (_Tailpiece_) 182
The Golden Goose (_Headband_) 183
The Three Little Pigs (_Half title_) 215
The Three Little Pigs (_Tailpiece_) 227
The Golden Key (_Headband_) 229
Mother Hulda (_Tailpiece_) 240
The Six Companions (_Half title_) 241
The Golden Bird (_Headband_) 256
The Golden Bird (_Tailpiece_) 280
Aladdin, or the Magic Lamp (_Half title_) 291
The Cobbler and the Fairies (_Headband_) 323
Cinderella (_Headband_) 328
Cinderella and the Prince 335
Cinderella (_Tailpiece_) 344
Puss in Boots 363
The Town Musicians (_Tailpiece_) 376
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
These are not new fairy-tales, the ones in this book that has been
newly made for you and placed in your hands. They are old fairy-tales
gathered together, some from one country, and some from another. They
are old, old, old. As old as the hills or the human race,—as old as
truth itself. Long ago, even so long ago as when your grandmother’s
grandmother’s grandmother was a little rosy-cheeked girl, and your
grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was a noisy shouting little
boy, these stories were old.
No one knows who first told them, nor where nor when. Perhaps none of
them was told by any one particular person. Perhaps they just grew upon
the Tree of Wisdom when the world was young, like shining fruit, and
our wise and simple first parents plucked them, and gave them to their
children to play with, and to taste. They could not harm the children,
these fruits from the tree of wisdom, for each one was a lovely globe
of truth, rich and wholesome to the taste. Magic fruit, for one could
eat and eat, and still the fruit was there as perfect as ever to be
handed down through generations, until at last it comes to you, as
beautiful as in those days of long ago.
Perhaps you did not know that fairy tales were ever truths, but they
are—the best and oldest of them. That does not mean they are facts like
the things you see around you or learn from history books. Facts and
truths are as different as the body and the spirit. Facts are like the
body that we can see and touch and measure; we cannot see or measure
the Spirit, but it is there.
We can think of these truths as of different shapes and colors, like
pears and apples, and plums and other fruits, each with a different
taste and color. But there is one great truth that flows through them
all, and you know very well what it is:—evil in the end must always
defeat itself, and in the end good always triumphs. The bad magician is
tripped up by his own tricks, and the true prince marries the princess
and inherits the kingdom. If any one of these stories had told it
otherwise, that story would have died and withered away.
So take this book and read, being very sure that only good will come to
you however often you read them over and over and over again.
KATHARINE PYLE.
Mother’s Nursery Tales
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY
There were once a King and Queen who had no children, though they had
been married for many years. At last, however, a little daughter was
born to them, and this was a matter of great rejoicing through all the
kingdom.
When the time came for the little Princess to be christened, a grand
feast was prepared, and six powerful fairies were asked to stand as her
godmothers. Unfortunately the Queen forgot to invite the seventh fairy,
who was the most powerful of them all, and was also very wicked and
malicious.
On the day of the christening the six good fairies came early, in
chariots drawn by butterflies, or by doves or wrens or other birds.
They were made welcome by the King and Queen, and after some talk they
were led to the hall where the feast had been set out. Everything
there was very magnificent. There were delicious fruits and meats
and pastries and game and everything that could be thought of. The
dishes were all of gold, and for each fairy there was a goblet cut
from a single precious stone. One was a diamond, one a sapphire, one
a ruby, one an emerald, one an amethyst, and one a topaz. The fairies
were delighted with the beauty of everything. Even in their own fairy
palaces they had no such goblets as those the King had had made for
them.
They were just about to take their places at the table when a great
noise was heard outside on the terrace. The Queen looked from the
window and almost fainted at the sight she saw. The bad fairy had
arrived. She had come uninvited, and the Queen guessed that it was for
no good that she came. Her chariot was of black iron, and was drawn by
four dragons with flaming eyes and brass scales. The fairy sprang from
her chariot in haste, and came tapping into the hall with her staff in
her hand.
“How is this? How is this?” she cried to the Queen. “Here all my
sisters have been invited to come and bring their gifts to the
Princess, and I alone have been forgotten.”
The Queen did not know what to answer. She was frightened. However, she
tried to hide her fear, and made the seventh fairy as welcome as the
others. A place was set for her at the King’s right hand, and he and
the Queen tried to pretend they had expected her to come. But for her
there was no precious goblet, and when she saw the ones that had been
given to the six other fairies her face grew green with envy, and her
eyes flashed fire. She ate and drank, but she said never a word.
After the feast the little Princess was brought into the room, and she
smiled so sweetly and looked so innocent that only a wicked heart could
have planned evil against her.
The first fairy took the child in her arms and said, “My gift to the
Princess shall be that of contentment, for contentment is better than
gold.”
“Yet gold is good,” said the second fairy, “and I will give her the
gift of wealth.”
“Health shall be hers,” said the third, “for wealth is of little use
without it.”
“And I,” said the fourth, “will gift her with beauty to win all hearts.”
“And wit to charm all ears,” said the fifth. “That is my gift to her.”
The sixth fairy hesitated, and in that moment the wicked one stepped
forward. While the others had spoken she had been swelling with spite
like a toad. “And I say,” cried she, “that in her seventeenth year she
shall prick her finger with a spindle and fall dead.”
When the Queen heard this she shrieked aloud, and the King grew as pale
as death. But the sixth fairy stepped forward.
“Wait a bit,” said she. “I have not spoken yet. I cannot undo what our
sister has done, but I say that the Princess shall not really die. She
shall fall into a deep sleep that shall last a hundred years, and all
in the castle shall sleep with her. At the end of that time she shall
be awakened by a kiss.”
When the wicked fairy heard this she was filled with rage, but she had
already spoken; she could do no more. She rushed out of the castle and
jumped into her chariot, and the dragons carried her away, and where
she went no one either knew nor cared.
The other fairies also went away, and they were sad because of what was
to happen to the Princess.
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COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 1091.
SALEM CHAPEL BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 vols.
MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol.
AGNES 2 vols.
MADONNA MARY 2 vols.
THE MINISTER'S WIFE 2 vols.
THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR'S FAMILY 1 vol.
Chronicles of Carlingford
SALEM CHAPEL
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION._
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1870.
_The Right of Translation is reserved._
SALEM CHAPEL.
CHAPTER I.
Towards the west end of Grove Street, in Carlingford, on the shabby side
of the street, stood a red brick building, presenting a pinched gable
terminated by a curious little belfry, not intended for any bell, and
looking not unlike a handle to lift up the edifice by to the public
observation. This was Salem Chapel, the only Dissenting place of worship
in Carlingford. It stood in a narrow strip of ground, just as the little
houses which flanked it on either side stood in their gardens, except
that the enclosure of the chapel was flowerless and sombre, and showed
at the farther end a few sparsely-scattered tombstones--unmeaning slabs,
such as the English mourner loves to inscribe his sorrow on. On either
side of this little tabernacle were the humble houses--little detached
boxes, each two storeys high, each fronted by a little flower-plot--clean,
respectable, meagre, little habitations, which contributed most largely
to the ranks of the congregation in the Chapel. The big houses opposite,
which turned their backs and staircase windows to the street, took
little notice of the humble Dissenting community. Twice in the winter,
perhaps, the Miss Hemmings, mild evangelical women, on whom the late
rector--the Low-Church rector, who reigned before the brief and
exceptional incumbency of the Rev. Mr. Proctor--had bestowed much of his
confidence, would cross the street, when other profitable occupations
failed them, to hear a special sermon on a Sunday evening. But the Miss
Hemmings were the only representatives of anything which could, by the
utmost stretch, be called Society, who ever patronised the Dissenting
interest in the town of Carlingford. Nobody from Grange Lane had ever
been seen so much as in Grove Street on a Sunday, far less in the
chapel. Greengrocers, dealers in cheese and bacon, milkmen, with some
dressmakers of inferior pretensions, and teachers of day-schools of
similar humble character, formed the _elite_ of the congregation. It is
not to be supposed, however, on this account, that a prevailing aspect
of shabbiness was upon this little community; on the contrary, the grim
pews of Salem Chapel blushed with bright colours, and contained both
dresses and faces on the summer Sundays which the Church itself could
scarcely have surpassed. Nor did those unadorned walls form a centre of
asceticism and gloomy religiousness in the cheerful little town.
Tea-meetings were not uncommon occurrences in Salem--tea-meetings which
made the little tabernacle festive, in which cakes and oranges were
diffused among the pews, and funny speeches made from the little
platform underneath the pulpit, which woke the unconsecrated echoes with
hearty outbreaks of laughter. Then the young people had their
singing-class, at which they practised hymns, and did not despise a
little flirtation; and charitable societies and missionary auxiliaries
diversified the congregational routine, and kept up a brisk succession
of "Chapel business," mightily like the Church business which occupied
Mr. Wentworth and his Sisters of Mercy at St. Roque's. To name the two
communities, however, in the same breath, would have been accounted
little short of sacrilege in Carlingford. The names which figured
highest in the benevolent lists of Salem Chapel, were known to society
only as appearing, in gold letters, upon the backs of those mystic
tradesmen's books, which were deposited every Monday in little heaps at
every house in Grange Lane. The Dissenters, on their part, aspired to no
conquests in the unattainable territory of high life, as it existed in
Carlingford. They were content to keep their privileges among
themselves, and to enjoy their superior preaching and purity with a
compassionate complacence. While Mr. Proctor was rector, indeed, Mr.
Tozer, the butterman, who was senior deacon, found it difficult to
refrain from an audible expression of pity for the "Church folks" who
knew no better; but, as a general rule, the congregation of Salem kept
by itself, gleaning new adherents by times at an "anniversary" or the
coming of a new minister, but knowing and keeping "its own place" in a
manner edifying to behold.
Such was the state of affairs when old Mr. Tufton declined in
popularity, and impressed upon the minds of his hearers those
now-established principles about the unfitness of old men for any
important post, and the urgent necessity and duty incumbent upon old
clergymen, old generals, old admirals, &c.--every aged functionary,
indeed, except old statesmen--to resign in favour of younger men, which
have been, within recent years, so much enforced upon the world. To
communicate this opinion to the old minister was perhaps less difficult
to Mr. Tozer and his brethren than it might have been to men more
refined and less practical; but it was an undeniable relief to the
managers of the chapel when grim Paralysis came mildly in and gave the
intimation in the manner least calculated to wound the sufferer's
feelings. Mild but distinct was that undeniable warning. The poor old
minister retired, accordingly, with a purse and a presentation, and
young Arthur Vincent, fresh from Homerton, in the bloom of hope and
intellectualism, a young man of the newest school, was recognised as
pastor in his stead.
A greater change could not possibly have happened. When the interesting
figure of the young minister went up the homely pulpit-stairs, and
appeared, white-browed, white-handed, in snowy linen and glossy clerical
apparel, where old Mr. Tufton, spiritual but homely, had been wont to
impend over the desk and exhort his beloved brethren, it was natural
that a slight rustle of expectation should run audibly through the
audience. Mr. Tozer looked round him proudly to note the sensation, and
see if the Miss Hemmings, sole representatives of a cold and unfeeling
aristocracy, were there. The fact was, that few of the auditors were
more impressed than the Miss Hemmings, who _were_ there, and who talked
all the evening after about the young minister. What a sermon it was!
not much in it about the beloved brethren; nothing very stimulating,
indeed, to the sentiments and affections, except in the youth and good
looks of the preacher, which naturally made a more distinct impression
upon the female portion of his hearers than on the stronger sex. But
then what eloquence! what an amount of thought! what an honest entrance
into all the difficulties of the subject! Mr. Tozer remarked afterwards
that such preaching was food for _men_. It was too closely reasoned out,
said the excellent butterman, to please women or weak-minded persons:
but he did not doubt, for his part, that soon the young men of
Carlingford, the hope of the country, would find their way to Salem. Under
such prognostications, it was fortunate that the young minister
possessed something else besides close reasoning and Homerton eloquence
to propitiate the women too.
Mr. Vincent arrived at Carlingford in the beginning of winter, when
society in that town was reassembling, or at least reappearing, after
the temporary summer seclusion. The young man knew very little of the
community which he had assumed the spiritual charge of. He was almost as
particular as the Rev. Mr. Wentworth of St. Roque's about the cut of his
coat and the precision of his costume, and decidedly preferred the word
clergyman to the word minister, which latter was universally used by his
flock; but notwithstanding these trifling predilections, Mr. Vincent,
who had been brought up upon the 'Nonconformist' and the 'Eclectic
Review,' was strongly impressed with the idea that the Church
Establishment, though outwardly prosperous, was in reality a profoundly
rotten institution; that the Nonconforming portion of the English public
was the party of progress; that the eyes of the world were turned upon
the Dissenting interest; and that his | 921.036875 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible.
"Reverend Herr Doktor Konsistorialat D. Vorwerk" has been changed to
"Reverend Herr Doktor Konsistorialrat D. Vorwerk"
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
"Speaking of Prussians--"
BY IRVIN S. COBB
FICTION
THOSE TIMES AND THESE
LOCAL COLOR
OLD JUDGE PRIEST
FIBBLE, D. D.
BACK HOME
THE ESCAPE OF MR. TRIMM
WIT AND HUMOR
"SPEAKING OF OPERATIONS----"
EUROPE REVISED
ROUGHING IT DE LUXE
COBB'S BILL OF FARE
COBB'S ANATOMY
MISCELLANY
"SPEAKING OF PRUSSIANS----"
PATHS OF GLORY
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
[Illustration: TURNING THE EAGLE LOOSE]
"_Speaking of Prussians----_"
_By_
_Irvin S. Cobb_
_Author of
"Back Home," "Europe Revised,"
"Speaking of Operations----", Etc._
[Illustration]
_New York
George H. Doran Company_
COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
DEDICATED
BY PERMISSION
TO
WOODROW WILSON
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
"_Speaking of Prussians--_"
I
I believe it to be my patriotic duty as an American citizen to write
what I am writing, and after it is written to endeavour to give to it as
wide a circulation in the United States as it is possible to find. In
making this statement, though, I am not setting myself up as a teacher
or a preacher; neither am I going upon the assumption that, because I am
a fairly frequent contributor to American magazines, people will be the
readier or should be the readier to read what I have to say.
Aside from a natural desire to do my own little bit, my chief reason is
this: Largely by chance and by accident, I happened to be one of four or
five American newspaper men who witnessed at first hand the German
invasion of Belgium and one of three who, a little later, witnessed
some of the results of the Germanic subjugation of the northern part of
France. I was inside Germany at the time the rush upon Paris was checked
and the retreat from the Marne took place, thereby having opportunity to
take cognisance of the feelings and sentiments and the impulses which
controlled the German populace in a period of victory and in a period of
reversals.
I am in the advantageous position, therefore, of being able to recount
as an eyewitness--and, as I hope, an honest one--something of what war
means in its effects upon the civilian populace of a country caught
unawares and in a measure unprepared; and, more than that, what war
particularly and especially means when it is waged under the direction
of officers trained in the Prussian school.
Having seen these things, I hate war with all my heart. I am sure that I
hate it with a hatred deeper than the hate of you, reader, who never saw
its actual workings and its garnered fruitage. For, you see, I saw the
physical side of it; and, having seen it, I want to tell you that I
have no words with which halfway adequately to describe it for you, so
that you may have in your mind the pictures I have in mine. It is the
most obscene, the most hideous, the most brutal, the most malignant--and
sometimes the most necessary--spectacle, I veritably believe, that ever
the eye of mortal man has rested on since the world began, and I do hate
it.
But if war had to come--war for the preservation of our national honour
and our national integrity; war for the defence of our flag and our
people and our soil; war for the preservation of the principles of
representative government among the nations of the earth--I would rather
that it came now than that it came later. I have a child. I would rather
that child, in her maturity, might be assured of living in a peace
guaranteed by the sacrifices and the devotion of the men and women of
this generation, than that her father should live on in a precarious
peace, bought and paid for with cowardice and national dishonour.
II
A few days before war was declared, an antimilitarist mass meeting was
held in New York. It was variously addressed by a number of well-known
gentlemen regarding whose purity of motive there could be no question,
but regarding whose judgment a great majority of us have an opinion that
cannot be printed without the use of asterisks. And it was attended by a
very large representation of peace-loving citizens, including a numerous
contingent of those peculiar patriots who, for the past two years, have
been so very distressed if any suggestion of hostilities with the
Central Powers was offered, but so agreeably reconciled if a break with
the Allies, or any one of them, seemed a contingency.
It may have been only a coincidence, but it struck some of us as a
significant fact that, from the time of the dismissal of Count Von
Bernstorff onward, the average pro-peace meeting was pretty sure to
resolve itself into something rather closely resembling a pro-German
demonstration before the evening was over. Persons who hissed the name
of our President behaved with respectful decorum when mention was made
of a certain Kaiser.
However, I am not now concerned with these weird Americans, some of whom
part their Americanism in the middle with a hyphen. Some of them were in
jail before this little book was printed. I am thinking now of those
national advocates of the policy of the turned cheek; those professional
pacificists; those wavers of the olive branch--who addressed this
particular meeting and similar meetings that preceded it--little
brothers to the worm and the sheep and the guinea pig, all of them--who
preached not defence, but submission; not a firm stand, but a complete
surrender; not action, but words, words, words.
III
Every right-thinking man, I take it, believes in universal peace and
realises, too, that we shall have universal peace in that fair day when
three human attributes, now reasonably common among individuals and
among nations, have been eliminated out of this world, these three being
greed, jealousy and evil temper. Every sane American hopes for the time
of universal disarmament, and meantime indulges in one mental
reservation: He wants all the nations to put aside their arms; but he
hopes his own nation will be the last to put aside hers. But not every
American--thanks be to God!--has in these months and years of our
campaign for preparedness favoured leaving his country in a state where
she might be likened to a large, fat, rich, flabby oyster, without any
shell, in a sea full of potential or actual enemies, all clawed, all
toothed, all hungry. The oyster may be the more popular, but it is the
hard-shelled crab that makes the best life-insurance risk.
And when I read the utterances of those conscientious gentlemen, who
could not be brought to bear the idea of going to war with any nation
for any reason, I wished with all my soul they might have stood with me
in Belgium on that August day, when I and the rest of the party to which
I belonged saw the German legions come pouring down, a cloud of smoke by
day and a pillar of fire by night, with terror riding before them as
their herald, and death and destruction and devastation in the tracks
their war-shod feet left upon a smiling and a fecund little land.
Because I am firmly of the opinion that their sentiments would then have
undergone the same instantaneous transformation which the feelings of
each member of my group underwent.
Speaking for myself, I confess that, until that summer day of the year
1914, I had thought--such infrequent times as I gave the subject any
thought at all--that for us to spend our money on heavy guns and an
augmented navy, for us to dream of compulsory military training and a
larger standing army, would be the concentrated essence of economic and
national folly.
I remember when Colonel Roosevelt--then, I believe, President
Roosevelt--delivered himself of the doctrine of the Big Stick, I, being
a good Democrat, regarded him as an incendiary who would provoke the
ill will of great Powers, which had for us only kindly feeling, by the
shaking in their faces of an armed fist. I remember I had said to
myself, as, no doubt, most Americans had said to themselves:
"We are a peaceful nation; not concerned with dreams of conquest. We
have the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans for our protection. We are not
going to make war on anybody else. Nobody else is going to make war on
us. War is going out of fashion all over the planet. A passion for peace
is coming to be the fashion of the world. The lion and the lamb lie down
together."
Well, the lion and the lamb did lie down together--over there in Europe;
and when the lion rose, a raging lion, he had the mangled carcass of the
lamb beneath his bloodied paws. And it was on the day when I first saw
the lion, with his jaws adrip, coming down the highroads, typified in
half a million fighting men--men whose sole business in life was to
fight, and who knew their business as no other people ever have known
it--that in one flash of time I decided I wanted my country to quit
being lamb-like, not because the lion was a pleasing figure before mine
eyes, but because for the first time I realised that, so long as there
are lions, sooner or later must come oppression and annihilation for the
nation which persists in being one of the lambs.
As though it happened yesterday, instead of thirty months ago, I can
recreate in my mind the physical and the mental stage settings of that
moment. I can shut my eyes and see the German firing squad shooting two
Belgian civilians against a brick wall. I can smell the odours of the
burning houses. Yes, and the smell of the burning flesh of the dead men
who were in those | 921.238237 |
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and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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Transcriber's Note
The punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully
preserved. Only obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
THE CRITICAL PERIOD OF
AMERICAN HISTORY
1783-1789
BY
JOHN FISKE
"I am uneasy and apprehensive, more so than during the war."
