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2023-11-16 18:35:13.1402870 | 7,436 | 41 | ***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
****************The first Part of Henry the Sixt****************
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The first Part of Henry the Sixt
by William Shakespeare
July, 2000 [Etext #2254]
***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio***
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Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The first Part of
Henry the Sixt
Executive Director's Notes:
In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think all
the spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time have
been corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as they
are presented herein:
Barnardo. Who's there?
Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold
your selfe
Bar. Long liue the King
***
As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words
or letters they had often packed into a "cliche"...this is the
original meaning of the term cliche...and thus, being unwilling
to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions
that look very odd...such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,
above...and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming
Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner....
The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a
time when they were out of "v"'s...possibly having used "vv" in
place of some "w"'s, etc. This was a common practice of the day,
as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend
more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I
have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an
extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a
very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare. My father read an
assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University
in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the
purpose. To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available
...in great detail...and determined from the various changes,
that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a
variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous
for signing his name with several different spellings.
So, please take this into account when reading the comments below
made by our volunteer who prepared this file: you may see errors
that are "not" errors....
So...with this caveat...we have NOT changed the canon errors,
here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The first
Part of Henry the Sixt.
Michael S. Hart
Project Gutenberg
Executive Director
***
Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't. This was taken from
a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can
come in ASCII to the printed text.
The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the
conjoined ae have been changed to ae. I have left the spelling,
punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the
printed text. I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have put
together a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of the
Geneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unified
spellings according to this template), typo's and expanded
abbreviations as I have come across them. Everything within
brackets [] is what I have added. So if you don't like that
you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a
purer Shakespeare.
Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual
differences between various copies of the first folio. So there may
be differences (other than what I have mentioned above) between
this and other first folio editions. This is due to the printer's
habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and
then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then
continuing the printing run. The proof run wasn't thrown away but
incorporated into the printed copies. This is just the way it is.
The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different
First Folio editions' best pages.
If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuation
errors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feel
free to email me those errors. I wish to make this the best
etext possible. My email address for right now are [email protected]
and [email protected]. I hope that you enjoy this.
David Reed
The first Part of Henry the Sixt
Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
Dead March.
Enter the Funerall of King Henry the Fift, attended on by the Duke
of
Bedford, Regent of France; the Duke of Gloster, Protector; the
Duke of
Exeter Warwicke, the Bishop of Winchester, and the Duke of
Somerset.
Bedford. Hung be y heauens with black, yield day to night;
Comets importing change of Times and States,
Brandish your crystall Tresses in the Skie,
And with them scourge the bad reuolting Stars,
That haue consented vnto Henries death:
King Henry the Fift, too famous to liue long,
England ne're lost a King of so much worth
Glost. England ne're had a King vntill his time:
Vertue he had, deseruing to command,
His brandisht Sword did blinde men with his beames,
His Armes spred wider then a Dragons Wings:
His sparkling Eyes, repleat with wrathfull fire,
More dazled and droue back his Enemies,
Then mid-day Sunne, fierce bent against their faces.
What should I say? his Deeds exceed all speech:
He ne're lift vp his Hand, but conquered
Exe. We mourne in black, why mourn we not in blood?
Henry is dead, and neuer shall reuiue:
Vpon a Woodden Coffin we attend;
And Deaths dishonourable Victorie,
We with our stately presence glorifie,
Like Captiues bound to a Triumphant Carre.
What? shall we curse the Planets of Mishap,
That plotted thus our Glories ouerthrow?
Or shall we thinke the subtile-witted French,
Coniurers and Sorcerers, that afraid of him,
By Magick Verses haue contriu'd his end
Winch. He was a King, blest of the King of Kings.
Vnto the French, the dreadfull Iudgement-Day
So dreadfull will not be, as was his sight.
The Battailes of the Lord of Hosts he fought:
The Churches Prayers made him so prosperous
Glost. The Church? where is it?
Had not Church-men pray'd,
His thred of Life had not so soone decay'd.
None doe you like, but an effeminate Prince,
Whom like a Schoole-boy you may ouer-awe
Winch. Gloster, what ere we like, thou art Protector,
And lookest to command the Prince and Realme.
Thy Wife is prowd, she holdeth thee in awe,
More then God or Religious Church-men may
Glost. Name not Religion, for thou lou'st the Flesh,
And ne're throughout the yeere to Church thou go'st,
Except it be to pray against thy foes
Bed. Cease, cease these Iarres, & rest your minds in peace:
Let's to the Altar: Heralds wayt on vs;
In stead of Gold, wee'le offer vp our Armes,
Since Armes auayle not, now that Henry's dead,
Posteritie await for wretched yeeres,
When at their Mothers moistned eyes, Babes shall suck,
Our Ile be made a Nourish of salt Teares,
And none but Women left to wayle the dead.
Henry the Fift, thy Ghost I inuocate:
Prosper this Realme, keepe it from Ciuill Broyles,
Combat with aduerse Planets in the Heauens;
A farre more glorious Starre thy Soule will make,
Then Iulius Cæsar, or bright-
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. My honourable Lords, health to you all:
Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,
Of losse, of slaughter, and discomfiture:
Guyen, Champaigne, Rheimes, Orleance,
Paris Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost
Bedf. What say'st thou man, before dead Henry's Coarse?
Speake softly, or the losse of those great Townes
Will make him burst his Lead, and rise from death
Glost. Is Paris lost? is Roan yeelded vp?
If Henry were recall'd to life againe,
These news would cause him once more yeeld the Ghost
Exe. How were they lost? what trecherie was vs'd?
Mess. No trecherie, but want of Men and Money.
Amongst the Souldiers this is muttered,
That here you maintaine seuerall Factions:
And whil'st a Field should be dispatcht and fought,
You are disputing of your Generals.
One would haue lingring Warres, with little cost;
Another would flye swift, but wanteth Wings:
A third thinkes, without expence at all,
By guilefull faire words, Peace may be obtayn'd.
Awake, awake, English Nobilitie,
Let not slouth dimme your Honors, new begot;
Cropt are the Flower-de-Luces in your Armes
Of Englands Coat, one halfe is cut away
Exe. Were our Teares wanting to this Funerall,
These Tidings would call forth her flowing Tides
Bedf. Me they concerne, Regent I am of France:
Giue me my steeled Coat, Ile fight for France.
Away with these disgracefull wayling Robes;
Wounds will I lend the French, in stead of Eyes,
To weepe their intermissiue Miseries.
Enter to them another Messenger.
Mess. Lords view these Letters, full of bad mischance.
France is reuolted from the English quite,
Except some petty Townes, of no import.
The Dolphin Charles is crowned King in Rheimes:
The Bastard of Orleance with him is ioyn'd:
Reynold, Duke of Aniou, doth take his part,
The Duke of Alanson flyeth to his side.
Enter.
Exe. The Dolphin crown'd King? all flye to him?
O whither shall we flye from this reproach?
Glost. We will not flye, but to our enemies throats.
Bedford, if thou be slacke, Ile fight it out
Bed. Gloster, why doubtst thou of my forwardnesse?
An Army haue I muster'd in my thoughts,
Wherewith already France is ouer-run.
Enter another Messenger.
Mes. My gracious Lords, to adde to your laments,
Wherewith you now bedew King Henries hearse,
I must informe you of a dismall fight,
Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot, and the French
Win. What? wherein Talbot ouercame, is't so?
3.Mes. O no: wherein Lord Talbot was o'rethrown:
The circumstance Ile tell you more at large.
The tenth of August last, this dreadfull Lord,
Retyring from the Siege of Orleance,
Hauing full scarce six thousand in his troupe,
By three and twentie thousand of the French
Was round incompassed, and set vpon:
No leysure had he to enranke his men.
He wanted Pikes to set before his Archers:
In stead whereof, sharpe Stakes pluckt out of Hedges
They pitched in the ground confusedly,
To keepe the Horsemen off, from breaking in.
More then three houres the fight continued:
Where valiant Talbot, aboue humane thought,
Enacted wonders with his Sword and Lance.
Hundreds he sent to Hell, and none durst stand him:
Here, there, and euery where enrag'd, he slew.
The French exclaym'd, the Deuill was in Armes,
All the whole Army stood agaz'd on him.
His Souldiers spying his vndaunted Spirit,
A Talbot, a Talbot, cry'd out amaine,
And rusht into the Bowels of the Battaile.
Here had the Conquest fully been seal'd vp,
If Sir Iohn Falstaffe had not play'd the Coward.
He being in the Vauward, plac't behinde,
With purpose to relieue and follow them,
Cowardly fled, not hauing struck one stroake.
Hence grew the generall wrack and massacre:
Enclosed were they with their Enemies.
A base Wallon, to win the Dolphins grace,
Thrust Talbot with a Speare into the Back,
Whom all France, with their chiefe assembled strength,
Durst not presume to looke once in the face
Bedf. Is Talbot slaine then? I will slay my selfe,
For liuing idly here, in pompe and ease,
Whil'st such a worthy Leader, wanting ayd,
Vnto his dastard foe-men is betray'd
3.Mess. O no, he liues, but is tooke Prisoner,
And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford:
Most of the rest slaughter'd, or tooke likewise
Bedf. His Ransome there is none but I shall pay.
Ile hale the Dolphin headlong from his Throne,
His Crowne shall be the Ransome of my friend:
Foure of their Lords Ile change for one of ours.
Farwell my Masters, to my Taske will I,
Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make,
To keepe our great Saint Georges Feast withall.
Ten thousand Souldiers with me I will take,
Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake
3.Mess. So you had need, for Orleance is besieg'd,
The English Army is growne weake and faint:
The Earle of Salisbury craueth supply,
And hardly keepes his men from mutinie,
Since they so few, watch such a multitude
Exe. Remember Lords your Oathes to Henry sworne:
Eyther to quell the Dolphin vtterly,
Or bring him in obedience to your yoake
Bedf. I doe remember it, and here take my leaue,
To goe about my preparation.
Exit Bedford.
Glost. Ile to the Tower with all the hast I can,
To view th' Artillerie and Munition,
And then I will proclayme young Henry King.
Exit Gloster.
Exe. To Eltam will I, where the young King is,
Being ordayn'd his speciall Gouernor,
And for his safetie there Ile best deuise.
Enter.
Winch. Each hath his Place and Function to attend:
I am left out; for me nothing remaines:
But long I will not be Iack out of Office.
The King from Eltam I intend to send,
And sit at chiefest Sterne of publique Weale.
Enter.
Sound a Flourish.
Enter Charles, Alanson, and Reigneir, marching with Drum and
Souldiers.
Charles. Mars his true mouing, euen as in the Heauens,
So in the Earth, to this day is not knowne.
Late did he shine vpon the English side:
Now we are Victors, vpon vs he smiles.
What Townes of any moment, but we haue?
At pleasure here we lye, neere Orleance:
Otherwhiles, the famisht English, like pale Ghosts,
Faintly besiege vs one houre in a moneth
Alan. They want their Porredge, & their fat Bul Beeues:
Eyther they must be dyeted like Mules,
And haue their Prouender ty'd to their mouthes,
Or pitteous they will looke, like drowned Mice
Reigneir. Let's rayse the Siege: why liue we idly here?
Talbot is taken, whom we wont to feare:
Remayneth none but mad-brayn'd Salisbury,
And he may well in fretting spend his gall,
Nor men nor Money hath he to make Warre
Charles. Sound, sound Alarum, we will rush on them.
Now for the honour of the forlorne French:
Him I forgiue my death, that killeth me,
When he sees me goe back one foot, or flye.
Exeunt.
Here Alarum, they are beaten back by the English, with great
losse.
Enter Charles, Alanson, and Reigneir.
Charles. Who euer saw the like? what men haue I?
Dogges, Cowards, Dastards: I would ne're haue fled,
But that they left me'midst my Enemies
Reigneir. Salisbury is a desperate Homicide,
He fighteth as one weary of his life:
The other Lords, like Lyons wanting foode,
Doe rush vpon vs as their hungry prey
Alanson. Froysard, a Countreyman of ours, records,
England all Oliuers and Rowlands breed,
During the time Edward the third did raigne:
More truly now may this be verified;
For none but Samsons and Goliasses
It sendeth forth to skirmish: one to tenne?
Leane raw-bon'd Rascals, who would e'er suppose,
They had such courage and audacitie?
Charles. Let's leaue this Towne,
For they are hayre-brayn'd Slaues,
And hunger will enforce them to be more eager:
Of old I know them; rather with their Teeth
The Walls they'le teare downe, then forsake the Siege
Reigneir. I thinke by some odde Gimmors or Deuice
Their Armes are set, like Clocks, still to strike on;
Else ne're could they hold out so as they doe:
By my consent, wee'le euen let them alone
Alanson. Be it so.
Enter the Bastard of Orleance.
Bastard. Where's the Prince Dolphin? I haue newes
for him
Dolph. Bastard of Orleance, thrice welcome to vs
Bast. Me thinks your looks are sad, your chear appal'd.
Hath the late ouerthrow wrought this offence?
Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand:
A holy Maid hither with me I bring,
Which by a Vision sent to her from Heauen,
Ordayned is to rayse this tedious Siege,
And driue the English forth the bounds of France:
The spirit of deepe Prophecie she hath,
Exceeding the nine Sibyls of old Rome:
What's past, and what's to come, she can descry.
Speake, shall I call her in? beleeue my words,
For they are certaine, and vnfallible
Dolph. Goe call her in: but first, to try her skill,
Reignier stand thou as Dolphin in my place;
Question her prowdly, let thy Lookes be sterne,
By this meanes shall we sound what skill she hath.
Enter Ioane Puzel.
Reigneir. Faire Maid, is't thou wilt doe these wondrous
feats?
Puzel. Reignier, is't thou that thinkest to beguile me?
Where is the Dolphin? Come, come from behinde,
I know thee well, though neuer seene before.
Be not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me;
In priuate will I talke with thee apart:
Stand back you Lords, and giue vs leaue a while
Reigneir. She takes vpon her brauely at first dash
Puzel. Dolphin, I am by birth a Shepheards Daughter,
My wit vntrayn'd in any kind of Art:
Heauen and our Lady gracious hath it pleas'd
To shine on my contemptible estate.
Loe, whilest I wayted on my tender Lambes,
And to Sunnes parching heat display'd my cheekes,
Gods Mother deigned to appeare to me,
And in a Vision full of Maiestie,
Will'd me to leaue my base Vocation,
And free my Countrey from Calamitie:
Her ayde she promis'd, and assur'd successe.
In compleat Glory shee reueal'd her selfe:
And whereas I was black and swart before,
With those cleare Rayes, which shee infus'd on me,
That beautie am I blest with, which you may see.
Aske me what question thou canst possible,
And I will answer vnpremeditated:
My Courage trie by Combat, if thou dar'st,
And thou shalt finde that I exceed my Sex.
Resolue on this, thou shalt be fortunate,
If thou receiue me for thy Warlike Mate
Dolph. Thou hast | 1,089.160327 |
2023-11-16 18:35:13.2414710 | 74 | 18 | COMEDIES***
E-text prepared bu Ted Garvin, Keith M. Eckrich, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
SHAKESPEARE STUDY PROGRAMS: THE COMEDIES
by
CHARLOTTE PORTER & HELEN A. CLARKE
Authors of _The Tragedies_
Editors of the _ | 1,089.261511 |
2023-11-16 18:35:13.6374430 | 2,718 | 11 |
Produced by Harry Lame, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES |
| |
| * The original work contains some text in italics and in bold- |
| face. These are represented here as _text_ and =text=, respec- |
| tively. Small capitals in the original work have been changed |
| to capitals for this e-text. |
| * The oe-ligature from the original work has been transcribed as |
| [oe], as in man[oe]uvre. |
| * Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have only been |
| corrected where one variant was clearly used more often than |
| the other (aint was changed to ain't, etc.). 'Warburton place' |
| has been changed to 'Warburton Place.' Note that both 'Joe |
| Blakesly' and 'Joe Blakesley' occur in the text. |
| * Minor typographical errors have been corrected silently. More |
| important changes made to the text: |
| - page 90: 'Mrs. Follinsbee' changed to 'Mrs. Follingsbee'; |
| - page 173: 'Lerchen' changed to 'Leschen'; |
| - page 194: 'And won't do' changed to 'And it won't do'; |
| - page 220: CHAPTER XX changed to CHAPTER XXX; CHAPTER LXVI |
| and CHAPTER LXVIII changed to CHAPTER XLVI and XLVIII, |
| respectively; |
| - page 449: Beal changed to Beale. |
| * Some pages had poorly printed parts; here a 'best guess' has |
| been used to complete the text (page 159, some parts of the |
| advertisements at the end of the book). |
| |
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration: "Not just yet; I ain't quite ready!"--page 410.]
THE GREAT DETECTIVE SERIES.
DANGEROUS GROUND;
OR,
THE RIVAL DETECTIVES.
BY
LAWRENCE L. LYNCH,
(OF THE SECRET SERVICE.)
Author of "Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter;" "Out
of a Labyrinth;" "Shadowed by Three;" "The
Diamond Coterie," etc., etc.
CHICAGO:
ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., PUBLISHERS.
1886.
COPYRIGHT, 1885,
BY ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., CHICAGO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Dangerous Ground.
[Illustration: "Mamma brings the candle very near to the closed eyes,
waving it to and fro, rapidly."--page 309.]
DANGEROUS GROUND.
PROLOGUE.
TIME: The month of May. The year, 1859; when the West was new, and the
life of the Pioneer difficult and dangerous.
SCENE: A tiny belt of timber, not far from the spot where not long
before, the Marais des Cygnes massacre awoke the people of south-eastern
Kansas, and kindled among them the flames of civil war.
I.
It is a night of storm and darkness. Huge trees are bending their might,
and branches, strong or slender, are swaying and snapping under a fierce
blast from the northward.
Night has closed in, but the ghostly light of a reluctant camp fire
reveals a small group of men gathered about its blaze; and back of them,
more in the shelter of the timber, a few wagons,--prairie schooners of
the staunchest type--from which, now and then, the anxious countenance
of a woman, or the eager, curious face of a child, peers out.
There has been rain, and fierce lightning, and loud-rolling thunder; but
the clouds are breaking away, the rain has ceased: only the strong gusts
of wind remain to make more restless the wakeful travellers, and rob the
weary, nervous ones of their much needed sleep.
"Where's Pearson?" queries a tall, strong man, who speaks as one having
authority. "I have not seen him since the storm began."
"Pearson?" says another, who is crouching over the flickering fire in
the effort to light a stubby pipe. "By ginger! I haven't thought of the
fellow; why, he took his blanket and went up yonder," indicating the
direction by a jerk of the short pipe over a brawny shoulder--"before
the storm, you know; said he was going to take a doze up there; he took
a fancy to the place when we crossed here before."
"But he has been down since?"
"Hain't seen him. Good Lord, you don't suppose the fellow's been
sleepin' through all this?"
Parks, the captain of the party, stirs uneasily, and turns his face
towards the wagons.
"There's been some fearful lightnin', sir," breaks in another of the
group. "'Tain't likely a man would sleep through all this, but--"
He stops to stare after Parks, who, with a swift impulsive movement of
the right hand, has turned upon his heel, and is moving toward the
wagons.
"Mrs. Krutzer," he calls, halting beside the one most remote from the
camp fire.
"What is wanted?" answers a shrill, feminine voice.
"Is the little one with you?"
"Yes." This time there is a ring of impatience in the voice.
"Have you seen Pearson since the storm?"
"My gracious! No."
"How is Krutzer?"
"No better; the storm has doubled him up like a snake. Do you want him?"
"Not if he can't walk."
"Well he can't; not a step."
"Then good-night, Mrs. Krutzer." And Parks returns to the men at the
fire.
"There's something wrong," he says, with quiet gravity.
"Pearson has not been near the child since the storm. Get your lanterns,
boys; we will go up the hill."
It is only a slight elevation, with a pyramid of rocks, one or two
wide-spreading trees; and a fringe of lesser growth at the summit.
A moment the lanterns flash about, while the men converse in low tones.
Then one of them exclaims:
"Here he is! Pearson; Heavens, man, wake up!"
But the still form outstretched upon the water-soaked blanket, and
doubly sheltered by the great rocks and bending branches, moves not in
response to his call.
They crowd about him, and Walter Parks bends closer and lets the full
light of the lantern he carries, fall upon the still face.
"Good God!"
He sinks upon one knee beside the prostrate form; he touches the face,
the hands; looks closer yet, and says in a husky voice, as he puts the
lantern down:
"He's _dead_, boys!"
They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by one they touch
it; curiously, reverently, tenderly or timidly, according as their
various natures are.
Then a chorus of exclamations, low, fierce, excited.
"How was it?"
"Was he killed?"
"The storm--"
"More likely, Injuns."
"No, Bob, it wasn't Indians," says Parks mournfully, "for here's his
scalp."
And he tenderly lays a brown hand upon the abundant locks of his dead
comrade, sweeping them back from the forehead with a caressing movement.
Then suddenly, with a sharp exclamation that is almost a shriek, the
hand drops to his side; he recoils, he bounds to his feet; then, turning
his face to the rocks, he lets the darkness hide the look of unutterable
horror that for a moment overspread it, changing at length to an
expression of sternness and fixed resolve.
Meantime the others press closer about the dead man, and one of them,
taking the place Parks has just vacated, bends down to peer into the
still, set face.
"Boys, look!" he cries eagerly; "look here!" and he points to a tiny
seared spot just above the left temple. "That's a burn, and here, just
above it, the hair is singed away. It's lightning, boys."
Again they peer into the dead face, and utter fresh exclamations of
horror. Then Walter Parks, whose emotion they have scarcely noticed,
turns toward them and looks closely at the seared spot upon the temple.
"Boys," he asks, in slow, set tones, "did you, any of you, ever _see_ a
man killed by lightning?"
They all stare up at him, and no one answers.
[Illustration: "They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by
one they touch it; curiously, reverently."--page 12.]
"Because," he proceeds, after a moment's silence, "I never saw the
effects of a lightning stroke, and don't feel qualified to judge."
"It's lightnin'," says the man called Bob, in a positive voice; "I've
never seen a case, but I've read of 'em. It's lightnin', sure."
"Of course it is," breaks in another. "What else can it be? There ain't
an Injun about and besides--"
A sharp flash of lightning, instantly followed by a loud peal of
thunder, interrupts this speech, and, when they can hear his voice,
Parks says, quietly:
"I suppose you are right, Menard. Now, let's take him down to the
wagons; quick, the rain is coming again."
Slowly they move down the hill with their burden, Walter Parks
supporting the head and shoulders of the dead. And as they go, one of
them says:
"Shall I run ahead and tell the Krutzers?"
"No," replies Parks, sternly; "we will take him to my wagon. I will
inform Mrs. Krutzer."
So they lay him in the wagon belonging to their leader, and before they
leave him there Parks does a strange thing. He takes off the oil-skin
cap from his own head and pulls it tight upon the head of the dead man.
Then he strides over to the wagon occupied by the Krutzers.
II.
A flickering, sputtering candle, lights up the interior of a large
canvas-covered wagon. On a narrow pallet across one side of the vehicle,
a man tosses and groans, now and then turning his haggard face, and
staring, blood-shot eyes, upon a woman who crouches near him, holding
upon her knees a child of two summers, who slumbers peacefully through
the storm, with its fair baby face upturned to the flickering candle. In
the corner, opposite the woman, lies a boy of perhaps ten years, ragged,
unkempt, and fast asleep.
A blaze of lightning and a rush of wind cause the man to cry out
nervously, and then to exclaim, peevishly:
"Oh, I wish the morning would come; this is horrible!"
"Hush, Krutzer," says the woman, in a low, hissing whisper; "you act
like a fool."
She bends forward and lays the sleeping child beside the dirty boy in
the corner. Then she lifts her head and listens.
"Hush!" she whispers again; "they are astir outside; I hear them
talking. Ah! some one is coming."
"Mrs. Krutzer."
It is the voice of Walter Parks, and this time the woman parts the tent
flap and looks out.
"Is that you, Mr. Parks? I thought I heard voices out there. Is the
storm doing any damage?"
"Not at present. Is Krutzer awake?"
She glances toward the form upon the pallet; it is shivering as with an
ague. Then she says, unhesitatingly:
"Krutzer has been in such misery since this storm came up, that I've
just given him morphine. He ain't exactly asleep, but he's | 1,089.657483 |
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Produced by Jeannie Howse, Bryan Ness and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
* * * * *
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has |
| been preserved. |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For |
| a complete list, please see the end of this document. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WITH HIS BUNDLE SAFELY ON HIS HEAD HE TOOK TO THE
WATER" (_page 205_).]
13 DAYS
THE CHRONICLE OF AN ESCAPE
FROM A GERMAN PRISON
BY
CAPTAIN J.A.L. CAUNTER
1ST BN. THE GLOUCESTERSHIRE REGIMENT
ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration]
LONDON
G. BELL AND SONS, LTD.
1918
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
PART I
CHAPTER
I. CREFELD 1
II. THE MOVE TO SCHWARMSTEDT 45
III. SCHWARMSTEDT CAMP 65
PART II
IV. MY ESCAPE FROM THE CAMP 87
V. CROSSING THE FIRST TWO RIVERS 108
VI. I MEET FOX AND BLANK 125
VII. THE CROSSING OF THE WESER 134
VIII. THE RAILWAY TRACK 155
IX. CROSSING THE RIVER HUNTE, AND THE TOWN OF "DOGS" 164
X. EXIT BLANK. SHEDS 175
XI. TWO DAYS OF THE EMS 184
XII. THE CROSSING OF THE RIVER 198
XIII. ACROSS THE FRONTIER 209
XIV. CONCLUSION 222
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
"With his bundle safely on his head he took to
the water" _Title_
Fancy Portrait of "The Crab" 16
Section of a German Camp 96
"At last the two Women got up" 112
"Face to face with a Flapper on her way to bathe" 128
"Every dark corner seemed to contain a dog" 160
"Fox led them over the worst pieces of boggy
ground he could find" 192
"The German Relief passed within 200 yards of my
hiding place" 208
INTRODUCTION
On placing before the public this account of my escape from Germany
and some episodes from my life in two prison camps, I feel that I must
make clear that it was only due to the fact that I had two definite
supplementary objects to attain, that I succeeded in making myself
launch out in the following pages.
The first of these objects is to add my quota to the information
before the public relating to the treatment and existence of those
who, in prisons in Germany, have suffered and are suffering for their
country.
My second object is to try to throw a little light on the marvellous
spirit of the prisoners as a whole.
Think what it means to be shut up for years under such conditions.
Let me quote the prisoner poet, Lieut. Harvey, who, in
_Gloucestershire Friends_, vividly describes what prison means in the
following lines:
Laugh, oh laugh loud, all ye who long ago
Adventure found in gallant company!
Safe in stagnation; laugh, laugh bitterly,
While on this filthiest backwater of time's flow,
Drift we and rot till something set us free!
It is always a fight against this sort of thing that the prisoner of
war is waging. Some apparently find such a fight difficult, but the
majority do somehow keep a hold on themselves and retain their energy
and hopefulness.
"Barbed-wire" disease is now officially recognised, and internment in
neutral countries of those who have done the longest spells in prison
is the outcome of this.
It will readily be conceded that those who keep cheerful throughout
their cruel trials display wonderful moral courage. But what about
another class of prisoner? The prisoner who tries to escape--is
caught--does three months cells--is released--tries to escape
again--meets the same fate--and does another stretch of perhaps six
months this time--but only goes on trying.
There are some who have spent two and a half years out of three in
Germany in cells for attempts to escape. There are many who have made
six or seven attempts. I, who only had one determined attempt and
succeeded, am able to say it: "These men are of the salt of the
earth."
I have heard some chicken-hearted persons who say that nobody ought to
try to escape because it might make it worse for those left behind.
There is only one answer to that sort of person.
However, it is not a fact that others get punished for the escape of
individuals, although it was true on two occasions in 1914; so the
question hardly arises.
Very few people in this country seem to realise that the German, being
a bully, has the characteristics of a bully. If a strong attitude is
taken with him he immediately gives way. Collectively and individually
they cannot understand any argument but Force, whether it takes the
form of a reprisal or a great attack at the front.
GERMANY
Since my return to England I have often been asked what do the Germans
think of the war now and are they hard up for food, etc.
The Germans I talked to were thoroughly fed-up with the war and only
wanted peace. This does not mean that they will break out into
Revolution. That to my mind cannot come about until the military
defeat of Germany is a fact. The Kaiser, not too popular nowadays,
would immediately regain his former position in the minds of his
subjects could he but secure a peace even partially favourable to the
German people. The rulers of Germany know that defeat, or anything
like it, would be fatal for them; that is why they will stick at
nothing and spare no spilling of blood until they have either won or
lost irretrievably. What would a patched-up peace mean? It would mean
that Germany would begin building submarines by the hundred for use
against us within ten years' time. It would mean just an armistice for
a few years and then a renewal of the conflict without Russia and
probably many of our other exhausted allies.
The Germans with whom I spoke knew this and looked at the future with
open eyes.
I wonder if it is realised how much the British are hated by the
Germans? Their hate of us is "Kolossal," to use their own expressive
word. Somebody in Germany said that should the Germans ever get into
England they would make "Belgium appear like a Garden of Eden in
comparison with what England would look like after they had done with
her."
It is a German boast that the war has never touched the sacred soil of
the Fatherland. The few occasions on which our aeroplanes bombed
German towns during my stay there, gave me an excellent opportunity of
judging how sensitive they are to this particular form of punishment.
The bombing of Karlsruhe and Freiburg caused a scream throughout the
west of Germany. I heard the echo of it in the canteen at Crefeld.
When I suggested that London had also been bombed and innocent lives
lost, they simply said that that was different. Thus in their minds
there are two kinds of law, one for England, the other for Germany. I
was very pleased to notice how much less was the effect of air-raids
on our civilian population than on the Germans. There is no doubt
whatever that the fear of air bombardments is much stronger in Germany
than over here.
There is only one way of touching the German mind and that is by the
employment of FORCE, Brute Force. It is what he believes in as the
medicine for his enemies, simply because he judges others by himself,
and knows that he respects that and that only, and therefore applies it
whenever possible to others.
It is a pity that our public does not know more of the German
mentality. It is a knowledge of this factor that should assist one in
having a correct view of things and in understanding German
aspirations and methods.
A word about food and supplies generally.
The Germans are extremely hard-up for food. In the Spring of 1917,
meat was practically unobtainable. The bread was disgusting and
scarce.
Potatoes had to be procured by standing in queues for hours. (This as
a matter of fact has been the rule for the last year and a half.)
Mangel-wurzels, swedes, black peas, and turnips form the greater part
of the food.
The town of Crefeld in February, 1917, was like a place of the dead,
absolutely deserted except at the hour when the workers went home. The
shops have practically nothing to sell in their windows. To get a
shirt or a towel or any such article, a permit had to be got from the
town authorities. Boots were a difficult problem. All the children
wore wooden shoes. Leather could not be got for love or money nearly
two years ago.
It is extraordinary how the German people put up with their hardships.
People ignorant of the true state of affairs in Germany have sometimes
asked me if the Germans are shorter of food and other things than we
are. I always have to laugh as the question is so ridiculous to me.
There is absolutely no comparison between the two countries.
I often see articles in the papers on the conditions that obtain in
Germany, written by persons who know, and I hear people doubt the
veracity of them. I can truthfully say that I have not yet seen the
article or item of news from Germany which I, from my point of
vantage, did not absolutely believe. It is a pity that people will not
believe what men who have been in Germany have to say on the
subject.
PART I
CHAPTER I
CREFELD
I was taken prisoner at Gheluveld, 31st October, 1914, and arrived at
Crefeld prison-camp on the evening of 2nd November with ten other
officers brought in from various parts of the Ypres front.
It was the same old story every time that one heard, on asking what
had happened in any particular sector of the battlefield.
The impression we got from the sum total of these descriptions led us
to think that a German break-through to Ypres and beyond was a
certainty during the evening of the 31st.
We had been taken through the German reserves while being transported
to the rear, and had seen the thousands of fresh men they had got
massed behind their fighting armies. Menin, Wervicq, and other places
were packed with troops. Every farm and cottage held its full
complement of armed Boches. On the railway, trains passed westwards
every few minutes crammed with troops, destined for the Ypres battle.
It was not surprising that we prisoners, who knew the exact strength
of the British army, and also the fact that all units were having hard
fighting, and that nothing was left in reserve, should feel depressed
and wonder if it was possible that the Germans would fail to use their
great opportunity.
I have often been asked how our prisoners are treated in Germany. The
only correct answer to this is that the treatment varies according to
the time and place, and the type of German who comes into contact with
them.
In 1914 it was generally the same throughout Germany. In those days
the treatment was exceedingly bad. Every prisoner taken then has seen
or experienced some brutality or insulting behaviour on the part of
Germans.
For my part, I, on first becoming a prisoner, was spat at and called
all the choice names their musical language can provide. I saw a
British soldier, with a shrapnel wound in the back, made to carry a
heavy German pack which bumped up and down on the open wound. This
fact was remarked upon by a German private soldier, who, more humane
than the rest, protested against this treatment. But the
Unter-Offizier would not alter his order and the wounded man had to
carry his burden for seven miles or more.
When asked for water at Aix-la-Chappelle railway station, by prisoners
who had hardly had a drop to drink for two days, and scarcely a scrap
of food to eat, I heard the Red Cross "Ladies"! reply--"For an
"Englaender"? Nein!"
At Cologne station I saw the brute beasts of German officials haul
three or four of the most miserable British private soldiers they
could find, out of the cattle trucks and place them on the platform to
be baited by the populace, comprised largely of women. There were
German officers on the platform, so there was no excuse; it could have
been stopped instantly by them.
There were many other incidents too numerous to mention, but similar
and worse stories will be told by the thousand after the war. The
treatment of prisoners has steadily improved since those days. No
longer do the Germans openly insult and knock prisoners about to the
same extent, except in out of the way places and when they have a
particularly cowed and defenceless lot to deal with.
I have heard from officers taken prisoners in 1916, that they were
reasonably treated when captured. It is much changed now according to
general report.
While waiting at Cologne station for our train for Crefeld, we were
locked in a cell under the stairs of the station. Although expecting
to receive food here and being told that it was with that object that
we had been put in this place, nothing of this kind materialised.
However, we had the great honour of being visited by a German general
and a young female of high rank, who could speak a little English.
This she aired, and asked us several silly questions. She was much
taken with S----'s height, comparing him to some Karl or other. It was
a kind of private show of the wild beasts at the Zoo in which we acted
the parts of the animals.
On arrival at Crefeld station a hostile crowd was ready to receive us,
and we were hurried as quickly as possible into the trains waiting
there, in order to get us away from the attentions of the populace. As
it was, two of the eleven officers in my party were hit with sticks,
the wielders of which had pushed their way through the escort of
German soldiers accompanying us.
We were not sorry to reach the barracks and get away from these
demonstrations of the unpopularity of England in this town. Crefeld, a
great centre of the silk industry, had suffered heavily by the entry
of England into the war.
Once inside the camp we had time to spare for anything we wished to
do, which naturally meant food first, sleep next, and after some time
a wash and shave.
The barracks of the Crefeld Hussars, now wired in and used as a prison
camp, are large and strongly built. The prisoners occupied three large
buildings and a fourth smaller one provided mess rooms and canteen,
etc.
There was a gravel parade square in the middle of the ground between
the buildings; this we used as a place for exercise. This square was a
hundred and forty yards long by about eighty yards wide. It made an
excellent association football ground when cleared of big stones, and
in the summer, by dint of hard labour, we turned it into a number of
tennis courts.
Until he got command of Belgium, Von Bissing--the brute responsible
for the death of Nurse Cavell--was the general in charge of the
particular army command which included Crefeld in its jurisdiction.
On the walls of the prison camp an order signed by Bissing was posted,
which informed all the prisoners that they were the inferiors of all
| 1,089.661062 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Whoso Findeth a Wife, by William Le Queux.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
CHAPTER ONE.
A STATE SECRET.
"_Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the
Lord_."--Proverbs xviii, 22.
"Have those urgent dispatches come in from Berlin, Deedes?"
"Captain Hammerton has not yet arrived," I answered.
"Eleven o'clock! Tut, tut! Every moment's delay means greater risk,"
and the Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, strode up and down his private room, with his hat still
on, impatiently snapping his bony fingers in agitation quite unusual to
him.
"Hammerton wired from Berlin yesterday, when on the point of leaving," I
observed, taking a telegram from the table before me.
"In cipher?"
"Yes."
"No accident is reported in the papers, I suppose?"
"Nothing in the _Times_," I replied.
"Strange, very strange, that he should be so long overdue," the Earl
said, at last casting himself into his padded chair, and lounging back,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully into
space.
I resumed my writing, puzzled at the cause of the chief's excited
demeanour, but a few moments later sharp footsteps sounded outside in
the corridor, followed by a loud rapping, and there entered the
messenger, clad in his heavy fur-lined travelling coat, although a July
morning, and carrying a well-worn leather dispatch-box, which he placed
upon my table.
"Late, Hammerton. Very late," snapped the Earl, glancing at his watch.
"There's a dense fog in the Channel, your Lordship, and we were
compelled to come across dead slow the whole distance. I've driven
straight from the station," the Captain answered good-humouredly,
looking so spruce and well-groomed that few would credit he had been
travelling for nearly twenty-four hours.
"Go and rest. You must return to-night," his Lordship said testily.
"At seven-thirty?"
"Yes, at my house in Berkeley Square."
Then, taking up the receipt I had signed for the dispatch-box, the
messenger, to whom a journey to Constantinople or St Petersburg was
about as fatiguing as a ride on the Underground Railway is to ordinary
persons, walked jauntily out, wishing us both good-day.
When the door had closed, Lord Warnham quickly opened the outer case
with his key, and drew forth a second box, covered with red morocco, and
securely sealed. This he also opened, and, after rummaging for some
moments among a quantity of papers, exclaimed, in a tone of
satisfaction,--
"Ah! Here it is. Good! Seals not tampered with."
Withdrawing from the box a large official envelope, doubly secured with
the seal of the British Embassy at Berlin, and endorsed by Sir Philip
Emden, our Ambassador, he walked hastily to one of the long windows
overlooking the paved courtyard of the Foreign Office, and for some
moments closely scrutinised both seals and signature.
"Did you fear that the papers might have been examined in transit?" I
inquired of my grave-faced chief in surprise.
"No, Deedes, no. Not at all," he answered, returning to his table,
cutting open the envelope, and giving a rapid glance at its contents to
assure himself that it was the same document he had sent to the German
capital a week before. "Hammerton is trustworthy, and while dispatches
are in his care I have no fear. The only apprehension I had was that an
attempt might possibly have been made to ascertain the nature of this
treaty," the great statesman added, indicating the document beneath his
hand.
"The result would be detrimental?" I hazarded.
"Detrimental!" he cried. "If the clauses of this secret defensive
alliance became known to our enemies war would be inevitable. Russia
and France would combine, and the whole of the Powers would become
embroiled within a week. Exposure of these secret negotiations would be
absolutely disastrous. It would, I verily believe, mean irretrievable
ruin to England's prestige and perhaps to her power."
He uttered the ominous words slowly and distinctly, then carefully
refolding the precious document, with its string of sprawly signatures,
he placed it in another envelope, sealing it with his own private seal.
The great statesman, the greatest Foreign Minister of his time, upon
whose tact, judgment and forethought the peace and prosperity of England
mainly depended, was tall and thin, with scanty, white hair, a pale,
refined face, slightly wizened by age, deep-sunken, steely eyes, shaggy
brows, a sharp, straight nose, and a breadth of forehead indicating
indomitable perseverance and an iron will. His reputation as brilliant
orator and shrewd and skilful diplomat was a household word throughout
the civilised world, whilst in our own land confidence always increased
when he was at the head of Foreign Affairs. As his confidential private
secretary, I, Geoffrey Deedes, had daily opportunities of observing how
conscientiously he served his Sovereign and his country, and how amazing
was his capacity for work. With him, duty was always of paramount
consideration; he worked night and day to sustain England's honour and
welfare, for times without number I had gone to his great gloomy house
in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night and roused him from his
bed to attend to urgent dispatches.
Although a perfect martinet towards many in the various departments of
the Foreign Office, he was to me always kind and generous. My father,
Sir Reginald Deedes, had, as many will doubtless remember, represented
Her Majesty at the Netherlands Court for fifteen years until his death.
He was thus an old friend of the Earl, and it was this friendship that
caused him to appoint me five years ago his private secretary, and, much
to the chagrin of young Lord Gaysford, the Under Secretary, repose such
implicit confidence in me that very frequently he entrusted to my care
the keys of the ponderous safe wherein were deposited the State secrets
of the nation.
"You'd better register this, and we'll lock it away from prying eyes at
once," Lord Warnham said a few moments later, handing me the envelope
after he had sealed it. Taking it, I went straight to my own room
across the corridor at the head of the fine central staircase. It was
part of my duty to receive the more important dispatches, number those
which were sealed, and prior to depositing them in the safe, register
the number in my book, stating the source whence they came, the date
received, and the name of the messenger who brought them.
Alone in my room, I closed the door, took the register from my own small
safe, numbered the precious envelope with the designation "B27,893," and
carefully made an entry in the book. Having finished, a clerk brought
me two letters from other Departments, both of which needed immediate
replies, therefore I sat down and scribbled them while he waited. Then,
having been absent from the Chief's room nearly a quarter of an hour, I
went back with the dispatch in my hand. In the room I found Lord
Gaysford, who, in reply to my question, stated that the Earl had been
compelled to leave in order to attend a meeting of the Cabinet, which he
believed would be a protracted one.
To me this was provoking, for the great statesman had taken with him the
key of the safe; thus was I left with this important document in my
possession. But I said nothing of the matter to the Under Secretary,
and returning to my room placed the dispatch in my inner pocket for
greater security, determined to keep it there until his Lordship
returned. I feared to lock it away in my own safe lest anyone else
might possess a key, and felt that in the circumstances my own pocket
was the safest place.
For nearly two hours I continued my work, it being Friday, an unusually
busy day, until, just as the clock at the Horse Guards chimed one
o'clock, a clerk entered with the card of Dudley Ogle, my college chum,
with whom I was now sharing, during the summer months, a cottage close
to the Thames at Shepperton. On the card was the pencilled query, "Can
you come and lunch with me?"
For a few moments I hesitated. I was busy, and I was compelled to
deliver the dispatch in my pocket to Lord Warnham before he left for
home. I knew, however, that the meeting of the Cabinet must be a long
one, and recognising the fact that I must lunch somewhere, I gave the
clerk a message that I would join Mr Ogle in the waiting-room in a few
moments. Then, locking my safe, I assured myself that the dispatch was
still in my pocket, brushed my hat, and joined my friend.
Dudley Ogle was the best of good fellows. After a rather wild college
career, it had been his fancy to roam for about two years on the
Continent, and on his return, his father, with whom he was not on the
best of terms, conveniently died, leaving him possessor of about twenty
thousand pounds. By this time he had, however, sown his wild oats, and
instead of spending his money as most young men of his age would have
done, he invested it, and now lived a careless, indolent existence,
travelling where he pleased, and getting as much enjoyment out of life
as was possible. He was about my own age--twenty-eight, well set-up,
smart-looking, with rather aquiline features, dark hair, and a pair of
merry eyes that were an index to a contented mind.
"Didn't expect me, I suppose, old fellow?" he exclaimed breezily, when
we met. "I found after you'd left this morning that I was compelled to
come up to town, and having nothing to do for an hour or so, it occurred
to me that we might lunch together."
"I thought you intended to pull up as far as `The Nook,'" I said,
laughing.
"So I did, but I received a wire calling me to town on some rather
urgent business. Where shall we lunch?"
In descending the stairs and turning into Downing Street we discussed
the merits of various restaurants, and finally decided upon a small,
old-fashioned, unpretentious, but well-known place a few doors from
Charing Cross, in the direction of Whitehall, known as "The Ship." Here
we ate our meal, spent an hour together, and then parted, he leaving to
return to Shepperton, I to finish my work and rejoin him later at our
riparian cottage.
On my return to the Foreign Office the Earl had, I found, just come in,
and I handed him the secret document which some day, sooner or later,
would control the destiny of an empire.
"This has, of course, not been out of your possession, Deedes?" inquired
his Lordship, looking keenly at me with his grey eyes, as he stood
before the open door of the great safe.
"Not for a single instant," I replied.
"Good. I trust you," he said, carefully placing the sealed envelope in
a pigeon-hole to itself, and closing the door with a loud clang, locked
it.
"I think," he said, his ascetic features relaxing into a self-satisfied
smile, "I think we have once again checkmated our enemies, and swiftly
too. The whole thing has been arranged and concluded within a week,
thanks to the clever diplomacy of Emden at Berlin."
"And to your own forethought," I added, laughing.
"No, no. To Emden all credit is due, none to me, none," he answered
modestly; then, turning, he gave me some instructions, and a few minutes
later put on his hat and left for home. At four o'clock I also left,
and driving to Waterloo, caught my train to Shepperton, where I found
Dudley Ogle awaiting me. Ours was a pretty cottage. Facing the river,
it was covered with creepers, sweet-smelling jasmine and roses, with a
rustic porch in front, and a large old-world garden around. Life was
delightful there after the stuffiness of London chambers, and as we both
had with us our men, in addition to Mrs Franks, my trusty housekeeper,
we were prevented from being troubled by the minor worries of life.
"Hulloa, old chap!" cried Dudley, hastily rousing himself from a lazy
attitude on the couch in our sitting-room as I entered. "Stifling hot,
isn't it? There's a wire from the Laings. They want us to dine with
them to-night. Going?"
I hesitated, and my reluctance did not escape him.
"Isn't Ella's company sufficient inducement?" he asked chaffingly.
"Going? Of course I am," I answered quickly, glancing at my watch. "We
have a full hour before dressing. Let's go for a row. It'll improve
our appetites."
Within a few minutes I had exchanged the frock coat of officialdom for
flannels, and very soon we were pulling upstream towards a delightful
backwater that was our goal. As we rowed, the silence being broken only
by the sound of the oars in the row-locks, I calmly reviewed the
situation. Why the Laings invited me that night puzzled me. Truth to
tell, I loved Ella Laing with all the strength of my being, and had
foolishly believed she reciprocated my affection until two nights ago,
when I had called at the house near Staines, where she lived with her
mother during the summer months. I had discovered her in the garden
walking in lover-like attitude with Andrew Beck, a retired silk
manufacturer, who had lived in France so long that he had become
something of a cosmopolitan, and who had lately entered Parliament at a
bye-election as representative of West Rutlandshire. I confess to
having conceived an instinctive dislike to this man from the very first
moment we had been introduced by a mutual friend in the Lobby of the
House of Commons, for he was a parvenu of the most pronounced type,
while his grey, beetling brows and flat, broad nose gave his face an
expression anything but pleasing.
Nevertheless he walked jauntily, spoke loudly in bluff good-natured
tones, gave excellent dinners, and, strangely enough, was voted a good
fellow wherever he went. Yet there was an ostentatiousness about his
actions that was sickening; his arrogant, self-assertive manner was, to
me, extremely distasteful. The discovery that he was endeavouring to
supplant me in Ella's affections filled my cup of indignation to the
full.
I had left the garden unobserved on that fateful night, returned at once
to our riverside cottage, and written her an angry letter, charging her
in plain terms with having played me false. In reply, next morning she
sent by the gardener a long letter full of mild reproach, in which she
asserted that she had no thought of love for anyone beside myself, and
that I had entirely misconstrued her relations with Mr Beck. "Strange,
indeed, it is that you, of all men, should declare that I love him," she
wrote. "Love! If you knew all, you would neither write nor utter that
sacred word to me; and even though you are the only man for whom I have
a thought, it may, after all, be best if we never again meet. You say
you cannot trust me further. Well, I can only reply that my future
happiness is in your hands. I am yours."
Deeply had I pondered over this curious, half-hysterical,
half-reproachful letter, re-reading it many many times, and becoming
more and more puzzled over its vague, mysterious meaning. On several
occasions I had been upon the point of calling and questioning her, but
had refrained. Now, however, this formal invitation to dine had come no
doubt through Ella, and I saw in it her desire to personally explain
away my jealousy. So I accepted.
CHAPTER TWO.
"THE NOOK."