JAY TO WASHINGTON, _June_ 27, 1786.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
Copyright, 1888,
BY JOHN FISKE.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._ Electrotyped and Printed
by H.O. Houghton & Co.
To
MY DEAR CLASSMATES,
FRANCIS LEE HIGGINSON
AND
CHARLES CABOT JACKSON,
_I DEDICATE THIS BOOK._
PREFACE.
This book contains the substance of the course of lectures given in the
Old South Meeting-House in Boston in December, 1884, at the Washington
University in St. Louis in May, 1885, and in the theatre of the
University Club in New York in March, 1886. In its present shape it may
serve as a sketch of the political history of the United States from the
end of the Revolutionary War to the adoption of the Federal
Constitution. It makes no pretensions to completeness, either as a
summary of the events of that period or as a discussion of the political
questions involved in them. I have aimed especially at grouping facts in
such a way as to bring out and emphasize their causal sequence, and it
is accordingly hoped that the book may prove useful to the student of
American history.
My title was suggested by the fact of Thomas Paine's stopping the
publication of the "Crisis," on hearing the news of the treaty of 1783,
with the remark, "The times that tried men's souls are over." Commenting
upon this, on page 55 of the present work, I observed that so far from
the crisis being over in 1783, the next five years were to be the most
critical time of all. I had not then seen Mr. Trescot's "Diplomatic
History of the Administrations of Washington and Adams," on page 9 of
which he uses almost the same words: "It must not be supposed that the
treaty of peace secured the national life. Indeed, it would be more
correct to say that the most critical period of the country's history
embraced the time between 1783 and the adoption of the Constitution in
1788."
That period was preeminently the turning-point in the development of
political society in the western hemisphere. Though small in their mere
dimensions, the events here summarized were in a remarkable degree
germinal events, fraught with more tremendous alternatives of future
welfare or misery for mankind than it is easy for the imagination to
grasp. As we now stand upon the threshold of that mighty future, in the
light of which all events of the past are clearly destined to seem
dwindled in dimensions and significant only in the ratio of their
potency as causes; as we discern how large a part of that future must be
the outcome of the creative work, for good or ill, of men of English
speech; we are put into the proper mood for estimating the significance
of the causes which determined a century ago that the continent of North
America should be dominated by a single powerful and pacific federal
nation instead of being parcelled out among forty or fifty small
communities, wasting their strength and lowering their moral tone by
perpetual warfare, like the states of ancient Greece, or by perpetual
preparation for warfare, like the nations of modern Europe. In my book
entitled "American Political Ideas, viewed from the Standpoint of
Universal History," I have tried to indicate the pacific influence
likely to be exerted upon the world by the creation and maintenance of
such a political structure as our Federal Union. The present narrative
may serve as a commentary upon what I had in mind on page 133 of that
book, in speaking of the work of our Federal Convention as "the finest
specimen of constructive statesmanship that the world has ever seen." On
such a point it is pleasant to find one's self in accord with a
statesman so wise and noble as Mr. Gladstone, whose opinion is here
quoted on page 223.
To some persons it may seem as if the years 1861-65 were of more
cardinal importance than the years 1783-89. Our civil war was indeed an
event of prodigious magnitude, as measured by any standard that history
affords; and there can be little doubt as to its decisiveness. The
measure of that decisiveness is to be found in the completeness of the
reconciliation that has already, despite the feeble wails of
unscrupulous place-hunters and unteachable bigots, cemented the Federal
Union so powerfully that all likelihood of its disruption may be said to
have disappeared forever. When we consider this wonderful harmony which
so soon has followed the deadly struggle, we may well believe it to be
the index of such a stride toward the ultimate pacification of mankind
as was never made before. But it was the work done in the years 1783-89
that created a federal nation capable of enduring the storm and stress
of the years 1861-65. It was in the earlier crisis that the pliant twig
was bent; and as it was bent, so has it grown; until it has become
indeed a goodly and a sturdy tree.
CAMBRIDGE, October 10, 1888.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
RESULTS OF YORKTOWN. PAGE
Fall of Lord North's ministry 1
Sympathy between British Whigs and the revolutionary
party in America 2
It weakened the Whig party in England 3
Character of Lord Shelburne 4
Political instability of the Rockingham ministry 5, 6
Obstacles in the way of a treaty of peace 7, 8
Oswald talks with Franklin 9-11
Grenville has an interview with Vergennes 12
Effects of Rodney's victory 13
Misunderstanding between Fox and Shelburne 14
Fall of the Rockingham ministry 15
Shelburne becomes prime minister 16
Defeat of the Spaniards and French at Gibraltar 17
French policy opposed to American interests 18
The valley of the | 921.434533 |
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THE ROUGH ROAD
by
WILLIAM J. LOCKE
First Edition... September 1918
John Lane
The Bodley Head Ltd
TO
SHEILA
THIS LITTLE TALE OF
THE GREAT WAR
AS A MEMORY FOR AFTER YEARS
THE ROUGH ROAD
CHAPTER I
This is the story of Doggie Trevor. It tells of his doings and of a
girl in England and a girl in France. Chiefly it is concerned with the
influences that enabled him to win through the war. Doggie Trevor did
not get the Victoria Cross. He got no cross or distinction whatever.
He did not even attain the sorrowful glory of a little white cross
above his grave on the Western Front. Doggie was no hero of romance,
ancient or modern. But he went through with it and is alive to tell
the tale.
The brutal of his acquaintance gave him the name of "Doggie" years
before the war was ever thought of, because he had been brought up
from babyhood like a toy Pom. The almost freak offspring of elderly
parents, he had the rough world against him from birth. His father
died before he had cut a tooth. His mother was old enough to be his
grandmother. She had the intense maternal instinct and the brain, such
as it is, of an earwig. She wrapped Doggie--his real name was James
Marmaduke--in cotton-wool, and kept him so until he was almost a grown
man. Doggie had never a chance. She brought him up like a toy Pom
until he was twenty-one--and then she died. Doggie being comfortably
off, continued the maternal tradition and kept on bringing himself up
like a toy Pom. He did not know what else to do. Then, when he was
five-and-twenty, he found himself at the edge of the world gazing in
timorous starkness down into the abyss of the Great War. Something
kicked him over the brink and sent him sprawling into the thick of it.
* * * * *
That the world knows little of its greatest men is a commonplace among
silly aphorisms. With far more justice it may be stated that of its
least men the world knows nothing and cares less. Yet the Doggies of
the War, who on the cry of "Havoc!" have been let loose, much to their
own and everybody else's stupefaction, deserve the passing tribute
sometimes, poor fellows, of a sigh, sometimes of a smile, often of a
cheer. Very few of them--very few, at any rate, of the English
Doggies--have tucked their little tails between their legs and run
away. Once a brawny humorist wrote to Doggie Trevor "_Sursum cauda._"
Doggie happened to be at the time in a water-logged front trench in
Flanders and the writer basking in the mild sunshine of Simla with his
Territorial regiment. Doggie, bidden by the Hedonist of circumstance
to up with | 921.540026 |
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THE JUDGEMENT
OF VALHALLA
BY
GILBERT FRANKAU
NEW YORK
FEDERAL PRINTING COMPANY
1918
Copyright, 1918
GILBERT FRANKAU
_All rights reserved_
The Judgement of Valhalla
BY GILBERT FRANKAU
_THE DESERTER_
“I’m sorry I done it, Major.”
We bandaged the livid face;
And led him out, ere the wan sun rose,
To die his death of disgrace.
The bolt-heads locked to the cartridge;
The rifles steadied to rest,
As cold stock nestled at colder cheek
And foresight lined on the breast.
“_Fire!_” called the Sergeant-Major.
The muzzles flamed as he spoke:
And the shameless soul of a nameless man
Went up in the cordite-smoke.
_THE EYE AND THE TRUTH_
Up from the fret of the earth-world, through the Seven Circles of
Flame,
With the seven holes in Its tunic for sign of the death-in-shame,
To the little gate of Valhalla the coward-spirit came.
Cold, It crouched in the man-strong wind that sweeps Valhalla’s
floor;
Weak, It pawed and scratched on the wood; and howled, like a dog,
at the Door
Which is shut to the souls who are sped in shame, for ever and
evermore:
For It snuffed the Meat of the Banquet-boards where the Threefold
Killers sit,
Where the Free Beer foams to the tankard-rim, and the Endless Smokes
are lit....
And It saw the Nakéd Eye come out above the lintel-slit.
And now It quailed at Nakéd Eye which judges the naked dead;
And now It snarled at Nakéd Truth that broodeth overhead;
And now It looked to the earth below where the gun-flames flickered
red.
It muttered words It had learned on earth, the words of a black-coat
priest
Who had bade It pray to a pulpit god--but ever Eye’s Wrath
increased;
And It knew that Its words were empty words, and It whined like a
homeless beast:
Till, black above the lintel-slit, the Nakéd Eye went out;
Till, loud across the Killer-Feasts, It heard the Killer-Shout--
The three-fold song of them that slew, and died... and had no
doubt.
_THE SONG OF THE RED-EDGED STEEL_
_Below your black priest’s heaven,
Above his tinselled hell,
Beyond the Circles Seven,
The Red-Steel Killers dwell--
The men who drave, to blade-ring home, behind the marching shell._
We knew not good nor evil,
Save only right of blade;
Yet neither god nor devil
Could hold us from our trade,
When once we watched the barrage lift, and splendidly afraid
Came scrambling out of cover,
And staggered up the hill....
The bullets whistled over;
Our sudden dead lay still;
And the mad machine-gun chatter drove us fighting-wild to kill.
Then the death-light lit our faces,
And the death-mist floated red
O’er the crimson cratered places
Where his outposts crouched in dread....
And we stabbed or clubbed them as they crouched; and shot them as
they fled;
And floundered, torn and bleeding,
Over trenches, through the wire,
With the shrapnel-barrage leading
To the prey of our desire--
To the men who rose to meet us from the blood-soaked battle-mire;
Met them; gave and asked no quarter;
But, where we saw the Gray,
Plunged the edged steel of slaughter,
Stabbed home, and wrenched away....
Till red wrists tired of killing-work, and none were left to slay.
Now--while his fresh battalions
Moved up to the attack--
Screaming like angry stallions,
His shells came charging back,
And stamped the ground with thunder-ho | 921.640142 |
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THE FRONTIER
BY
MAURICE LEBLANC
AUTHOR OF "ARSENE LUPIN," "813," ETC.
TRANSLATED BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
[Illustration: Publisher's logo]
HODDER & STOUGHTON
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1912,
By Maurice Leblanc
Copyright, 1912,
By George H. Doran Company
CONTENTS
PART I
CHAPTER PAGE
I A HEAD BETWEEN THE BUSHES 3
II THE GIRL WITH THE BARE ARMS 17
III THE VIOLET PAMPHLET 30
IV PHILIPPE AND HIS WIFE 46
V THE SHEET OF NOTE-PAPER 58
VI THE PLASTER STATUE 66
VII EVE TRIUMPHANT 76
VIII THE TRAP 94
PART II
I THE TWO WOMEN 107
II PHILIPPE TELLS A LIE 118
III FATHER AND SON 133
IV THE ENQUIRIES 150
V THE THUNDERCLAP 164
VI THE BUTTE-AUX-LOUPS 177
VII MARTHE ASKS A QUESTION 195
VIII THE STAGES TO CALVARY 208
PART III
I THE ARMED VIGIL 233
II THEY WHO GO TO THEIR DEATH 249
III IDEAS AND FACTS 268
IV THE SACRED SOIL 281
THE FRONTIER
PART I
CHAPTER I
A HEAD BETWEEN THE BUSHES
"They've done it!"
"What?"
"The German frontier-post... at the circus of the Butte-aux-Loups."
"What about it?"
"Knocked down."
"Nonsense!"
"See for yourself."
Old Morestal stepped aside. His wife came out of the drawing-room and
went and stood by the telescope, on its tripod, at the end of the
terrace.
"I can see nothing," she said, presently.
"Don't you see a tree standing out above the others, with lighter
foliage?"
"Yes."
"And, to the right of that tree, a little lower down, an empty space
surrounded by fir-trees?"
"Yes."
"That's the circus of the Butte-aux-Loups and it marks the frontier at
that spot."
"Ah, I've got it!... There it is!... You mean on the ground, don't you?
Lying flat on the grass, exactly as if it had been rooted up by last
night's storm...."
"What are you talking about? It has been fairly felled with an axe: you
can see the gash from here."
"So I can... so I can...."
She stood up and shook her head:
"That makes the third time this year.... It will mean more
unpleasantness."
"Fiddle-de-dee!" he exclaimed. "All they've got to do is to put up a
solid post, instead of their old bit of wood." And he added, in a tone
of pride, "The French post, two yards off, doesn't budge, you know!"
"Well, of course not! It's made of cast-iron and cemented into the
stone."
"Let them do as much then! It's not money they're wanting... when you
think of the five thousand millions they robbed us of!... No, but, I say
... three of them in eight months!... How will the people take it, on
the other side of the Vosges?"
He could not hide the sort of gay and sarcastic feeling of content that
filled his whole being and he walked up and down the terrace, stamping
his feet as hard as he could on the ground.
But, suddenly going to his wife, he seized her by the arm and said, in
a hollow voice:
"Would you like to know what I really think?"
"Yes."
"Well, all this will lead to trouble."
"No," said the old lady, quietly.
"How do you mean, no?"
"We've been married five-and-thirty years; and, for five-and-thirty
years, you've told me, week after week, that we shall have trouble. So,
you see...."
She turned away from him and went back to the drawing-room again, where
she began to dust the furniture with a feather-broom.
He shrugged his shoulders, as he followed her indoors:
"Oh, yes, you're the placid mother, of course! Nothing excites you. As
long as your cupboards are tidy, your linen all complete and your jams
potted, you don't care!... Still, you ought not to forget that they
killed your poor father."
"I don't forget it... only, what's the good? It's more than forty years
ago...."
"It was yesterday," he said, sinking his voice, "yesterday, no longer
ago than yesterday...."
"Ah, there's the postman!" she said, hurrying to change the
conversation.
She heard a heavy footstep outside the windows opening on the garden.
There was a rap at the knocker on the front-door. A minute later,
Victor, the man-servant, brought in the letters.
"Oh!" said Mme. Morestal. "A letter from the boy.... Open it, will you?
I haven't my spectacles.... I expect it's to say that he will arrive
this evening: he was to have left Paris this morning."
"Not at all!" cried M. Morestal, glancing over the letter. "Philippe and
his wife have taken their two boys to some friends at Versailles and
started with the intention of sleeping last night at the Ballon de
Colnard, seeing the sunrise and doing the rest of the journey on foot,
with their knapsacks on their backs. They will be here by twelve."
She at once lost her head:
"And the storm! What about last night's storm?"
"My son doesn't care about the storm! It won't be the first that the
fellow's been through. It's eleven o'clock. He will be with us in an
hour."
"But that will never do! There's nothing ready for them!"
She at once went to work, like the active little old woman that she was,
a little too fat, a little tired, but wide-awake still and so
methodical, so orderly in her ways that she never made a superfluous
movement or one that was not calculated to bring her an immediate
advantage.
As for him, he resumed his walk between the terrace and the
drawing-room. He strode with long, even steps, holding his body erect,
his chest flung out and his hands in the pockets of his jacket, a
blue-drill gardening-jacket, with the point of a pruning-shears and the
stem of a pipe sticking out of it. He was tall and broad-shouldered; and
his fresh-<DW52> face seemed young still, in spite of the fringe of
white beard in which it was framed.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "what a treat to set eyes upon our dear Philippe
again! It must be three years since we saw him last. Yes, of course, not
since his appointment as professor of history in Paris. By Jove, the
chap has made his way in the world! What a time we shall give him during
the fortnight that he's with us! Walking... exercise.... He's all for
the open-air life, like old Morestal!"
He began to laugh:
"Shall I tell you what would be the thing for him? Six months in camp
between this and Berlin!"
"I'm not afraid," she declared. "He's been through the Normal School.
The professors keep to their garrisons in time of war."
"What nonsense are you talking now?"
"The school-master told me so."
He gave a start:
"What! Do you mean to say you still speak to that dastard?"
"He's quite a decent man," she replied.
"He! A decent man! With theories like his!"
She hurried from the room, to escape the explosion. But Morestal was
fairly started:
"Yes, yes, theories! I insist upon the word: theories! As a
district-councillor, as Mayor of Saint-Elophe, I have the right to be
present at his lessons. Oh, you have no idea of his way of teaching the
history of France!... In my time, the heroes were the Chevalier d'Assas,
Bayard, La Tour d'Auvergne, all those beggars who shed lustre on our
country. Nowadays, it's Mossieu Etienne Marcel, Mossieu Dolet.... Oh, a
nice set of theories, theirs!"
He barred the way to his wife, as she entered the room again, and roared
in her face:
"Do you know why Napoleon lost the battle of Waterloo?"
"I can't find that large breakfast-cup anywhere," said Mme. Morestal,
engrossed in her occupation.
"Well, just ask your school-master; he'll give you the latest up-to-date
theories about Napoleon."
"I put it down here, on this chest, with my own hand."
"But there, they're doing all they can to distort the children's
minds."
"It spoils my set."
"Oh, I swear to you, in the old days, we'd have ducked our school-master
in the horse-pond, if he had dared.... But, by Jove, France had a place
of her own in the world then! And such a place!
... That was the time of Solferino!... Of Magenta!... We weren't
satisfied with chucking down frontier-posts in those days: we crossed
the frontiers... and at the double, believe me...."
He stopped, hesitating, pricking up his ears. Trumpet-blasts sounded in
the distance, ringing from valley to valley, echoing and re-echoing
against the obstacles formed by the great granite rocks and dying away
to right and left, as though stifled by the shadow of the forests.
He whispered, excitedly:
"The French bugle...."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, there are troops of Alpines manoeuvring... a company from
Noirmont.... Listen... listen.... What gaiety!... What swagger!... I
tell you, close to the frontier like this, it takes such an air...."
She listened too, seized with the same excitement, and asked, anxiously:
"Do you really think that war is possible?"
"Yes," he replied, "I do."
They were silent for a moment. And Morestal continued:
"It's a presentiment with me.... We shall have it all over again, as in
1870.... And, mark you, I hope that this time..."
She put down her breakfast-cup, which she had found in a cupboard, and,
leaning on her husband's arm:
"I say, the boy's coming... with his wife. She's a dear girl and we're
very fond of her.... I want the house to look nice for them, bright and
full of flowers.... Go and pick the best you have in your garden."
He smiled:
"That's another way of saying that I'm boring you, eh? I can't help it.
I shall be just the same to my dying day. The wound is too deep ever to
heal."
They looked at each other for a while with a great gentleness, like two
old travelling-companions, who, from time to time, for no particular
reason, stop, exchange glances or thoughts and then resume their
journey.
He asked:
"Must I cut my roses? My Gloires de Dijon?"
"Yes."
"Come along then! I'll be a hero!"
*
* *
Morestal, the son and grandson of well-to-do farmers, had increased his
fathers' fortune tenfold by setting up a mechanical saw-yard at
Saint-Elophe, the big neighbouring village. He was a plain, blunt man,
as he himself used to say, "with no false bottom, nothing in my hands,
nothing up my sleeves;" just a few moral ideas to guide his course
through life, ideas as old and simple as could be. And those few ideas
themselves were subject to a principle that governed his whole existence
and ruled all his actions, the love of his country, which, in Morestal,
stood for regret for the past, hatred of the present and, especially,
the bitter recollection of defeat.
Elected Mayor of Saint-Elophe and a district-councillor, he sold his
works and built, within view of the frontier, on the site of a ruined
mill, a large house designed after his own plans and constructed, so to
speak, under his own eyes. The Morestals had lived here for the last ten
years, with their two servants: Victor, a decent, stout, jolly-faced
man, and Catherine, a Breton woman who had nursed Philippe as a baby.
They saw but few people, outside a small number of friends, of whom the
most frequent visitors were the special commissary of the government,
Jorance, and his daughter Suzanne.
The Old Mill occupied the round summit of a hill with <DW72>s shelving
down in a series of fairly large gardens, which Morestal cultivated with
genuine enthusiasm. The property was surrounded by a high wall, the top
of which was finished off with an iron trellis bristling with spikes. A
spring leapt from place to place and fell in cascades to the bottom of
the rocks decked with wild flowers, moss, lichen and maiden-hair ferns.
*
* *
Morestal picked a great armful of flowers, laid waste his rose-garden,
sacrificed all the Gloires de Dijon of which he was so proud and
returned to the drawing-room, where he himself arranged the bunches in
large glass vases.
The room, a sort of hall occupying the centre of the house, with beams
of timber showing and a huge chimney covered with gleaming brasses, the
room was bright and cheerful and open at both fronts: to the east, on
the terrace, by a long bay; to the west, by two windows, on the garden,
which it overlooked from the height of a first floor.
The walls were covered with War Office maps, Home Office maps, district
maps. There was an oak gun-rack with twelve rifles, all alike and of the
latest pattern. Beside it, nailed flat to the wall and roughly stitched
together, were three dirty, worn, tattered strips of bunting, blue,
white and red.
"They look very well: what do you say?" he asked, when he had finished
arranging the flowers, as though his wife had been in the room. "And
now, I think, a good pipe..."
He took out his tobacco-pouch and matches and, crossing the terrace,
went and leant against the stone balustrade that edged it.
Hills and valleys mingled in harmonious curves, all green, in places,
with the glad green of the meadows, all dark, in others, with the
melancholy green of the firs and larches.
At thirty or forty feet below him ran the road that leads from
Saint-Elophe up to the Old Mill. It skirted the walls and then dipped
down again to the Etang-des-Moines, or Monks' Pool, of which it followed
the left bank. Breaking off suddenly, it narrowed into a rugged path
which could be seen in the distance, standing like a ladder against a
rampart, and which plunged into a narrow pass between two mountains
wilder in appearance and rougher in outline than the ordinary Vosges
landscape. This was the Col du Diable, or Devil's Pass, situated at a
distance of sixteen hundred yards from the Old Mill, on the same level.
A few buildings clung to one of the sides of the pass: these belonged to
Saboureux's Farm. From Saboureux's Farm to the Butte-aux-Loups, or
Wolves' Knoll, which you saw on the left, you could make out or imagine
the frontier by following a line of which Morestal knew every
guiding-mark, every turn, every acclivity and every descent.
"The frontier!" he muttered. "The frontier here... at twenty-five miles
from the Rhine... the frontier in the very heart of France!"
Every day and ten times a day, he tortured himself in this manner,
gazing at that painful and relentless line; and, beyond it, through
vistas which his imagination contrived as it were to carve out of the
Vosges, he conjured up a vision of the German plain on the misty
horizon.
And this too he repeated to himself; and he did so this time as at every
other time, with a bitterness which the years that passed did nothing to
allay:
"The German plain... the German hills... all that land of Alsace in
which I used to wander as a boy.... The French Rhine, which was my river
and the river of my fathers.... And now _Deutschland_... _Deutsches
Rhein_...."
A faint whistle made him start. He leant over towards the staircase that
climbed the terrace, a staircase cut out of the rock, by which people
coming from the side of the frontier often entered his grounds so as to
avoid the bend of the road. There was nobody there nor anybody opposite,
on the roadside <DW72> all tangled with shrubs and ferns.
And the sound was renewed, discreetly, stealthily, with the same
modulations as before.
"It's he... it's he..." thought M. Morestal, with an uncomfortable
feeling of embarrassment.
A head popped from between the bushes, a head in which all the bones
stood out, joined by prominent muscles, which gave it the look of the
head of an anatomical model. On the bridge of the nose, a pair of
copper-rimmed spectacles. Across the face, like a gash, the toothless,
grinning mouth.
"You again, Dourlowski...."
"Can I come?" asked the man.
"No... no... you're mad...."
"It's urgent."
"Impossible.... And besides, you know, I don't want any more of it. I've
told you so before...."
But the man insisted:
"It's for this evening, for to-night.... It's a soldier of the
Boersweilen garrison.... He says he's sick of wearing the German
uniform."
"A deserter.... I've had enough of them.... Shut up and clear out!"
"Now don't be nasty, M. Morestal.... Just think it over.... Look here,
let's meet at four o'clock, in the pass, near Saboureux's Farm... like
last time.... I shall expect you.... We'll have a talk... and I shall
be surprised if..."
"Hold your tongue!" said Morestal.
A voice cried from the drawing-room:
"Here they come, sir, here they come!"
It was the man-servant; and Mme. Morestal also ran out and said:
"What are you doing here? Whom were you talking to?"
"Nobody."
"Why, I heard you!..."
"No, I assure you...."
"Well, I must have imagined it.... I say you were quite right. It's
twelve o'clock and they are here, the two of them."
"Philippe and Marthe?"
"Yes, they are coming. They are close to the garden-entrance. Let's
hurry down and meet them...."
CHAPTER II
THE GIRL WITH THE BARE ARMS
"He hasn't changed a bit.... His complexion is as fresh as ever.... The
eyes are a little tired, perhaps... but he's looking very well...."
"When you've finished picking me to pieces, between you!" said Philippe,
laughing. "What an inspection! Why don't you give my wife a kiss? That's
more to the point!"
Marthe flung herself into Mme. Morestal's arms and into her
father-in-law's and was examined from head to foot in her turn.
"I say, I say, we're thinner in the face than we were!... We want
picking up | 921.671782 |
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Produced by Levent Kurnaz and Jose Menendez
The Fall of the House of Usher
Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne.
DE BERANGER.
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the
autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the
heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a
singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself,
as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the
melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with the
first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom
pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was
unrelieved by any of that half-pleasureable, because poetic,
sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest
natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the
scene before me--upon the mere house, and the simple landscape
features of the domain--upon the bleak walls--upon the vacant
eye-like windows--upon a few rank sedges--and upon a few white
trunks of decayed trees--with an utter depression of soul which I
can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the
after-dream of the reveller upon opium--the bitter lapse into
everyday life--the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was
an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart--an unredeemed
dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could
torture into aught of the sublime. What was it--I paused to
think--what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of
the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I
grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I
pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations
of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus
affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among
considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected,
that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the
scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to
modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful
impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse
to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in
unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down--but with a
shudder even more thrilling than before--upon the remodelled and
inverted images of the grey sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems,
and the vacant and eye-like windows.
Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to
myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher,
had been one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years had
elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately
reached me in a distant part of the country--a letter from
him--which, in its wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no
other than a personal reply. The MS gave evidence of nervous
agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness--of a mental
disorder which oppressed him--and of an earnest desire to see me,
as his best, and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of
attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation
of his malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much
more, was said--it was the apparent heart that went with his
request--which | 921.764352 |
2023-11-16 18:32:25.8150120 | 719 | 10 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 845. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
CRESSY'S NEW-YEAR'S RENT.
BY L. A. TEREBEL.
Fred Hallowell was sitting at his desk in the _Gazette_ office, looking
listlessly out into the City Hall Park, where the biting wind was making
the snowflakes dance madly around the leafless trees and in the empty
fountain, and he was almost wishing that there would be so few
assignments to cover as to allow him an afternoon in-doors to write
"specials." The storm was the worst of the season, and as this was the
last day of December, it looked as if the old year were going out with a
tumultuous train of sleet and snow. But if he had seriously entertained
any hopes of enjoying a quiet day, these were dispelled by an office-boy
who summoned him to the city desk.
"Good-morning, Mr. Hallowell," said the city editor, cheerfully. "Here
is a clipping from an afternoon paper which says that a French family in
Houston Street has been dispossessed and is in want. Mr. Wilson called
my attention to it because he thinks, from the number given, the house
belongs to old Q. C. Baggold. We don't like Baggold, you know, and if
you find he is treating his tenants unfairly we can let you have all the
space you want to show him up. At any rate, go over there and see what
the trouble is; there is not much going on to-day."
Fred took the clipping and read it as he walked back to his desk. It was
very short--five or six lines only--and the facts stated were about as
the city editor had said. The young man got into his overcoat and
wrapped himself up warmly, and in a few moments was himself battling
against the little blizzard with the other pedestrians whom he had been
watching in the City Hall Park from the office windows.
When he reached Houston Street he travelled westward for several blocks,
until he came into a very poor district crowded with dingy
tenement-houses that leaned against one another in an uneven sort of
way, as if they were tired of the sad kind of life they had been
witnessing for so many years. The snow that had piled up on the
window-sills and over the copings seemed to brighten up the general
aspect of the quarter, because it filled in the cracks and chinks of
material misery, and made the buildings look at least temporarily
picturesque, just as paint and powder for a time may hide the traces of
old age and sorrow. Fred found the number 179 painted on a piece of tin
that had become bent and rusty from long service over a narrow doorway,
and as he stood there comparing it with the number given in his
clipping, a little girl | 921.835052 |
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Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust)
METHOD IN THE STUDY OF TOTEMISM
BY
ANDREW LANG
GLASGOW
Printed at the University Press by
ROBERT MACLEHOSE & CO. LTD.
1911
METHOD IN THE STUDY OF TOTEMISM
Is there any human institution which can be safely called "Totemism"?
Is there any possibility of defining, or even describing Totemism? Is
it legitimate--is it even possible, with due regard for "methodology"
and logic--to seek for the "normal" form of Totemism, and to trace it
through many Protean changes, produced by various causes, social and
speculative? I think it possible to discern the main type of Totemism,
and to account for divergences.
Quite the opposite opinion appears to be held by Mr. H. H. Goldenweizer
in his "Totemism, an Analytic Study."[1] This treatise is acutely
critical and very welcome, as it enables British inquirers about
totemism to see themselves as they appear "in larger other eyes than
ours." Our common error, we learn, is this: "A feature salient in the
totemic life of some community is seized upon only to be projected into
the life of the remote past, and to be made the starting-point of the
totemic process. The intermediary stages and secondary features are
supplied from local evidence, by analogy with other communities, or 'in
accordance with recognised principles of evolution' [what are they?]
and of logic. The origin and development, thus arrived at, are then
used as principles of interpretation of the present conditions. Not
one step in the above method of attacking the problem of totemism is
logically justifiable."[2]
As I am the unjustifiable sinner quoted in this extract,[3] I may
observe that my words are cited from a harmless statement to the
effect that a self-consistent "hypothesis," or "set of guesses,"
which colligates all the known facts in a problem, is better than a
self-contradictory hypothesis which does not colligate the facts.
Now the "feature salient in the totemic life of some communities,"
which I "project into the life of the remote past," and "make the
starting-point of the totemic process" is the totemic name, animal,
vegetable, or what not, of the totem-kin.
In an attempt to construct a theory of the origin of totemism,
the choice of the totemic name as a starting-point is logically
justifiable, because the possession of a totemic name is,
_universally_, the mark of a totem-kin; or, as most writers prefer to
say, "clan." How can you know that a clan is totemic, if it is not
called by a totemic name? The second salient feature in the totemic
life of some communities which I select as even prior to the totemic
name, is the exogamy of the "clans" now bearing totemic names.
To these remarks Mr. Goldenweizer would reply (I put his ideas briefly)
there are (1) exogamous clans without totemic names; and there are (2)
clans with totemic names, but without exogamy.
To this I answer (1) that if his exogamous clan has not a totemic
name, I do not quite see why it should be discussed in connection with
totemism; but that many exogamous sets, bearing _not_ totemic names,
but local names or nicknames, can be proved to have at one time borne
totemic names. Such exogamous sets, therefore, no longer bearing
totemic names, are often demonstrably variations from the totemic type;
and are not proofs that there is no such thing as a totemic type.
Secondly, I answer, in the almost unique case of "clans" bearing
totemic names without being exogamous, that these "clans" have
previously been exogamous, and have, under ascertained conditions,
shuffled off exogamy. They are deviations from the prevalent type of
clans with totemic names _plus_ exogamy. They are exceptions to the
rule, and, as such, they prove the rule. They are divergences from the
type, and, as such, they prove the existence of the type from which
they have diverged.
So far I can defend my own method: it starts from features that are
universal, or demonstrably have been universal in totemism. There _is_
"an organic unity of the features of totemism,"--of these two features,
the essential features.
Lastly, Mr. Goldenweizer accuses us "Britishers," as he calls us,
of neglecting in our speculations the effects of "borrowing and
diffusion, of assimilation and secondary associations of cultural
elements, in primitive societies."[4]
This charge I do not understand. There has been much discussion of
possibilities of the borrowing and diffusion and assimilation of
phratries, exogamy, and of totemic institutions; and of "ethnic
influences," influences of races, in Australia. But the absence of
historical information, the almost purely mythical character of tribal
legends (in North-West America going back to the Flood, in Australia,
to the "Dream Time"), with our ignorance of Australian philology,
prevent us in this field from reaching conclusions.
(Possibly philologists may yet cast some light on "ethnic influences"
in Australia. The learned editor of _Anthropos_, Pere Schmidt, tells me
that he has made a study of Australian languages and believes that he
has arrived at interesting results.)
Mr. Goldenweizer represents, though unofficially, the studies of many
earnest inquirers of North America, whether British subjects, like Mr.
Hill Tout, or American citizens such as Dr. Boas. They vary, to be
sure, among themselves, as to theories, but they vary also from British
speculators. They have personally and laboriously explored and loyally
reported on totemism among the tribes of the north-west Pacific coast
and _Hinterland_; totemism among these tribes has especially occupied
them; whereas British anthropologists have chiefly, though by no means
solely, devoted themselves to the many varieties of totemism exhibited
by the natives of Australia. These Australian tribes are certainly on
perhaps the lowest known human level of physical culture, whereas the
tribes of British Columbia possess wealth, "towns," a currency (in
blankets), rank (noble, free, unfree), realistic art, and heraldry as a
mark of rank, and of degrees of wealth.
Mr. Goldenweizer's method is to contrast the North-Western American
form of totemism with that prevalent in Central Australia, and to
ask,--how, among so many differences, can you discover a type, an
original norm? I answer that both in North-Western America and in
Central Australia, we find differences which can be proved to arise
from changes in physical and "cultural" conditions and from speculative
ideas. I have said that in British Columbia the tribes are in a much
more advanced state of culture than any Australian peoples, and
their culture has affected their society and their totemism. Wealth,
distinctions of rank, realistic art, with its result in heraldry as a
mark of rank, and fixed residence in groups of houses are conditions
unknown to the Australian tribes, and have necessarily provided
divergences in totemic institutions. Mr. Goldenweizer replies "that
the American conditions are due to the fact that the tribes of British
Columbia are 'advanced' cannot be admitted."[5] But, admitted or not,
it can be proved, as I hope to demonstrate.
[1] _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, April-June, 1910.
[2] _J. A. F._ p. 280
[3] _Secret of the Totem_, p. 28.
[4] _J. A. F._ p. 281.
[5] _J. A. F._ p. 287.
II.
Mr. Goldenweizer gives what he supposes some of us to regard as
"essential characteristics" or "symptoms" of totemism. He numbers five
of these "symptoms."
1. An exogamous clan.
2. A clan name derived from the totem.
3. A religious attitude towards the totem, as a "friend," "brother,"
"protector," &c.
4. Taboos or restrictions against the killing, eating (sometimes
touching, seeing) of the totem.
5. A belief in descent from the totem.
Mr. Goldenweizer next, by drawing a contrast between British Columbian
and Central Australian totemism, tries to prove, if I understand him,
that "the various features of totemism," are, or may be "essentially
| 921.835074 |
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E-text prepared by Donald Cummings, Adrian Mastronardi, Les Galloway, and
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
CREATION OR EVOLUTION?
A Philosophical Inquiry.
by
GEORGE TICKNOR CURTIS.
New York:
D. Appleton and Company,
1, 3, And 5 Bond Street.
1887.
Copyright, 1887.
by George Ticknor Curtis.
TO
LEWIS A. SAYRE, M. D.,
WHOSE PROFESSIONAL EMINENCE IS RECOGNIZED
IN BOTH HEMISPHERES,
WHOSE SKILL AS A SURGEON
SUFFERING HUMANITY GRATEFULLY ACKNOWLEDGES,
TO WHOSE ANATOMICAL LEARNING
THE AUTHOR IS LARGELY INDEBTED,
AND OF WHOSE FRIENDSHIP HE IS PROUD,
This Book
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
"_Dost thou not know, my new astronomer!
Earth, turning from the sun, brings night to man?
Man, turning from his God, brings endless night;
Where thou canst read no morals, find no friend,
Amend no manners, and expect no peace._"
_YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS._
PREFACE.
Perhaps it is expected of a writer who steps out of the sphere of his
ordinary pursuits, and deals with such a subject as that which is
treated in this work, that he will account for his so doing. It is not
necessary for me to say that no class of men can have a monopoly in any
subject. But I am quite willing to take my readers into my confidence
so far as to state how I came to write this book.
Most men, who have a special pursuit, find the necessity for recreation
of some kind. Some take it in one way, and some in another. It has been
my habit through life to seek occasional relief from the monotony of
professional vocations in intellectual pursuits of another character.
Having this habit--which I have found by experience has no tendency
to lessen one's capacity for the duties of a profession, or one's
relish of its occupations--I some years ago took up the study of the
modern doctrine of animal evolution. Until after the death of the late
Mr. Charles Darwin, I had not given a very close attention to this
subject. The honors paid to his memory, and due to his indefatigable
research and extensive knowledge, led me to examine his "Descent of
Man" and his "Origin of Species," both of which I studied with care,
and I trust with candor. I was next induced to examine the writings
of Mr. Herbert Spencer on the subject of evolution, with which I had
also been previously unacquainted except in a general way. I was a
good deal surprised at the extent of Mr. Spencer's reputation as a
thinker, and by the currency which his peculiar philosophy has had in
this country, where it has led, among the young and inexperienced, as
well as among older persons, to very incorrect habits of reasoning on
subjects of the highest importance. The result of my studies of these
writers is the present book. I have written it because I have seen,
or believe that I have seen, where the conflict arises between some
of the deductions of modern science and the principles which ought to
regulate not only religious belief, but belief in anything that is
not open to the direct observation of our senses. But I trust that I
shall not be understood as having written for the purpose of specially
defending the foundations of religious belief. This is no official
duty of mine. How theologians manage, or ought to manage, the argument
which is to convince men of the existence and methods of God, it is
not for me to say. But a careful examination of the new philosophy
has convinced me that those who are the special teachers of religious
truth have need of great caution in the admissions or concessions which
they make, when they undertake to reconcile some of the conclusions
of modern scientists with belief in a Creator. I do not here speak of
the Biblical account of the creation, but I speak of that belief in
a Creator which is to be deduced from the phenomena of nature. While
there are naturalists, scientists, and philosophers at the present
day, whose speculations do not exclude the idea of a Supreme Being,
there are others whose theories are entirely inconsistent with a belief
in a personal God, the Creator and Governor of the universe. Moreover,
although there are great differences in this respect between the
different persons who accept evolution in some form, the whole doctrine
of the development of distinct species out of other species makes
demands upon our credulity which are irreconcilable with the principles
of belief by which we regulate, or ought to regulate, our acceptance
of any new matter of belief. The principles of belief which we apply
in the ordinary affairs of life are those which should be applied to
scientific or philosophical theories; and inasmuch as the judicial
method of reasoning upon facts is at once the most satisfactory and the
most in accordance with common sense, I have here undertaken to apply
it to the evidence which is supposed to establish the hypothesis of
animal evolution, in contrast with the hypothesis of special creations.
I am no ecclesiastic. I advance no arguments in favor of one or another
interpretation of the Scriptures about which there is controversy among
Christians. While I firmly believe that God exists, and that he has
made a revelation to mankind, whereby he has given us direct assurance
of immortality, I do not know that this belief disqualifies me from
judging, upon proper principles of evidence, of the soundness of a
theory which denies that he specially created either the body or the
mind of man. How far the hypothesis of evolution, by destroying our
belief that God specially created us, tends to negative any purpose
for which we can suppose him to have made to us a revelation of our
immortality, it is for the theologian to consider. For myself, I am
not conscious that in examining the theory of evolution I have been
influenced by my belief in what is called revealed religion. I have,
at all events, studiously excluded from the argument all that has been
inculcated by the Hebrew or the Christian records as authorized or
inspired teachings, and have treated the Mosaic account of the creation
like any other hypothesis of the origin of man and the other animals.
The result of my study of the hypothesis of evolution is, that it is an
ingenious but delusive mode of accounting for the existence of either
the body or the mind of man; and that it employs a kind of reasoning
which no person of sound judgment would apply to anything that might
affect his welfare, his happiness, his estate, or his conduct in the
practical affairs of life.