When, a couple of hours later, we entered Mrs Laing's garden, the first
person we encountered was the man I hated, Andrew Beck, in his
ill-fitting dress clothes and broad, crumpled shirt-front, with its
great diamond solitaire, lounging in a wicker chair at the river's
brink, smoking, and in solitude enjoying the glorious sunset that,
reflecting upon the water, transformed it into a stream of rippling
gold. "The Nook," as Mrs Laing's house was called, was a charming old
place facing the river at a little distance above Staines Bridge--long,
low, completely covered with ivy and surrounded by a wide sweep of lawn
that sloped down to the water's edge, and a belt of old elms beneath the
cool shade of which I had spent many delightfully lazy afternoons by the
side of my well-beloved.
"Ah! Deedes," exclaimed Beck, gaily, rising as we approached, "I was
waiting for somebody to come. The ladies haven't come down yet."
"Have you seen them?" I asked.
"Not yet," he replied; then turning to my friend Dudley, he began
chaffing him about a young and wealthy widow he had rowed up to Windsor
in our boat a few days before.
"We saw you, my boy. We saw you?" he laughed. "You were talking so
confidentially as you passed, that Ella remarked that you were
contemplating stepping into the dead man's shoes."
"No, no," Dudley retorted good-humouredly. "No widows for me. She was
merely left under my care for an hour or so, and I had to do the
amicable. It's really too bad of you all to jump to such rash
conclusions."
At that instant a soft, musical voice behind me uttered my name, and,
turning, I met Ella, with a light wrap thrown about her shoulders,
coming forward to me with outstretched hand. "Ah! Geoffrey, how are
you?" she cried gaily, with joy in her brilliant, sparkling eyes. Then,
as our hands clasped, she added in an undertone, "I knew you would come;
I knew you would forgive."
"I have not forgiven," I answered, rather coldly, bending over her slim
white hand.
"But I have committed no fault," she said, pouting prettily.
"You have given me no satisfactory explanation."
"Wait until after dinner. We will come out here together, where we can
talk without being overheard," she whispered hurriedly, then left me
abruptly to greet Dudley and Andrew Beck. There was something
significant in the swift, inquisitive glance she exchanged with the
last-named man, and turning away I strode across the lawn annoyed. A
moment later I met Mrs Laing herself. She was elderly and effusive;
tall, and of stately bearing. Her hair was perfectly white but by no
means scanty, her face was clever and refined without that grossness
that too often disfigures a well-preserved woman of fifty, and in her
dark eyes, undimmed by time, there was always an expression of calm
contentment. Her husband had been a great traveller until his death ten
years ago, and she, accompanying him on his journeys in the East, had
become a clever linguist, an accomplishment which her only daughter,
Ella, shared.
As we stood together chatting, and watching the boats full of happy
youths and maidens gliding past in the brilliant afterglow, I thought
that never had I seen Ella looking so handsome, as, standing with
Dudley, she had taken up Beck's theme, and was congratulating him upon
his trip with the skittish widow.
Hers was an oval face, perfect in its symmetry, clear cut and refined, a
trifle pale perhaps, but from her eyes of that darkest blue that
sometimes sparkled into the brightness of a sapphire, sometimes deepened
into softest grey like the sky on a summer night, there shone an inner
beauty, indicative of a purity of soul. The mouth was mobile, short and
full, with an exquisite finish about the curve of the lips, the nose
short and straight, and the hair of darkest gold--the gold that cannot
be produced artificially, but has a slight dash of red in it, just
sufficient to enrich the brown of the shadows and give a burnish to the
ripples in the high lights. Her eyebrows were set rather high up from
the eye itself, and were slightly drooped at the corner nearest the ear,
imparting to her face a kind of plaintive, questioning look that was
exceedingly becoming to her. Her gown was of soft clinging silk of
palest heliotrope, that bore the unmistakable stamp of Paris, while on
her slim wrist I noticed she wore the diamond bangle I had given her six
months before. As she chatted with Dudley, she turned and laughed at me
gaily over her shoulder from time to time, and when we entered the house
a few minutes later, it was with satisfaction that I found myself placed
beside her at table.
Dinner was always a pleasant, if slightly stately, meal at Mrs Laing's.
She was a brilliant and accomplished hostess, whose entertainments at
her house in Pont Street were always popular, and who surrounded herself
with interesting and intellectual people. Bohemia was generally well
represented at her receptions, for the lions of the season, whether
literary, artistic, or musical, were always to be met there--a fact
which induced many of the more exclusive set to honour the merry widow
by their presence. Wearied, however, of the eternal small talk about
new books, new plays, new pictures, and the newest fads, I was glad
when, after smoking, we were free to rejoin the ladies in the quaint,
oak-panelled drawing-room.
The moon had risen, and ere long I strolled with Ella through the French
windows, and out upon the lawn, eager to talk alone with her.
"Well," she said at length, when we were seated in the shadow beneath
one of the high rustling elms, "so you want an explanation. What can I
give?"
"Your letter conveys the suspicion that there exists some secret between
Beck and yourself," I said, as calmly as I could.
"My letter!" she exclaimed, in a voice that seemed a little harsh and
strained. "What did I say? I really forget."
"It's useless to prevaricate, Ella," I said, rather impatiently. "You
say that if I knew all I would never utter words of love to you. What
do you mean?"
"Exactly what I wrote," she answered huskily, in a low voice.
"You mean to imply that you are unworthy of the love of an honest man?"
I observed in astonishment.
"Yes," she gasped hoarsely. "I do not--I--cannot deceive you, Geoffrey,
because I love you." The last sentence she uttered passionately, with a
fierce fire burning in her eyes. "You are jealous of Andrew Beck, a man
old enough to be my father. Well, I confess I was foolish to allow him
to walk with me here with his arm around my waist; yet at that moment
the indiscretion did not occur to me."
"But he was speaking to you--whispering into your ready ears words of
love and tenderness. He spoke in persuasive tones, as if begging you to
become his wife," I said angrily, the very thought of the scene I had
witnessed filling me with indignation and bitter hatred.
"No, you are entirely mistaken, Geoffrey. No word of love passed
between us," she said quietly, looking into my eyes with unwavering
glance.
I smiled incredulously.
"You will perhaps deny that here, within six yards of this very spot,
you stopped and burst forth into tears?" I exclaimed, with cold
cynicism.
"I admit that. The words he uttered were of sufficient significance to | 1,089.956989 |
2023-11-16 18:35:13.9370030 | 2,791 | 24 |
Produced by Chuck Greif (This file was produced from images
available at The Internet Archive)
IN THE
LAND OF TEMPLES
BY JOSEPH PENNELL
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
JOSEPH PENNELL'S PICTURES IN THE LAND OF TEMPLES
JOSEPH PENNELL'S
PICTURES OF
THE PANAMA CANAL.
_FIFTH EDITION._
Reproductions of a series of Lithographs made
by him on the Isthmus of Panama, together
with Impressions and Notes by the Artist.
Price 5s. net.
THE LIFE OF JAMES
MCNEILL WHISTLER
By E. R. and J. PENNELL.
Fifth and Revised Edition, with 96 pp.
of Illustrations. Pott 4to.
Price 12s. 6d. net.
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN.
Copies of the lithographs reproduced in this
volume, limited to fifty proofs each, size 16 by 22 in.,
may be obtained through the Publisher, at
L3 3 0 net each.
JOSEPH PENNELL'S PICTURES IN THE LAND OF TEMPLES
REPRODUCTIONS OF A SERIES OF LITHOGRAPHS MADE BY HIM IN THE LAND OF
TEMPLES, MARCH-JUNE 1913, TOGETHER WITH IMPRESSIONS AND NOTES BY THE
ARTIST
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT GO.
COPYRIGHT
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. 1915.
TO
R. M. DAWKINS
LATE DIRECTOR
OF THE BRITISH
SCHOOL AT ATHENS
WHO SHOWED ME
WHERE I SHOULD
FIND THE TEMPLES
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY B. CLAY AND SONS, LTD., BRUNSWICK STREET,
STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
NOTES--ON MY LITHOGRAPHS IN THE LAND OF TEMPLES
I WENT to Greece for two reasons. First, because I wanted to see Greece
and what remained of her glory--to see if the greatest work of the past
impressed me as much as the greatest work of the present--and to try to
find out which was the greater--the more inspiring. And second, I went
because I was told by a Boston authority that I was nothing but a
ragtime sketcher, couldn't see Greek art and couldn't draw it if I did.
I have been there--and did what I saw in my own way. To me Greece was
wonderful and was beautiful, but anyone can see that--and can rave over
it with appropriate quotations from appropriate authors. I know no Greek
and have scarce read a translation. I say this regretfully--I wish I
had--I should have seen more. I know, however, if I had not before seen
the greatest art of the rest of Europe, I could not have been so moved
as I was by what I saw in the Land of Temples, the land whence we have
derived most of our ideas, ideals, and inspirations.
I drew the things that interested me--and it was, and is, a great
delight to me to be told by those who have, some of them, spent their
lives studying Greeks and Greece, that I have given the character of the
country. What impressed me most was the great feeling of the Greeks for
site in placing their temples and shrines in the landscape--so that they
not only became a part of it, but it leads up to them. And though the
same architectural forms were used, each temple was so placed that it
told from afar by sea or land, a goal for pilgrims--a shrine for
worshippers to draw near to--yet each had a character of its own--always
the same, yet ever differing. I know, I am sorry to say, little of
proportion, of scale, of heights, of lengths, but what I saw, with my
own eyes, was the way these monuments were part of the country--never
stuck about anyhow--always composed--always different--and they were
built with grand ideas of composition, impressiveness, and arrangement.
Has there been any change in the black forest before Aegina--the "wine
dark sea" at Sunium--the "shining rocks" at Delphi--the grim cliffs of
the Acropolis?--these prove in their various ways that the Greeks were
great artists.
These were the things I saw. Had I known more I might have seen
less--for it seems to me that most artists who have gone to Greece have
been so impressed with what they have been told to see, that--there are,
of course, great exceptions--they have looked at the land with a
foot-rule, a translation, and a dictionary, and they have often been
interfered with by these aids. I went ignorant of where to go--or what
to see. When I got to Athens I fell among friends, who answered my only
question that "I wanted to see temples that stood up." They told me
where they were--and there they were. And for this information, which
resulted in my seeing these sites and making these lithographs, I want
to thank many people, but above all Mr. R. M. Dawkins, late Director of
the British School at Athens, who, now that he has seen the work, agrees
with others that it has something of the character and romance of the
country. If it has those qualities, they are what I went out to see--and
having seen them--and I have tried to express them--I know I can see
more, if I have the chance in the future in the Wonder of Work of my
time, for in our great works to-day we are only carrying on the
tradition of the great works of the past. I have seen both, and it is
so.
JOSEPH PENNELL.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE ILLUSTRATIONS START AT TAORMINA, PROCEED AROUND SICILY--THENCE TO
ITALY, AND ARE CONTINUED IN GREECE.
AETNA OVER TAORMINA I
THE THEATRE, SEGESTA II
THE TEMPLE OVER THE CANYON, SEGESTA III
FROM TEMPLE TO TEMPLE, GIRGENTI IV
THE COLUMNS OF CASTOR AND POLLUX, GIRGENTI V
SUNRISE BEHIND THE TEMPLE OF CONCORD, GIRGENTI VI
THE TEMPLE BY THE SEA; TEMPLE OF CONCORD, GIRGENTI VII
THE TEMPLE OF CONCORD ON THE WALL FROM WITHIN, GIRGENTI VIII
THE TEMPLE OF CONCORD ON THE WALL FROM WITHOUT, GIRGENTI IX
COLUMNS OF THE TEMPLE OF JUNO, GIRGENTI X
THE TEMPLES ON THE WALL, GIRGENTI XI
THE TEMPLE OF JUNO FROM BELOW, GIRGENTI XII
PAESTUM. MORNING MIST XIII
PAESTUM. EVENING XIV
CORINTH TOWARDS THE GULF XV
ACRO-CORINTH FROM CORINTH XVI
OLYMPIA FROM THE HILLSIDE XVII
THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER. EVENING XVIII
THE ACROPOLIS FROM THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER, ATHENS XIX
THE WAY UP THE ACROPOLIS XX
DOWN FROM THE ACROPOLIS XXI
SUNRISE OVER THE ACROPOLIS XXII
STORM BEHIND THE ACROPOLIS XXIII
THE PROPYLAEA, ATHENS XXIV
THE PORTICO OF THE PARTHENON XXV
THE PARTHENON FROM THE GATEWAY XXVI
THE FACADE OF THE PARTHENON. SUNSET XXVII
THE FALLEN COLUMN, ATHENS XXVIII
THE LITTLE FETE, ATHENS XXIX
THE GREAT FETE, ATHENS XXX
THE TEMPLE OF NIKE, ATHENS XXXI
THE TEMPLE OF NIKE FROM MARS HILL, ATHENS XXXII
THE ODEON, ATHENS XXXIII
THE STREET OF THE TOMBS, ATHENS XXXIV
ELEUSIS. THE PAVEMENT OF THE TEMPLE XXXV
AEGINA XXXVI
AEGINA ON ITS MOUNTAIN TOP XXXVII
THE SHINING ROCKS, DELPHI XXXVIII
THE TREASURY OF ATHENS, DELPHI XXXIX
THE WINE DARK SEA. SUNIUM XL
INTRODUCTION.
IT is a happy thing that the Greek race came into being, because they
showed the world once at least what is meant by a man. The ideal Greek
virtue [Greek: sophrosune] means, that all parts and faculties of the
man are in proportion, each trained to perfection and all under control
of the will: body, mind, and spirit, each has its due place. Elsewhere
we see one of these in excess. Thus the Indian philosopher soars in the
highest regions of speculation, and sees great truths, but they
intoxicate him: he does not bring them to the test of daily life, nor
does he check them by reason. The Hebrew prophet has his vision of one
God, and in rapt devotion prostrates himself below the dignity of
manhood. The Roman deals with practical politics and material
civilisation; he has a genius for organizing, and for combining the rule
of the best with the freedom and direct influence of all: he, however,
despises the spirit and the imagination. In our own day, what is called
science arrogates almost divine honours to the faculty for measuring and
observing, and neglects both the religious instinct and the
philosopher's theoric; nor is this ideal less deadly than the Roman's to
imagination and the sense of beauty. In modern times also, each person
strives to excel in some one specialty, mental or bodily; and if there
is any feeling at all for proportion it is the proportion of a group,
while the members of the group are [Greek: perittohi], excessive in one
way and defective in the others. But the Greek aimed at perfect
proportion for the man; and his ideal was, that the man's will should
use all the faculties to some worthy end. His body is to be trained by
music and gymnastic: the aim of the first being grace and beauty; of the
second, strength; of the whole, health and joy in all bodily uses. His
mind is to be trained by poetry, oratory, and philosophy; his spirit by
the worship of the gods, in which all that was best in his life is
concentrated into a noble ritual. Such would be the life of the ordinary
Greek; the greater intellects would look beyond the ritual to the
essence; and we have ample evidence to show that their ideals were as
high as any that have been known to other peoples. Aeschylus dealt with
the same problems that baffled the Hebrew prophets, divine justice and
mercy, and the immutable moral law; Plato's speculation took him into
regions where logic and formal philosophy had to be cast aside; Pheidias
by his art added a new dignity to godhead.[1]
Nowhere is the Greek [Greek: sophrosune], their sense of restraint and
proportion, shown better than in their architecture: and this both in
the method of growth and in the final results. The Doric style has grown
out of a wooden building. When and how the first steps were taken, we do
not know, nor whether the Doric be directly descended from the Mycenaean
style, as Perrot and Chipiez will have it. There is this great
difference: that the Mycenaean and Cretan columns are like a Doric column
reversed, the thick end upmost, and they show none of the Greek
refinements to which we shall come later. A simpler origin is possible:
for to-day the traveller may see, in the verandah of some wayside
cottage (Homer's [Greek: a'hithousa herhidoupos]) a primitive Doric
column, some bare tree-trunk with a chunk of itself for capital,
supporting a primitive architrave of the same sort. In the Doric order,
other traces of woodwork are left in the stone, such as the triglyphs,
or beam-ends, with round pegs beneath, or the gouged flutings of the
column itself. And we have direct evidence in the history of the
Olympian Heraeum; where we are told that the columns were once of wood,
and that | 1,089.957043 |
2023-11-16 18:35:14.6369270 | 1,815 | 7 |
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2023-11-16 18:35:14.7370710 | 2,037 | 16 |
Produced by Al Haines.
*GREENACRE
GIRLS*
BY
IZOLA L. FORRESTER
THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.
CLEVELAND, O. NEW YORK, N.Y.
_Copyright, 1915, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
All rights reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I The Finger of Providence
II The Motherbird and Her Robins
III Breakers Ahead
IV The Queen's Privy Council
V Kit Rebels
VI White Hyacinths
VII The Land o' Rest
VIII Spying the Promised Land
IX The Lady Managers Choose a Name
X Settling the Nest
XI Ma Parmelee's Chicks
XII Gilead's Girl Neighbors
XIII Cousin Roxy to the Rescue
XIV The Lawn Fete
XV Kit Pulls Anchor
XVI Guests and Ghosts
XVII Billie Meets Trespassers
XVIII Harvesting Hopes
XIX Ralph and Honey Take the Long Trail
XX Roxana's Romance
*GREENACRE GIRLS*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE*
"It does seem to me, folkses," said Kit warmly, "that when anyone is
trying to write, you might be a little quiet."
The three at the end of the room heeded not the admonition. Doris was
so interested that she had almost succeeded in reclining like a Roman
maiden on the library table, trying to see over Helen's shoulder. Jean
was drawing up the plan for action. The list of names lay before her,
and she tapped her pencil on her nose meditatively as she eyed it.
"Now, listen, Jean," Helen proposed. "This would really be a novelty.
Let's have a Cupid for postman and not give out our valentines until
after the games. And just when we've got them all seated for supper
have the bell ring, and a real postman's whistle blow, and enter Cupid!"
"It's too cold for wings," Doris interposed mildly.
"Oh, Dorrie, you goose. He'd be all dressed up beautifully. Buster
Phelps is going to be Cupid, only we were going to have him sit in front
of a Valentine box and just hand them out. We'll put a little white suit
on him with red hearts dangling all over him, and curl his hair
angelically."
"You'd better have red heart favors too, Helen," Jean added; "something
that opens and shuts, with something else inside for a surprise. And
we'll put red crepe shades on all the electric bulbs. Could we get
those, do you think, girls?"
"We can get anything if Dad and Mother are home by that time," answered
Helen. The rest were silent. Kit, sitting at her mother's desk beside
the wide bay window, looked up and frowned at the stuffed golden
pheasant on top of the nearest bookcase. Outside snow was falling
lightly. The view of the Sound was obscured. A pearly grayness seemed
to be settling around the big house as if it were being cut off from the
rest of the world by some magic spell.
"Hope Dad's feeling all right by now," Kit said suddenly, pushing back
her thick, dark curls restlessly. "They sail from Sanibel Island the
8th. Wasn't it the 8th, Jean?"
"Oh, they'll be home in plenty of time," Jean exclaimed. "Here we all
sit, having the silent mullygrumps when he's better. Mother said
positively in her last letter that he had improved wonderfully the
previous week."
Helen stared at the long leather couch on one side of the open
fireplace. It was over four weeks since her father had lain on it.
Throughout the winter there had been day after day of unremitting
weakness following his breakdown, and somehow she could not help
wondering whether the future held the same. She rose quickly, shaking
her head with defiance at the thought.
"Let's not worry, girls. If we all are blue when he comes, he'll have a
relapse."
Then Jean spoke, anxiously, tenderly,--her big dark eyes questioning
Kit.
"What about Mother?"
"We're all worried about Mother, Jean. It isn't just you at all," Kit
spluttered. "But you can be just boiling inside with love and
helpfulness, and still not go around with a face like that!"
"Like what?" demanded Jean haughtily.
"Don't fight, children, don't fight," Doris counseled, just as if she
were the eldest instead of the youngest. "Remember what Cousin Roxy
says about the tongue starting more fires than the heart can put out.
You two scrap much more than Helen and I do."
"Well, I think," said Helen sedately, "that we ought to remember Mother
just as Jean says. She's almost sick herself worrying over Dad, and
there she is, away down in Florida with just the White Hen to talk to."
Jean smiled, thinking of the plump little trained nurse, Miss Patterson,
so spick and span and placid that the girls had declared they expected
her to cluck at any moment. They had nicknamed her the White Hen, and
it surely suited her. Even though no Chantecler had arrived yet to
claim her, she was the White Hen,--good-tempered, cheerful, attending
strictly to business always, but not just what one might call a lovable
companion.
"She's too chirpy for anyone who has responsibilities," Jean said.
"Note Jean when she has responsibilities," Kit proclaimed. "Jean's been
playing Mrs. Atlas and carrying the rest of us around on her shoulders.
And look at her! Where is the merry smile of old, fair sister?"
Jean smiled rather forlornly. It was true that she had shouldered most
of the responsibility since they had been left alone. Cousin Roxana had
arrived only a few days previous to the departure of Mrs. Robbins, and
it had been rather a formidable task suddenly to assume a mother's place
and run the home.
"Oh, I'm all right," she said. "It's only that everything seems to be
coming at once. The valentine party and Kit's special effusion for
Lincoln's Birthday."
"Class symposium on 'Lincoln--the Man--the President--the Liberator'--"
Kit ran it off proudly. "Little classics of three hundred words each.
You just ought to see Billie Dunbar's, Jean. He's been boiling it down
for a week from two thousand words, and every day Babbie Kane asks him
how he's getting along. And you know how Billie talks! He just glowers
and glooms and this morning he told her, 'It's still just sap.' He's a
scream."
"Kit, don't," laughed Jean in spite of herself. "If you get ink spots on
Mother's best suede desk pad, you'll find yourself a little classic."
Kit moved the ink well farther back as a slight concession, and
suggested once more that the rest of the family try their level best to
keep still about their old party while she finished her symposium.
"You know," Helen began with a far-off look in her eyes, "I think we're
awfully selfish, and I mean all of us, not just Kit--"
"Thanking your royal highness," murmured Kit.
"Here's Dad coming back home after five weeks' absence, and we don't
know really whether he's better or worse--"
"Helen, don't be a raven quothing things at us," pleaded Jean.
"But it's perfectly true. He needs rest above everything else, Miss
Patterson told me so; and here we're planning for a party the minute he
gets home."
"Dad says always to go right ahead and have a good time, that it makes
him happier to know we are happy."
Kit frowned again. She had straight dark brows set above wide gray
eyes, and her frown was somewhat portentous. At fifteen she was far
more energetic than Jean at seventeen. No matter what fate might
deliver to her she would always find a quick antidote for any manner of
trouble. With her short curly hair, she seemed more like the boy of the
family, like her father himself, cheery, optimistic, fond of all outdoor
life. It was a saying in the Robbins family that Kit might neglect the
weeds a bit in her special garden of life, but the general landscape
effect would always be artistic and beautiful.
Privately, now that the family were facing a crisis, Kit felt far more
competent to act as the head pro tem. than did Jean. The main trouble
was, as Helen had said, that Kathleen needed a brake to check her
official impetus.
"Anyway, the invitations are all out now and Mother knows we're going to
have the party because I wrote her all about it, and she sent back word
that she didn | 1,090.757111 |
2023-11-16 18:35:14.8372980 | 74 | 39 |
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Produced by K. Kay Shearin
THE RISE OF ISKANDER
By Benjamin Disraeli
CHAPTER 1
The sun had set behind the mountains, and the rich plain of Athens was
suffused with the violet glow of a Grecian eye. A light breeze rose; the
olive-groves awoke from their noonday trance, and rustled with returning
animation, and the pennons of the Turkish squadron, that lay at anchor
in the harbour of Piraeus, twinkled in the lively air. From one gate
of the city the women came forth in procession to the fountain; from
another, a band of sumptuous horsemen sallied out, and threw their
wanton javelins in the invigorating sky, as they galloped over the
plain. The voice of birds, the buzz of beauteous insects, the breath of
fragrant flowers, the quivering note of the nightingale, the pattering
call of the grasshopper, and the perfume of the violet, shrinking from
the embrace of the twilight breeze, filled the purple air with music and
with odour.
A solitary being stood upon the towering crag of the Acropolis, amid
the ruins of the Temple of Minerva, and gazed upon the inspiring scene.
Around him rose the matchless memorials of antique art; immortal columns
whose symmetry baffles modern proportion, serene Caryatides, bearing
with greater grace a graceful burthen, carvings of delicate precision,
and friezes breathing with heroic life. Apparently the stranger, though
habited as a Moslemin, was not insensible to the genius of the locality,
nor indeed would his form and countenance have misbecome a contemporary
of Pericles and Phidias. In the prime of life and far above the common
stature, but with a frame the muscular power of which was even exceeded
by its almost ideal symmetry, white forehead, his straight profile, his
oval countenance, and his curling lip, exhibited the same visage that
had inspired the sculptor of the surrounding demigods.
The dress of the stranger, although gorgeous, was, however, certainly
not classic. A crimson shawl was wound round his head and glittered with
a trembling aigrette of diamonds. His vest which set tight to his form,
was of green velvet, richly embroidered with gold and pearls. Over this
he wore a very light jacket of crimson velvet, equally embroidered, and
lined with sable. He wore also the full white camese common among the
Albanians; and while his feet were protected by sandals, the lower part
of his legs was guarded by greaves of embroidered green velvet. From
a broad belt of scarlet leather peeped forth the jewelled hilts of
a variety of daggers, and by his side was an enormous scimitar, in a
scabbard of chased silver.
The stranger gazed upon the wide prospect before him with an air of
pensive abstraction. "Beautiful Greece," he exclaimed, "thou art still
my country. A mournful lot is mine, a strange and mournful lot, yet not
uncheered by hope. I am at least a warrior; and this arm, though trained
to war against thee, will not well forget, in the quick hour of battle,
the blood that flows within it. Themistocles saved Greece and died
a Satrap: I am bred one, let me reverse our lots, and die at least a
patriot."
At this moment the Evening Hymn to the Virgin arose from a neighbouring
convent. The stranger started as the sacred melody floated towards
him, and taking a small golden cross from his heart, he kissed it with
devotion, and then descending the steep of the citadel, entered the
city.
He proceeded alone the narrow winding streets of Athens until he at
length arrived in front of a marble palace, in the construction of which
the architect had certainly not consulted the surrounding models which
Time bad spared to him, but which, however, it might have offended
a classic taste, presented altogether a magnificent appearance.
Half-a-dozen guards, whose shields and helmets somewhat oddly contrasted
with the two pieces of cannon, one of which was ostentatiously placed on
each side of the portal, and which had been presented to the Prince of
Athens by the Republic of Venice, lounged before the entrance, and paid
their military homage to the stranger as he passed them. He passed
them and entered a large quadrangular garden, surrounded by arcades,
supported by a considerable number of thin, low pillars, of barbarous
workmanship, and various- marbles. In the midst of the garden
rose a fountain, whence the bubbling waters flowed in artificial
channels through vistas of orange and lemon trees. By the side of the
fountain on a luxurious couch, his eyes fixed upon a richly-illuminated
volume, reposed Nicaeus, the youthful Prince of Athens.
"Ah! is it you?" said the Prince, looking up with a smile, as the
stranger advanced. "You have arrived just in time to remind me that we
must do something more than read the Persae, we must act it."
"My dear Nicaeus," replied the stranger, "I have arrived only to bid you
farewell."
"Farewell!" exclaimed the Prince in a tone of surprise and sorrow; and
he rose from the couch. "Why! what is this?"
"It is too true;" said the stranger, and he led the way down one of the
walks. "Events have occurred which entirely baffle all our plans and
prospects, and place me in a position as difficult as it is harrowing.
Hunniades has suddenly crossed the Danube in great force, and carried
everything before him. I am ordered to proceed to Albania instantly, and
to repair to the camp at the head of the Epirots."
"Indeed!" said Nicaeus, with a thoughtful air. "My letters did not
prepare me for this. 'Tis sudden! Is Amurath himself in the field?"
"No; Karam Bey commands. I have accounted for my delay to the Sultan by
pretended difficulties in our treaty, and have held out the prospect of
a larger tribute."
"When we are plotting that that tribute should be paid no longer!" added
Nicaeus, with a smile.
"Alas! my dear friend," replied the Turkish commander, "my situation
has now become critical. Hitherto my services for the Moslemin have been
confined to acting against nations of their own faith. I am now suddenly
summoned to combat against my secret creed, and the best allies of what
I must yet call my secret country. The movement, it appears to me, must
be made now or never, and I cannot conceal from myself, that it never
could have been prosecuted under less auspicious circumstances."
"What, you desponding!" exclaimed Nicaeus; "then I must despair. Your
sanguine temper has alone supported me throughout all our dangerous
hopes."
"And AEschylus?" said the stranger, smiling.
"And AEschylus, certainly," replied Nicaeus; "but I have lived to find
even AEschylus insipid. I pant for action."
"It may be nearer than we can foresee," replied the stranger. "There is
a God who fashions all things. He will not desert a righteous cause.
He knoweth that my thoughts are as pure as my situation is difficult. I
have some dim ideas still brooding in my mind, but we will not discuss
them now. I must away, dear Prince. The breeze serves fairly. Have you
ever seen Hunniades?"
"I was educated at the Court of Transylvania," replied Nicaeus,
looking down with a somewhat embarrassed air. "He is a famous knight,
Christendom's chief bulwark."
The Turkish commander sighed. "When we meet again," he said, "may we
meet with brighter hopes and more buoyant spirits. At present, I must,
indeed, say farewell."
The Prince turned with a dejected countenance, and pressed his
companion to his heart. "'Tis a sad end," said he, "to all our happy
hours and lofty plans."
"You are as yet too young to quarrel with Fortune," replied the
stranger, "and for myself, I have not yet settled my accounts with her.
However, for the present farewell, dear Nicaeus!"
"Farewell," replied the Prince of Athens, "farewell, dear Iskander!"
CHAPTER 2
Iskander was the youngest son of the Prince of Epirus, who, with the
other Grecian princes, had, at the commencement of the reign of Amurath
the Second, in vain resisted the progress of the Turkish arms in Europe.
The Prince of Epirus had obtained peace by yielding his four sons as
hostages to the Turkish sovereign, who engaged that they should be
educated in all the accomplishments of their rank, and with a due
deference to their faith. On the death of the Prince of Epirus, however,
Amurath could not resist the opportunity that then offered itself
of adding to his empire the rich principality he had long coveted. A
Turkish force instantly marched into Epirus, and seized upon Croia, the
capital city, and the children of its late ruler were doomed to death.
The beauty, talents, and valour of the youngest son, saved him, however,
from the fate of his poisoned brothers. Iskander was educated at
Adrianople, in the Moslemin faith, and as he, at a very early age,
exceeded in feats of arms all the Moslemin warriors, he became a prime
favourite of the Sultan, and speedily rose in his service to the highest
rank.
At this period the irresistible progress of the Turkish arms was the
subject of alarm throughout all Christendom.
Constantinople, then the capital of the Greek Empire, had already been
more than once besieged by the predecessors of Amurath, and had only
been preserved by fortunate accidents and humiliating terms. The despots
of Bosnia, Servia, and Bulgaria, and the Grecian princes of Etolia,
Macedon, Epirus, Athens, Phocis, Boeotia, and indeed of all the regions
to the straits of Corinth, were tributaries to Amurath, and the rest of
Europe was only preserved from his grasp by the valour of the Hungarians
and the Poles, whom a fortunate alliance had now united under the
sovereignty of Uladislaus, who, incited by the pious eloquence of the
cardinal of St. Angelo, the legate of the Pope, and, yielding to the
tears and supplications of the despot of Servia, had, at the time our
story opens, quitted Buda, at the head of an immense army, crossed the
Danube, and, joining his valiant viceroy, the famous John Hunniades,
vaivode of Transylvania, defeated the Turks with great slaughter,
relieved all Bulgaria, and pushed on to the base of Mount Haemus, known
in modern times as the celebrated Balkan. Here the Turkish general,
Karam Bey, awaited the Christians, and hither to his assistance was
Iskander commanded to repair at the head of a body of Janissaries, who
had accompanied him to Greece, and the tributary Epirots.
Had Iskander been influenced by vulgar ambition, his loftiest desires
might have been fully gratified by the career which Amurath projected
for him. The Turkish Sultan destined for the Grecian Prince the hand
of one of his daughters, and the principal command of his armies. He
lavished upon him the highest dignities and boundless wealth; and,
whether it arose from a feeling of remorse, or of affection for a
warrior whose unexampled valour and unrivalled skill had already added
some of the finest provinces of Asia to his rule, it is certain that
Iskander might have exercised over Amurath a far greater degree of
influence than was enjoyed by any other of his courtiers. But the heart
of Iskander responded with no sympathy to these flattering favours.
His Turkish education could never eradicate from his memory the
consciousness that he was a Greek; and although he was brought up in
the Moslemin faith, he had at an early period of his career, secretly
recurred to the creed of his Christian fathers. He beheld in Amurath the
murderer of his dearest kinsmen, and the oppressor of his country; and
although a certain calmness of temper, and coolness of judgment, which
very early developed themselves in his character, prevented him from
ever giving any indication of his secret feelings, Iskander had long
meditated on the exalted duty of freeing his country.
Dispatched to Greece, to arrange the tributes and the treaties of the
Grecian princes, Iskander became acquainted with the young Nicaeus;
and their acquaintance soon matured into friendship. Nicaeus was
inexperienced; but nature had not intended him for action. The young
Prince of Athens would loll by the side of a fountain, and dream of the
wonders of old days. Surrounded by his eunuchs, his priests, and his
courtiers, he envied Leonidas, and would have emulated Themistocles. He
was passionately devoted to the ancient literature of his country, and
had the good taste, rare at that time, to prefer Demosthenes and Lysias
to Chrysostom and Gregory, and the choruses of the Grecian theatre to
the hymns of the Greek church. The sustained energy and noble simplicity
of the character of Iskander, seemed to recall to the young prince the
classic heroes over whom he was so often musing, while the enthusiasm
and fancy of Nicaeus, and all that apparent weakness of will, and those
quick vicissitudes of emotion, to which men of a fine susceptibility are
subject, equally engaged the sympathy of the more vigorous and constant
and experienced mind of his companion.
To Nicaeus, Iskander had, for the first time in his life, confided much
of his secret heart; and the young Prince fired at the inspiring tale.
Often they consulted over the fortunes of their country, and, excited
by their mutual invention, at length even dared to hope that they might
effect its deliverance, when Iskander was summoned to the army. It was
a mournful parting. Both of them felt that the last few months of
their lives had owed many charms to their companionship. The parting of
friends, united by sympathetic tastes, is always painful; and friends,
unless this sympathy subsist, had much better never meet. Iskander
stepped into the ship, sorrowful, but serene; Nicaeus returned to his
palace moody and fretful; lost his temper with his courtiers, and, when
he was alone, even shed tears.
CHAPTER 3
Three weeks bad elapsed since the parting of Iskander and Nicaeus, when
the former, at the head of ten thousand men, entered by a circuitous
route the defiles of Mount Haemus, and approached the Turkish camp, which
had been pitched, upon a vast and elevated table-ground, commanded
on all sides by superior heights, which, however, were fortified and
well-garrisoned by Janissaries. The Epirots halted, and immediately
prepared to raise their tents, while their commander, attended by a few
of his officers, instantly proceeded to the pavilion of Karam Bey.
The arrival of Iskander diffused great joy among the soldiery; and as he
passed through the encampment, the exclamations of the Turkish warriors
announced how ready they were to be led to the charge by a chieftain who
had been ever successful. A guard of honour, by the orders of Karam Bey,
advanced to conduct Iskander to his presence; and soon, entering the
pavilion, the Grecian prince exchanged courtesies with the Turkish
general. After the formal compliments had passed, Karam Bey waved his
hand, and the pavilion was cleared, with the exception of Mousa, the
chief secretary, and favourite of Karam.
"You have arrived in good time, Iskander, to assist in the destruction
of the Christian dogs," said the Bey. "Flushed with their accursed
success, they have advanced too far. Twice they have endeavoured to
penetrate the mountains; and each time they have been forced to retire,
with great loss. The passages are well barricadoed with timber and huge
fragments of rock. The dogs have lost all heart, and are sinking under
the joint sufferings of hunger and cold. Our scouts tell me they
exhibit symptoms of retreat. We must rush down from the mountains, and
annihilate them."
"Is Hunniades here in person?" inquired Iskander.
"He is here," replied Karam, "in person, the dog of dogs! Come,
Iskander, his head would be a fine Ramadan present to Amurath. 'Tis a
head worth three tails, I guess."
Mousa, the chief secretary, indulged in some suppressed laughter at this
joke. Iskander smiled.
"If they retreat we must assuredly attack them," observed Iskander,
musingly. "I have a persuasion that Hunniades and myself will soon
meet."
"If there be truth in the Prophet!" exclaimed Karam. "I have no doubt
of it. Hunniades is reserved for you, Bey. We shall hold up our heads at
court yet, Iskander. You have had letters lately?"
"Some slight words."
"No mention of us, of course?"
"Nothing, except some passing praise of your valour and discretion."
"We do our best, we do our best. Will Isa Bey have AEtolia, think you?"
"I have no thoughts. Our royal father will not forget his children, and
Isa Bey is a most valiant chieftain."
"You heard not that he was coming here?" inquired Karam.
"Have you?" responded the cautious Iskander.
"A rumour, a rumour," replied Karam. "He is at Adrianople, think you?"
"It may be so: I am, you know, from Athens."
"True, true. We shall beat them, Iskander, we shall beat them."
"For myself, I feel sanguine," replied the Prince, and he arose to
retire. "I must at present to my men. We must ascertain more accurately
the movements of the Christians before we decide on our own. I am
inclined myself to reconnoitre them. How far may it be?"
"There is not room to form our array between them and the mountains,"
replied Karam.
"'Tis well. Success attend the true believers! By to-morrow's dawn we
shall know more."
CHAPTER 4
Iskander returned to his men. Night was coming on. Fires and lights
blazed and sparkled in every direction. The air was clear, but very
cold. He entered his tent, and muffling himself up in his pelisse of
sables, he mounted his horse, and declining any attendance, rode for
some little distance, until he had escaped from the precincts of the
camp. Then he turned his horse towards one of the wildest passes of
the mountain, and galloping at great speed, never stopped until he had
gained a considerable ascent. The track became steep and rugged. The
masses of loose stone rendered his progress slow; but his Anatolian
charger still bore him at intervals bravely, and in three hours' time he
had gained the summit of Mount Haemus. A brilliant moon flooded the broad
plains of Bulgaria with shadowy light. At the base of the mountainous
range, the red watch-fires denoted the situation of the Christian camp.
Iskander proceeded down the descent with an audacious rapidity; but his
charger was thorough-bred, and his moments were golden. Ere midnight, he
had reached the outposts of the enemy, and was challenged by a sentinel.
"Who goes there?"
"A friend to Christendom."
"The word?"
"I have it not--nay calmly. I am alone, but I am not unarmed. I do not
know the word. I come from a far country, and bear important tidings to
the great Hunniades; conduct me to that chief."
"May I be crucified if I will," responded the sentinel, "before I know
who and what you are. Come, keep off, unless you wish to try the effect
of a Polish lance," continued the sentinel; "'tis something, I assure
you, not less awkward than your Greek fire, if Greek indeed you be."
"My friend, you are a fool," said Iskander, "but time is too precious
to argue any longer." So saying, the Turkish commander dismounted, and
taking up the brawny sentinel in his arms with the greatest ease,
threw him over his shoulder, and threatening the astounded soldier with
instant death if he struggled, covered him with his pelisse, and entered
the camp.
They approached a watch-fire, around which several soldiers were warming
themselves.
"Who goes there?" inquired a second sentinel.
"A friend to Christendom," answered Iskander.
"The word?"
Iskander hesitated.
"The word, or I'll let fly," said the sentinel, elevating his cross bow.
"The Bridge of Buda," instantly replied the terrified prisoner beneath
the pelisse of Iskander.
"Why did not you answer before, then?" said one of the guards.
"And why do you mock us by changing your voice?" said another. "Come,
get on with you, and no more jokes."
Iskander proceeded through a street of tents, in some of which were
lights, but all of which were silent. At length, he met the esquire of a
Polish knight returning from a convivial meeting, not a little elevated.
"Who are you?" inquired Iskander.
"I am an Esquire," replied the gentleman.
"A shrewd man, I doubt not, who would make his fortune," replied
Iskander. "You must know great things have happened. Being on guard
I have taken a prisoner, who has deep secrets to divulge to the Lord
Hunniades. Thither, to his pavilion, I am now bearing him. But he is a
stout barbarian, and almost too much for me. Assist me in carrying him
to the pavilion of Hunniades, and you shall have all the reward, and
half the fame."
"You are a very civil spoken young gentleman," said the Esquire. "I
think I know your voice. Your name, if I mistake not, is Leckinski?"
"A relative. We had a common ancestor."
"I thought so. I know the Leckinskies ever by their voice. I am free
to help you on the terms you mention--all the reward and half the fame.
'Tis a strong barbarian, is it? We cannot cut his throat, or it will not
divulge. All the reward and half the fame! I will be a knight to-morrow.
It seems a sort of fish, and has a smell."
The Esquire seized the Shoulders of the prisoner, who would have spoken
had he not been terrified by the threats of Iskander, who, carrying the
legs of the sentinel, allowed the Polish gentleman to lead the way to
the pavilion of Hunniades. Thither they soon arrived; and Iskander,
dropping his burthen, and leaving the prisoner without to the charge of
his assistant, entered the pavilion of the General of the Hungarians.
He was stopped in a small outer apartment by an officer, who inquired
his purpose, and to whom he repeated his desire to see the Hungarian
leader, without loss of time, on important business. The officer
hesitated; but, summoning several guards, left Iskander in their
custody, and, stepping behind a curtain, disappeared. Iskander heard
voices, but could distinguish no words. Soon the officer returned, and,
ordering the guards to disarm and search Iskander, directed the Grecian
Prince to follow him. Drawing aside the curtain, Iskander and his
attendant entered a low apartment of considerable size. It was hung
with skins. A variety of armour and dresses were piled on couches. A
middle-aged man, of majestic appearance, muffled in a pelisse of furs,
with long chestnut hair, and a cap of crimson velvet and ermine, was
walking up and down the apartment, and dictating some instructions to a
person who was kneeling on the ground, and writing by the bright flame
of a brazen lamp. The bright flame of the blazing lamp fell full upon
the face of the secretary. Iskander beheld a most beautiful woman.
She looked up as Iskander entered. Her large dark eyes glanced through
his soul. Her raven hair descended to her | 1,090.956567 |
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[Transcriber's Note: Underscores are used as delimiters for _italics_]
AN UNSINKABLE TITANIC
[Illustr | 1,091.155322 |
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E-text prepared by David Edwards, Katherine Ward, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from
digital material generously made available by Internet Archive
(http://www.archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 30589-h.htm or 30589-h.zip:
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30589/30589-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://www.archive.org/details/continentaldrago00stepiala
Transcriber's note:
Hyphenation has been made consistent.
Archaic and variable spellings are preserved.
The author's punctuation style is preserved, except quotation
marks, which have been standardized.
Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
Text in bold face is enclosed by equal signs (=bold=).
THE CONTINENTAL DRAGOON.
by
R. N. STEPHENS.
* * * * *
Works of R. N. STEPHENS.
An Enemy to the King.
The Continental Dragoon.
_In Press_:
The Road to Paris.
L. C. PAGE AND | 1,091.456778 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by
Google Books (The Library of the University of Michigan)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=DxcrAAAAMAAJ
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
Chippinge Borough
BY
STANLEY J. WEYMAN
Author of "The Long Night," Etc.
NEW YORK
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
MCMVI
_Copyright_, 1906, _by_
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
Copyright, 1905, 1905, by Stanley J. Weyman.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. The Dissolution.
II. The Spirit of the Storm.
III. Two Letters.
IV. Tantivy! Tantivy! Tantivy!
V. Rosy-fingered Dawn.
VI. The Patron of Chippinge.
VII. The Winds of Autumn.
VIII. A Sad Misadventure.
IX. The Bill for Giving Everybody Everything.
X. The Queen's Square Academy for Young Ladies.
XI. Don Giovanni Flixton.
XII. A Rotten Borough.
XIII. The Vermuyden Dinner.
XIV. Miss Sibson's Mistake.
XV. Mr. Pybus's Offer.
XVI. Less than a Hero.
XVII. The Chippinge Election.
XVIII. The Chippinge Election (_Continued_).
XIX. The Fruits of Victory.
XX. A Plot Unmasked.
XXI. A Meeting of Old Friends.
XXII. Women's Hearts.
XXIII. In the House.
XXIV. A Right and Left.
XXV. At Stapylton.
XXVI. The Scene in the Hall.
XXVII. Wicked Shifts.
XXVIII. Once More, Tantivy!
XXIX. Autumn Leaves.
XXX. The Mayor's Reception in Queen's Square.
XXXI. Sunday in Bristol.
XXXII. The Affray at the Palace.
XXXIII. Fire.
XXXIV. Hours of Darkness.
XXXV. The Morning of Monday.
XXXVI. Forgiveness.
XXXVII. In the Mourning Coach.
XXXVIII. Threads and Patches.
CHIPPINGE BOROUGH
I
THE DISSOLUTION
Boom!
It was April 22, 1831, and a young man was walking down Whitehall in
the direction of Parliament Street. He wore shepherd's plaid trousers
and the swallow-tail coat of the day, with a figured muslin cravat
wound about his wide-spread collar. He halted opposite the Privy
Gardens, and, with his face turned skywards, listened until the sound
of the Tower guns smote again on the ear and dispelled his doubts. To
the experienced, his outward man, neat and modestly prosperous,
denoted a young barrister of promise or a Treasury clerk. His figure
was good, he was above the middle height, and he carried himself with
an easy independence. He seemed to be one who both held a fair opinion
of himself and knew how to impress that opinion on his fellows; yet
was not incapable of deference where deference was plainly due. He was
neither ugly nor handsome, neither slovenly nor a _petit-maitre_;
indeed, it was doubtful if he had ever seen the inside of Almack's.
But his features were strong and intellectual, and the keen grey eyes
which looked so boldly on the world could express both humour and good
humour. In a word, this young man was one upon whom women, even great
ladies, were likely to look with pleasure, and one woman--but he had
not yet met her--with tenderness.
Boom!
He was only one among a dozen, who within the space of a few yards had
been brought to a stand by the sound; who knew what the salute meant,
and in their various ways were moved by it. The rumour which had flown
through the town in the morning that the King was about to dissolve
his six-months-old Parliament was true, then! so true that already in
the clubs, from Boodle's to Brooks's, men were sending off despatches,
while the long arms of the semaphore were carrying the news to the
Continent. Persons began to run by Vaughan--the young man's name was
Arthur Vaughan; and behind him the street was filling with a multitude
hastening to see the sight, or so much of it as the vulgar might see.
Some ran towards Westminster without disguise. Some, of a higher
station, walked as fast as dignity and their strapped trousers
permitted; while others again, who thought themselves wiser than their
neighbours, made quickly for Downing Street and the different openings
which led into St. James's Park, in the hope of catching a glimpse of
the procession before the crowd about the Houses engulfed it.
Nine out of ten, as they ran or walked--nay, it might be said more
truly, ninety-nine out of a hundred--evinced a joy quite out of the
common, and such as no political event of these days produces. One
cried, "Hip! Hip! Hip!"; one flung up his cap; one swore gaily.
Strangers told one another that it was a good thing, bravely done! And
while the whole of that part of the town seemed to be moving towards
the Houses, the guns boomed on, proclaiming to all the world that the
unexpected had happened; that the Parliament which had passed the
People's Bill by one--a miserable one in the largest House which had
ever voted--and having done that, had shelved it by some shift, some
subterfuge, was meeting the fate which it deserved.
No man, be it noted, called the measure the Reform Bill, or anything
but the Bill, or, affectionately, the People's Bill. But they called
it that repeatedly, and in their enthusiasm, exulted in the fall of
| 1,091.557636 |
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(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive)
LUCIAN'S TRUE HISTORY
TRANSLATED BY FRANCIS HICKES ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM STRANG
J. B. CLARK AND AUBREY BEARDSLEY WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
CHARLES WHIBLEY
(Originally published with the Greek text in 1894.)
A. H. BULLEN
18 Cecil Court
LONDON
MCMII
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
AFTER THE TEMPEST (Strang)
ADORATION (Clark)
"A SNARE OF VINTAGE" (Beardsley)
SPIDERS OF MIGHTY BIGNESS (Strang)
THE BATTLE OF THE TURNIPS (Clark)
THE SUPPER OF FISH (Strang)
UNDERPROPPING THE WHALE'S CHOPS (Clark)
SOCRATES' GARDEN (Clark)
THE BANQUET OF BEANS (Strang)
THE PILLAR OF BERYLSTONE (Clark)
OWLS AND POPPIES (Strang)
DREAMS (Beardsley)
THE HALCYON'S NEST (Strang)
THE FLOATING FOREST (Clark)
THE ISLAND WOMEN (Strang)
WATER INCARNADINE (Clark)
INTRODUCTION.