He who would truly know what the doctrine of evolution is, and to
what it leads, must literally begin at the beginning. He must free
his mind from the cant of agnosticism and from the cant of belief. He
must refuse to accept dogmas on the authority of any one, be they the
dogmas of the scientist, or of the theologian. He must learn that his
mental nature is placed under certain laws, as surely as his corporeal
structure; and he must cheerfully obey the necessities which compel him
to accept some conclusions and to reject others. Keeping his reasoning
powers in a well-balanced condition, he must prove all things, holding
fast to that which is in conformity with sound deduction, and to that
alone. But all persons may not be able to afford the time to pursue
truth in this way, or may not have the facilities for the requisite
research. It seemed to me, therefore, that an effort to do for them
what they can not do for themselves would be acceptable to a great many
people.
It may be objected that the imaginary philosopher whom I have
introduced in some of my chapters under the name of Sophereus, or the
searcher after wisdom, debating the doctrines of evolution with a
supposed disciple of that school, whom I have named Kosmicos, is an
impossible person. It may perhaps be said that the conception of a man
absolutely free from all dogmatic religious teaching, from all bias to
any kind of belief, and yet having as much knowledge of various systems
of belief as I have imputed to this imaginary person, would in modern
society be the conception of an unattainable character. My answer to
this criticism would be that I felt myself at liberty to imagine any
kind of character that would suit my purpose. How successfully I have
carried out the idea of a man in mature life entirely free from all
preconceived opinions, and forming his beliefs upon principles of
pure reason, it is for my readers to judge. With regard | 921.838864 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Induna's Wife, by Bertram Mitford.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
THE INDUNA'S WIFE, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.
PROLOGUE.
Twilight was fast closing in upon the desolate site of the old Kambula
Camp, and the short, sharp thunderstorm which at the moment of
outspanning had effectually drenched the scant supply of fuel, rendering
that evening's repast, of necessity, cold commons, had left in its wake
a thin but steady downpour. Already the line of low hills hard by was
indistinct in the growing gloom, and a far-reaching expanse of cold and
treeless plains made up a surrounding as mournful and depressing as
could be.
The waggon stood outspanned in the tall grass, which, waist high, was
about as pleasant to stand in as the drift of a river. Just above, the
conical ridge, once crested with fort and waggon laagers, and swarming
with busy life, and the stir and hum of troops on hard active service,
now desolate and abandoned--the site, indeed, still discernible if only
by ancient tins, and much fragmentary residue of the ubiquitous British
bottle. Below, several dark patches in the grass marked the
resting-place of hundreds of Zulu dead--fiery, intrepid warriors--mown
down in foil and sweeping rush, with lips still framing the war cry of
their king, fierce resolute hands still gripping the deadly charging
spear. Now a silent and spectral peace rested upon this erewhile scene
of fierce and furious war, a peace that in the gathering gloom had in it
something that was weird, boding, oppressive. Even my natives, usually
prone to laughter and cheery spirits, seemed subdued, as though loth to
pass the night upon this actual site of vast and tolerably recent
bloodshed; and the waggon leader, a smart but unimaginative lad, showed
a suspicious alacrity in driving back the span from drinking at the
adjacent water-hole. Yes! It is going to be a detestable night.
Hard biscuit and canned jam are but a poor substitute for fizzling
rashers and wheaten cakes, white as snow within and hot from the
gridiron; yet there is a worse one, and that is no biscuit at all.
Moreover, there is plenty of whisky, and with that and a pipe I proceed
to make myself as snug as may be within the waggon, which is not saying
much, for the tent leaks abominably. But life in the Veldt accustoms
one to such little inconveniences, and soon, although the night is yet
young--has hardly begun, in fact--I find myself nodding, and becoming
rapidly and blissfully oblivious to cold splashes dropping incontinently
from new and unexpected quarters.
The oxen are not yet made fast to the disselboom for the night, and one
of my natives is away to collect them. The others, rolled in their
blankets beneath the waggon, are becoming more and more drowsy in the
hum of their conversation. Suddenly this becomes wide-awake and alert.
They are sitting up, and are, I gather from their remarks, listening to
the approach of something or somebody. Who--what is it? There are no
wild animals to reckon with in that part of the country, save for a
stray leopard or so, and Zulus have a wholesome shrinking from moving
abroad at night, let alone on such a night as this. Yet on peering
forth, a few seconds reveal the approach of somebody. A tall form
starts out of the darkness and the long wet grass, and from it the deep
bass tones of the familiar Zulu greeting: "Nkose!"
Stay! Can it be? I ought indeed to know that voice; yet what does its
owner here thus and at such an hour? This last, however, is its said
owner's business exclusively.
"Greeting, Untuswa! Welcome, old friend," I answered. "Here is no fire
to sit by, but the inside of the waggon is fairly dry; at any rate not
so wet as outside. And there is a dry blanket or two and a measure of
strong _tywala_ to restore warmth, likewise snuff in abundance. So
climb up here, winner of the King's Assegai, holder of the White Shield,
and make thyself snug, for the night is vile."
Now, as this fine old warrior was in the act of climbing up into the
waggon, there came a sound of trampling and the clash of horns, causing
him to turn his head. The waggon leader, having collected the span, was
bringing it in to attach to the yokes for the night, for it promised
soon to be pitch dark, and now the heads of the oxen looked spectral in
the mist. One especially, a great black one, with wide branching horns
rising above the fast gathering sea of vapour, seemed to float upon the
latter--a vast head without a trunk. The sight drew from Untuswa a
shake of the head and a few quick muttered words of wonderment. That
was all then, but when snug out of the drizzling rain, warmed by a
measure of whisky, and squatting happy and comfortable in a dry blanket,
snuff-box in hand, he began a story, and I--well, I thought I was in
luck's way, for a wet and cheerless and lonely evening stood to lose all
its depression and discomfort if spent in listening to one of old
Untuswa's stories.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE TALE OF THE RED DEATH.
There was that about the look of your oxen just now, _Nkose_--shadowed
like black ghosts against the mist--that brought back to my old mind a
strange and wonderful time. And the night is yet young. Nor will that
tale take very long in telling, unless--ah, that tale is but the door
opening into a still greater one; but of that we shall see--yes, we
shall see.
I have already unfolded to you, _Nkose_, all that befell at the Place of
the Three Rifts, and how at that place we met in fierce battle and
rolled back the might of Dingane and thus saved the Amandebeli as a
nation. Also have I told the tale of how I gained the White Shield by
saving the life of a king, and how it in turn saved the life of a
nation. Further have I told how I took for principal wife Lalusini, the
sorceress, in whose veins ran the full blood of the House of
Senzangakona, the royal House of Zululand, and whom I had first found
making strange and powerful _muti_ among the Bakoni, that disobedient
people whom we stamped flat.
For long after these events there was peace in our land. The arm of
Dingane was stretched out against us no more, and Umzilikazi, our king,
who had meditated moving farther northward, had decided to sit still in
the great kraal, Kwa'zingwenya, yet a little longer. But though we had
peace from our more powerful enemies, the King would not suffer the
might of our nation to grow soft and weak for lack of practice in the
arts of war--oh, no. The enrolling of warriors was kept up with
unabated vigour, and the young men thus armed were despatched at once to
try their strength upon tribes within striking distance, and even far
beyond the limits of the same. Many of these were mountain tribes,
small in numbers, but brave and fierce, and gave our fiery youths just
as much fighting as they could manage ere wetting their victorious
spears in blood.
Now, although we had peace from our more formidable foes, yet the mind
of the King seemed not much easier on that account, for all fears as to
disturbance from without being removed, it seemed that Umzilikazi was
not wholly free from dread of conspiracy within. And, indeed, I have
observed that it is ever so, _Nkose_. When the greater troubles which
beset a man, and which he did not create, beset him no longer, does he
not at once look around to see what troubles he can create for himself?
_Whau_! I am old. I have seen.
So it was with Umzilikazi. The fear of Dingane removed, the
recollection of the conspiracy of Tyuyumane and the others returned--
that conspiracy to hand over our new nation to the invading Amabuna--
that conspiracy which so nearly succeeded, and, indeed, would have
completely, but for the watchfulness and craft of the old Mosutu witch
doctor. Wherefore, with this suspicion ever in the King's mind we,
_izinduna_, seemed to have fallen upon uneasy times. Yet the principal
object of dislike and distrust to the Great Great One was not, in the
first place, one of ourselves. No councillor or fighting man was it,
but a woman--and that woman Lalusini, my principal wife.
"Ha, Untuswa!" would the King say, talking dark, but his tone full of
gloomy meaning. "Ha, Untuswa, but thine _amahlose_ [Tutelary spirits]
watch over thee well. Tell me, now, where is there a man the might of
whose spear and the terror of whose name sweeps the world--whose
slumbers are lulled by the magic of the mighty, and who is greater even
than kings? Tell me, Untuswa, where is such a man?"
"I think such is to be found not far hence, Great Great One. Even in
this house," I answered easily, yet with a sinking fear of evil at
heart, for his words were plain in their meaning; my successes in war
surpassed by none; my beautiful wife, the great sorceress of the Bakoni,
the wandering daughter of Tshaka the Terrible. And his tone--ah, that,
too, spoke.
"Even in this house! _Yeh bo_! Untuswa--thou sayest well," went on the
King softly, his head on one side, and peering at me with an expression
that boded no good. "Even in this house! Ha! Name him, Untuswa. Name
him."
"Who am I that I should sport with the majesty of the King's name?" I
answered. "Is not the son of Matyobane--the Founder of Mighty Nations--
the Elephant of the Amandebeli--such a man? Doth not his spear rule the
world, and the terror of his name--_au_!--who would hear it and laugh?
And is not the bearer of that name greater than other kings--greater
even than the mighty one of the root of Senzangakona--whose might has
fled before the brightness of the great king's head-ring? And again,
who sleeps within the shadow of powerful and propitious magic but the
Father and Founder of this great nation?"
"Very good, Untuswa. Very good. Yet it may be that the man of whom I
was speaking is no king at all--great, but no king."
"No king at all! _Hau_! I know not such a man, Father of the World," I
answered readily. | 921.850939 |
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Transcribed from the 1896 “Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales” Macmillan and
Co. edition. Scanned and proofed by David Price, email [email protected]
THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
CHAPTER I.
I HAVE always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered
up and down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the
national spelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling which
makes the Welsh peasant still look upon him as the hero of his country.
There was great joy among many of the inhabitants of the principality,
when the subject of the Welsh prize poem at Oxford, some fifteen or
sixteen years ago, was announced to be “Owain Glendwr.” It was the most
proudly national subject that had been given for years.
Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in
the present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate
countrymen for his magical powers as for his patriotism. He says
himself—or Shakespeare says it for him, which is much the same thing—
‘At my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes
Of burning cressets...
... I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’
And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking
Hotspur’s irreverent question in reply.
Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh
hero’s character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to this
tale. When Sir David Gam, “as black a traitor as if he had been born in
Builth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with him
whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies.
Rhys ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more than
brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven,
but one whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be
forgiven. Glendwr was too deeply read in the human heart to kill him.
No, he let him live on, the loathing and scorn of his compatriots, and
the victim of bitter remorse. The mark of Cain was upon him.
But before he went forth—while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering beneath
his conscience before Owain Glendwr—that chieftain passed a doom upon him
and his race:
“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death. Thou
shalt live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn of
all good men. The very children shall point to thee with hissing tongue,
and say, ‘There goes one who would have shed a brother’s blood!’ For I
loved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on
to see all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the
sword. Thy race shall be accursed. Each generation shall see their
lands melt away like snow; yea their wealth shall vanish, though they may
labour night and day to heap up gold. And when nine generations have
passed from the face of the earth, thy blood shall no longer flow in the
veins of any human being. In those days the last male of thy race shall
avenge me. The son shall slay the father.”
Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr’s speech to his
once-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had been
fulfilled in all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would,
the Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldly
stock diminished without any visible cause.
But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring
power of the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards of
Memory when some untoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and in
the eighth generation the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by
the marriage of the Griffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who,
unexpectedly, by the death of a brother, became an heiress—to no
considerable amount, to be sure, but enough to make the prophecy appear
reversed. The heiress and her husband removed from his small patrimonial
estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in Caernarvonshire, and for a
time the prophecy lay dormant.
If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church of
Ynysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the mountains,
which shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay. This tract of
land has every appearance of having been redeemed at no distant period of
time from the sea, and has all the desolate rankness often attendant upon
such marshes. But the valley beyond, similar in character, had yet more
of gloom at the time of which I write. In the higher part there were
large plantations of firs, set too closely to attain any size, and
remaining stunted in height and scrubby in appearance. Indeed, many of
the smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark had fallen down on the
brown soil neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a ghastly
appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light which
struggled through the thick boughs above. Nearer to the sea, the valley
assumed a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked
dark and overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, and
even a farm-house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a
landscape, failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part of
the estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife.
In the higher part of the valley was situated the family mansion, or
rather dwelling-house, for “mansion” is too grand a word to apply to the
clumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen. It was square and
heavy-looking, with just that much pretension to ornament necessary to
distinguish it from the mere farm-house.
In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons—Llewellyn,
the future Squire, and Robert, who was early destined for the Church.
The only difference in their situation, up to the time when Robert was
entered at Jesus College, was, that the elder was invariably indulged by
all around him, while Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; that
Llewellyn never learned anything from the poor Welsh parson, who was
nominally his private tutor; while occasionally Squire Griffiths made a
great point of enforcing Robert’s diligence, telling him that, as he had
his bread to earn, he must pay attention to his learning. There is no
knowing how far the very irregular education he had received would have
carried Robert through his college examinations; but, luckily for him in
this respect, before such a trial of his learning came round, he heard of
the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, brought on by a
hard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it seemed
quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to “earn
his bread by his learning,” that he should not return to Oxford. So the
half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at home, during
the short remainder of his parent’s lifetime.
His was not an uncommon character. In general he was mild, indolent, and
easily managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were vehement
and fearful. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common
hardly dared to give way to justifiable anger—so much did he dread losing
his self-control. Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably,
have distinguished himself in those branches of literature which call for
taste and imagination, rather than any exertion of reflection or
judgment. As it was, his literary taste showed itself in making
collections of Cambrian antiquities of every description, till his stock
of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had he
been alive at the time of which I write.
There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to
note, and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard drinker;
whether it was that his head was easily affected, or that his
partially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and its attendant
circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was
habitually sober—a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a
churlish, unsociable being, and paused much of his time in solitude.
About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the
Caernarvon assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his
agent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had
charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only a
few days at her father’s house, they were sufficient to decide his
affections, and short was the period allowed to elapse before he brought
home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. Griffiths was a gentle,
yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of whom, nevertheless,
she stood something in awe, partly arising from the difference in their
ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of which she could
understand nothing.
She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called
Augharad after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years in
the household of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declared
that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and
heir. His birth was soon followed by his mother’s death: she had been
ailing and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack the
buoyancy of body and mind requisite to bring her round after her time of
trial. Her husband, who loved her all the more from having few other
claims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her early death, and his
only comforter was the sweet little boy whom she had left behind. That
part of the squire’s character, which was so tender, and almost feminine,
seemed called forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, who
stretched out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing that
happier children make use of to their mother alone. Augharad was almost
neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to his
father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so accustomed
to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by day
Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years
seemed only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural life for the
child, seeing no bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad
was, as I said before, five or six years older, and her face, poor
motherless girl! was often anything but bright), hearing no din of clear
ringing voices, but day after day sharing the otherwise solitary hours of
his father, whether in the dim room, surrounded by wizard-like
antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his “tada” in
his mountain rambles or shooting excursions. When the pair came to some
little foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the
father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the
lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or the
Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy was
indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of
sharing his meals and | 921.859838 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: NELLY'S HOSPITAL.--PAGE 54]
AUNT JO's SCRAP-BAG.
Volume III.
CUPID AND CHOW-CHOW, ETC.
[Illustration: Scrap Bag Vol. III]
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL,"
"LITTLE MEN," "H | 921.94565 |
2023-11-16 18:32:26.0142610 | 1,064 | 10 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE FLAGS OF OUR FIGHTING ARMY
[Illustration:
=1.= Second Troop of Horse Guards, 1687.
]
[Illustration:
=2.= 5th Dragoon Guards, 1687.
]
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
=3.= and =4.= 2nd Dragoon Guards, 1742.
]
[Illustration:
=5.= General Grove’s Regiment (10th Foot), 1726.
]
[Illustration:
=6.= 27th Inniskilling Regiment, 1747.
]
[Illustration:
=7.= 103rd Regiment, 1780.
]
[Illustration:
=8.= 14th Regiment (Second Battalion), 1812.
]
PLATE 1. EARLY REGIMENTAL COLOURS AND STANDARDS
THE FLAGS
OF OUR FIGHTING ARMY
INCLUDING STANDARDS, GUIDONS, COLOURS AND DRUM BANNERS
BY STANLEY C. JOHNSON,
M.A., D.Sc., F.R.E.S.
Author of “The Medals of Our Fighting Men,” “Peeps at Postage Stamps,”
etc.
WITH EIGHT FULL-PAGE
PLATES IN COLOUR
A. & C. BLACK, LTD.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1
TO MY BROTHER
IN THE
ROYAL GARRISON ARTILLERY.
A UNIT OF THE ARMY IN
WHICH THE GUNS SERVE THE
PURPOSE OF REGIMENTAL
STANDARDS.
Published, 1918.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
Very little has been written in the past dealing with the subject of the
standards, guidons, colours, etc., of the British Army. Scattered
amongst Regimental histories, biographies of illustrious soldiers, and
military periodicals, a fair amount of information may be discovered,
but it is, of necessity, disjointed and difficult of viewing in proper
perspective. Many years ago, a capital book was written by the late Mr.
S. M. Milne, entitled “Standards and Colours of the British Army.”
Unfortunately, this work was published privately and, accordingly, did
not receive the full measure of appreciation which it merited.
Students of Army Flags should consult this book whenever possible; also
“Ranks and Badges of the Army and Navy,” by Mr. O. L. Perry; and the
articles which appeared in _The Regiment_ during the latter weeks of
1916. Messrs. Gale & Polden’s folders dealing with Army Flags are also
instructive.
The author wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to Mr. Milne, Mr. O.
L. Perry, and the Editor of _The Regiment_. He is also very grateful for
the assistance extended to him by Lieutenant J. Harold Watkins and
Lieutenant C. H. Hastings, Officers in charge of the Canadian War
Records.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— INTRODUCTION 1
II.— A HISTORY OF MILITARY COLOURS 6
III.— STANDARDS, GUIDONS AND DRUM BANNERS OF THE HOUSEHOLD 36
CAVALRY, DRAGOON GUARDS AND CAVALRY OF THE LINE
IV.— YEOMANRY GUIDONS AND DRUM BANNERS 47
V.— THE COLOURS OF THE FOOT GUARDS 54
VI.— THE COLOURS OF THE INFANTRY 64
VII.— COLOURS OF OUR OVERSEAS DOMINIONS 115
VIII.— MISCELLANEOUS COLOURS 121
IX.— BATTLE HONOURS 124
Appendix.— REGIMENTAL COLOURS OF CANADIAN INFANTRY BATTALIONS 139
INDEX 147
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR
1.—EARLY REGIMENTAL COLOURS AND STANDARDS _Frontispiece._
FACING PAGE
2.—CAVALRY STANDARDS, GUIDONS AND DRUM BANNERS 36
3.—COLOURS OF THE FOOT GUARDS 54
4.—SAVING THE COLOURS OF THE BUFFS AT ALBUHERA 68
5.—COLOURS OF THE INFANTRY OF THE LINE (REGULAR 80
BATTALIONS)
6.—REGIMENTAL COLOURS OF THE TERRITORIAL FORCE 98
7.— | 922.034301 |
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{Transcriber's note:
Some books have no price listed in the original, and some publishers have
no address listed. These are indicated by {no price} and {no address}
respectively.
A few typographical errors have been corrected. They are listed, and
other possible errors noted, at the end of the etext.}
THE
_Annual Catalogue_:
(NUMB. II.)
Or, A new and compleat LIST of
ALL THE NEW
BOOKS,
New Editions of BOOKS,
PAMPHLETS, PRINTS, _&c._
PUBLISH'D
In History, Divinity, Law, Poetry, Plays, Novels, Painting,
Architecture, and all other Sciences, from _January_ the First, 1737, to
_January_ the First, 1738. Giving an Account of the Prices they sell
for, also a List of the Names and Places of Abode of the several
Booksellers, _&c._ whom printed by.