It is a commonplace of criticism that Lucian was the first of the
moderns, but in truth he is near to our time because of all the
ancients he is nearest to his own. With Petronius he shared the
discovery that there is material for literature in the debased and
various life of every day--that to the seeing eye the individual is
more wonderful in colour and complexity than the severely simple
abstraction of the poets. He replaced the tradition, respected of
his fathers, by an observation more vivid and less pedantic than
the note-book of the naturalist. He set the world in the dry light
of truth, and since the vanity of mankind is a constant factor
throughout the ages, there is scarce a page of Lucian's writing that
wears the faded air of antiquity. His personages are as familiar
to-day as they were in the second century, because, with his pitiless
determination to unravel the tangled skein of human folly, he never
blinded his vision to their true qualities. And the multiplicity of
his interest is as fresh as his penetration. Nothing came amiss to
his eager curiosity. For the first time in the history of literature
(with the doubtful exception of Cicero) we encounter a writer whose
ceaseless activity includes the world. While others had declared
themselves poets, historians, philosophers, Lucian comes forth as a
man of letters. Had he lived to-day, he would have edited a newspaper,
written leading articles, and kept his name ever before the public
in the magazines. For he possessed the qualities, if he avoided the
defects, of the journalist. His phrase had not been worn by constant
use to imbecility; his sentences were not marred by the association
of commonness; his style was still his own and fit for the expression
of a personal view. But he noted such types and incidents as make an
immediate, if perennial, appeal, and to study him is to be convinced
that literature and journalism are not necessarily divorced.
The profession was new, and with the joy of the innovator Lucian was
never tired of inventing new genres. Romance, criticism, satire--he
mastered them all. In _Toxaris_ and _The Ass_ he proves with what
delicacy and restraint he could handle the story. His ill-omened
apprenticeship to a sculptor gave him that taste and feeling for
art which | 1,091.55779 |
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Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+-------------------------------------------------+
|Transcriber's note: |
| |
|Obvious typographical errors have been corrected |
+-------------------------------------------------+
Vol. I. JUNE, 1906 No. 4
MOTHER EARTH
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PAGE
Mrs. Grundy VIROQUA DANIELS 1
A Greeting ALEXANDER BERKMAN 3
Henrik Ibsen M. B. 6
Observations and Comments 8
A Letter EMMA GOLDMAN 13
Libertarian Instruction EMILE JANVION 14
The Antichrist FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE 15
Brain Work and Manual Work PETER KROPOTKIN 21
Motherhood and Marriage HENRIETTE FUERTH 30
Object Lesson for Advocates of Governmental
Control ARTHUR G. EVERETT, N--M. 33
The Genius of War JOHN FRANCIS VALTER 36
Dignity Speaks 36
Paternalistic Government (CONTINUATION)
THEODORE SCHROEDER 38
Aim and Tactics of the Trade-Union Movement
MAX BAGINSKI 44
Refined Cruelty ANNA MERCY 50
"The Jungle" VERITAS 53
The Game is Up SADAKICHI HARTMANN 57
10c. A COPY $1 A YEAR
MOTHER EARTH
Monthly Magazine Devoted to Social Science and Literature
Published Every 15th of the Month
EMMA GOLDMAN, Publisher, P. O. Box 217, Madison Square Station,
New York, N. Y.
Entered as second-class matter April 9, 1906, at the post office
at New York, N. Y., under the Act of Congress of March 3, 1879.
Vol. I JUNE, 1906 No. 4
MRS. GRUNDY.
By VIROQUA DANIELS.
_Her will is law. She holds despotic sway.
Her wont has been to show the narrow way
Wherein must tread the world, the bright, the brave,
From infancy to dotard's gloomy grave._
_"Obey! Obey!" with sternness she commands
The high, the low, in great or little lands.
She folds us all within her ample gown.
A forward act is met with angry frown._
_The lisping babes are taught her local speech;
Her gait to walk; her blessings to beseech.
They laugh or cry, as Mistress says they may,--
In everything the little tots obey._
_The youth know naught save Mrs. Grundy's whims.
They play her games. They sing her holy hymns.
They question not; accept both truth and fiction,_
_(The_ OLD _is right, within her jurisdiction!)._
_Maid, matron, man unto her meekly bow.
She with contempt or ridicule may cow.
They dare not speak, or dress, or love, or hate,
At variance with the program on her slate._
_Her subtle smile, e'en men to thinkers grown,
Are loath to lose; before its charm they're prone.
With great ado, they publicly conform--
Vain, cowards, vain; revolt_ MUST _raise a storm!_
_The "indiscreet," when hidden from her sight,
Attempt to live as they consider "right."
Lo! Walls have ears! The loyal everywhere
The searchlight turn, and loudly shout, "Beware!"_
_In tyranny the Mistress is supreme.
"Obedience," that is her endless theme.
Al countries o'er, in city, town and glen,
Her aid is sought by bosses over men._
_Of Greed, her brain is cunningly devised.
From Ignorance, her bulky body's sized.
When at her ease, she acts as judge and jury.
But she's the Mob when 'roused to fighting fury._
_Dame Grundy is, by far, the fiercest foe
To ev'ry kind of progress, that we know.
So Freedom is, to her, a poison thing.
Who heralds it, he must her death knell ring._
[Illustration]
A GREETING.
By ALEXANDER BERKMAN.
Dear Friends:--
I am happy, inexpressibly happy to be in your midst again, after an
absence of fourteen long years, passed amid the horrors and darkness of
my Pennsylvania nightmare. * * * Methinks the days of miracles are not
past. They say that nineteen hundred years ago a man was raised from the
dead after having been buried for three days. They call it a great
miracle. But I think the resurrection from the peaceful slumber of a
three days' grave is not nearly so miraculous as the actual coming back
to life from a living death of fourteen years duration;--'tis the
twentieth century resurrection, not based on ignorant credulity, nor
assisted by any Oriental jugglery. No travelers ever return, the poets
say, from the Land of Shades beyond the river Styx--and may be it is a
good thing for them that they don't--but you can see that there is an
occasional exception even to that rule, for I have just returned from a
hell, the like of which, for human brutality and fiendish barbarity, is
not to be found even in the fire-and-brimstone creeds of our loving
Christians.
It was a moment of supreme joy when I felt the heavy chains, that had
bound me so long, give way with the final clang of the iron doors behind
me and I suddenly found myself transported, as it were, from the dreary
night of my prison-existence into the warm sunshine of the living day;
and then, as I breathed the free air of the beautiful May morning--my
first breath of freedom in fourteen years--it seemed to me as if a
beautiful nature had waved her magic wand and marshalled her most
alluring charms to welcome me into the world again; the sun, bathed in a
sea of sapphire, seemed to shed his golden-winged caresses upon me;
beautiful birds were intoning a sweet paean of joyful welcome;
green-clad trees on the banks of the Allegheny were stretching out to me
a hundred emerald arms, and every little blade of grass seemed to lift
its head and nod to me, and all Nature whispered sweetly "Welcome Home!"
It was Nature's beautiful Springtime, the reawakening of Life, and Joy,
and Hope, and the spirit of Springtime dwelt in my heart.
I had been told before I left the prison that the world had changed so
much during my long confinement that I would practically come back into
a new and different world. I hoped it were true. For at the time when I
retired from the world, or rather when I _was_ retired from the
world--that was a hundred years ago, for it happened in the nineteenth
century--at that time, I say, the footsteps of the world were faltering
under the heavy cross of oppression, injustice and misery, and I could
hear the anguish-cry of the suffering multitudes, even above the
clanking of my own heavy chains. * * * But all that is different now--I
thought as I left the prison--for have I not been told that the world
had changed, changed so much that, as they put it, "its own mother
wouldn't know it again." And that thought made me _doubly_ happy: happy
at the recovery of my own liberty, and happy in the fond hope that I
should find my own great joy mirrored in, and heightened by the
happiness of my fellow-men.
Then I began to look around, and indeed, I found the world changed; so
changed, in fact, that I am now afraid to cross the street, lest
lightning, in the shape of a horseless car, overtake me and strike me
down; I also found a new race of beings, a race of red
devils--automobiles you call them--and I have been told about the winged
children of thought flying above our heads--talking through the air, you
know, and sometimes also through the hat, perhaps--and here in New York
you can ride on the ground, overground, above ground, underground, and
without any ground at all.
These and a thousand and one other inventions and discoveries have
considerably changed the face of the world. But alas! its face _only_.
For as I looked further, past the outer trappings, down into the heart
of the world, I beheld the old, familiar, yet no less revolting sight of
Mammon, enthroned upon a dais of bleeding hearts, and I saw the ruthless
wheels of the social Juggernaut slowly crushing the beautiful form of
liberty lying prostrate on the ground. * * * I saw men, women and
children, without number, sacrificed on the altar of the capitalistic
Moloch, and I beheld a race of pitiful creatures, stricken with the
modern St. Vitus's dance at the shrine of the Golden Calf.
With an aching heart I realized what I had been told in prison about
the changed condition of the world was but a miserable myth, and my fond
hope of returning into a new, regenerated world lay shattered at my
feet....
No, the world has not changed during my absence; I can find no
improvement in the twentieth-century society over that of the
nineteenth, and in truth, it is not capable of any real improvement, for
this society is the product of a civilization so self-contradictory in
its essential qualities, so stupendously absurd in its results, that the
more we advance in this would-be civilization the less rational, the
less human we become. Your twentieth-century civilization is fitly
characterized by the fact that, paradoxical as it may seem, the more we
produce, the less we have, and the richer we get, the poorer we are.
Your pseudo-civilization is of that quality which defeats its own ends,
so that notwithstanding the prodigious mechanical aids we possess in the
production of all forms of wealth, the struggle for existence is more
savage, more ferocious to-day than it has been ever since the dawn of
our civilization.
But what is the cause of all this, what is wrong with our society and
our civilization?
Simply this:--a lie can not prosper. Our whole social fabric, our
boasted civilization rests on the foundations of a lie, a most gigantic
lie--the religious, political and economic lie, a triune lie, from whose
fertile womb has issued a world of corruption, evils, shams and
unnameable crimes. There, denuded of its tinsel trappings, your
civilization stands revealed in all the evil reality of its unadorned
shame; and 'tis a ghastly sight, a mass of corruption, an ever-spreading
cancer. Your false civilization is a disease, and capitalism is its most
malignant form; 'tis the acute stage which is breeding into the world a
race of cowards, weaklings and imbeciles; a race of mannikins, lacking
the physical courage and mental initiative to think the thought and do
the deed not inscribed in the book of practice; a race of pigmies,
slaves to tradition and superstition, lacking all force of individuality
and rushing, like wild maniacs, toward the treacherous eddies of that
social cataclysm which has swallowed the far mightier and greater
nations of the ancient world.
It is because of these things that I address myself to you, fellow-men.
Society has not changed during my absence, and yet, to be saved, it
needs to be changed. It needs, above all, real men, men and women of
originality and individuality; men and women, not afraid to brave the
scornful contempt of the conventional mob, men and women brave enough to
break from the ranks of custom and lead into new paths, men and women
strong enough to smash the fatal social lock-step and lead us into new
and happier ways.
And because society has not changed, neither will I. Though the
bloodthirsty hyena of the law has, in its wild revenge, despoiled me of
the fourteen most precious blossoms in the garden of my life, yet I
will, henceforth as heretofore, consecrate what days are left to me in
the service of that grand ideal, the wonderful power of which has
sustained me through those years of torture; and I will devote all my
energies and whatever ability I may have to that noblest of all causes
of a new, regenerated and free humanity; and it shall be more than my
sufficient reward to know that I have added, if ever so little, in
breaking the shackles of superstition, ignorance and tradition, and
helped to turn the tide of society from the narrow lane of its blind
selfishness and self-sufficient arrogance into the broad, open road
leading toward a true civilization, to the new and brighter day of
Freedom in Brotherhood.
[Illustration]
HENRIK IBSEN.
M. B.
I SHALL not attempt to confine him within the rigid lines of any
literary circle; nor shall I press him into the narrow frame of school
or party; nor stamp upon him the distinctive label of any particular
ism. He would break such fetters; his free spirit, his great
individuality would overflow the arbitrary confines of "the _sole_
Truth," "the _only_ true principle." The waves of his soul would break
down all artificial barriers and rush out to join the ever-moving
currents of life.
A seer has died.
He carried the flaming torch of his art behind the scenes of society--he
found there nothing but corruption. He tested the strength of our social
foundations--its pillars shook: they were rotten.
The rays of his genius penetrated the darkness of popular ideals; the
hollow pretences of Philistinism filled his ardent soul with disgust,
and pain. In this mood he wrote "The League of Youth," in which he
exposed the pettiness of bourgeois aspirations and the poverty of their
ideals.
In "The Enemy of the People" Ibsen thunders his powerful protest against
the democracy of stupidity, the tyrannous vulgarity of majority rule.
Doctor Stockmann--that is Ibsen himself. How willing and eager the
pigmies and yahoos would have been to stone him.
"What shameless unconventionality, what shocking daring!" cried the
Philistines when they beheld the characters portrayed in "Nora" (The
Doll's House), "Wild Duck," and in "The Ghosts"--living pictures
revealing all the evil hidden by the mask of "our sacred institutions,"
"our holy hearthstone." In "Rosmersholm" Ibsen ignored even the
inviolability of conscience; for there Ibsen showed how the sick
conscience of Rosmer worked the ruin of Rebecca and himself, by robbing
them of the joy of life.
The moralists howled long and loud.
"Has Ibsen no ideals? Does the accursed Midas-touch of his mind dissolve
everything, one very Holy of Holies, into the ashes of nothing?"
Thus spoke self-sufficient arrogance.
But can one read "Brand" or "Peer Gynt" and ask such questions? No heart
so overflowed with human yearning, no soul ever breathed grander, nobler
ideals than Henrik Ibsen. True, he did not prostrate himself before the
idols of the conventional mob, nor did his sacrificial fires burn on the
altar of mediocrity and cretinism. He did not bow the proud head before
the craven images that the State and Church have created for the
subjugation of the masses. To Ibsen's free soul the morality of slaves
was a nightmare.
His ideal was Individuality, the development of character. He loved the
man that was brave enough to be himself. He immeasurably hated all that
was false; he abhorred all that was petty and small. He loved that true
naturalness which, when most real, requires no effort.
The most severe critic of Ibsen and his art was Ibsen himself. His
attitude towards himself in his last work, "When We Dead Awaken," is
that of the most unprejudiced judge.
What is the result?
We long for life; yet we are eternally chasing will-o'-the-wisps. We
sacrifice ourselves for things which rob us of our Self. The castles we
build prove houses made of cards, upon the first touch falling down.
Instead of living, we philosophize. Our life is an esthetic counterfeit.
A mind of great depth, a soul of prophetic vision has passed away; yet
not without leaving its powerful impress--for Henrik Ibsen stood upon
the heights, and from their loftiest peaks we beheld, with him, the
heavy fogs of the present, and through the rifts we saw the bright rays
of a new sun, the promise of the dawn of a freer, stronger Humanity.
[Illustration]
OBSERVATIONS AND COMMENTS.
Schopenhauer's advice to ignore fools and knaves and not to speak to
them, as the best method of keeping them at a distance, does not seem
drastic enough in these days of the modern newspaper-reporter nuisance.
One may throw them out of the house, nail all the doors and windows, and
stuff up all key-holes; still he will come; he will slide down through
the chimney, squeeze through the sewer-pipes--which, by the way, is the
real field of activity of the journalistic profession.
We Anarchists are usually poor business men, with a few "happy"
exceptions, of course; still, we shall have to form an insurance company
against the slugging system of the reporters.
Alexander Berkman barely had a chance to breathe free air, when the
newspaper scarecrows were let loose at his heels. Every
suspicious-looking man, woman and child in New York was assailed as to
Berkman's whereabouts, without avail. Finally these worthy gentlemen
hit upon 210 East Thirteenth street--there the reporters made some
miraculous discoveries. Two lonely hermits, utterly innocent of the ways
of the world and the impertinence of reporters, were marked by the
latter. They triumphed. Never before had they hit upon such simpletons,
of whom they could so easily learn all the secrets of the fraternity of
the Reds.
"Is it not the custom of your clan to delegate every three days one of
your members to take the life of some ruler?" they asked.
One of the Reds smiled, knowingly. "Only one insignificant life in three
days?! How little you know the Anarchists. I want you to understand,
sirs, it is our wont to use just five minutes for each act, which means
864 lives in three days."
This was more than the most hardened press detective could stand. They
fled in terror.
[Illustration]
Carl Schurz, politician and career hunter by profession, died May 14th.
He was met at the gate of Hell by the secretary of that institution with
the following question, "Were you not one of the enthusiasts for the
battle of freedom, in your young days?"
"Yes," said Carl.
"If the reports of my men are correct--and I am confident my men are
more reliable than the majority of the newspaper men on your planet--you
were even a Revolutionist?"
Carl Schurz nodded.
"And why have you thrown your ideals and convictions overboard?"
"There was no money in them," Carl replied, sulkily.
The Satanic Secretary nodded to one of his stokers, saying, "Add 5,000
tons of hard coal to our fires. Here we have a man that sold his soul
for money. He deserves to roast a thousand times more than the ordinary
sinner."
[Illustration]
No one considers a thief the patron saint of honesty, nor is a liar
expected to champion the truth. The hangman is not elected as president
of a society for the preservation of human life; why, then, in the name
of common sense, do people continue to see in the State the seat of
justice and the patron saint of those whom it wrongs and outrages daily?
If people would only look closer into the elements of the State, they
would soon behold this trinity--the thief, the liar, and the hangman.
[Illustration]
Free love is condemned; prostitution flourishes. The moralist, who is
the best patron of the dens of prostitution, loudly proclaims the
sanctity and purity of monogamy. The free expression of life's greatest
force--love--must never be tolerated. On the other hand, it is perfectly
respectable to receive a large sum of money from a millionaire
father-in-law for marrying his daughter.
[Illustration]
Rudolph von Jhering, one of the most distinguished theoreticians of
jurisprudence in Europe, wrote, many years ago, "The way in which one
utilizes his wealth is the best criterion of his character and degree of
culture. The purpose that prompts the investment of his money is the
safest characterization of him. The accounts of expenditures speak
louder of a man's true nature than his diary." How well these words
apply to the richest of the rich and to their methods of disposing of
their capital!
Take philanthropy, for instance, with its loud and common display. How
it humiliates those that receive, and how it overestimates the
importance of those that give.
Philanthropy that steals in large quantities and returns of its bounty
in medicine drops, that snatches the last bite from the mouth of the
people and graciously gives them a few crumbs or a gnawed bone!
Again, philanthropy as a money mania--in one instance it feeds the
clergy on fat salaries, so that they might proclaim the virtue of
self-denial, sobriety and prudence; in another instance it builds Sunday
schools for young numbskulls and political aspirants who pretend to
listen to the commonplace discourse about our Father in Heaven who gives
every true Christian an opportunity to make money; rather would these
milk-sops appreciate the advice of the young nabob as to how to turn a
hundred-dollar bill into a thousand.
Philanthropy, establishing scientific societies for the investigation of
the mode of life of fleas, or philanthropy excremating libraries,
maintaining missionaries in China or fostering the research of breeding
sea horses.
Mrs. Vanderbilt has the heels of her shoes set in diamonds, while
another great philanthropist has established a pension for aged parrots.
Indeed, the stupidity and sad lack of imagination of our philanthropists
are pitiful. However, when one realizes that they are responsible for
the distress, the poverty, and despair of the great masses of humanity,
pity turns into anger and disgust with a society that will endure it
all.
[Illustration]
The Chicago papers report a blood-curdling story, which has affected the
Philistines like red affects a turkey. Knowing the keen sense of humor
of our readers, we herewith reprint the story:
"Treason and blasphemy as an outburst of Anarchism all but broke up a
meeting held last night in the Masonic Temple under the auspices of the
Spencer-Whitman Center, at which the subject of "Crime in Chicago" was
discussed by various speakers. The Rev. John Roach Straton, pastor of
the Second Baptist Church, was in the midst of the discourse detailing
his theories with reference to the subject in hand when a voice from the
doorway shouted out a blasphemous expression.
The cry was greeted by hisses, but it was only a moment later that the
same voice called:
"Down with America! Up with Anarchy!"
There was a rush for the door. A tall young man was the first to reach
the offender, who is said to have been Carl Havel, associate editor of a
German newspaper. There was a blow and the blasphemer reeled and fell
against the wall. At the same moment a man, said to be Terence Carlin, a
member of a prominent Chicago family, struck Havel's assailant. He in
turn was seized by Parker H. Sercombe, chairman of the meeting, and a
man who gave the name of Ben Bansig.
The party struggled back and forth in the doorway, and the disturbers
were forced back to an ante-room. Blows were struck in a lusty fashion
and cries of "Police!" "They're murdering them!" "Help!" rang out.
Finally the two disturbers made as if to get out, and the arrival of a
watchman in uniform quieted them and their pursuers. It was, however,
with ill grace that the disturbers of the meeting were allowed to leave,
and as they passed through a door, cursing the law, the country, and
God, a girl, still in her teens, broke through the crowd and turning to
Havel, said:
"That's all right, father."
Ben Bansig saved Chicago,--there can be no dispute about that. As to
Sercombe, the editor of _To-Morrow_, he deserves recognition. I suggest
that he be awarded a tooth brush at the expense of City Hall.
Our three friends, Terence Carlin, Havel, Mary Latter--who, as I can
authentically prove, is not the daughter of Hyppolite Havel--can console
themselves with the fact that their protest has done the names of
Whitman and Spencer more honor than the gas of the Baptist preacher.
[Illustration]
That the suspiciously-red noses of the newspaper men should have smelt
the "immoral conduct" of Maxim Gorky, was really very fortunate for the
latter. He is now relieved from the impertinence of interviewers and
prominent personages. He must feel as if he had recovered from some
loathsome disease. Immorality has after all many desirable qualities.
What if chickens gaggle, pharisaic goats piously turn up their eyes, and
the dear little piggies grunt!
[Illustration]
Well-meaning people are horrified that justice is making use of such
creatures as Orchard and McParland against Moyer, Haywood and Pettibone.
There is nothing unusual in that. The record of the American government
in its persecution against Socialists and An | 1,091.654386 |
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THE
HISTORY
OF THE
ISLAND OF DOMINICA.
CONTAINING
A DESCRIPTION OF ITS SITUATION, EXTENT,
CLIMATE, MOUNTAINS, RIVERS,
NATURAL PRODUCTIONS, &c. &c.
TOGETHER WITH
AN ACCOUNT OF THE CIVIL GOVERNMENT, TRADE, LAWS,
CUSTOMS, AND MANNERS OF THE DIFFERENT INHABITANTS
OF THAT ISLAND. ITS CONQUEST
BY THE FRENCH, AND RESTORATION
TO THE BRITISH DOMINIONS.
By THOMAS ATWOOD.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD.
M DCC XCI.
INTRODUCTION.
It is greatly to be lamented, that although the island of Dominica
is so very capable of being rendered one of the chief, if not the
best, the English have in the West Indies; yet, from a want of
knowledge of its importance, or inattention, it is at this time
almost as much unsettled, as when it was ceded to Great Britain,
near thirty years ago.
This is the more remarkable, from the great consequence the
possession of it is to the English, in case of a rupture with
France, it being the key of the British dominions in that part
of the world, and from its situation between the two principal
settlements of the French, Martinique and Guadeloupe, it is the
only place in the West Indies, by which there is a possibility for
Great Britain to maintain the sovereignty of those seas.
It has moreover many conveniences for the service of both an army
and fleet, which few other West India islands can boast; and was
it to be well settled with British subjects, would be of material
assistance to our other possessions, by furnishing them with many
articles of which they very often are greatly in need.
For the purpose of bringing forth to view these capabilities of
Dominica, the following history of that island is submitted to the
candid perusal of a generous public by the author; whose chief
inducement for writing it, was his hope, that it might be some
small means of service to a country, in which he has spent several
years of his life, and the prosperity of which, it is his ardent
wish to see speedily promoted.