Useful to all | 922.105429 |
2023-11-16 18:32:26.1256670 | 1,792 | 6 |
Produced by Henry Gardiner, Geetu Melwani, Kathryn Lybarger,
Nick Wall 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
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* * * * *
Transcriber's Note: The original publication has been replicated
faithfully except as shown in the TRANSCRIBER'S AMENDMENTS near the end
of the text. To preserve the alignment of tables and headers, this etext
presumes a mono-spaced font on the user's device, such as Courier New.
Words in italics are indicated like _this_.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
[Illustration: COLUMBIA PRESENTING STANLEY TO EUROPEAN SOVEREIGNS.]
STANLEY
IN AFRICA.
THE
WONDERFUL DISCOVERIES
AND
THRILLING ADVENTURES
OF
THE GREAT AFRICAN EXPLORER
AND OTHER
TRAVELERS, PIONEERS AND MISSIONARIES.
BEAUTIFULLY AND ELABORATELY ILLUSTRATED WITH
ENGRAVINGS, PLATES AND MAPS
BY
JAMES P. BOYD, A.M.
Author of "Political History of the United States"
and "Life of Gen. U. S. Grant," etc.
ROSE PUBLISHING CO.,
TORONTO, CANADA.
Copyright, 1889
BY
JAMES P. BOYD.
INTRODUCTION.
A volume of travel, exploration and adventure is never without
instruction and fascination for old and young. There is that within us
all which ever seeks for the mysteries which are bidden behind mountains,
closeted in forests, concealed by earth or sea, in a word, which are
enwrapped by Nature. And there is equally that within us which is touched
most sensitively and stirred most deeply by the heroism which has
characterized the pioneer of all ages of the world and in every field of
adventure.
How like enchantment is the story of that revelation which the New
America furnished the Old World! What a spirit of inquiry and exploit it
opened! How unprecedented and startling, adventure of every kind became!
What thrilling volumes tell of the hardships of daring navigators or of
the perils of brave and dashing landsmen! Later on, who fails to read
with the keenest emotion of those dangers, trials and escapes which
enveloped the intrepid searchers after the icy secrets of the Poles, or
confronted those who would unfold the tale of the older civilizations and
of the ocean's island spaces.
Though the directions of pioneering enterprise change, yet more and more
man searches for the new. To follow him, is to write of the wonderful.
Again, to follow him is to read of the surprising and the thrilling. No
prior history of discovery has ever exceeded in vigorous entertainment
and startling interest that which centers in "The Dark Continent" and has
for its most distinguished hero, Henry M. Stanley. His coming and going
in the untrodden and hostile wilds of Africa, now to rescue the stranded
pioneers of other nationalities, now to explore the unknown waters of
a mighty and unique system, now to teach cannibal tribes respect for
decency and law, and now to map for the first time with any degree of
accuracy, the limits of new dynasties, make up a volume of surpassing
moment and peculiar fascination.
All the world now turns to Africa as the scene of those adventures which
possess such a weird and startling interest for readers of every class,
and which invite to heroic exertion on the part of pioneers. It is the
one dark, mysterious spot, strangely made up of massive mountains, lofty
and extended plateaus, salt and sandy deserts, immense fertile stretches,
climates of death and balm, spacious lakes, gigantic rivers, dense
forests, numerous, grotesque and savage peoples, and an animal life of
fierce mien, enormous strength and endless variety. It is the country of
the marvelous, yet none of its marvels exceed its realities.
And each exploration, each pioneering exploit, each history of adventure
into its mysterious depths, but intensifies the world's view of it and
enhances human interest in it, for it is there the civilized nations are
soon to set metes and bounds to their grandest acquisitions--perhaps in
peace, perhaps in war. It is there that white colonization shall try its
boldest problems. It is there that Christianity shall engage in one of
its hardest contests.
Victor Hugo says, that "Africa will be the continent of the twentieth
century." Already the nations are struggling to possess it. Stanley's
explorations proved the majesty and efficacy of equipment and force amid
these dusky peoples and through the awful mazes of the unknown. Empires
watched with eager eye the progress of his last daring journey. Science
and civilization stood ready to welcome its results. He comes to light
again, having escaped ambush, flood, the wild beast and disease, and
his revelations set the world aglow. He is greeted by kings, hailed by
savants, and looked to by the colonizing nations as the future pioneer of
political power and commercial enterprise in their behalf, as he has been
the most redoubtable leader of adventure in the past.
This miraculous journey of the dashing and intrepid explorer, completed
against obstacles which all believed to be insurmountable, safely ended
after opinion had given him up as dead, together with its bearings on the
fortunes of those nations who are casting anew the chart of Africa, and
upon the native peoples who are to be revolutionized or exterminated by
the last grand surges of progress, all these render a volume dedicated to
travel and discovery, especially in the realm of "The Dark Continent,"
surprisingly agreeable and useful at this time.
[Illustration: MARCHING THROUGH EQUATORIAL AFRICA.]
CONTENTS.
HENRY M. STANLEY, 19
Stanley is safe; the world's rejoicings; a new volume in African
annals; who is "this wizard of travel?" story of Stanley's life;
a poor Welsh boy; a work-house pupil; teaching school; a sailor
boy; in a New Orleans counting-house; an adopted child; bereft
and penniless; a soldier of the South; captured and a prisoner;
in the Federal Navy; the brilliant correspondent; love of travel
and adventure; dauntless amid danger; in Asia-Minor and Abyssinia;
at the court of Spain; in search of Livingstone; at Ujiji on
Tanganyika; the lost found; across the "dark continent;" down the
dashing Congo; boldest of all marches; acclaim of the world.
THE CONGO FREE STATE, 27
A Congo's empire; Stanley's grand conception; European ambitions; the
International Association; Stanley off for Zanzibar; enlists his
carriers; at the mouth of the Congo; preparing to ascend the river;
his force and equipments; the river and river towns; hippopotamus
hunting; the big chiefs of Vivi; the "rock-breaker;" founding
stations; making treaties; tribal characteristics; Congo scenes;
elephants, buffaloes and water-buck; building houses and planting
gardens; making roads; rounding the portages; river crocodiles and
the steamers; foraging in the wilderness; products of the country;
the king and the gong; no more war fetish; above the cataracts;
Stanley Pool and Leopoldville; comparison of Congo with other
rivers; exploration of the Kwa; Stanley sick; his return to Europe;
further plans for his "Free State;" again on the Congo; Bolobo and
its chiefs; medicine for wealth; a free river, but no land; scenery
on the upper Congo; the Watwa dwarfs; the lion and his prey; war
at Bolobo; the Equator station; a long voyage ahead; a modern
Hercules; | 922.145707 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and the Online | 922.247969 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books
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 | 922.336518 |
2023-11-16 18:32:26.3165190 | 720 | 8 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE INNOCENTS
BOOKS BY
SINCLAIR LEWIS
THE INNOCENTS
THE JOB
THE TRAIL OF THE HAWK
OUR MR. WRENN
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
[ESTABLISHED 1817]
[Illustration: THE INNOCENTS]
THE INNOCENTS
A STORY FOR LOVERS
BY
SINCLAIR LEWIS
AUTHOR OF "THE TRAIL OF THE HAWK" "THE JOB" ETC.
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
THE INNOCENTS
Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published October, 1917
F-R
A DEDICATORY INTRODUCTION
If this were a ponderous work of realism, such as the author has
attempted to write, and will doubtless essay again, it would be perilous
to dedicate it to the splendid assembly of young British writers, lest
the critics search for Influences and Imitations. But since this is a
flagrant excursion, a tale for people who still read Dickens and clip
out spring poetry and love old people and children, it may safely
confess the writer's strident admiration for Compton Mackenzie, Hugh
Walpole, Oliver Onions, D. H. Lawrence, J. D. Beresford, Gilbert Cannan,
Patrick MacGill, and their peers, whose novels are the histories of our
contemporaneous Golden Age. Nor may these be mentioned without a yet
more enthusiastic tribute to their master and teacher (he probably
abominates being called either a master or a teacher), H. G. Wells.
THE INNOCENTS
CHAPTER I
Mr. and Mrs. Seth Appleby were almost old. They called each other
"Father" and "Mother." But frequently they were guilty of holding hands,
or of cuddling together in corners, and Father was a person of stubborn
youthfulness. For something over forty years Mother had been trying to
make him stop smoking, yet every time her back was turned he would sneak
out his amber cigarette-holder and puff a cheap cigarette, winking at
the shocked crochet tidy on the patent rocker. Mother sniffed at him and
said that he acted like a young smart Aleck, but he would merely grin in
answer and coax her out for a walk.
As they paraded, the sun shone through the fuzzy, silver hair that
puffed out round Father's crab-apple face, and an echo of delicate
silver was on Mother's rose-leaf cheeks.
They were rustic as a meadow-ringed orchard, yet Father and Mother had
been born in New York City, and there lived for more than sixty years.
Father was a perfectly able clerk in Pilkings's shoe-store on Sixth
Avenue, and Pilkings was so much older than Father that he still called
him, "Hey you, Seth!" and still gave him advice about handling lady
customers. For | 922.336559 |
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[Illustration: [_To face the Title._]
CAPTAIN SWORD AND CAPTAIN PEN.
=A Poem.=
BY LEIGH HUNT.
WITH SOME REMARKS ON
WAR AND MILITARY STATESMEN.
--If there be in glory aught of good,
It may by means far different be attained,
Without ambition, war, or violence.--MILTON.
LONDON:
CHARLES KNIGHT, LUDGATE STREET.
1835.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
LORD BROUGHAM AND VAUX,
WITH WHOM THE WRITER HUMBLY DIFFERS ON SOME POINTS,
BUT DEEPLY RESPECTS FOR HIS MOTIVES ON ALL;
GREAT IN OFFICE FOR WHAT HE DID FOR THE WORLD,
GREATER OUT OF IT IN CALMLY AWAITING HIS TIME TO DO MORE;
THE PROMOTER OF EDUCATION; THE EXPEDITER OF JUSTICE;
THE LIBERATOR FROM SLAVERY;
AND (WHAT IS THE RAREST VIRTUE IN A STATESMAN)
ALWAYS A DENOUNCER OF WAR,
=These Pages are Inscribed=
BY HIS EVER AFFECTIONATE SERVANT,
Jan. 30, 1835. LEIGH HUNT.
ADVERTISEMENT.
This Poem is the result of a sense of duty, which has taken the Author
from quieter studies during a great public crisis. He obeyed the impulse
with joy, because it took the shape of verse; but with more pain, on
some accounts, than he chooses to express. However, he has done what he
conceived himself bound to do; and if every zealous lover of his species
were to express his feelings in like manner, to the best of his ability,
individual opinions, little in themselves, would soon amount to an
overwhelming authority, and hasten the day of reason and beneficence.
The measure is regular with an irregular aspect,--four accents in a
verse,--like that of Christabel, or some of the poems of Sir Walter
Scott:
Captain Sword got up one day--
And the flag full of honour, as though it could feel--
He mentions this, not, of course, for readers in general, but for the
sake of those daily acceders to the list of the reading public, whose
knowledge of books is not yet equal to their love of them.
[Illustration:
STEPPING IN MUSIC AND THUNDER SWEET,
WHICH HIS DRUMS SENT BEFORE HIM INTO THE STREET.
_Canto_ I. _p._ 1.]
CAPTAIN SWORD AND CAPTAIN PEN.
I.
HOW CAPTAIN SWORD MARCHED TO WAR.
Captain Sword got up one day,
Over the hills to march away,
Over the hills and through the towns,
They heard him coming across the downs,
Stepping in music and thunder sweet,
Which his drums sent before him into the street.
And lo! 'twas a beautiful sight in the sun;
For first came his foot, all marching like one,
With tranquil faces, and bristling steel,
And the flag full of honour as though it could feel,
And the officers gentle, the sword that hold
'Gainst the shoulder heavy with trembling gold,
And the massy tread, that in passing is heard,
Though the drums and the music say never a word.
And then came his horse, a clustering sound
Of shapely potency, forward bound,
Glossy black steeds, and riders tall,
Rank after rank, each looking like all,
Midst moving repose and a threatening charm,
With mortal sharpness at each right arm,
And hues that painters and ladies love,
And ever the small flag blush'd above.
And ever and anon the kettle-drums beat
Hasty power midst order meet;
And ever and anon the drums and fifes
Came like motion's voice, and life's;
Or into the golden grandeurs fell
Of deeper instruments, mingling well,
Burdens of beauty for winds to bear;
And the cymbals kiss'd in the shining air,
And the trumpets their visible voices rear'd,
Each looking forth with its tapestried beard,
Bidding the heavens and earth make way
For Captain Sword and his battle-array.
He, nevertheless, rode indifferent-eyed,
As if pomp were a toy to his manly pride,
Whilst the ladies lov'd him the more for his scorn,
And thought him the noblest man ever was born,
And tears came into the bravest eyes,
And hearts swell'd after him double their size,
And all that was weak, and all that was strong,
Seem'd to think wrong's self in him could not be wrong;
Such love, though with bosom about to be gored,
Did sympathy | 922.345768 |
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Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 41397-h.htm or 41397-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41397/41397-h/41397-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41397/41397-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See
http://archive.org/details/unclewaltwaltma00maso
UNCLE WALT
[Illustration: To George Matthew Adams
From his Accomplice Walt Mason]
UNCLE WALT
[WALT MASON]
[Illustration]
The Poet Philosopher
Chicago
George Matthew Adams
1910
Copyright, 1910, by George Matthew Adams.
Registered in Canada in accordance with
the copyright law. Entered at Stationers'
Hall, London. All rights reserved.
Contents
A Glance at History 17
Longfellow 18
In Politics 19
The Human Head 20
The Universal Help 21
Little Sunbeam 22
The Flag 23
Doc Jonnesco 24
Little Girl 25
The Landlady 26
Twilight Reveries 27
King and Kid 28
Little Green Tents 29
Geronimo Aloft 31
The Venerable Excuse 32
Silver Threads 33
The Poet Balks 34
The Penny Saved 35
Home Life 36
Eagles and Hens 37
The Sunday Paper 38
The Nation's Hope 39
Football 40
Health Food 41
Physical Culture 43
The Nine Kings 44
The Eyes of Lincoln 45
The Better Land 46
Knowledge Is Power 47
The Pie Eaters 48
The Sexton's Inn 49
He Who Forgets 50
Poor Father 51
The Idle Question 52
Politeness 53
Little Pilgrims 55
The Wooden Indian 56
Home and Mother 57
E. Phillips Oppenheim 58
Better than Boodle 59
The Famous Four 60
Niagara 61
A Rainy Night 62
The Wireless 63
Helpful Mr. Bok 64
Beryl's Boudoir 65
Post-Mortem Honors 67
After A While 68
Pretty Good Schemes 69
Knowledge by Mail 70
Duke and Plumber 71
Human Hands 72
The Lost Pipe 73
Thanksgiving 74
Sir Walter Raleigh 75
The Country Editor 76
Useless Griefs 77
Fairbanks' Whiskers 78
Letting It Alone 79
The End of the Road 80
The Dying Fisherman 81
George Meredith 82
The Smart Children 83
The Journey 85
Times Have Changed 86
My Little Dog "Dot" 87
Harry Thurston Peck 88
Tired Man's Sleep 89
Tomorrow 90
Toothache 91
Auf Wiedersehen 92
After the Game 93
Nero's Fiddle 94
The Real Terror 95
The Talksmiths 96
Woman's Progress 97
The Magic Mirror 99
The Misfit Face 100
A Dog Story 101
The Pitcher 102
Lions and Ants 103
The Nameless Dead 104
Ambition 105
Night's Illusions 106
Before and After 107
Luther Burbank 108
Governed Too Much 109
Success in Life 110
The Hookworm Victim 111
Alfred Austin 112
Weary Old Age 113
Lullaby 114
The School Marm 115
Poe 116
Gay Parents 117
Dad 118
John Bunyan 119
A Near Anthem 121
The Yellow Cord 122
The Important Man 123
Toddling Home 124
Trifling Things 125
Trusty Dobbin 126
The High Prices 127
Omar Khayyam 128
The Grouch 129
The Pole 130
Wilhelmina 131
Wilbur Wright 132
The Broncho 133
Schubert's Serenade 135
Mazeppa 136
Fashion's Devotee 137
Christmas 138
The Tightwad 139
Blue Blood 140
The Cave Man 141
Rudyard Kipling 142
In Indiana 143
The Colonel at Home 144
The June Bride 145
At The Theatre 146
Club Day Dirge 147
Washington 149
Hours and Ponies 150
The Optimist 151
A Few Remarks 152
Little Things 153
The Umpire 154
Sherlock Holmes 155
The Sanctuary 156
The Newspaper Graveyard 157
My Lady's Hair 158
The Sick Minstrel 159
The Beggar 160
Looking Forward 161
The Depot Loafers 162
The Foolish Husband 163
Halloween 165
Rienzi To The Romans 166
The Sorrel Colt 167
Plutocrat and Poet 168
Mail Order Clothes 169
Evening 170
They All Come Back 171
The Cussing Habit 172
John Bull 173
An Oversight 174
The Traveler 175
Saturday Night 176
Lady Nicotine 177
Up-To-Date Serenade 179
The Consumer 180
Advice To A Damsel 181
The New Year Vow 182
The Stricken Toiler 183
The Law Books 184
Sleuths of Fiction 185
Put It On Ice 186
The Philanthropist 187
Other Days 188
The Passing Year 189
List of | 922.347839 |
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[Illustration]
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN SUPPLEMENT NO. 288
NEW YORK, JULY 9, 1881
Scientific American Supplement. Vol. XI, No. 288.
Scientific American established 1845
Scientific American Supplement, $5 a year.
Scientific American and Supplement, $7 a year.
* * * * *
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
I. ENGINEERING AND MECHANICS--Dry Air | 922.354346 |
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Trancribers Note.
Text appearing in italic and bold font in the original
publication are shown inside _..._ and =...= markup respectively.
Some whole numbers and fractional parts are displayed as 10-2/3.
GETTING & GOLD.
GRIFFIN’S STANDARD PUBLICATIONS.
Fourth Edition, Revised. Fully Illustrated. 21s.
=THE METALLURGY OF GOLD=. By T. KIRKE ROSE, D.Sc. Lond.,
Assoc. R.S.M., Chemist and Assayer to the Royal Mint.
“Adapted for all who are interested in the Gold Mining Industry,
being free from technicalities as far as possible, but is more
particularly of value to those engaged in the industry.”--_Cape
Times._
“A Comprehensive Practical Treatise on this important
subject.”--_The Times._
* * * * *
Medium 8vo. With numerous Plates, Maps, | 922.39872 |
2023-11-16 18:32:26.9260850 | 2,689 | 13 |
THE PARASITE
A Story
BY
A. CONAN DOYLE
AUTHOR OF "THE REFUGEES" "MICAH CLARKE" ETC.
1894
THE PARASITE
I
March 24. The spring is fairly with us now. Outside my laboratory
window the great chestnut-tree is all covered with the big, glutinous,
gummy buds, some of which have already begun to break into little green
shuttlecocks. As you walk down the lanes you are conscious of the
rich, silent forces of nature working all around you. The wet earth
smells fruitful and luscious. Green shoots are peeping out everywhere.
The twigs are stiff with their sap; and the moist, heavy English air is
laden with a faintly resinous perfume. Buds in the hedges, lambs
beneath them--everywhere the work of reproduction going forward!
I can see it without, and I can feel it within. We also have our
spring when the little arterioles dilate, the lymph flows in a brisker
stream, the glands work harder, winnowing and straining. Every year
nature readjusts the whole machine. I can feel the ferment in my blood
at this very moment, and as the cool sunshine pours through my window I
could dance about in it like a gnat. So I should, only that Charles
Sadler would rush upstairs to know what was the matter. Besides, I
must remember that I am Professor Gilroy. An old professor may afford
to be natural, but when fortune has given one of the first chairs in
the university to a man of four-and-thirty he must try and act the part
consistently.