The history of distant settlements belonging to Great Britain, it
is presumed, cannot fail of being acceptable to every Englishman
who wishes well to his country; and however deficient this essay of
his may be, in point of erudition, correctness, or correspondent
circumstances, yet, from its being the first on the subject, the
author hopes it may meet with a favourable reception.
It falls not within the compass of this work to enter into details
of acts of the legislature, the conduct of governors, or of
individuals of that island; these he leaves for a more extensive
work, or for abler pens to record; and if what is here submitted
to public perusal serve in the least to promote the welfare of
the present and future inhabitants of Dominica, and thereby the
interests of the British nation at large, the purpose of the author
by this publication will be fully answered.
London, May 1791.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. I.
_Description of the island, its situation, extent, climate,
and other subjects; together with an account of
the conquest of it, its cession to Great Britain, and the disposal
of the lands by the crown._ Page 1
CHAP. II.
_Description of the soil, mountains, and woods; of valuable timber,
and other trees; also of the birds of the woods peculiar
to the island._ 17
CHAP. III.
_Of the rivers and lakes in the island, river and fresh water
fish, also of sea fish, land crabs, and a description of the native
quadruped, and other animals._ 35
CHAP. IV.
_Of the most remarkable reptiles and insects of the island, their
venomous and other qualities, with remarks._ 51
CHAP. V.
_An account of the different articles of West India produce raised
in the island; the number of sugar and coffee plantations
therein, with remarks._ 72
CHAP. VI.
_Names and descriptions of particular West India fruits which
grow in the island; also of European | 1,091.854417 |
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Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections
is found at the end of the text. Inconsistencies in spelling and
hyphenation have been maintained. A list of inconsistently spelled
and hyphenated words is found at the end of the text. Oe ligatures have
been expanded.
Text surrounded with ~ was printed in Greek in the original book. Text
surrounded with = was originally printed in a black-letter typeface.
The following codes are used for characters that are not found in the
character set used for this version of the book.
*.* Asterism
[Rx] Rx symbol
# Pilcrow
_Harper's Stereotype Edition._
THE
COOK'S ORACLE;
AND
HOUSEKEEPER'S MANUAL.
CONTAINING
=Receipts for Cookery,=
AND
DIRECTIONS FOR CARVING.
ALSO,
THE ART OF COMPOSING THE MOST SIMPLE AND MOST HIGHLY FINISHED
BROTHS, GRAVIES, SOUPS, SAUCES, STORE SAUCES, AND FLAVOURING
ESSENCES; PASTRY, PRESERVES, PUDDINGS, PICKLES, &c.
WITH
A COMPLETE SYSTEM OF COOKERY
FOR CATHOLIC FAMILIES.
THE QUANTITY OF EACH ARTICLE IS ACCURATELY STATED BY WEIGHT AND
MEASURE; BEING THE RESULT OF ACTUAL EXPERIMENTS
INSTITUTED IN THE KITCHEN OF
WILLIAM KITCHINER, M.D.
ADAPTED TO THE AMERICAN PUBLIC
BY A MEDICAL GENTLEMAN.
FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION.
=New-York:=
_PRINTED BY J. & J. HARPER, 82 CLIFF-ST._
SOLD BY COLLINS AND HANNAY, COLLINS AND CO., G. AND C. AND H. CARVILL,
WILLIAM B. GILLEY, E. BLISS, O. A. ROORBACH, WHITE, GALLAHER, AND WHITE,
C. S. FRANCIS, WILLIAM BURGESS, JR., AND N. B. HOLMES;--PHILADELPHIA,
E. L. CAREY AND A. HART, AND JOHN GRIGG;--ALBANY, O. STEELE, AND W. C.
LITTLE.
1830.
SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW-YORK, _ss._
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the 20th day of November, A. D. 1829, in the
fifty-fourth year of the independence of the United States of America,
J. & J. HARPER, of the said district, have deposited in this office the
title of a book, the right whereof they claim as Proprietors, in the
words following, to wit:
"The Cook's Oracle, and Housekeeper's Manual, Containing Receipts for
Cookery, and Directions for Carving; also the Art of Composing the most
simple and most highly finished Broths, Gravies, Soups, Sauces, Store
Sauces, and Flavouring Essences; Pastry, Preserves, Puddings, Pickles,
&c. With a Complete System of Cookery for Catholic Families. The
Quantity of each Article is accurately stated by Weight and Measure;
being the Result of Actual Experiments instituted in the Kitchen of
William Kitchiner, M.D. Adapted to the American Public by a Medical
Gentleman."
In conformity to the Act of Congress of the United States, entitled "An
Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of maps,
charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during
the time therein mentioned." And also to an Act, entitled "An Act,
supplementary to an Act, entitled an Act for the encouragement of
Learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the
authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein
mentioned, and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing,
engraving, and etching historical and other prints."
FREDERICK I. BETTS,
_Clerk of the Southern District of New-York._
ADVERTISEMENT.
The publishers have now the pleasure of presenting to the American
public, Dr. Kitchiner's justly celebrated work, entitled "The Cook's
Oracle, and Housekeeper's Manual," with numerous and valuable
improvements, by a medical gentleman of this city.
The work contains a store of valuable information, which, it is
confidently believed, will not only prove highly advantageous to young
and inexperienced housekeepers, but also to more experienced matrons--to
all, indeed, who are desirous of enjoying, in the highest degree, the
good things which Nature has so abundantly bestowed upon us.
The "Cook's Oracle" has been adjudged, by connoisseurs in this country
and in Great Britain, to contain the best possible instructions on the
subject of serving up, beautifully and economically, the productions of
the water, land, and air, in such a manner as to render them most
pleasant to the eye, and agreeable to the palate.
Numerous notices, in commendation of the work, might be selected from
respectable European journals; but the mere fact, that within twelve
years, seventy thousand copies of it have been purchased by the English
public, is sufficient evidence of its reception and merits.
NEW-YORK, _December, 1829_.
PREFACE
TO
THE SEVENTH EDITION.
The whole of this Work has, a _seventh time_, been carefully revised;
but this last time I have found little to add, and little to alter.
I have bestowed as much attention on each of the 500 receipts as if the
whole merit of the book was to be estimated entirely by the accuracy of
my detail of one particular process.
The increasing demand for "_The Cook's Oracle_," amounting in 1824 to
the extraordinary number of upwards of 45,000, has been stimulus enough
to excite any man to submit to the most unremitting study; and the
Editor has felt it as an imperative duty to exert himself to the utmost
to render "_The Cook's Oracle_" a faithful narrative of all that is
known of the various subjects it professes to treat.
PREFACE.
Among the multitudes of causes which concur to impair health and produce
disease, the most general is the improper quality of our food: this most
frequently arises from the injudicious manner in which it is prepared:
yet strange, "passing strange," this is the only one for which a remedy
has not been sought; few persons bestow half so much attention on the
preservation of their own health, as they daily devote to that of their
dogs and horses.
The observations of the Guardians of Health respecting regimen, &c. have
formed no more than a catalogue of those articles of food, which they
have considered most proper for particular constitutions.
Some medical writers have, "in good set terms," warned us against the
pernicious effects of improper diet; but not one has been so kind as to
take the trouble to direct us how to prepare food properly; excepting
only the contributions of Count Rumford, who says, in pages 16 and 70 of
his tenth Essay, "however low and vulgar this subject has hitherto
generally been thought to be--_in what Art or Science could improvements
be made that would more powerfully contribute to increase the comforts
and enjoyments of mankind? Would to God! that I could fix the public
attention to this subject!_"
The Editor has endeavoured to write the following receipts so plainly,
that they may be as easily understood in the kitchen as he trusts they
will be relished in the dining-room; and has been more ambitious to
present to the Public a Work which will contribute to the daily comfort
of all, than to seem elaborately scientific.
The practical part of the philosophy of the kitchen is certainly not the
most agreeable; gastrology has to contend with its full share of those
great impediments to all great improvements in scientific pursuits; the
prejudices of the ignorant, and the misrepresentations of the envious.
The sagacity to comprehend and estimate the importance of any
uncontemplated improvement, is confined to the very few on whom nature
has bestowed a sufficient degree of perfection of the sense which is to
measure it;--the candour to make a fair report of it, is still more
uncommon; and the kindness to encourage it cannot often be expected from
those whose most vital interest it is to prevent the developement of
that by which their own importance, perhaps their only means of
existence, may be for ever eclipsed: so, as Pope says, how many are
"Condemn'd in business or in arts to drudge,
Without a rival, or without a judge:
All fear, none aid you, and few understand."
Improvements in _Agriculture_ and the _Breed of Cattle_ have been
encouraged by premiums. Those who have obtained them, have been hailed
as benefactors to society! but _the Art of_ making use of these means of
_ameliorating Life and supporting a healthful Existence_--COOKERY--has
been neglected!!
While the cultivators of the raw materials are distinguished and
rewarded, the attempt to improve the processes, without which neither
vegetable nor animal substances are fit for the food of man (astonishing
to say), has been ridiculed, as unworthy the attention of a rational
being!!
The most useful[vii-*] art--which the Editor has chosen to endeavour to
illustrate, because nobody else has, and because he knew not how he
could employ some leisure hours more beneficially for mankind, than to
teach them to combine the "_utile_" with the "_dulce_," and to increase
their pleasures, without impairing their health, or impoverishing their
fortune, has been for many years his favourite employment; and "THE ART
OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE BY FOOD, &C. &C." and this Work,
have insensibly become repositories for whatever observations he has
made which he thought would make us "LIVE HAPPY, AND LIVE LONG!!!"
The Editor has considered the ART OF COOKERY, not merely as a mechanical
operation, fit only for working cooks, but as the _Analeptic part of the
Art of Physic_.
"How best the fickle fabric to support
Of mortal man; in healthful body how
A healthful mind the longest to maintain,"
(ARMSTRONG,)
is an occupation neither unbecoming nor unworthy philosophers of the
highest class: such only can comprehend its importance; which amounts to
no less, than not only the enjoyment of the present moment, but the more
precious advantage of improving and preserving _health_, and prolonging
_life_, which depend on duly replenishing the daily waste of the human
frame with materials pregnant with nutriment and easy of digestion.
If _medicine_ be ranked among those | 1,091.854613 |
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*The Riverside Biographical Series*
NUMBER 5
THOMAS JEFFERSON
BY
HENRY CHILDS MERWIN
[Illustration: Th. Jefferson]
THOMAS JEFFERSON
BY
HENRY CHILDS MERWIN
| 1,092.154795 |
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provided by the Internet Archive
THE SHAKESPEAREAN MYTH
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
By Appleton Morgan
Author Of "The Law Of Literature,"
"Notes To Best's Principles Of Evidence," Etc., Etc=
````Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves;
````Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis oves;
````Sic vos non vobis melliflcatus apes;
````Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra boves.
`````--_P. Virgil. Maro_=
Cincinnati, Robert Clarke & Co
1881
TO D. T. MORGAN, ESQ.,
OF WHIP'S CROSS, WALTHAMSTOW, ESSEX, ENGLAND.
My Dear Sir:
I do not know your opinion on the matter treated in these pages. Very
possibly you will disagree with every line of my Brief. But it gives me
pleasure to connect my name with yours on this page, and to subscribe
myself
Very faithfully, your kinsman,
APPLETON MORGAN.
October, 1881.
PREFACE.
|M. Guizot, in his History of England, states the Shakespearean
problem in a few words, when he says: "Let us finally mention the great
comedian, the great tragedian, the great philosopher, the great poet,
who was in his lifetime butcher's apprentice, poacher, actor, theatrical
manager, and whose name is William Shakespeare. In twenty years, amid
the duties of his profession, the care of mounting his pieces, of
instructing his actors, he composed the thirty-two tragedies and
comedies, in verse and prose, rich with an incomparable knowledge of
human nature, and an unequaled power of imagination, terrible and comic
by turns, profound and delicate, homely and touching, responding to
every emotion of the soul, divining all that was beyond the range of
his experience and for ever remaining the treasure of the age--all this
being accomplished, Shakespeare left the theater and the busy world,
at the age of forty-five, to return to Stratford-on-Avon, where lived
peacefully in the most modest retirement, writing nothing and never
returning to the stage--ignored and unknown if his works had not forever
marked out his place in the world--a strange example of an imagination
so powerful, suddenly ceasing to produce, and closing, once for all, the
door to the efforts of genius."
But M. Guizot is very far from suggesting any prima facie inconsistency
in this statement as it stands.
Since every man reads the Shakespearean pages for himself and between
the lines, much of what we are expected to accept as Shakespearean
criticism must fail of universal appreciation and sympathy. But none who
read the English tongue can well be unconcerned with the question as
to <b>who wrote</b> those pages; and it would be affectation to deny that
the intense realism of our day is offering some startling contributions
to the solution of that question.
For instance, the gentlemen of the "New Shakespeare Society" (whom
Mr. Swinburne rather mercilessly burlesques in his recent "_Studies of
Shakespeare_") submit these dramas to a quantitative analysis; and,
by deliberately counting the "male," "female," "weak," and "stopped"
endings, and the Alexandrines and catalectics (just as a mineralogist
counts the degrees and minutes in the angles of his crystals), insist on
their ability to pronounce didatically and infallibly what was written
by William Shakespeare, and at what age; what was composed by Dekker,
Fletcher, Marlowe, or anybody else; what was originally theirs, touched
up by William Shakespeare or _vice versa_, etc. It is curious to observe
how this process invariably gives all the admirable sentiments to
William Shakespeare, and all the questionable ones to somebody else; but
at least these New Shakespearean gentlemen have surrendered somewhat of
the "cast-iron" theory of our childhood--that every page, line, and word
of the immortal Shakespearean Drama was written by William Shakespeare
demi-god, and by none other--perhaps, even opened a path through which
the unbelievers may become, in due time, orthodox.
There are still, however, a great many persons who are disposed to wave
the whole question behind them, much as Mr. Podsnap disposed of the
social evil or a famine in India. It is only a "Historic Doubt," they
say, and "Historic Doubts" are not rare, are mainly contrived to exhibit
syllogistic ingenuity in the teeth of facts, etc., etc. The French, they
say, have the same set of problems about Molière. Was he a lawyer?
was he a doctor? etc.--and they all find their material in internal
evidence--e. g., an accurate handling of the technique of this or that
profession or science: parallelism, practical coincidence, or something
of that sort.
The present work is an attempt to examine, for the benefit of these
latter, from purely external evidence, a question which, dating only
within the current quarter century, is constantly recurring to confront
investigation, and, like Banquo's troublesome shade, seems altogether
indisposed to "down."
I have to add my acknowledgments to Mr. Julian Norris, for his careful
preparation of the Index to these pages.
Grandview-on-Hudson, October 2, 1881. {009}
THE SHAKESPEAREAN MYTH.
PART I. THE MYSTERY.
[Illustration: 9015]
HE thirty-seven plays called, collectively, "Shakespeare," are a
phenomenon, not only in English letters, but in human experience. The
literature of the country to which they belong, had, up to the date
of their appearance, failed to furnish, and has been utterly powerless
since, to produce any type, likeness, or formative trace of them; while
the literature of other nations possesses not even a corresponding type.
The history of a century on either side of their era discloses, within
the precints of their birth, no resources upon which levy could have
been made for their creation. They came and went like a meteor; neither
borrowing of what they found, nor loaning to what they left, their own
peculiar and unapproachable magnificence.
The unremitting researches of two centuries have only been able to
assign their authorship (where it rested at first) to an hiatus in the
life of a wayward village lad named William Shakespeare--who fled his
native town penniless and before the constable, to return, in a few
years, a well-to-do esquire--with a coat of arms and money in his
pocket. {010}We have the history of the boy, and certain items as to
the wealthy squire, who left behind him two or three exceedingly
common-place and conventional epitaphs (said to be his handiwork) and
a remarkable will; but, between them, no hint of history, chronicle, or
record. Still, within this unknown period of this man's career, these
matchless dramas came from somewhere, and passed current under his name.
The death of their reputed author attracted no contemporary attention,
and for many years thereafter the dramas remained unnoticed. Although
written in an idiom singularly open to the comprehension of all classes
and periods of English-speaking men, no sooner did they begin to be
remarked, than a cloud of what are politely called "commentators" bore
down upon them; any one who could spell feeling at liberty to furnish
a "reading;" and any one who supposed himself able to understand one of
these "readings," to add a barnacle in the shape of a "note." From these
"commentators" the stately text is even now in peril, and rarely, even
to-day, can it be perused, except one line at a time, across the top
of a dreary page of microscopic and exasperating annotation. But, up to
within a very few years, hardly a handful of Shakespearean students
had arisen with courage to admit--what scarcely any one of the
"commentators" even, could have failed to perceive--the utterly
inadequate source ascribed to the plays themselves.
It is not yet thirty years since an American lady was supposed to have
gone crazy because she declared that William Shakespeare, of the Globe
and Black-friars theaters in London, in the days of Elizabeth, was not
the author of these certain dramas and poems {011}for which--for almost
three hundred years--he has stood sponsor.
Miss Bacon's "madness," indeed, has been rapidly contageous. Now-a-days,
men make books to prove, not that William Shakespeare did not write
these works, but that Francis Bacon, Walter Raleigh, or some other
Elizabethan, did not. And we even find, now and then, a treatise written
to prove that William Shakespeare was, after all, their author; an
admission, at least, that the ancient presumption to that effect no
longer covers the case. And, doubtless, the correct view is within this
admission. For, probably, if permitted to examine this presumption by
the tests which would be applied to any other question of fact, namely,
the tests of contemporary history, muniments, and circumstantial
evidence, it will be found to be quite as well established and proved
that William Shakespeare was not the author of the plays that go by his
name, as any other fact, occurring in London between the years 1585
and 1616, not recorded in history or handed down by tradition, could be
established and proved in 1881.
If a doubt as to the authorship of the plays had arisen at any time
during or between those years, and had been kept open thereafter, the
probability is that it would have been settled by this time. But, as it
is, we may be pretty certain that no such doubt did arise, and that
no such question was asked, during the years when those who could have
dispelled the doubt or answered the question were living. When we
are about to visit a theater in these days, what we ask and concern
ourselves with is: Is the play entertaining? Does it "draw?" And, when
we wit{012}ness it, the question is: Do we enjoy it--or does it bore us?
Will we recommend our friends to come that they may be entertained, too,
and that we may discuss it with them? or will we warn them to keep away?
We very speedily settle these questions for ourselves. Doubtless we
may and do inquire who the author is. But we do not enter into any
discussion upon the subject, or charge our minds enough with the matter
to doubt it when we are told. The author's name is, not unusually,
printed on the play-bill before us; we glance at it indifferently, take
what is told us for granted, and think no more about it. If the name
happens to be assumed, we may possibly see its identity discussed in the
dramatic columns of our newspapers next morning, or we may not. If the
play entertains us, we commend it. If it drags, we sneer at it, get up
and go off. That is all the concern we give it. The evening has slipped
away; and, with it, any idle speculations as to the playwright who has
essayed to amuse us for an hour.
If, three hundred years hence, a question as to who wrote the play we
saw at Mr. Daly's theater or Mr. Wallack's theater last evening should
come up, there would be very little evidence, not any records, and
scarcely an exhibit to refer to in the matter. Copies of the play-bill
or the newspapers of the day might chance to be discovered; but
these--the internal testimony of the play itself, if any, and a sort
of tacit presumption growing out of a statement it was nobody's cue to
inquire into at the time it was made, and had been nobody's business to
scrutinize since--would constitute all the evidence at hand. How this
supposititious case is precisely all-fours with the facts {013}in the
matter of the dramatic works which we call, collectively, Shakespeare's.
Precisely: except that, on the evenings when those plays were acted,
there were no play-bills, and, on the succeeding morning, no daily
newspaper. We have, therefore, in 1881, much fewer facilities for
setting ourselves right as to their authorship than those living three
hundred years after us could possess in the case we have supposed.
The audiences who witnessed a certain class of plays at Shakespeare's
theaters, in the years between 1585 and 1606, were entertained. The
plays "drew." People talked of them about town, and they become valuable
to their proprietors. The mimic lords and ladies were acceptable to
the best seats; the rabble loved the show and glitter and the alarum of
drums; and all were Britons who gloated over rehearsal of the prowess
of their own kings and heroes, and to be told that their countrymen at
Agincourt had slain ten thousand Frenchmen at an expense of but five
and twenty of themselves. But, if M. Taine's description of the
Shakespearean theaters and the audience therein wont to assemble may be
relied upon, we can pretty safely conclude that they troubled themselves
very little as to who fashioned the dialogue the counterfeit kings and
queens, soldiers, lords, and ladies spoke; or that they saw any thing in
that dialogue to make such speculation appear worth their while. Nor can
we discover any evidence, even among the cultured courtiers who listened
to them--or in the case of Elizabeth herself, who is said to have loved
them (which we may as well admit for the argument's sake)--that
any recognition of the plays as works worthy of any other than a
stage-manager, occurred. {014}Even if it should appear that these plays
thus performed were the plays we now call Shakespeare's; had any of this
audience suspected that these plays were not written for them, but for
all time; that, three hundred years later--when the plays should not
only be extant, but more loved and admired than ever--the thinking world
should set itself seriously to probe the mystery of their origin; there
might have been some interest as to their producer manifested, and we
might have had some testimony competent to the exact point to-day.
But it is evident enough that no such prophetic vision was vouchsafed
to them, and no such prophetic judgment passed. Nor is the phenomenon
exceptional. The critic, does not live, even to-day, however learned or
cultured or shrewd, who would take the responsibility of affirming upon
his own judgment, or even upon the universal judgment of his age and
race, that any literary composition would be, after a lapse of three
hundred years, not only extant, but immortal, hugged as its birthright
by a whole world. Such a statement would have been contrary to
experience, beyond the prophecy of criticism, and therefore only to be
known--if known at all--as a Fact. Moreover, it could only be known as
a fact at the expiration of the three hundred years. Doubtless, few
critics would care, in any case, to commit themselves upon record one
way or the other in a matter so hypothetical and speculative as the
judgment of posterity upon a literary performance, and certainly nothing
of the sort occurred in Shakespeare's day, even if there were any
dramatic or literary critics to speculate upon the subject. There can be
no doubt--and it must be conceded {015}--that certain acted plays _did_
pass with their first audiences, and that certain printed plays, both
contemporaneously and for years thereafter, did pass with the public
who read them, as the compositions of Mr. Manager Shakespeare; and that
probably even the manager's pot companions, who had better call to know
him than any others, saw nothing to shake their heads at in his claim
to be their author (provided he ever made any such claim; which, by the
way, does not appear from any record of his life, and which nobody ever
asserted as a fact). If they did--with the exception only of Robert
Greene--they certainly kept their own counsel. On the one hand, then,
the question of the authorship was never raised, and, on the other
hand, if it had been, the scholars and critics who studied the plays
(supposing that there were any such in those days) could not possibly
have recognized them as immortal. If they had so recognized them, they
would doubtless have left us something more satisfactory as to the
authorship of the compositions than the mere "impression that they were
informed" that the manager of the theater where they were produced wrote
them; that they supposed he was clever enough to have done so, and they
therefore took it for granted that he did. That is all there is of the
evidence of Shakespeare's own day, as to the question--if it still is a
question--before us.
But how about the presumption--the legal presumption, arising from such
lapse of time as that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary--the
presumption springing from tradition and common report--that William
Shakespeare composed the Shakespearean plays? It is, of course,
understood that one presump{016}tion is as good as another until it is
disturbed. It is never safe to underrate an existing presumption; as
long as it stands at all, it stands as conclusive; once overthrown,
however, it is as if it had never existed.
A presumption three hundred years old may be a strong one to overthrow.
But if its age is all there is of it--if it be only strong in years--it
can yet be toppled over. Once overthrown, it is no more venerable
because it is three hundred years old than if it were only three. An
egg-shell will toss upon the crest of an angry surf, and, for very
frailty, outride breakers when the mightiest ship man ever framed could
not survive an instant. But it is only an egg-shell, for all that, and a
touch of the finger will crush and destroy it. And so, formidable as it
was in age, the presumption as to William Shakespeare's authorship of
the great dramas which for three hundred years had gone by his name, had
only to be touched by the thumb and finger of common sense to crackle
and shrivel like the egg that sat on the wall in the Kindergarten rhyme,
which all the king's army and all the king's men could not set up again,
once it had tumbled over.
But as the world advanced and culture increased, why did not the
question arise before? Simply because the times were not ripe for it.
This is the age and generation for the explosion of myths, and, as
one after another of them falls to pieces and disappears, who does not
wonder that they have not fallen sooner? For how many years has the myth
of William Tell been cherished as history! And yet there is no element
of absolute impossibility or even of improbability--much less of
miracle--in the story of an archer with a sure eye and a steady aim. Or,
in the case of physical {017}myths--which only required an exploration
by physical sense for their explosion--the maps of two centuries or
so ago represented all inaccessible seas as swarming with krakens and
ship-devouring reptiles. And it is not twenty years since children were
taught in their geographies that upon the coast of Norway there was a
whirlpool which sucked down ships prow foremost. And here, in our
midst, a cannon-shot from where we sit and write these lines, there was
believed to be and exist a Hell Gate which was a very portal of death
and slaughter to hapless mariners. But there are no krakens, and not
much of a Maelstrom; and, for twenty years before General Newton blew
up a few rocks at Hell Gate, people had laughed at the myth of its
ferocity. And again: nothing is easier than to invent a story so utterly
unimportant and immaterial that it will be taken for granted, without
controversy, and circulate with absolute immunity from examination,
simply because worth nobody's while to contradict it. For example, it
is likely enough that Demosthenes, in practicing oratory, stood on
a sea-beach and drilled his voice to outroar the waves. The story is
always told, however, with the rider, that Demosthenes did this with his
mouth filled with pebble-stones; and, as nobody cares whether he did or
not, nobody troubles himself to ascertain by experiment that the
thing is impossible, and that nobody can roar with a mouth full of
pebble-stones. And not even then would he succeed in removing the
impression obtaining with the great mass of the world, that a thing is
proven sufficiently if it gets into "print." Charles II. set the Royal
Society of his day at work to {018}find the reason why a dead fish
weighed more than a live one--and it was only when they gave it up, that
the playful monarch assured them that the fact they were searching for
the reason of was not a fact at all. It is not impossible to demonstrate
from experience, that the human mind will be found--as a rule--to prefer
wasting laborious days in accounting for, rather than take the very
simplest pains to verify even a proposition or alleged fact, which, if a
fact at all, is of value beyond itself. It was objected to the system of
Copernicus, when first brought forward, that, if the earth turned on its
axis as he represented, a stone dropped from the summit of a tower would
not fall at the foot of it, but at a great distance to the west, in the
same manner that a stone dropped from the masthead of a ship in full
sail does not fall at the foot of the mast, but toward the stern. To
this it was answered that a stone, being a part of the earth, obeys
the same laws and moves with it, whereas it is no part of the ship,
of which, consequently, its motion is independent. This solution was
admitted by some and opposed by others, and the controversy went on with
spirit; nor was it till one hundred years after the death of Copernicus
that, the experiment being tried, it was ascertained that the stone thus
dropped from the head of the mast does fall at the foot of it. And so,
if, in the case of the Shakespearean authorship, the day has come for
truth to dispel fiction, and reason to scout organic miracle, why should
we decline to look into an alleged Shakespearean myth simply because it
happens to be a little tardy in coming to the surface?
But, most of all, it is to be remembered that it is, practically,
only our own century that has compre{019}hended the masterliness and
matchlessness of the "Hamlet" and "Macbeth," and the rest of those
transcripts of nature, the prophetic insight of whose author "spanned
the ages that were to roll up after him, mastered the highest wave of
modern learning and discovery, and touched the heart of all time, not
through the breathing of living characters, but by lifting mankind up
ont of the loud kingdom of earth into the silent realm of infinity; who
so wrote that to his all-seeing vision schools and libraries, sciences
and philosophies, were unnecessary, because his own marvelous intuition
had grasped all the past and seen through all his present and all his
future, and because, before his superhuman power, time and space had
vanished and disappeared." * The age for which the dramas were written
had not come, in that Elizabethan era.
* Jean Paul Frederich Richter. {020}deed, why our question
did not arise sooner. Nobody asked, "Who wrote Shakespeare?"
because nobody seemed to consider "Shakespeare" as any thing
worth speculating about. Let us pause right here to
demonstrate this.
The tongues of the actors were tied, the ears of the audience were deaf
to syllables whose burden was for the centuries that were to come
after. The time for the question, "Who wrote them?" was not yet. For two
hundred years more--from the day of William Shakespeare's death down to
years within the memory of those now living--down to at least the date
of Lord Byron (who admits that it is the perfectly correct thing to call
Shakespeare "god-like," "mighty," and the like, but very unfashionable
to read him),--we may ransack the records of scholarship and criticism,
and unearth scarcely a hint of what is now their every-where conceded
superiority, to say nothing of their immortality. In short, we can not
rise from such a search without understanding, very clearly in Fuller,
in 1622, chronicles that William Shakespeare's "genius was jocular," his
comedies merry, and his tragedies wonderful; his wit quick, but that his
learning was very little. Evelyn notes that, in 1661, he saw "Hamlet,
Prince of Denmark," played: "but now the old plays begin to disgust this
refined age, since His Majesty has been so long abroad." * Pepys, his
contemporary, says that the "'Midsummer-Night's Dream' was the most
insipid, ridiculous play he had ever seen.... and, but having lately
read the 'Adventures of Five Hours,' 'Othello' seemed a mean thing,"
though he liked Davenant's opera of "Macbeth," with its music and
dancing. ** When spending some money in books he looks over Shakespeare,
but chooses "'Hudibras,' the book now in the greatest fashion for
drollery," instead. It is doubtful if Milton ever read the Shakespearean
plays, in spite of the eloquent verses, "What needs my Shakespeare,"
etc.; since, in "L'Allegro," he speaks of his (Shakespeare's) "native
wood-notes wild." ***
* Amenities of Authors--Shakespeare," p. 210.
** Ibid., p. 211.
*** Dr. Maginn, in his Shakespearean papers ("Learning of
Shakespeare"), endeavors to explain what Milton meant by
"native wood-notes wild."
Surely if there is any thing in letters that is not "native wood-notes,"
it is the stately Shakespearean verse, full of camps and courts, but
very rarely of woodlands and {021}pastures; besides, whatever Milton
might say of the book called "Shakespeare" in poetry--like Ben
Jon-son--he showed unmitigated contempt for its writer in prose: about
the worst thing he could say about his king in "The Iconoclast," was
that Charles I. kept an edition of Shakespeare for his closet companion.
* "Other stuff of this sort," cries the blind poet, "may be read
throughout the whole tragedy, wherein the poet used much license in
departing from the truth of history." **
In 1681, one Nahum Tate, supposed to be a poet (a delusion so widespread
that he was actually created "poet laureate") stumbled upon "a thing
called Lear," assigned to one William Shakespeare, and, after much
labor, congratulated himself upon having "been able to make a play out
of it." ***
* "Amenities of Authors--Shakespeare," vol. ii, p. 208.
Ibid., p. 209, note.
** It is fair to say that "stuff" may only have meant
"matter," but it is indisputable that the passage was meant
as a slur on one who would read "Shakespeare."
*** The "play" he did make out of it is to be found in W.
H. Smith's "Bacon and Shakespeare," p. 129. {022}so meanly
written that the comedy neither caused your mirth nor the
serious part your concernment....
John Dryden, in or about 1700, in his "Defence of the Epilogue," a
postscript to his tragedy "The Conquest of Granada," says: "Let any man
who understands English, read diligently the works of Shakespeare and
Fletcher, and I dare undertake that he will find in every page either
some solecism of speech, or some notorious flaw in sense; and yet
these men are reverenced, when we are not forgiven." He denounces
"the lameness of their plots," made up of some "ridiculous incoherent
story,... either grounded on impossibilities, or, at least, he writes,
in many places, below the dullest writers of our own or any precedent
age." Of the audiences who could tolerate such matter, he says: "They
knew no better, and therefore were satisfied with what they brought.
Those who call theirs the 'Golden Age of Poetry,' have only this reason
for it: that they were then content with acorns before they knew the
use of bread," etc. * To show the world how William Shakespeare _should_
have written, Mr. Dryden publishes his own improved version of "Troilus
and Cressida," "with an abjectly fulsome dedication to the Earl of
Sunderland, and a Preface," ** in which he is obliging enough to
say that the style of Shakespeare being "so pestered with figurative
expressions that it is as affected as it is obscure;" that, though
"the author seems to have began it with some fire, the characters of
'Pandarus' and 'Troilus' are promising enough, but, as if he grew weary
of his task, after an entrance or two, he lets 'em fall, and the latter
part of the tragedy is nothing but a confusion of drums and trumpets,
excursions and alarms. The chief persons who give name to the tragedy
are left alive. 'Cressida' is left alive and is not punished."
* "Works," edited by Malone, vol. ii, p. 252.
** "Troilus and Cressida, or Truth Found Too Late." Written
by John Dryden, servant to his Majesty, London (4to) printed
for Abel Small, at the Unicorn at the West End of St.
Paul's, and Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head, in Chancery
Lane, near Fleet street. 1679.
"I have undertaken to remove that heap of rubbish.... I new-modelled the
plot; threw out many unnecessary persons, improved {023}those characters
which were begun and left unfinished,... made, with no small trouble, an
order and connection of the scenes, and... so ordered them that there is
a coherence of 'em with one another,... a due proportion of time allowed
for every motion,... have refined the language, etc."
The same thing was done in 1672, by Ravenscroft, who produced an
adaptation of "Titus Andronicus," and boasted "that none in all the
author's works ever received greater alterations or additions; the
language not only refined, but many scenes entirely new, besides most of
the principal characters heightened, and the plot much increased." John
Dennis, a critic of that day, declares that Shakespeare "knew nothing
about the ancients, set all propriety at defiance,... was neither master
of time enough to consider, correct, and polish what he had written,...
his lines are utterly void of celestial fire," and his verses
"frequently harsh and unmusical." He was, however, so interested in the
erratic and friendless poet that he kindly altered "The Merry Wives of
Windsor," and touched up "Coriolanus," which he brought out in
1720, under the title of "The Invader of his Country, or the Fatal
Resentment." The play, however, did not prosper, and he attributed it
to the fact that it was played on a Wednesday. Dean Swift, in his "The
Narrative of Dr. Robert Norris, concerning the Strange and Deplorable
Frenzy of John Dennis," relates how the said Dennis, being in company
with Lintot, the bookseller, and Shakespeare being mentioned as of a
contrary opinion to Mr. Dennis, the latter "swore the said Shakespeare
was a rascal, with other defamatory expressions, which gave Mr. Lintot
a very ill opinion of the said Shake{024}speare." Lord Shaftesbury
complains, at about the same date, of Shakespeare's "rude and unpolished
style and antiquated phrase and wit." *
* Mr. De Quincy's painful effort to demonstrate that
neither Dryden nor Shaftesbury meant what he said is amusing
reading. See his "Shakespeare" in the "Encyclopaedia
Britannica." Also Knight, "Studies of Shakespeare," p. 510,
as to Dr. Johnson.
Thomas Rymer knows exactly how Othello, which he calls "a bloody farce,
the tragedy of the pocket-handkerchief," ought to have been done. In
the first place, he is angry that the hero should be a black-a-moor, and
that the army should be insulted by his being a soldier. Of "Desdemona"
he says: "There is nothing in her which is not below any country
kitchen-maid--no woman bred out of a pigstye could talk so meanly."
Speaking of expression, he writes that "in the neighing of a horse or
in the growling of a | 1,092.355588 |
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SONGS AND SATIRES
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO. DALLAS
ATLANTA. SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
SONGS AND SATIRES
_By_
EDGAR LEE MASTERS
AUTHOR OF
"SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY"
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1916
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1916,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1916.
Reprinted March, June, 1916.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A
For permission to print in book form certain of these poems I wish to
acknowledge an indebtedness to _Poetry_, _The Smart Set_, _The Little
Review_, _The Cosmopolitan Magazine_, and William Marion Reedy, Editor
of _Reedy's Mirror_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
SILENCE 1
ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE 4
THE COCKED HAT 10
THE VISION 18
SO WE GREW TOGETHER 21
RAIN IN MY HEART 31
THE LOOP 32
WHEN UNDER THE ICY EAVES 40
IN THE CAR 41
SIMON SURNAMED PETER 43
ALL LIFE IN A LIFE 47
WHAT YOU WILL 56
THE CITY 57
THE IDIOT 65
HELEN OF TROY 68
O GLORIOUS FRANCE 71
FOR A DANCE 74
WHEN LIFE IS REAL 76
THE QUESTION 78
THE ANSWER 79
THE SIGN 80
WILLIAM MARION REEDY 82
A STUDY 85
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN 88
IN THE CAGE 91
SAVING A WOMAN: ONE PHASE 95
LOVE IS A MADNESS 97
ON A BUST 98
ARABEL 101
JIM AND ARABEL'S SISTER 108
THE SORROW OF DEAD FACES 116
THE CRY 119
THE HELPING HAND 120
THE DOOR 121
SUPPLICATION 122
THE CONVERSATION 125
TERMINUS 130
MADELINE 132
MARCIA 134
THE ALTAR 135
SOUL'S DESIRE 137
BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE 140
THE DEATH OF LAUNCELOT 149
IN MICHIGAN 156
THE STAR 166
SONGS AND SATIRES
SILENCE
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence for which music alone finds the word,
And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young:
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities--
We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away,
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of a deep peace of mind,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus"--
Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.
ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE
Antonio loved the Lady Clare.
He caught her to him on the stair
And pressed her breasts and kissed her hair,
And drew her lips in his, and drew
Her soul out like a torch's flare.
Her breath came quick, her blood swirled round;
Her senses in a vortex swound.
She tore him loose and turned around,
And reached her chamber in a bound
Her cheeks turned to a poppy's hue.
She closed the door and turned the lock,
Her breasts and flesh were turned to rock.
She reeled as drunken from the shock.
Before her eyes the devils skipped,
She thought she heard the devils mock.
For had her soul not been as pure
As sifted snow, could she endure
Antonio's passion and be sure
Against his passion's strength and lure?
Lean fears along her wonder slipped.
Outside she heard a drunkard call,
She heard a beggar against the wall
Shaking his cup, a harlot's squall
Struck through the riot like a sword,
And gashed the midnight's festival.
She watched the city through the pane,
The old Silenus half insane,
The idiot crowd that drags its chain--
And then she heard the bells again,
And heard the voices with the word:
Ecco il santo! Up the street
There was the sound of running feet
From closing door and window seat,
And all the crowd turned on its way
The Saint of Poverty to greet.
He passed. And then a circling thrill,
As water troubled which was still,
Went through her body like a chill,
Who of Antonio thought until
She heard the Saint begin to pray.
And then she turned into the room
Her soul was cloven through with doom,
Treading the softness and the gloom
Of Asia's silk and Persia's wool,
And China's magical perfume.
She sickened from the vases hued
In corals, yellows, greens, the lewd
Twined dragon shapes and figures nude,
And tapestries that showed a brood
Of leopards by a pool!
Candles of wax she lit before
A pier glass standing from the floor;
Up to the ceiling, off she tore
With eager hands her jewels, then
The silken vesture which she wore.
Her little breasts so round to see
Were budded like the peony.
Her arms were white as ivory,
And all her sunny hair lay free
As marigold or celandine.
Her blue eyes sparkled like a vase
Of crackled turquoise, in her face
Was memory of the mad embrace
Antonio gave her on the stair,
And on her cheeks a salt tear's trace.
Like pigeon blood her lips were red.
She clasped her bands above her head.
Under her arms the waxlight shed
Delicate halos where was spread
The downy growth of hair.
Such sudden sin the virgin knew
She quenched the tapers as she blew
Puff! puff! upon them, then she threw
Herself in tears upon her knees,
And round her couch the curtain drew.
She called upon St. Francis' name,
Feeling Antonio's passion maim
Her body with his passion's flame
To save her, save her from the shame
Of fancies such as these!
"Go by mad life and old pursuits,
The wine cup and the golden fruits,
The gilded mirrors, rosewood flutes,
I would praise God forevermore
With harps of gold and silver lutes."
She stripped the velvet from her couch
Her broken spirit to avouch.
She saw the devils slink and slouch,
And passion like a leopard crouch
Half mirrored on the polished floor.
Next day she found the saint and said:
I would be God's bride, I would wed
Poverty and I would eat the bread
That you for anchorites prepare,
For my soul's sake I am in dread.
Go then, said Francis, nothing loth,
Put off this gown of green snake cloth,
Put on one somber as a moth,
Then come to me and make your troth
And I will clip your golden hair.
She went and came. But still there lay,
A gem she did not put away,
A locket twixt her breasts, all gay
In shimmering pearls and tints of blue,
And inlay work of fruit and spray.
St. Francis felt it as he slipped
His hand across her breast and whipped
Her golden tresses ere he clipped--
He closed his eyes then as he gripped
The shears, plunged the shears through.
The waterfall of living gold.
The locks fell to the floor and rolled,
And curled like serpents which unfold.
And there sat Lady Clare despoiled.
Of worldly glory manifold.
She thrilled to feel him take and hide
The locket from her breast, a tide
Of passion caught them side by side.
He was the bridegroom, she the bride--
Their flesh but not their spirits foiled.
Thus was the Lady Clare debased
To sack cloth and around her waist
A rope the jeweled belt replaced.
Her feet made free of silken hose
Naked in wooden sandals cased
Went bruised to Bastia's chapel, then
They housed her in St. Damian
And here she prayed for poor women
And here St. Francis sought her when
His faith sank under earthly woes.
Antonio cursed St. Clare in rhyme
And took to | 1,092.455831 |
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STORIES WORTH REREADING
1913
PREFACE
All persons like stories. Children call for them from their earliest years.
The purpose of this book is to provide children and youth with stories
worth reading; stories relating incidents of history, missionary effort,
and home and school | 1,092.470667 |
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WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS
AND OF SCOTLAND.
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.
WITH A GLOSSARY.
REVISED BY
ALEXANDER LE | 1,092.554411 |
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Produced by Ron Swanson
Vol. I. No. 2.
THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE.
PUBLISHED BY THE
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY.
WASHINGTON, D. C.
Price 50 Cents.
CONTENTS.
Annual Address of the President:
Africa, its Past and Future: Gardiner G. Hubbard
Reports of the Vice-Presidents:
Geography of the Land: Herbert G. Ogden
Geography of the Sea: George L. Dyer, Hydrographer, U. S. N.
Geography of the Air: A. W. Greely, Chief Signal Officer, U. S. A.
Geography of Life: C. Hart Merriam
Annual Report of the Treasurer
Report of Auditing Committee
Annual Report of the Secretaries
Certificate of Incorporation
Officers for 1889
By-Laws
Members of the Society
April, 1889.
PRESS OF TUTTLE, MOREHOUSE & TAYLOR, NEW HAVEN, CONN.
THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE.
Vol. I. 1889. No. 2.
AFRICA, ITS PAST AND FUTURE.
Africa, the oldest of the continents, containing the earliest remains
of man, and the birthplace of European civilization, is the last to be
explored. Long before the temples of India or the palaces of Nineveh
were built, before the hanging garden of Babylon was planted, the
pyramids of Cheops and Cephren had been constructed, the temples of
Palmyra and Thebes filled with worshipers.
Greece owes its civilization to Egypt: its beautiful orders of
architecture came from the land of the Nile. The civilization of Egypt
had grown old, and was in its decay, when Rome was born. Think what a
vast abyss of time separates us from the days of Romulus and Remus! And
yet the pyramids of Egypt were then older by a thousand years than all
the centuries that have passed since then.
For ages upon ages, Africa has refused to reveal its secrets to
civilized man, and, though explorers have penetrated it from every
side, it remains to-day the dark continent. This isolation of Africa is
due to its position and formation. It is a vast, ill-formed triangle,
with few good harbors, without navigable rivers for ocean-vessels,
lying mainly in the torrid zone. A fringe of low scorched land, reeking
with malaria, extends in unbroken monotony all along the coast,
threatening death to the adventurous explorer. Our ignorance of Africa
is not in consequence of its situation under the equator, for South
America in the torrid zone has long been known. There the explorer
easily penetrates its recesses on its great rivers,--the Orinoco,
Amazon, and La Plata,--for they are navigable from the ocean far into
the interior. The Amazon, 3,000 miles from its mouth, is only 210 feet
above the ocean-level, and, with its branches, is navigable for 10,000
miles. Africa also has three great rivers,--one on each side of this
peninsula. On the north, the Nile, the river of the past, empties into
the Mediterranean Sea, but its navigation is soon interrupted by five
cataracts; so that the camel, the ship of the desert, bears the wares
of Europe from the foot of the first cataract far up the river, 800
miles, to Berber, whence they are again shipped by boat 2,000 miles to
Gondokoro, close to the lakes Albert and Victoria Nyanza, 4,000 feet
above the sea-level, 4,200 miles by water from the Mediterranean.
On the west, the Kongo, the river of the future, empties into the
Atlantic Ocean under the equatorial sun; but its navigation is also
impeded by successive falls extending from its mouth to Stanley Pool.
Then there is almost uninterrupted navigation on the river and its
tributaries for 10,000 miles. Far inland the head waters of its
north-eastern branches interlace with the waters of the Nile. Another
branch rises in Lake Tanganyika in eastern Africa, while the main river
finds its source higher up in the mountains, north of Lake Nyassa,
5,000 feet above the sea-level. On the east the Zambezi, the great
river of southern Africa, empties into the Indian Ocean opposite
Madagascar. The navigation of its main branch, the Shire, is
interrupted not far from the ocean. The Zambezi itself is navigable to
the rapids near Tete, 260 miles from its mouth; while one or two
hundred miles higher up are the mighty falls of Victoria, only exceeded
in volume of water by the Niagara, and nearly equal in height.
In whatever direction Europeans attempted to penetrate Africa, they
were met by insurmountable obstacles. Communication by water was
prevented by falls near the mouths of great rivers. The greater part of
the coast was very unhealthy, and, where not unhealthy, a desert was
behind it; but these obstacles, which formerly prevented exploration,
now stimulate the traveler. The modern explorations of Africa commenced
one hundred years ago, when Mungo Park crossed the Desert of Sahara,
and lost his life in descending the Niger. From that time to the
present, travelers in ever-increasing numbers have entered Africa from
every side. Some who have entered from the Atlantic or Pacific coasts
have been lost in its wilds, and two or three years after have emerged
on the opposite coast; others have passed from the coast, and have
never been heard from. Zanzibar has been a favorite starting-point for
the lake region of Central Africa. Stanley started from Zanzibar on his
search for Livingstone with two white men, but returned alone. Cameron
set out by the same path with two companions, but, upon reaching the
lake region, he was alone. Keith Johnson, two or three years ago,
started with two Europeans: within a couple of months he was gone.
Probably every second man, stricken down by fever or accident, has left
his bones to bleach along the road. Drummond, a recent explorer of
Africa, chose a route by the Zambezi and Shire Rivers as healthier and
more desirable. Let us hear his experience. Early in his journey, at
the missionary station of Livingstonia, on Lake Nyanza, he entered a
missionary home: it was spotlessly clean; English furniture in the
room, books lying about, dishes in the cupboards; but no missionary. He
went to the next house: it was the school; the benches and books were
there, but neither scholars nor teacher. Next, to the blacksmith shop:
there were the tools and anvil, but no blacksmith. And so on to the
next and the next, all in perfect order, but all empty. A little way
off, among the mimosa groves, under a huge granite mountain, were
graves: there were the missionaries.
The Niger is the only river in all Africa navigable by small steamers
from the ocean; but the Niger does not give access to the interior, as
it rises within 100 miles of the ocean, and, after making a great bend
around the mountains of the Guinea coast, empties into the ocean only
about five degrees south of its source, after a course of 2,500 miles.
Its main branch, the Benue (or "Mother of Waters"), is navigable 500 or
600 miles above its junction with the Niger. The country through which
it flows is thickly peopled and well cultivated; but the natives are
fierce and warlike, and have until recently prevented any exploration
of the Benue.
THE MOUNTAINS OF AFRICA.
As mountain-ranges determine the course of rivers, influence the
rainfall, and temper the climate, we must understand the mountain
system of Africa before we can understand the continent as a whole.
Standing on the citadel at Cairo, and looking south, you see a
sandstone ridge which gradually grows in altitude and width of base as
it runs far away to the south, even to the Cape of Good Hope at the
other end of Africa. Successive ranges of mountains follow the coast,
sometimes near, at others two or three hundred miles inland; the land,
in the latter case, ascending from the | 1,092.663768 |
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GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1848. No. 2.
STOKE CHURCH AND PARK.