What a fellow Wilson is! If I could only throw the same enthusiasm
into physiology that he does into psychology, I should become a Claude
Bernard at the least. His whole life and soul and energy work to one
end. He drops to sleep collating his results of the past day, and he
wakes to plan his researches for the coming one. And yet, outside the
narrow circle who follow his proceedings, he gets so little credit for
it. Physiology is a recognized science. If I add even a brick to the
edifice, every one sees and applauds it. But Wilson is trying to dig
the foundations for a science of the future. His work is underground
and does not show. Yet he goes on uncomplainingly, corresponding with
a hundred semi-maniacs in the hope of finding one reliable witness,
sifting a hundred lies on the chance of gaining one little speck of
truth, collating old books, devouring new ones, experimenting,
lecturing, trying to light up in others the fiery interest which is
consuming him. I am filled with wonder and admiration when I think of
him, and yet, when he asks me to associate myself with his researches,
I am compelled to tell him that, in their present state, they offer
little attraction to a man who is devoted to exact science. If he
could show me something positive and objective, I might then be tempted
to approach the question from its physiological side. So long as half
his subjects are tainted with charlatanerie and the other half with
hysteria we physiologists must content ourselves with the body and
leave the mind to our descendants.
No doubt I am a materialist. Agatha says that I am a rank one. I tell
her that is an excellent reason for shortening our engagement, since I
am in such urgent need of her spirituality. And yet I may claim to be
a curious example of the effect of education upon temperament, for by
nature I am, unless I deceive myself, a highly psychic man. I was a
nervous, sensitive boy, a dreamer, a somnambulist, full of impressions
and intuitions. My black hair, my dark eyes, my thin, olive face, my
tapering fingers, are all characteristic of my real temperament, and
cause experts like Wilson to claim me as their own. But my brain is
soaked with exact knowledge. I have trained myself to deal only with
fact and with proof. Surmise and fancy have no place in my scheme of
thought. Show me what I can see with my microscope, cut with my
scalpel, weigh in my balance, and I will devote a lifetime to its
investigation. But when you ask me to study feelings, impressions,
suggestions, you ask me to do what is distasteful and even
demoralizing. A departure from pure reason affects me like an evil
smell or a musical discord.
Which is a very sufficient reason why I am a little loath to go to
Professor Wilson's tonight. Still I feel that I could hardly get out
of the invitation without positive rudeness; and, now that Mrs. Marden
and Agatha are going, of course I would not if I could. But I had
rather meet them anywhere else. I know that Wilson would draw me into
this nebulous semi-science of his if he could. In his enthusiasm he is
perfectly impervious to hints or remonstrances. Nothing short of a
positive quarrel will make him realize my aversion to the whole
business. I have no doubt that he has some new mesmerist or
clairvoyant or medium or trickster of some sort whom he is going to
exhibit to us, for even his entertainments bear upon his hobby. Well,
it will be a treat for Agatha, at any rate. She is interested in it,
as woman usually is in whatever is vague and mystical and indefinite.
10.50 P. M. This diary-keeping of mine is, I fancy, the outcome of
that scientific habit of mind about which I wrote this morning. I like
to register impressions while they are fresh. Once a day at least I
endeavor to define my own mental position. It is a useful piece of
self-analysis, and has, I fancy, a steadying effect upon the character.
Frankly, I must confess that my own needs what stiffening I can give
it. I fear that, after all, much of my neurotic temperament survives,
and that I am far from that cool, calm precision which characterizes
Murdoch or Pratt-Haldane. Otherwise, why should the tomfoolery which I
have witnessed this evening have set my nerves thrilling so that even
now I am all unstrung? My only comfort is that neither Wilson nor Miss
Penclosa nor even Agatha could have possibly known my weakness.
And what in the world was there to excite me? Nothing, or so little
that it will seem ludicrous when I set it down.
The Mardens got to Wilson's before me. In fact, I was one of the last
to arrive and found the room crowded. I had hardly time to say a word
to Mrs. Marden and to Agatha, who was looking charming in white and
pink, with glittering wheat-ears in her hair, when Wilson came
twitching at my sleeve.
"You want something positive, Gilroy," said he, drawing me apart into a
corner. "My dear fellow, I have a phenomenon--a phenomenon!"
I should have been more impressed had I not heard the same before. His
sanguine spirit turns every fire-fly into a star.
"No possible question about the bona fides this time," said he, in
answer, perhaps, to some little gleam of amusement in my eyes. "My
wife has known her for many years. They both come from Trinidad, you
know. Miss Penclosa has only been in England a month or two, and knows
no one outside the university circle, but I assure you that the things
she has told us suffice in themselves to establish clairvoyance upon an
absolutely scientific basis. There is nothing like her, amateur or
professional. Come and be introduced!"
I like none of these mystery-mongers, but the amateur least of all.
With the paid performer you may pounce upon him and expose him the
instant that you have seen through his trick. He is there to deceive
you, and you are there to find him out. But what are you to do with
the friend of your host's wife? Are you to turn on a light suddenly
and expose her slapping a surreptitious banjo? Or are you to hurl
cochineal over her evening frock when she steals round with her
phosphorus bottle and her supernatural platitude? There would be a
scene, and you would be looked upon as a brute. So you have your
choice of being that or a dupe. I was in no very good humor as I
followed Wilson to the lady.
Any one less like my idea of a West Indian could not be imagined. She
was a small, frail creature, well over forty, I should say, with a
pale, peaky face, and hair of a very light shade of chestnut. Her
presence was insignificant and her manner retiring. In any group of
ten women she would have been the last whom one would have picked out.
Her eyes were perhaps her most remarkable, and also, I am compelled to
say, her least pleasant, feature. They were gray in color,--gray with
a shade of green,--and their expression struck me as being decidedly
furtive. I wonder if furtive is the word, or should I have said
fierce? On second thoughts, feline would have expressed it better. A
crutch leaning against the wall told me what was painfully evident when
she rose: that one of her legs was crippled.
So I was introduced to Miss Penclosa, and it did not escape me that as
my name was mentioned she glanced across at Agatha. Wilson had
evidently been talking. And presently, no doubt, thought I, she will
inform me by occult means that I am engaged to a young lady with
wheat-ears in her hair. I wondered how much more Wilson had been
telling her about me.
"Professor Gilroy is a terrible sceptic," said he; "I hope, Miss
Penclosa, that you will be able to convert him."
She looked keenly up at me.
"Professor Gilroy is quite right to be sceptical if he has not seen any
thing convincing," said she. "I should have thought," she added, "that
you would yourself have been an excellent subject."
"For what, may I ask?" said I.
"Well, for mesmerism, for example."
"My experience has been that mesmerists go for their subjects to those
who are mentally unsound. All their results are vitiated, as it seems
to me, by the fact that they are dealing with abnormal organisms."
"Which of these ladies would you say possessed a normal organism?" she
asked. "I should like you to select the one who seems to you to have
the best balanced mind. Should we say the girl in pink and
white?--Miss Agatha Marden, I think the name is."
"Yes, I should attach weight to any results from her."
"I have never tried how far she is impressionable. Of course some
people respond much more rapidly than others. May I ask how far your
scepticism extends? I suppose that you admit the mesmeric sleep and
the power of suggestion."
"I admit nothing, Miss Penclosa."
"Dear me, I thought science had got further than that. Of course I
know nothing about the scientific side of it. I only know what I can
do. You see the girl in red, for example, over near the Japanese jar.
I shall will that she come across to us."
She bent forward as she spoke and dropped her fan upon the floor. The
girl whisked round and came straight toward us, with an enquiring look
upon her face, as if some one had called her.
"What do you think of that, Gilroy?" cried Wilson, in a kind of ecstasy.
I did not dare to tell him what I thought of it. To me it was the most
barefaced, shameless piece of imposture that I had ever | 922.946125 |
2023-11-16 18:32:27.0254870 | 103 | 74 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Cats for the cats' home!" said Sir Maurice Falconer.]
THE TERRIBLE TWINS
By
EDGAR JEPSON
Author of
The Admirable Tinker, Pollyooly, etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HANSON BOOTH
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1913
THE BO | 923.045527 |
2023-11-16 18:32:27.0669310 | 4,820 | 39 |
Produced by David Edwards, Linda Hamilton 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: "In that instant the grateful Black rushed on like
lightning to assist him, and assailing the bull with a weighty stick
that he held in his hand, compelled him to turn his rage upon a new
object." _P. 349._]
THE HISTORY
OF
SANDFORD AND MERTON.
BY THOMAS DAY.
=Six Engravings on Steel.=
=Philadelphia:=
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
MDCCCLXVIII.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Description of Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton--Adventure
with the Snake--Harry in Mr Merton's house--Mr Barlow
undertakes the education of Tommy--The first day at Mr
Barlow's--Story of the Flies and the Ants--Harry rescues
a Chicken from a Kite--Story of the Gentleman and the
Basket-maker--Tommy learns to read--Story of the two dogs, 1
CHAPTER II.
Tommy and the Ragged Boy--Story of Androcles and the
Lion--Conversation on Slavery--Conversation about an
Ass--Tommy's Present and its consequences--The Story of
Cyrus--Squire Chase beats Harry--Harry saves the Squire's
life--Making Bread--Story of the Two Brothers--Story of
the Sailors on the Island of Spitzbergen, 47
CHAPTER III.
Harry's Chicken--Tommy tries kindness on the Pig--Account
of the Elephant--Story of the Elephant and the Tailor--Story
of the Elephant and the Child--Stories of the Good Natured Boy
and the Ill Natured Boy--The Boys determine to Build a
House--Story of the Grateful Turk--The Boys' House blown
down--They rebuild it stronger--The Roof lets in the Rain--At
last is made Water-tight, 95
CHAPTER IV.
The Boys' Garden--The Crocodile--The Farmer's Wife--How to
make Cider--The Bailiffs take possession of the Farmer's
Furniture--Tommy pays the Farmer's Debt--Conclusion of the
Story of the Grateful Turk--The three Bears--Tommy and the
Monkey--Habits of the Monkey--Tommy's Robin Redbreast--Is
killed by a Cat--The Cat punished--The Laplanders--Story of
a Cure of the Gout, 185
CHAPTER V.
Lost in the Snow--Jack Smithers' Home--Talk about the
Stars--Harry's pursuit of The Will-o'-the-Wisp--Story of
the Avalanche--Town and Country compared--The Power of the
Lever--The Balance--The Wheel and Axle--Arithmetic--Buying
a Horse--History of Agesilaus--History of Leonidas, 197
CHAPTER VI.
The Constellations--Distance from the Earth--The Magnet
and its Powers--The Compass--The Greenlanders and their
Customs--The Telescope--The Magic Lantern--Story of the
African Prince and the Telescope--Mr Barlow's Poor
Parishioners--His Annual Dinner--Tommy attempts Sledge
Driving--His mishap in the Pond--His Anger, 255
CHAPTER VII.
Tommy and Harry visit Home--The Fashionable Guests--Miss
Simmons takes notice of Harry--Harry's Troubles--Master
Compton and Mash--Estrangement of Tommy--Visit to the
Theatre--Misbehaviour there--Card Playing--The Ball--Harry
Dancing a Minuet--Story of Sir Philip Sidney--Master Mash
insults Harry--The Fight in the Drawing-room--The
Bull-baiting--Tommy strikes Harry--Master Mash's Combat
with Harry--Tommy's Narrow Escape from the Bull--The
Grateful Black, 298
CHAPTER VIII.
Arrival of Mr Barlow--Story of Polemo--Tommy's
repentance--Story of Sophron and Tigranes--Tommy
as an Arabian Horseman--His Mishap--Tommy's
intrepidity--The Poor Highlander's story--Tommy's
Sorrow for his conduct to Harry--Conclusion of the
Story of Sophron and Tigranes--Tommy's resolution
to study nothing but "reason and philosophy"--Visits
Harry and begs his forgiveness--The Grateful Black's
Story--Tommy takes up his abode at Farmer
Sandford's--The Grateful Black's account of
himself--Mr Merton's visit to the Farm--The
unexpected present--Conclusion, 355
THE HISTORY
OF
SANDFORD AND MERTON.
CHAPTER I.
Description of Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton--Adventure with the
Snake--Harry in Mr Merton's house--Mr Barlow undertakes the
education of Tommy--The first day at Mr Barlow's--Story of the
Flies and the Ants--Harry rescues a Chicken from a Kite--Story of
the Gentleman and the Basket-maker--Tommy learns to read--Story of
the two dogs.
In the western part of England lived a gentleman of great fortune, whose
name was Merton. He had a large estate in the Island of Jamaica, where
he had passed the greater part of his life, and was master of many
servants, who cultivated sugar and other valuable things for his
advantage. He had only one son, of whom he was excessively fond; and to
educate this child properly was the reason of his determining to stay
some years in England. Tommy Merton, who, at the time he came from
Jamaica, was only six years old, was naturally a very good-tempered boy,
but unfortunately had been spoiled by too much indulgence. While he
lived in Jamaica, he had several black servants to wait upon him, who
were forbidden upon any account to contradict him. If he walked, there
always went two <DW64>s with him; one of whom carried a large umbrella
to keep the sun from him, and the other was to carry him in his arms
whenever he was tired. Besides this, he was always dressed in silk or
laced clothes, and had a fine gilded carriage, which was borne upon
men's shoulders, in which he made visits to his play-fellows. His mother
was so excessively fond of him that she gave him everything he cried
for, and would never let him learn to read because he complained that it
made his head ache.
The consequence of this was, that, though Master Merton had everything
he wanted, he became very fretful and unhappy. Sometimes he ate
sweetmeats till he made himself sick, and then he suffered a great deal
of pain, because he would not take bitter physic to make him well.
Sometimes he cried for things that it was impossible to give him, and
then, as he had never been used to be contradicted, it was many hours
before he could be pacified. When any company came to dine at the house,
he was always to be helped first, and to have the most delicate parts of
the meat, otherwise he would make such a noise as disturbed the whole
company. When his father and mother were sitting at the tea-table with
their friends, instead of waiting till they were at leisure to attend
him, he would scramble upon the table, seize the cake and bread and
butter, and frequently overset the tea-cups. By these pranks he not only
made himself disagreeable to everybody else, but often met with very
dangerous accidents. Frequently did he cut himself with knives, at other
times throw heavy things upon his head, and once he narrowly escaped
being scalded to death by a kettle of boiling water. He was also so
delicately brought up, that he was perpetually ill; the least wind or
rain gave him a cold, and the least sun was sure to throw him into a
fever. Instead of playing about, and jumping, and running like other
children, he was taught to sit still for fear of spoiling his clothes,
and to stay in the house for fear of injuring his complexion. By this
kind of education, when Master Merton came over to England he could
neither write nor read, nor cipher; he could use none of his limbs with
ease, nor bear any degree of fatigue; but he was very proud, fretful,
and impatient.
Very near to Mr Merton's seat lived a plain, honest farmer, whose name
was Sandford. This man had, like Mr Merton, an only son, not much older
than Master Merton, whose name was Harry. Harry, as he had been always
accustomed to run about in the fields, to follow the labourers while
they were ploughing, and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was
active, strong, hardy, and fresh-. He was neither so fair, nor
so delicately shaped as Master Merton; but he had an honest good-natured
countenance, which made everybody love him; was never out of humour, and
took the greatest pleasure in obliging everybody. If little Harry saw a
poor wretch who wanted victuals, while he was eating his dinner, he was
sure to give him half, and sometimes the whole: nay, so very
good-natured was he to everything, that he would never go into the
fields to take the eggs of poor birds, or their young ones, nor practise
any other kind of sport which gave pain to poor animals, who are as
capable of feeling as we ourselves, though they have no words to express
their sufferings. Once, indeed, Harry was caught twirling a cock-chafer
round, which he had fastened by a crooked pin to a long piece of thread:
but then this was through ignorance and want of thought; for, as soon as
his father told him that the poor helpless insect felt as much, or more
than he would do, were a knife thrust through his hand, he burst into
tears, and took the poor animal home, where he fed him during a
fortnight upon fresh leaves; and when he was perfectly recovered, turned
him out to enjoy liberty and fresh air. Ever since that time, Harry was
so careful and considerate, that he would step out of the way for fear
of hurting a worm, and employed himself in doing kind offices to all the
animals in the neighbourhood. He used to stroke the horses as they were
at work, and fill his pockets with acorns for the pigs; if he walked in
the fields, he was sure to gather green boughs for the sheep, who were
so fond of him that they followed him wherever he went. In the winter
time, when the ground was covered with frost and snow, and the poor
little birds could get at no food, he would often go supperless to bed,
that he might feed the robin-redbreasts; even toads, and frogs, and
spiders, and such kinds of disagreeable animals, which most people
destroy wherever they find them, were perfectly safe with Harry; he used
to say, they had a right to live as well as we, and that it was cruel
and unjust to kill creatures, only because we did not like them.
These sentiments made little Harry a great favourite with everybody,
particularly with the clergyman of the parish, who became so fond of him
that he taught him to read and write, and had him almost always with
him. Indeed, it was not surprising that Mr Barlow showed so particular
an affection for him; for besides learning, with the greatest readiness,
everything that was taught him, little Harry was the most honest,
obliging creature in the world. He was never discontented, nor did he
ever grumble, whatever he was desired to do. And then you might believe
Harry in everything he said; for though he could have gained a plum-cake
by telling an untruth, and was sure that speaking the truth would expose
him to a severe whipping, he never hesitated in declaring it. Nor was he
like many other children, who place their whole happiness in eating: for
give him but a morsel of dry bread for his dinner, and he would be
satisfied, though you placed sweetmeats and fruit, and every other
nicety, in his way.
With this little boy did Master Merton become acquainted in the
following manner:--As he and the maid were once walking in the fields on
a fine summer's morning, diverting themselves with gathering different
kinds of wild flowers, and running after butterflies, a large snake, on
a sudden, started up from among some long grass, and coiled itself round
little Tommy's leg. You may imagine the fright they were both in at this
accident; the maid ran away shrieking for help, while the child, who was
in an agony of terror, did not dare to stir from the place where he was
standing. Harry, who happened to be walking near the place, came running
up, and asked what was the matter. Tommy, who was sobbing most
piteously, could not find words to tell him, but pointed to his leg, and
made Harry sensible of what had happened. Harry, who, though young, was
a boy of a most courageous spirit, told him not to be frightened; and
instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as much dexterity as
resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg, and threw him to a great distance
off.
[Illustration: "Harry, instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as
much dexterity as resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg and threw him to
a great distance off." _P. 6._]
Just as this happened, Mrs Merton and all the family, alarmed by the
servant's cries, came running breathless to the place, as Tommy was
recovering his spirits, and thanking his brave little deliverer. Her
first emotions were to catch her darling up in her arms, and, after
giving him a thousand kisses, to ask him whether he had received any
hurt. "No," said Tommy, "indeed I have not, mamma; but I believe that
nasty ugly beast would have bitten me, if that little boy had not come
and pulled him off." "And who are you, my dear," said she, "to whom we
are all so obliged?" "Harry Sandford, madam." "Well, my child, you are a
dear, brave little creature, and you shall go home and dine with us."
"No, thank you, madam; my father will want me." "And who is your father,
my sweet boy?" "Farmer Sandford, madam, that lives at the bottom of the
hill." "Well, my dear, you shall be my child henceforth; will you?" "If
you please, madam, if I may have my own father and mother, too."
Mrs Merton instantly despatched a servant to the farmer's; and, taking
little Harry by the hand, she led him to the mansion-house, where she
found Mr Merton whom she entertained with a long account of Tommy's
danger and Harry's bravery.
Harry was now in a new scene of life. He was carried through costly
apartments, where everything that could please the eye, or contribute
to convenience, was assembled. He saw large looking-glasses in gilded
frames, carved tables and chairs, curtains made of the finest silk, and
the very plates and knives and forks were of silver. At dinner he was
placed close to Mrs Merton, who took care to supply him with the
choicest bits, and engaged him to eat, with the most endearing kindness;
but, to the astonishment of everybody, he neither appeared pleased nor
surprised at anything he saw. Mrs Merton could not conceal her
disappointment; for, as she had always been used to a great degree of
finery herself, she had expected it should make the same impression upon
everybody else. At last, seeing him eye a small silver cup with great
attention, out of which he had been drinking, she asked him whether he
should not like to have such a fine thing to drink out of; and added,
that, though it was Tommy's cup, she was sure he would with great
pleasure, give it to his little friend. "Yes, that I will," says Tommy;
"for you know, mamma, I have a much finer one than that, made of gold,
besides two large ones made of silver." "Thank you with all my heart,"
said little Harry; "but I will not rob you of it, for I have a much
better one at home." "How!" said Mrs Merton, "does your father eat and
drink out of silver?" "I don't know, madam, what you call this; but we
drink at home out of long things made of horn, just such as the cows
wear upon their heads." "The child is a simpleton, I think," said Mrs
Merton: "and why is that better than silver ones?" "Because," said
Harry, "they never make us uneasy." "Make you uneasy, my child!" said
Mrs Merton, "what do you mean?" "Why, madam, when the man threw that
great thing down, which looks just like this, I saw that you were very
sorry about it, and looked as if you had been just ready to drop. Now,
ours at home are thrown about by all the family, and nobody minds it."
"I protest," said Mrs Merton to her husband, "I do not know what to say
to this boy, he makes such strange observations."
The fact was, that during dinner, one of the servants had thrown down a
large piece of plate, which, as it was very valuable, had made Mrs
Merton not only look very uneasy, but give the man a very severe
scolding for his carelessness.
After dinner, Mrs Merton filled a large glass of wine, and giving it to
Harry, bade him drink it up, but he thanked her, and said he was not
dry. "But, my dear," said she, "this is very sweet and pleasant, and as
you are a good boy, you may drink it up." "Ay, but, madam, Mr Barlow
says that we must only eat when we are hungry, and drink when we are
dry: and that we must only eat and drink such things are as easily met
with; otherwise we shall grow peevish and vexed when we can't get them.
And this was the way that the Apostles did, who were all very good men."
Mr Merton laughed at this. "And pray," said he, "little man, do you know
who the Apostles were?" "Oh! yes, to be sure I do." "And who were they?"
"Why, sir, there was a time when people were grown so very wicked, that
they did not care what they did; and the great folks were all proud, and
minded nothing but eating and drinking and sleeping, and amusing
themselves; and took no care of the poor, and would not give a morsel of
bread to hinder a beggar from starving; and the poor were all lazy, and
loved to be idle better than to work; and little boys were disobedient
to their parents, and their parents took no care to teach them anything
that was good; and all the world was very bad, very bad indeed. And then
there came from Heaven the Son of God, whose name was Christ; and He
went about doing good to everybody, and curing people of all sorts of
diseases, and taught them what they ought to do; and He chose out twelve
other very good men, and called them Apostles; and these Apostles went
about the world doing as He did, and teaching people as He taught them.
And they never minded what they did eat or drink, but lived upon dry
bread and water; and when anybody offered them money, they would not
take it, but told them to be good, and give it to the poor and sick: and
so they made the world a great deal better. And therefore it is not fit
to mind what we live upon, but we should take what we can get, and be
contented; just as the beasts and birds do, who lodge in the open air,
and live upon herbs, and drink nothing but water; and yet they are
strong, and active, and healthy."
"Upon my word," said Mr Merton, "this little man is a great philosopher;
and we should be much obliged to Mr Barlow if he would take our Tommy
under his care; for he grows a great boy, and it is time that he should
know something. What say you, Tommy, should you like to be a
philosopher?" "Indeed, papa, I don't know what a philosopher is; but I
should like to be a king, because he's finer and richer than anybody
else, and has nothing to do, and everybody waits upon him, and is afraid
of him." "Well said, my dear," replied Mrs Merton; and rose and kissed
him; "and a king you deserve to be with such a spirit; and here's a
glass of wine for you for making such a pretty answer. And should you
not like to be a king too, little Harry?" "Indeed, madam, I don't know
what that is; but I hope I shall soon be big enough to go to plough, and
get my own living; and then I shall want nobody to wait upon me."
"What a difference between the children of farmers and gentlemen!"
whispered Mrs Merton to her husband, looking rather contemptuously upon
Harry. "I am not sure," said Mr Merton, "that for this time the
advantage is on the side of our son:--But should you not like to be
rich, my | 923.086971 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by the
National Library of Australia
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-90469872
(National Library of Australia)
THE RED-HEADED MAN
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
CLAUDE DUVAL OF '95
_A ROMANCE OF THE ROAD_
Some Press Opinions
Athenæm.--"The book is cleverly written and will interest the reader
who can forget its impossibilities."
Academy.--"The book is a story of modern highway robbery by a lady
instead of a gentleman of the road."
Scotsman.--"A capital story of mystery, and unravelled with an
entertaining thought."
Pall Mall Gazette.--"Mr. Fergus Hume has shown his wonted skill in
steering his reader plausibly through the pitfalls of a tangled plot
in his 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five.' The conception of a mounted and
masked highwayman in our own day is daring and original and is worked
out with great ingenuity."
Daily Graphic.--"Mr. Fergus Hume starts with a good idea in his tale
of a modern highwayman and he has crowded a variety of incidents into
the pages of his book. The story opens dramatically and with some
novelty."
Whitehall Review.--"A rattling romance of the road, well written, well
conceived and capitally told. The present book is one of absorbing
interest and it is impossible to put it aside until the last line is
reached."
Black and White.--"There is abundant action and a well-sustained
mystery in Mr. Fergus Hume's 'Claude Duval of '95."
Morning Post.--"Less characteristic than the majority of Mr. Hume's
stories this 'Romance of the Road' is one of the most entertaining
among them."
Gentlewoman.--"Mr. Hume's latest contribution to fiction 'Claude Duval
of Ninety-Five' is a good honest tale of adventure which you cannot
easily put by when you take it up."
Westminster Gazette.--"'Claude Duval of '95' is an excellent story."
Manchester Guardian.--"A female highwayman is a somewhat daring
variety in fiction of which crime and audacity is the chief merit of
Mr. Fergus Hume's latest work. Mr. Hume is a clever writer in a very
fertile vein."
Literary World.--"In 'Claude Duval of Ninety-Five' we have a
recendesence of highway robbery very skilfully contrived."
Weekly Sun.--"The plot is very cleverly worked out. The book is to be
heartily commended as one of its author's masterpieces."
Literature.--"The story is novel, and is worked out into a present day
environment with real dexterity."
Yorkshire Post.--"An entertaining romance which should agree with the
prevailing mood of the libraries."
Observer.--"Mr. Hume's story will rank among the best of its type."
DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS, LONDON.
THE RED-HEADED MAN
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"_The Mystery of a Hansom Cab_," "_Claude Duval of '95_,"
"_A Masquerade Mystery_," "_The Rainbow Feather_," _etc._
London
DIGBY, LONG & CO.
18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C.
1899
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. AN EXTRAORDINARY CRIME
II. THE BLONDE LADY
III. MR. TORRY'S THEORY
IV. THE DEAD MAN'S NAME
V. "DE MORTIUS NIL NISI BONUM"
VI. THE SECRETARY
VII. EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST
VIII. THE ROBBERY
IX. CAPTAIN MANUEL
X. DONNA MARIA
XI. UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE
XII. A CHANCE MEETING
XIII. A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
XIV. THE SECRET SOCIETY
XV. A WOMAN SCORNED
XVI. THE TURQUOISE RING
XVII. MORE MYSTERIES
XVIII. A STRANGE OCCURRENCE
XIX. ANOTHER PUZZLE
XX. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
XXI. DONNA MARIA EXPLAINS
XXII. THE LOCKET
XXIII. A CONFESSION
XXIV. A QUEER MESSAGE
XXV. THE MEETING IN HYDE PARK
XXVI. CONCLUSION
THE RED-HEADED MAN
CHAPTER I
AN EXTRAORDINARY CRIME
Frank Darrel was a young man of twenty-five, with a sufficiency of
good looks, and a comfortable income of five hundred a year. Also by
way of employing his spare time, he was a realistic novelist of a
particularly new school, founded on the axiom that fact invariably
poaches on the domain of fiction. He neither conceived nor adopted,
but set down actual details of the life around him, with so rigid an
adherence to the truth that his published works read like police
reports re-written in decent English. In a word, he held the mirror up
to nature, and presented the reflection, beautiful or ugly, to the
criticism of the British public.
To preach thoroughly his gospel of art, as he conceived it, Darrel
lived in London, that microcosm of life in all its phases, good, bad,
and indifferent. Usually he worked in the morning, slept in the
afternoon, amused himself in the evening, and devoted the night from
twelve to five to exploring the deeps of the metropolitan ocean. In a
disguise of decent poverty more threadbare than ragged, this
enthusiast would exploit the dark corners of the Strand, penetrate
into Whitechapel slums, and explore the least-known recesses of the
City. On occasion he would view the West End and its civilised vices
by gaslight, make expeditions into suburbs of known respectability,
and, when weary of observing middle class virtue, would haunt less
reputable districts in search of character and adventure. All his
gleanings were then transmuted into vigorous prose, and figured, under
picturesque titles, as novels of fact improved into fiction. This
method of shifting the commonplace into romance was adopted by one
Honoré de Balzac, with a result known to all the intellectual world.
Darrel, with less genius than persevering observation, was a disciple
of that great man.
One evening late in the summer of last year, Darrel, disguised as a
respectable mechanic, found himself observing humanity within the
narrow limits of Drury-lane. The hour of midnight had just boomed in
twelve strokes from the towers of near churches, and the ragged,
hoarse-voiced crowd was beginning to thin into scattered groups.
Vendors of various wares had extinguished their flaring lights, and
had wheeled home their barrows. Playgoers, chattering about their
evening's pleasure, were disappearing into side streets; shops were
being closed; hotel-keepers were driving forth late customers more or
less intoxicated; and the whole machinery of the quarter's
civilisation was running down rapidly, to stop altogether somewhere
about the small hours of the morning. Frank, with a short pipe in his
mouth, and a keen eye in his head, stood observingly at a corner, and
took note of this slackening. It was at this moment that his attention
was attracted to a red-headed man.
This individual was tall and stout. He was dressed in a seedy suit of
greasy broadcloth; and his hair and beard were a violent red. He
seemed restless and ill at ease, passed and re-passed young Darrel,
looked into the window of a still open shop, glanced at a near
policeman with obvious nervousness, and conducted himself so
uncomfortably that the novelist began to watch him.
"That fellow wants to do something," he thought, "and can't make up
his mind to take the first step. I'll bet a criminal matter occupies
his thoughts. I'll keep my eye on him."
Shortly the red-headed man walked past Frank with a resolute air, and
dis | 923.145531 |
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Produced by Ted Garvin and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
BOHN’S CLASSICAL LIBRARY
DIOGENES LAËRTIUS
G. BELL AND SONS, LTD.
LONDON: PORTUGAL ST., KINGSWAY
CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON, BELL AND CO.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER AND CO.
THE LIVES AND OPINIONS OF
EMINENT PHILOSOPHERS
BY
DIOGENES LAËRTIUS.
LITERALLY TRANSLATED
BY C. D. YONGE, M.A.,
_Fellow of the Royal University of London;
Regius Professor of English Literature and Modern
History, Queen’s College, Belfast._
[Illustration]
LONDON
G. BELL AND SONS, LTD
1915
[_Reprinted from Stereotype plates._]
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
PREFACE 1
BOOK I.
INTRODUCTION 3
THALES 14
SOLON 23
CHILO 32
PITTACUS 35
BIAS 38
CLEOBULUS 41
PERIANDER 43
ANACHARSIS, THE SCYTHIAN 46
MYSON 49
EPIMENIDES 50
PHERECYDES 53
BOOK II.
ANAXIMANDER 57
ANAXIMENES 57
ARCHELAUS 62
SOCRATES 63
XENOPHON 75
ÆSCHINES 79
ARISTIPPUS 81
PHÆDO 96
EUCLIDES 97
STILPO 100
CRITO 103
SIMON 104
GLAUCO 104
SIMIAS 105
CEBES 105
MENEDEMUS 105
BOOK III.
PLATO 113
BOOK IV.
SPEUSIPPUS 152
XENOCRATES 154
POLEMO 158
CRATES 160
CRANTOR 161
ARCESILAUS 163
BION 171
LACYDES 176
CARNEADES 177
CLITOMACHUS 178
BOOK V.
ARISTOTLE 181
THEOPHRASTUS 194
STRATO 202
LYCON 205
DEMETRIUS 209
HERACLIDES 213
BOOK VI.
ANTISTHENES 217
DIOGENES 224
MONIMUS 248
ONESICRITUS 249
CRATES 249
METROCLES 253
HIPPARCHIA 254
MENIPPUS 256
MENEDEMUS 257
BOOK VII.
ZENO 259
ARISTON 318
HERILLUS 320
DIONYSIUS 321
CLEANTHES 322
SPHÆRUS 326
CHRYSIPPUS 327
BOOK VIII.
PYTHAGORAS 338
EMPEDOCLES 359
EPICHARMUS 368
ARCHYTAS 369
ALCMÆON 371
HIPPASUS 371
PHILOLAUS 372
EUDOXUS 372
BOOK IX.
HERACLITUS 376
XENOPHANES 382
PARMENIDES 384
MELISSUS 386
ZENO, THE ELEATIC 386
LEUCIPPUS 388
DEMOCRITUS 390
PROTAGORAS 397
DIOGENES, OF APOLLONIA 400
ANAXARCHUS 400
PYRRHO 402
TIMON 420
BOOK X.
EPICURUS 424
PREFACE.
Diogenes, the author of the following work, was a native (as is generally
believed) of Laërte, in Cilicia, from which circumstance he derived the
cognomen of Laërtius. Little is known of him personally, nor is even the
age in which he lived very clearly ascertained. But as Plutarch, Sextus
Empiricus, and Saturninus are among the writers whom he quotes, he is
generally believed to have lived near the end of the second century of
our era: although some place him in the time of Alexander Severus, and
others as late as Constantine. His work consists of ten books, variously
called: The Lives of Philosophers, A History of Philosophy, and The Lives
of Sophists. From internal evidence (iii. 47, 29), we learn that he wrote
it for a noble lady (according to some, Arria; according to others,
Julia, the Empress of Severus), who occupied herself with the study of
philosophy, and especially of Plato.
Diogenes Laërtius divides the philosophy of the Greeks into the Ionic,
beginning with Anaximander, and ending with Theophrastus (in which class,
he includes the Socratic philosophy and all its various ramifications);
and the Italian, beginning with Pythagoras, and ending with Epicurus, in
which he includes the Eleatics, as also Heraclitus and the Sceptics. From
the minute consideration which he devotes to Epicurus and his system, it
has been supposed that he himself belonged to that school.
His work is the chief source of information we possess concerning the
history of Greek philosophy, and is the foundation of nearly all the
modern treatises on that subject; some of the most important of which are
little more than translations or amplifications of it. It is valuable,
as containing a copious collection of anecdotes illustrative of the life
and manners of the Greeks; but he has not always been very careful in
his selection, and in some parts there is a confusion in his statements
that makes them scarcely intelligible. These faults have led some critics
to consider the work as it now exists merely a mutilated abridgment of
the original. Breslæus, who in the thirteenth century, wrote a Treatise
on the Lives and Manners of the Philosophers, quotes many anecdotes and
sayings, which seem to be derived from Diogenes, but which are not to be
found in our present text; whence Schneider concludes that he had a very
different and far more complete copy than has come down to us.
The text used in the following translation is chiefly that of Huebner, as
published at Leipsic, A.D. 1828.
LIVES AND OPINIONS OF EMINENT PHILOSOPHERS.
BOOK I.
INTRODUCTION.
I. Some say that the study of philosophy originated with the barbarians.
In that among the Persians there existed the Magi,[1] and among
the Babylonians or Assyrians the Chaldæi,[2] among the Indians the
Gymnosophistæ,[3] and among the Celts and Gauls men who were called
Druids[4] and Semnothei, as Aristotle relates in his book on Magic,
and Sotion in the twenty-third book of his Succession of Philosophers.
Besides those men there were the Phœnician Ochus, the Thracian
Zamolxis,[5] and the Libyan Atlas. For the Egyptians say that Vulcan
was the son of Nilus, and that he was the author of philosophy, in which
those who were especially eminent | 923.252976 |
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Produced by James Simmons
VIDYĀPATI
VIDYĀPATI: BANGĪYA PADĀBALI
SONGS OF THE LOVE OF RĀDHĀ AND KRISHNA TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH BY ANANDA COOMARASWAMY AND
ARUN SEN WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES AND
ILLUSTRATIONS FROM INDIAN PAINTINGS
LONDON: THE OLD BOURNE PRESS,
15 HOLBORN, E.C.
1915.
The whole creation will be consumed and appear infinite and holy,
whereas it now appears finite and corrupt. This will come to pass by an
improvement of sensual enjoyment.
--_William Blake._
Be drunken with love, for love is all that exists.
--_Shamsi Tabrīz._
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
KRISHNA PŪRBBARĀGA: The First Passion of Krishna
RĀDHĀ BAYAHSANDI: The Growing-up of Rādhā
RĀDHĀ PŪRBBARĀGA: The First Passion of Rādhā
SAKHĪ-SHIKSHĀ-BACANĀDI: The Counsel of Girl-friends (Sakhīs)
PRATHAMA MILNA: First Meetings
ABHISĀRA: (Rādhā's) Going-forth (to visit Krishna)
VASANTA LĪLA: Dalliance in Spring
MĀNA: Wilfulness
MĀNĀNTE MILNA: Reunion after Wilfulness
ĀKSHEPA ANUYOGA O VIRAHA: Reproaches, Lack and Longing
PUNARMILNA O RASODGĀRA: Reunion and the Flow of Nectar
NOTES
ELUCIDATIONS
BIRDS, FLOWERS AND TREES
ILLUSTRATIONS
TEXTS
CORRIGENDA
INTRODUCTION.
VIDYĀPATI THĀKUR is one of the most renowned of the Vaishnava poets of
Hindustān. Before him there had been the great Jāyadeva, with his Gītā
Govinda made in Sanskrit; and it is to this tradition Vidyāpati
belongs, rather than to that of Rāmānanda, Kabīr, and Tul'si Dās, who
sang of Rāma and Sītā. Vidyāpati's fame, though he also wrote in
Sanskrit, depends upon the wreath of songs (_pada_) in which he describes
the courtship of God and the Soul, under the names of Krishna and Rādhā.
These were written in Maithilī, his mother-tongue, a dialect
intermediate between Bengālī and Hindī, but nearer to the former. His
position as a poet and maker of language is analogous to that of Dante
in Italy and Chaucer in England. He did not disdain to use the
folk-speech and folk-thought for the expression of the highest matters.
Just as Dante was blamed by the classical scholars of Italy, so
Vidyāpati was blamed by the pandits: he knew better, however, than
they, and has well earned the title of Father of Bengali literature.
Little is known of Vidyāpati's life[1]. Two other great Vaishnava poets,
Chandī Dās and Umāpati, were his contempories. His patron Rājā
Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana, when heir-apparent, gave the village of Bisapī
as a rent-free gift to the poet in the year 1400 A.D. (the original deed
is extant). This shows that in 1400 the poet was already a man of
distinction. His patron appears to have died in 1449, before which date
the songs here translated must have been written. Further, there still
exists a manuscript of the Bhāgavata Purāna in the poet's handwriting,
dated 1456. It is thus evident that he lived to a good age, for it is
hardly likely that he was under twenty in the year 1400. The following
is the legend of his death: Feeling his end approaching, he set out to
die on the banks of Gangā. But remembering that she was the child of the
faithful, he summoned her to himself: and the great river divided
herself in three streams, spreading her waters as far as the very place
where Vidyāpati sat. There and then he laid himself, it is said down and
died. Where his funeral pyre was, sprang up a Shiva lingam, which exists
to this day, as well as the marks of the flood. This place is near the
town of Bāzitpur, in the district of Darbhangā.
Vidyāpati's Vaishnava _padas_ are at once folk and cultivated art--just
like the finest of the Pahārī paintings, where every episode of which he
sings finds exquisite illustration. The poems are not, like many
ballads, of unknown authorship and perhaps the work of many hands, but
they are due to the folk in the sense that folk-life is glorified and
popular thought is reflected. The songs as we have them are entirely the
work of one supreme genius; but this genius did not stand alone, as
that of modern poets must--on the contrary, its roots lay deep in the
common life of fields and villages, and above all, in common faiths and
superstitions. These were days when peasants yet spoke as elegantly as
courtiers, and kings and cultivators shared one faith and a common view
of life--conditions where all things are possible to art.
It is little wonder that Vidyāpati's influence on the literature of
Eastern Hindustān has been profound, and that his songs became the
household poetry of Bengal and Behar. His poems were adopted and
constantly sung by the great Hindū lover, Cāitanya, in the sixteenth
century, and they have been adapted and handed down in many dialects,
above all in Bengālī, in the Vaishnava tradition, of which the last
representative is Rabindranāth Tagore. A poem by the latter well resumes
and explains the theory of the Vaishnava lovers:[2]
_Not my way of Salvation, to surrender the world!_
_Rather for me the taste of Infinite Freedom,_
_While yet I am bound by a thousand bonds to the wheel:_
_In each glory of sound and sight and smell_
_I shall find Thy Infinite Joy abiding:_
_My passion shall burn as the flame of Salvation,_
_The flower of my love shall become the ripe fruit of Devotion._
This leads us to the subject of the true significance of poems such as
Vidyāpati's. It is quite true, as Mr. Nicholson says, that students of
oriental poetry have sometimes to ask themselves, 'Is this a love-poem
disguised as a mystical ode, or a mystical ode expressed in the language
of human love?' Very often this question cannot be answered with a
definite 'Yes' or 'No': not because the poet's meaning is vague, but
because the two ideas are not at all mutually exclusive. All the
manifestations of Kama on earth are images of Pursuit or Return.
As Vidyāpati himself says (No. LXIII):
_The same flower that you cast away, the same you use in prayer._
_And with the same you string the bow._
It is quite certain that many poems of Vidyāpati have an almost wholly
spiritually significance.[3] If some others seem very obviously secular,
let us remember that we have no right to detach such poems from their
context in books and still less any right to divorce them from their
context in life.
We may illustrate this point by a comparison with poetry of Western
Europe. Take for example a poem such as the following, with a purely
secular significance (if any true art can be said to be secular):
_Oh! the handsome lad frae Skye_
_That's lifted a' the cattle, a'oor kye._
_He's t'aen the dun, the black, the white._
_And I hae mickle fear_
_He's t'aen my heart forbye._
Had this been current in fifteenth century Bengal, every Vaishnava would
have understood the song to speak as much of God and the Soul as of man
and maid, and to many the former meaning would have been the more
obvious. On the other hand, there are many early medieval Western hymns
in which the language of human love is deliberately adapted to religious
uses, for example:
_When y se blosmes springe,_
_And here foules songe,_
_A suete love-longynge_
_Myn herte thourh out stong;_
_Al for a love newe,_
_That is so suete and trewe._
_That gladieth al mi song._
Here the 'new love' is Christ.
Finally, there are other Western lyrics, and very exquisite ones, that
could equally be claimed as religious or secular, for example:
_Long ago to thee I gave_
_Body, soul and all I have--_
_Nothing in the world I keep._ [4]
The Western critic who would enquire what such a poem meant to its maker
and his hearers must be qualified by spiritual kinship with him and with
them. Let us demand a similar qualification from those who propose to
speak of Oriental poetry:
_Wer den Dichter will verstehen._
_Muss in Dichter's Lande gehen,--_
if not in physical presence, at least in spirit.
In ecstasy, man | 923.253891 |
2023-11-16 18:32:27.2338580 | 941 | 9 | THE FAR EAST, VOL. II (OF 2)***
E-text prepared by Brian Coe, Graeme Mackreth, 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/militaryservicea02cavauoft
Project Gutenberg has the other volume of this work.
Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55844
MILITARY SERVICE AND ADVENTURES IN THE FAR EAST:
Including Sketches of the Campaigns
Against the Afghans in 1839,
and the Sikhs in 1845-6.
BY A CAVALRY OFFICER.
In Two Volumes.
VOL. II.
London:
Charles Ollier,
Southampton Street, Strand.
1847.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
The commander-in-chief returns to England--Disastrous
insurrection throughout Afghanistan--Jellalabad holds
out, and General Pollock advances upon Caubul p. 1
CHAPTER II.
Visit to Agra--Journey through Central India via Gwalior
and Indore to Bombay 16
CHAPTER III.
Arrival in Calcutta--Departure for the south-western frontier--Arrival
at Merut--State of affairs on the north-western
frontier--The Sikh military establishment--The British
position 37
CHAPTER IV.
The British forces--The Sikh army cross the Sutlej--The
battle of Moodkee--Position and operations considered 65
CHAPTER V.
The army advance to attack the Sikhs in their entrenched
camp at Ferozeshuhur--The actions of the 21st and 22nd
of December--Sikhs retreat behind the Sutlej--Observations 91
CHAPTER VI.
Assemblage of the British forces on the Sutlej--Sikhs
threaten to recross--Sir Harry Smith detached towards
Loodiana--Skirmish near Buddewal 133
CHAPTER VII.
Sir Harry Smith advances to attack the Sikhs in their camp--The
battle of Aliwal--The enemy defeated and driven
across the river--Observations 163
CHAPTER VIII.
Sir Harry Smith's division march to rejoin the head-quarters
of the army--Preparations to eject the enemy from their
position on the British side of the river 207
CHAPTER IX.
The battle of Sobraon--The enemy defeated and driven
across the river with enormous loss 223
CHAPTER X.
The British forces cross the Sutlej, and are concentrated at
Kussoor--Visit of Ghoolab Singh and Dhuleep Singh to
the Governor-general--The army advance to Lahore--The
Sikh army disperse, and surrender their guns 249
CHAPTER XI.
Ratification of the treaty--Observations on the effects likely
to be produced thereby--Conclusion 269
MILITARY SERVICE
IN THE FAR EAST.
CHAPTER I.
THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF RETURNS TO ENGLAND--DISASTROUS INSURRECTION
THROUGHOUT AFGHANISTAN--JELLALABAD HOLDS OUT, AND GENERAL POLLOCK
ADVANCES UPON CAUBUL.
After the breaking up of the army of the Indus, Sir John Keane
proceeded down the Indus, and shortly afterwards embarked for England,
where those honours, titles, and pecuniary rewards awaited him, which
would have entitled him to the appellation of one of the most fortunate
soldiers who ever acquired laurels in India--had he survived long to
enjoy the distinction.
Fortunate, indeed, may Sir John Keane be termed, in having brought to
an apparently successful conclusion a campaign which was founded in
error and injustice, and placed in the hands of the commander-in-chief
with the fullest assurance of the directing arm of Providence leading
the small band through a country of which the little that was known
should have induced a supposition that an army provided with an
insufficient amount of supplies must meet with enormous difficulties.
By some | 923.253898 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
*THE POST-GIRL*
BY
*EDWARD C. BOOTH*
New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers
Copyright, 1908, by
THE CENTURY Co.
_Published, June, 1908_
*THE POST-GIRL*
*CHAPTER I*
When summer comes Mrs. Gatheredge talks of repapering her parlor, and
Ginger gets him ready to sleep in the scullery at a night's notice, but
the letting of lodgings is not a staple industry in this quarter of
Yorkshire, and folks would fare ill on it who knew nothing of the art of
keeping a pig or growing their own potatoes in the bit of garden at the
back.
Visitors pass through, indeed, in large enough numbers | 923.254055 |
2023-11-16 18:32:27.4150680 | 720 | 9 |
JUST DAVID
BY
ELEANOR H. (HODGMAN) PORTER
AUTHOR POLLYANNA, MISS BILLY MARRIED, ETC.
TO
MY FRIEND
Mrs. James Harness
CONTENTS
I. THE MOUNTAIN HOME
II. THE TRAIL
III. THE VALLEY
IV. TWO LETTERS
V. DISCORDS
VI. NUISANCES, NECESSARY AND OTHERWISE
VII. "YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!"
VIII. THE PUZZLING "DOS" AND "DON'TS"
IX. JOE
X. THE LADY OF THE ROSES
XI. JACK AND JILL
XII. ANSWERS THAT DID NOT ANSWER
XIII. A SURPRISE FOR MR. JACK
XIV. THE TOWER WINDOW
XV. SECRETS
XVI. DAVID'S CASTLE IN SPAIN
XVII. "THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER"
XVIII. DAVID TO THE RESCUE
XIX. THE UNBEAUTIFUL WORLD
XX. THE UNFAMILIAR WAY
XXI. HEAVY HEARTS
XXII. AS PERRY SAW IT
XXIII. PUZZLES
XXIV. A STORY REMODELED
XXV. THE BEAUTIFUL WORLD
CHAPTER I
THE MOUNTAIN HOME
Far up on the mountain-side the little shack stood alone in the clearing.
It was roughly yet warmly built. Behind it jagged cliffs broke the north
wind, and towered gray-white in the sunshine. Before it a tiny expanse of
green sloped gently away to a point where the mountain dropped in another
sharp descent, wooded with scrubby firs and pines. At the left a
footpath led into the cool depths of the forest. But at the right the
mountain fell away again and disclosed to view the picture David loved
the best of all: the far-reaching valley; the silver pool of the lake
with its ribbon of a river flung far out; and above it the grays and
greens and purples of the mountains that climbed one upon another's
shoulders until the topmost thrust their heads into the wide dome of
the sky itself.
There was no road, apparently, leading away from the cabin. There was
only the footpath that disappeared into the forest. Neither, anywhere,
was there a house in sight nearer than the white specks far down in the
valley by the river.
Within the shack a wide fireplace dominated one side of the main room.
It was June now, and the ashes lay cold on the hearth; but from the
tiny lean-to in the rear came the smell and the sputter of bacon
sizzling over a blaze. The furnishings of the room were simple, yet, in
a way, out of the common. There were two bunks, a few rude but
comfortable chairs, a table, two music-racks, two violins with their
cases, and everywhere books, and scattered sheets of music. Nowhere was
there cushion, curtain, or knickknack that told of a woman's | 923.435108 |
2023-11-16 18:32:27.4152630 | 2,363 | 6 |
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
by
L. Frank Baum
Contents
Introduction
1. The Cyclone
2. The Council with the Munchkins
3. How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow
4. The Road Through the Forest
5. The Rescue of the Tin Woodman
6. The Cowardly Lion
7. The Journey to the Great Oz
8. The Deadly Poppy Field
9. The Queen of the Field Mice
10. The Guardian of the Gates
11. The Emerald City of Oz
12. The Search for the Wicked Witch
13. The Rescue
14. The Winged Monkeys
15. The Discovery of Oz the Terrible
16. The Magic Art of the Great Humbug
17. How the Balloon Was Launched
18. Away to the South
19. Attacked by the Fighting Trees
20. The Dainty China Country
21. The Lion Becomes the King of Beasts
22. The Country of the Quadlings
23. Glinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish
24. Home Again
Introduction
Folklore, legends, myths and fairy tales have followed childhood
through the ages, for every healthy youngster has a wholesome and
instinctive love for stories fantastic, marvelous and manifestly
unreal. The winged fairies of Grimm and Andersen have brought more
happiness to childish hearts than all other human creations.
Yet the old time fairy tale, having served for generations, may now be
classed as "historical" in the children's library; for the time has
come for a series of newer "wonder tales" in which the stereotyped
genie, dwarf and fairy are eliminated, together with all the horrible
and blood-curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a
fearsome moral to each tale. Modern education includes morality;
therefore the modern child seeks only entertainment in its wonder tales
and gladly dispenses with all disagreeable incident.
Having this thought in mind, the story of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz"
was written solely to please children of today. It aspires to being a
modernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment and joy are retained and
the heartaches and nightmares are left out.
L. Frank Baum
Chicago, April, 1900.
THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ
1. The Cyclone
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle
Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their
house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon
many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one
room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for
the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry
and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in
another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a
small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family
could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to
crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the
middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark
hole.
When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see
nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a
house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of
the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a
gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was
not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until
they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house
had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed
it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.
When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun
and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her
eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks
and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never
smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt
Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream
and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice
reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder
that she could find anything to laugh at.
Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and
did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to
his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke.
It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray
as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black
dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on
either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and
Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.
Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the
doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than
usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at
the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes.
From the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and Uncle Henry
and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the
coming storm. There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the
south, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the
grass coming from that direction also.
Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up.
"There's a cyclone coming, Em," he called to his wife. "I'll go look
after the stock." Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and
horses were kept.
Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance told her of
the danger close at hand.
"Quick, Dorothy!" she screamed. "Run for the cellar!"
Toto jumped out of Dorothy's arms and hid under the bed, and the girl
started to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap
door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark
hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last and started to follow her aunt.
When she was halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the
wind, and the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat
down suddenly upon the floor.
Then a strange thing happened.
The house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the
air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon.
The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the
exact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone the air is
generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of
the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top
of the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles
away as easily as you could carry a feather.
It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy
found she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around,
and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were
being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.
Toto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now there,
barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to
see what would happen.
Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first
the little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw one of his
ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air
was keeping him up so that he could not fall. She crept to the hole,
caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again, afterward
closing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen.
Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright;
but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about
her that she nearly became deaf. At first she had wondered if she
would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours
passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved
to wait calmly and see what the future would bring. At last she
crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and
Toto followed and lay down beside her.
In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind,
Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
2. The Council with the Munchkins
She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had
not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was,
the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and
Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally.
Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it
dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the
little room. She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran
and opened the door.
The little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes
growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.
The cyclone had set the house down very gently--for a cyclone--in the
midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of
greensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious
fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with
rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes.
A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between
green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl
who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.
While she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights,
she noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had
ever seen. | 923.435303 |
2023-11-16 18:32:27.4829330 | 1,697 | 11 |
E-text prepared by Giovanni Fini, David Edwards, 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/prideofjennicobe00castrich
Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
THE PRIDE OF JENNICO
[Illustration: logo]
THE PRIDE OF JENNICO
Being a Memoir of Captain Basil Jennico
by
AGNES AND EGERTON CASTLE
New York
The Macmillan Company
London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.
1899
All rights reserved
Copyright, 1897, 1898,
By The Macmillan Company.
Set up and electrotyped February, 1898. Reprinted February, April, June
three times, July, September, October, December, twice, 1898.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass. U.S.A.
CONTENTS
PART I
Page
CHAPTER I. MEMOIR OF CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO (BEGUN,
APPARENTLY IN GREAT TROUBLE AND STRESS OF
MIND, AT THE CASTLE OF TOLLENDHAL, IN MORAVIA,
ON THE THIRD DAY OF THE GREAT STORM, LATE IN
THE YEAR 1771) 1
CHAPTER II. BASIL JENNICO’S MEMOIR CONTINUED 23
CHAPTER III. 45
CHAPTER IV. 59
CHAPTER V. 72
CHAPTER VI. 90
CHAPTER VII. 101
CHAPTER VIII. 113
CHAPTER IX. 124
PART II
CHAPTER I. MEMOIR OF CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO (A PORTION,
WRITTEN EARLY IN THE YEAR 1772, IN HIS ROOMS
AT GRIFFIN’S, CUR ZON STREET) 143
CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO’S MEMOIR CONTINUED 173
CHAPTER III. CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO’S MEMOIR, RESUMED THREE
MONTHS LATER, AT FARRINGDON DANE 183
CHAPTER IV. NARRATIVE OF AN EPISODE AT WHITE’S CLUB, IN
WHICH CAPTAIN JENNICO WAS CONCERNED, SET FORTH
FROM CONTEMPORARY ACCOUNTS 201
CHAPTER V. NARRATIVE OF AN EPISODE AT WHITE’S CONTINUED 218
PART III
CHAPTER I. MEMOIR OF CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO
(RESUMED IN THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 1773) 230
CHAPTER II. 252
CHAPTER III. 266
CHAPTER IV. 287
CHAPTER V. 306
CHAPTER VI. 319
CHAPTER VII. 332
THE PRIDE OF JENNICO
PART I
CHAPTER I
MEMOIR OF CAPTAIN BASIL JENNICO (BEGUN, APPARENTLY IN GREAT TROUBLE
AND STRESS OF MIND, AT THE CASTLE OF TOLLENDHAL, IN MORAVIA, ON THE
THIRD DAY OF THE GREAT STORM, LATE IN THE YEAR 1771)
AS the wind rattles the casements with impotent clutch, howls down
the stair-turret with the voice of a despairing soul, creeps in long
irregular waves between the tapestries and the granite walls of my
chamber and wantons with the flames of logs and candles; knowing, as I
do, that outside the snow is driven relentlessly by the gale, and that
I can hope for no relief from the company of my wretched self,—for
they who have learnt the temper of these wild mountain winds tell me
the storm must last at least three days more in its fury,—I have
bethought me, to keep from going melancholy crazed altogether, to set
me some regular task to do.
And what can more fitly occupy my poor mind than the setting forth,
as clearly as may be, the divers events that have brought me to this
strange plight in this strange place? although, I fear me, it may not
in the end be over-clear, for in sooth I cannot even yet see a way
through the confusion of my thoughts. Nay, I could at times howl in
unison with yonder dismal wind for mad regret; and at times again rage
and hiss and break myself, like the fitful gale, against the walls of
this desolate house for anger at my fate and my folly!
But since I can no more keep my thoughts from wandering to her and
wondering upon her than I can keep my hot blood from running—running
with such swiftness that here, alone in the wide vaulted room, with
blasts from the four corners of the earth playing a very demon’s dance
around me, I am yet all of a fever heat—I will try whether, by laying
bare to myself all I know of her and of myself, all I surmise and guess
of the parts we acted towards each other in this business, I may not
at least come to some understanding, some decision, concerning the
manner in which, as a man, I should comport myself in my most singular
position.
Having reached thus far in his writing, the scribe after shaking the
golden dust of the pounce box over his page paused, musing for a
moment, loosening with unconscious fingers the collar of his coat from
his neck and gazing with wide grey eyes at the dancing flames of the
logs, and the little clouds of ash that ever and anon burst from the
hearth with a spirt when particles of driven snow found their way down
the chimney. Presently the pen resumed its travels:
* * * * *
Everything began, of course, through my great-uncle Jennico’s
legacy. Do I regret it? I have sometimes cursed it. Nevertheless,
although tossed between conflicting regrets and yearnings, I cannot
in conscience wish it had not come to pass. Let me be frank. Bitter
and troubling is my lot in the midst of my lonely splendour; but
through the mist which seems in my memory to separate the old life
from the new, those days of yesteryear (for all their carelessness
and fancy-freedom) seem now strangely dull. Yes, it is almost a year
already that it came, this legacy, by which a young Englishman, serving
in his Royal and Imperial Majesty’s Chevau-Legers, was suddenly
transformed, from an obscure Rittmeister with little more worldly goods
than his pay, into one of the richest landowners in the broad Empire,
the master of an historic castle on the Bohemian Marches.
It was indeed an odd turn of fortune’s wheel. But doubtless there is a
predestination in such things, unknown to man.
My great-uncle had always taken a peculiar interest in me. Some fifty
years before my birth, precluded by the religion of our family from
any hope of advancement in the army of our own country, he had himself
entered the Imperial service; and when I had reached the age of
manhood, he insisted on my being sent to him in Vienna to enter upon
the same career. To him I owe my rapid promotion after the Turkish
campaign | 923.502973 |
2023-11-16 18:32:27.5152110 | 690 | 17 |
Produced by Wayne Hammond and The Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
PRESIDENTIAL
PROBLEMS
BY
GROVER CLEVELAND
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1904
Copyright, 1904, by THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1900, 1901, by
GROVER CLEVELAND
Copyright, 1904, by
THE S. S. MCCLURE CO.
Copyright, 1904, by
THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
_Published October, 1904_
THE DE VINNE PRESS
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Of the four essays comprised in this volume, two were originally
delivered as addresses at Princeton University. The other two appeared
first in the magazines.
All have now been revised thoroughly by Mr. Cleveland, in preparation
for their appearance in book form.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE INDEPENDENCE OF THE EXECUTIVE 3
II THE GOVERNMENT IN THE CHICAGO STRIKE OF 1894 79
III THE BOND ISSUES 121
IV THE VENEZUELAN BOUNDARY CONTROVERSY 173
PREFACE
In considering the propriety of publishing this book, the fact has not
been overlooked that the push and activity of our people’s life lead
them more often to the anticipation of new happenings than to a review
of events which have already become a part of the nation’s history.
This condition is so naturally the result of an immense development
of American enterprise that it should not occasion astonishment, and
perhaps should not be greatly deprecated, so long as a mad rush for
wealth and individual advantage does not stifle our good citizenship
nor weaken the patriotic sentiment which values the integrity of our
Government and the success of its mission immeasurably above all other
worldly possessions.
The belief that, notwithstanding the overweening desire among our
people for personal and selfish rewards of effort, there still exists,
underneath it all, a sedate and unimpaired interest in the things
that illustrate the design, the traditions, and the power of our
Government, has induced me to present in this volume the details of
certain incidents of national administration concerning which I have
the knowledge of a prominent participant.
These incidents brought as separate topics to the foreground of
agitation and discussion the relations between the Chief Executive
and the Senate in making appointments to office, the vindication and
enforcement of the Monroe Doctrine, the protection of the soundness
and integrity of our finances and currency, and the right of the
general Government to overcome all obstructions to the exercise of its
functions in every part of our national domain.
Those of our people whose interest in the general features of the
incidents referred to was actively aroused at the time of their
occurrence will perhaps find the following pages of some value for
reference or as a means of more complete information.
I shall do no more in advocacy of the merits of this book than to say | 923.535251 |
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