THE SCENE OF GRAY'S ELEGY, AND RESIDENCE OF THE PENNS OF PENNSYLVANIA
BY R. BALMANNO.
[Illustration: Manor of Stoke]
The Manor of Stoke, with its magnificent mansion and picturesque park,
is situate near the village of Stoke Pogeys, in the county of
Buckingham, four miles north-west of Windsor.
About two miles distant from Stoke lies the village of Slough,
rendered famous by the residence of the celebrated astronomer, Sir
William Herschel, and a short way further, on a gentle <DW72> continued
the whole way from Stoke, stand the venerable towers of time-honored
Eton, on the bank of the Thames, directly opposite, and looking up to
the proud castle of the kings of England, unmatched in its lofty,
commanding situation and rich scenery by that of any royal residence
in Europe.
Stoke, anciently written Stoches, belonged, in the time of William the
Conqueror, A. D. 1086, to William, son of Ansculf, of whom it was held
by Walter de Stoke. Previous thereto, it was in part held by Siret, a
vassal of Harold, and at the same time, a certain Stokeman, the vassal
of Tubi, held another portion. Finally, in the year 1300, during the
reign of King Edward the First, it received its present appellation by
the intermarriage of Amicia de Stoke, the heiress, with Robert de
Pogeys. Under the sovereignty of Edward the Third, 1346, John de
Molines, originally of French extraction, and from the town of that
name in Bourbonnais, married Margaret de Pogeys; and, in consequence
of his eminent services, obtained license of the king to make a castle
of his manor-house of Stoke Pogeys, fortify with stone walls
embattled, and imparke the woods; also that it should be exempt from
the authority of the marshal of the king's household, or any of his
officers; and in further testimony of the king's favor, he had summons
to Parliament among the barons of the realm.
During the wars of the rival Roses, the place was owned by Sir Robert
Hungerford, commonly called Lord Moleyns, by reason of his marriage
with Alianore, daughter of William, Lord Moleyns.
This Lord Robert, siding with the Lancasterians, or the Red Roses,
upon the loss of the battle of Towton, fled to York, where King Henry
the Sixth then was, and afterward with him into Scotland. He was
attainted by the Parliament of Edward the Fourth; but the king took
compassion on Alianore, his wife, and her children, committing her and
them to the care of John, Lord Wenlock, to whom he had granted all her
husband's manors and lands, granting them a fitting support as long as
her said husband, Lord Robert, should live. But the Lancasterians
making head in the north, he "flew out" again, being the chief of
those who were in the castle of the Percys, at Alnwick, with five or
six hundred Frenchmen, and being taken prisoner at the battle of
Hexham, he was beheaded at Newcastle on Tyne, but buried in the north
aisle of the cathedral of Salisbury.
Lady Alianore, his widow, lies buried in the church of Stoke Pogeys;
and her monument may still be seen, with an epitaph commencing thus:
_Hic, hoc sub lapide sepelitur Corpus venerabilis
Dominae Alianorae Molins, Baronissiae, quam
prius desponsavit Dominus Robertus Hungerford,
miles et Baro. &c. &c._
Notwithstanding the grant to Lord Wenlock, Thomas, the son and heir of
Lord Robert Hungerford, succeeded to the estate. For a time he sided
with the famous Earl of Warwick, the king-maker, who took part with
Edward the Fourth, but afterward "falling off," and endeavoring for
the restoration of King Henry the Sixth, was seized on, and tried for
his life at Salisbury, before that diabolical tyrant, crook-back Duke
of Gloucester, afterward Richard the Third, where he had judgment of
the death of a traitor | 1,093.154176 |
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[Illustration: Elsin Grey.]
_The_
RECKONING
BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
AUTHOR OF "CARDIGAN," "THE MAID-AT-ARMS," "THE KING IN YELLOW," ETC.
NEW YORK
A. WESSELS COMPANY
1907
Copyright, 1905, by
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
_Published September, 1905_
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N.Y.
PREFACE
The author's intention is to treat, in a series of four or five
romances, that part of the war for independence which particularly
affected the great landed families of northern New York: the Johnsons,
represented by Sir William, Sir John, Guy Johnson, and Colonel Claus;
the notorious Butlers, father and son; the Schuylers, Van Rensselaers,
and others.
The first romance of the series, Cardigan, was followed by the second,
The Maid-at-Arms. The third in order is not completed. The fourth is the
present volume.
As Cardigan pretended to portray life on the baronial estate of Sir
William Johnson, the first uneasiness concerning the coming trouble, the
first discordant note struck in the harmonious councils of the Long
House, so, in The Maid-at-Arms, which followed in order, the author
attempted to paint a patroon family disturbed by the approaching rumble
of battle. That romance dealt with the first serious split in the
Iroquois Confederacy; it showed the Long House shattered though not
fallen; the demoralization and final flight of the great landed families
who remained loyal to the British Crown; and it struck the key-note to
the future attitude of the Iroquois toward the patriots of the
frontier--revenge for their losses at the battle of Oriskany--and ended
with the march of the militia and Continental troops on Saratoga.
The third romance, as yet incomplete and unpublished, deals with the
war-path and those who followed it, led by the landed gentry of Tryon
County, and ends with the first solid blow delivered at the Long House,
and the terrible punishment of the Great Confederacy.
The present romance, the fourth in chronological order, picks up the
thread at that point.
The author is not conscious of having taken any liberties with history
in preparing a framework of facts for a mantle of romance.
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
NEW YORK, _May 26, 1904_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE SPY 1
II.--THE HOUSEHOLD 24
III.--THE COQ D'OR 44
IV.--SUNSET AND DARK 67
V.--THE ARTILLERY BALL 97
VI.--A NIGHT AND A MORNING 127
VII.--THE BLUE FOX 164
VIII.--DESTINY 188
IX.--INTO THE NORTH 212
X.--SERMONS IN STONES 239
XI.--THE TEST 266
XII.--THENDARA 289
XIII.--THENDARA NO MORE 313
XIV.--THE BATTLE OF JOHNSTOWN 336
XV.--BUTLER'S FORD 366
TO MY FRIEND
J. HAMBLEN SEARS
WHOSE UNSELFISH FRIENDSHIP AND SOUND ADVICE
I ACKNOWLEDGE IN THIS
DEDICATION
I
_His muscle to the ax and plow,
His calm eye to the rifle sight,
Or at his country's beck and bow,
Setting the fiery cross alight,
Or, in the city's pageantry,
Serving the Cause in secrecy,--
Behold him now, haranguing kings
While through the shallow court there rings
The light laugh of the courtezan;
This the New Yorker, this the Man!_
II
_Standing upon his blackened land,
He saw the flames mount up to God,
He saw the death tracks in the sand,
And the dead children on the sod,
He saw the half-charred door, unbarred,
The dying hound he left on guard,
And that still thing he once had wed
Sprawled on the threshold dripping red:
Dry-eyed he primed his rifle pan;
This the New Yorker, this the Man!_
III
He plowed the graveyard of his dead
And sowed the grain to feed a host;
In silent lands untenanted
Save by the Sachems' painted ghost
He set the ensign of the sun;
A thousand axes rang as one
In the black forest's falling roar,
And through the glade the plowshare tore
Like God's own blade in Freedom's van;
This the New Yorker, and the Man!
R. W. C.
PROLOGUE
ECHOES OF YESTERDAY
His Excellency's system of intelligence in the City of New York I never
pretended to comprehend. That I was one of many agents I could have no
doubt; yet as long as I remained there I never knew but three or four
established spies with residence in town. Although I had no illusions
concerning Mr. Gaine and his "Gazette," at intervals I violently
suspected Mr. Rivington of friendliness to us, and this in spite of his
Tory newspaper and the fierce broadsides he fired at rebels and
rebellion. But I must confess that in my long and amiable acquaintance
with the gentleman he never, by word or hint or inference, so much as
by the quiver of an eyelash, corroborated my suspicion, and to this day
I do not know whether or not Mr. Rivington furnished secret information
to his Excellency while publicly in print he raged and sneered.
Itinerant spies were always in the city in spite of the deadly watch
kept up by regular and partizan, and sometimes they bore messages for
me, the words "Pro Gloria" establishing their credentials as well as
mine. They entered the city in all guises and under all pretexts, some
as refugees, some as traitors, some wearing the uniform of Tory
partizan corps, others attired as tradesmen, farmers, fishermen, and
often bearing passes, too, though where they contrived to find passes I
never understood.
It was a time of sullenness and quick suspicion; few were free from
doubt, but of those few I made one--until that day when my enemy
arrived--but of that in its place, for now I mean to say a word about
this city that I love--that we all love, understanding how alone she
stood in seven years' chains, yet dauntless, dangerous, and defiant.
For upon New York fell the brunt of British wrath, and the judgment of
God fell, too, passing twice in fire that laid one-quarter of the town
in cinders. Nor was that enough, for His lightning smote the
powder-ship, the _Morning Star_, where she swung at her moorings off
from Burling Slip, and the very sky seemed falling in the thunder that
shook the shoreward houses into ruins.
I think that, take it all in all, New York met and withstood every
separate horror that war can bring, save actual assault and sack.
Greater hardships fell to the lot of no other city in America, for we
lost more than a half of our population, more than a fourth of the city
by the two great fires. Want, with the rich, meant famine for the poor
and sad privation for the well-to-do; smallpox and typhus swept us;
commerce by water died, and slowly our loneliness became a maddening
isolation, when his Excellency flung out his blue dragoons to the very
edges of the river there at Harlem Bridge.
I often think it strange that New York town remained so loyal to the
cause, for loyalty to the king was inherent among the better classes.
Many had vast estates, farms, acres on acres of game parks, and lived
like the landed gentry of old England. Yet, save for the DeLanceys, the
Crugers, their kinsmen, the Fannings, kin to the Tryons, Frederick
Rhinelander, the Waltons, and others too tedious to mention, the
gentlemen who had the most to lose through friendliness to the cause of
liberty, chose to espouse that cause.
As for the British residents there, they remained in blameless loyalty
to their King, and I, for one, have never said one word to cast a doubt
upon the purity of their sentiments.
But with all this, knowing what must come, no other city in America so
gaily set forth upon the road to ruin as did patriotic New York. And
from that dreadful hour when, through the cannon smoke on Brooklyn
Heights, she beheld the ghastly face of ruin leering at her across the
foggy water--from that heart-breaking hour when the British drums
rolled from the east, and the tall war-ships covered themselves with
sm | 1,093.157474 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE DIAMOND LENS
By Fitz-James O'brien
I
FROM a very early period of my life the entire bent of my inclinations
had been toward microscopic investigations. When I was not more than
ten years old, a distant relative of our family, hoping to astonish my
inexperience, constructed a simple microscope for me by drilling in a
disk of copper a small hole in which a drop of pure water was sustained
by capillary attraction. This very primitive apparatus, magnifying some
fifty diameters, presented, it is true, only indistinct and imperfect
forms, but still sufficiently wonderful to work up my imagination to a
preternatural state of excitement.
Seeing me so interested in this rude instrument, my cousin explained to
me all that he knew about the principles of the microscope, related to
me a few of the wonders which had been accomplished through its agency,
and ended by promising to send me one regularly constructed, immediately
on his return to the city. I counted the days, the hours, the minutes
that intervened between that promise and his departure.
Meantime, I was not idle | 1,093.300037 |
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Produced by Diane Monico and The Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
FROM HEADQUARTERS
ODD TALES
PICKED UP IN THE VOLUNTEER SERVICE
BY
JAMES ALBERT FRYE
B | 1,093.369073 |
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Produced by Valentina, Sue Fleming, Carlo Traverso 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 Devourers
By
A. Vivanti Chartres
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
| 1,093.454733 |
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Produced by Steffen Haugk
[Illustration: CAPTAIN THOMAS SAVERY, The inventor of the steam engine - see frontispiece.gif]
THE
MINER'S FRIEND;
OR,
~An Engine~
TO
RAISE WATER BY FIRE,
DESCRIBED.
AND OF THE MANNER OF FIXING IT IN MINES;
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE SEVERAL OTHER USES IT
IS APPLICABLE UNTO; AND AN
ANSWER TO THE OBJECTIONS MADE AGAINST IT.
BY
THOMAS SAVERY, Gent.
Pigri est ingenii contentum esse his, quae ab aliis inventa sunt.
SENECA.
LONDON: PRINETD FOR S. CROUCH, AT THE CORNER
OF POPE'S HEAD-ALLEY IN CORNHILL. 1702.
Reprinted, 1827.
LONDON:
Printed by W. Clowes.
Stanford-street
TO THE KING.
SIR,
Your Majesty having been graciously pleased to permit an experiment
before you at Hampton-court, of a small model of my engine described
in the following treatise, and at that time to show a seeming
satisfaction of the power and use of it; and having most graciously
enabled me, by your royal assent to a patent and act of parliament, to
pursue and perfect the same. By which your royal encouragement, it
being now fully completed, and put in practice in your dominions with
that repeated success and applause, that it is not to be doubted but
it will be of universal benefit and use to all your Majesty's
subjects. Of whom, your Majesty being the universal patron and father,
all arts and inventions that may promote their good and advantage,
seem to lay a just and natural claim to your Majesty's sacred
protection.
It is upon this consideration I am encouraged, with a profound
respect, to throw this performance of mine, with the author, at your
Majesty's royal feet, most humbly beseeching your Majesty, that, as it
had birth in your Majesty's auspicious reign, you will vouchsafe to
perpetuate it to future ages by the sanction of your royal
approbation, which is the utmost ambition of,
May it please your Majesty,
Your Majesty's
most humble, most loyal,
and most obedient Subject,
THOMAS SAVERY.
TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY.
At the request of some of your members, at the weekly meeting, at
Gresham-college, June the 14th, 1699, I had the honour to work a small
model of my engine before you, and you were pleased to approve of it.
Since which I have met with great difficulties and expense, to
instruct handicraft artificers to form my engine according to my
design; but my workmen, after so much experience, are become such
masters of the thing, that they oblige themselves to deliver what
engines they make me exactly tight and fit for service, and as such I
dare warrant them to any body that has occasion for them.
Your kindness in countenancing this invention in its first appearance
in the world, gives me hopes the usefulness of it will make it more
acceptable to your honourable Society, as they are the most proper
judges of what advantage it may be to mankind. And it would be
ungrateful in me not to make use of this opportunity to return you my
most humble and hearty thanks for the honour and favour you did me in
approving my design, and publishing it to the world,[1] which shall be
always acknowledged by
Your most obliged
and most humble Servant,
THOMAS SAVERY.
[1] Philosoph. Transact. Numb. 252.
TO THE
GENTLEMEN ADVENTURERS
IN THE
MINES OF ENGLAND.
I am very sensible a great many among you do as yet look on my
invention of raising water by the impellent force of fire, a useless
sort of a project, that never can answer my designs or pretensions;
and that it is altogether impossible that such an engine as this can
be wrought under ground, and succeed in the raising of water, and
draining your mines, so as to deserve any encouragement from you. I am
not very fond of lying under the scandal of a bare projector; and,
therefore, present you here with a draught of my machine, and lay
before you the uses of it, and leave it to your consideration whether
it be worth your while to make use of it or no. I can easily give
grains of allowance for your suspicions, because I know very well what
miscarriages there have been by people ignorant of what they pretend
to. These I know have been so frequent, so fair and promising at
first, but so short of performing what they pretended to, that your
prudence and discretion will not now suffer you to believe any thing
without a demonstration, your appetites to new inventions of this
nature having been balked too often; yet, after all, I must beg you
not to condemn me, before you have read what I have to say for myself;
and let not the failures of others prejudice me, or be placed to my
account. I have often lamented the want of understanding the true
powers of nature, which misfortune has, of late, put some on making
such vast engines and machines, both troublesome and expensive, yet of
no manner of use, inasmuch as the old engines, used many ages past,
far exceeded them; and I fear, whoever, by the old causes of motion,
pretends to improvements within this last century, does betray his
knowledge and judgment; for more than an hundred years since, men and
horses would raise by engines, then made, as much water as they have
ever since done, or I believe ever will, or according to the law of
nature ever can do; and though my thoughts have been long employed
about water-works, I should never have pretended to any invention of
that kind, had I not happily found out this new, but yet a much
stronger and cheaper force or cause of motion, than any before made
use of. But finding this of rarefaction by fire, the consideration of
the difficulties the miners and colliers labour under by the frequent
disorders, cumbersomeness, and in general of water-engines, encouraged
me to invent engines to work by this new force; that though I was
obliged to encounter the oddest and almost insuperable difficulties, I
spared neither time, pains, nor money, till I had absolutely conquered
them. I hope this will, at least, encourage you to read over this
small treatise I now put into your hands, for the further and more
particular information of the nature and uses of this engine for
raising water by the force of fire; after which, I shall patiently
submit to any judgment you shall please to pass upon me or the
invention, and may have reason to believe you will not any longer
suffer your judgments to be imposed on by those, whose profit and
interest it may seem to be to condemn both right and wrong; I mean
such who make your common gins, and their friends and acquaintance
among you; though I am very sure the promotion of the use of this
engine is their true interest, as I very plainly prove thus:--
The cheaper water is drawn, the more is the miner encouraged to
adventure; the more the miner adventures, the more pits or shafts must
be sunk; the more shafts or pits are sunk, the more wood-work will be
necessarily employed in timbering them, or supporting the sides from
falling in where the earth is loose; besides windlasses and all other
utensils of wood used in mines, or the trades depending thereon must
be more, which, by increasing the carpenters' trade in general, will
make them sufficient amends for the loss of a small part of that
branch of their trade, called gin-making. As for pump-making, that
part of the trade will be much improved by my engine; for I must use
board and timber for pipes, and have considerable employment for
pump-makers and carpenters for timber used about my engine; but shall
never employ any other person in making pipes, or any other
carpenter's work I shall have to do, but the person who was before
employed in the work, or such as shall be recommended, as a person
employed in the mines of the country wheresoever I shall fix engines,
provided they will work as cheap, and fairly, and observe the orders
and directions given them; for my design is not, in the least, to
prejudice the artificers, or, indeed, any other sort of people by this
invention; but, on the contrary, is intended for the benefit and
advantage of mankind in general, especially the people of my own
nation; and wherein, you gentlemen concerned in mines, may, if you
please, reap the greatest profit.
And although I do not question but the plan and draught of my engine
will be very well and readily understood with many gentlemen, by the
description here given; yet it will require a longer time in others to
employ their minds and thoughts more intensely about it, especially
such as have not been familiar and acquainted with things of this
kind; but should the engine, to the apprehension of some, seem
intricate and difficult to be worked, after all the description I have
given of it in this book, yet I can, and do assure them, that the
attending and working the engine is so far from being so, that it is
familiar and easy to be learned by those of the meanest capacity, in a
very little time; insomuch, that I have boys of thirteen or fourteen
years of age, who now attend and work it to perfection, and were
taught to do it in a few days; and I have known some learn to work the
engine in half an hour. We have a proverb, that interest never lies;
and I am assured that you gentlemen of the mines and collieries, when
you have once made this engine familiar in your works, and to
yourselves and servants; not only the profit, but abundance of other
advantages and conveniences which you will find to attend your works
in the use thereof, will create in you a favourable opinion of the
labours of
Your real Friend and humble Servant,
THOMAS SAVERY.
_London,
Sept. 22,_ 1701.
A DESCRIPTION
OF THE
DRAUGHT OF THE ENGINE,
FOR RAISING WATER BY FIRE.
_a_, _a_, The furnaces.
_b_, B, the two fire-places.
_c_, the funnel or chimney.
_d_, the small boiler.
_e_, the pipe and cock of it.
_f_, the screw that covers and confines its force.
_g_, a small cock, a pipe going within eight inches of its bottom.
_h_, A larger pipe going the same depth.
_i_, a clack on the top of the said pipe.
_k_, a pipe going from the box of the said clack or valve, into the
great boiler, about an inch into it.
_l_, the great boiler.
_m_, the screw with the regulator.
_n_, a small cock and pipe going half way down the great boiler.
_o_, O, steam-pipes, one end of each screw to the regulator, and the
other ends to the receivers.
_p_, P, the vessels called receivers.
_q_, q, the screws which bring on the pipes and clacks in the front
of the engine.
_r_, _r_, R, R, valves or clack of brass, with screws to open and
come at them upon occasion.
_s_, the force-pipe.
_t_, the sucking-pipe.
_v_, a square frame of wood, with holes round its bottom in the
water.
_x_, a cistern with a buoy-cock coming from the force-pipe.
_y_, a cock and pipe coming from the bottom of the said cistern.
_z_, the handle of the regulator.
CHAPTER FIRST.
MANNER OF WORKING THE ENGINE.
* * * * *
THE
MANNER OF WORKING THE ENGINE.
The first thing is to fix the engine in a good double furnace, so
contrived that the flame of your fire may circulate round and
encompass your two boilers to the best advantage, as you do coppers
for brewing. Before you make any fire, unscrew _g_ and _n_, being the
two small gauge-pipes and cocks belonging to the two boilers, and at
the holes, fill _l_, the great boiler, two-thirds full of water, and
_d_, the small boiler, quite full; then screw in the said pipes again
as fast and light as possible; then light the fire at _b_. When the
water in _l_ boils, the handle of the regulator, marked _z_, must be
thrust from you as far as it will go, which makes all the steam rising
from the water in _l_ pass with irresistible force through _o_ into
_p_, pushing out all the air before it, through the clack, _r_, making
a noise as it goes; and when all is gone out, the bottom of the
vessel, _p_, will be very hot; then pull the handle of the regulator
to you, by which means you stop _o_, and force your steam through _o_
into the _p_, until that vessel has discharged its air through the
clack, _r_, up the force-pipe. In the mean time, by the steam's
condensing in the vessel _p_, a vacuum or emptiness is created, so
that the water must, and will, necessarily, raise up, through _t_, the
sucking-pipe, lifting up the clack, _r_, and filling the vessel, _p_.
In the mean time, the vessel, _p_, being emptied of its air, turn the
handle of the regulator from you again, and the force is upon the
surface of the water in _p_, which surface being only heated by the
steam, it does not condense it, but the steam gravitates or presses
with an elastic quality like air; still increasing its elasticity or
spring, till it counterpoises, or rather exceeds the weight of the
water ascending in _s_, the forcing-pipe, out of which, the water in
_p_ will be immediately discharged when once gotten to the top, which
takes up some time to recover that power; which having once got, and
being in work, it is easy for any one that never saw the engine, after
half an hour's experience, to keep a constant stream running out the
full bore of the pipe, _s_; for, on the outside of the vessel, _p_,
you may see how the water goes out, as well as if the vessel were
transparent; for, as far as the steam continues within the vessel, so
far is the vessel dry without, and so very hot, as scarce to endure
the least touch of the hand; but as far as the water is, the said
vessel will be cold and wet, where any water has fallen on it; which
cold and moisture vanishes as fast as the steam, in its descent, takes
place of the water; but if you force all the water out, the steam, or
a small part thereof, going through _r_, will rattle the clack, so as
to give sufficient notice to pall the handle of the regulator to you,
which, at the same time, begins to force out the water from _p_,
without the least alteration of the stream; only, sometimes, the
stream of water will be somewhat stronger than before, if you pull the
handle of the regulator before any considerable quantity of steam be
gone up the clack, _r_; but it is much better to let none of the steam
go off, for that is but losing so much strength, and is easily
prevented, by polling the regulator some little time before the vessel
forcing is quite emptied. This being done, immediately turn the cock
or pipe of the cistern, _x_, on _p_, so that the water proceeding from
_x_, through _y_, which is never open but when turned on _p_, or _P_;
but when between them, is tight and stanch; I say, the water, falling
on _p_, causes, by its coolness, the steam, which had such great force
just before to its elastic power, to condense, and become a vacuum or
empty apace, so that the vessel, _p_, is, by the external pressure of
the atmosphere, or what is vulgarly called suction, immediately
refilled, while _p_ is emptying; which being done, you push the handle
of the regulator from you, and throw the force on _p_, pulling the
condensing pipe over _p_, causing the steam in that vessel to
condense, so that it fills, while the other empties. The labour of
turning these two parts of the engine, viz. the regulator and
water-cock, and attending the fire, being no more than what a boy's
strength can perform for a day together, and is as easily learned as
their driving of a horse in a tub-gin; yet, after all, I would have
men, and those, too, the most apprehensive, employed in working of the
engine, supposing them more careful than boys. The difference of this
charge is not to be mentioned or accounted of, when we consider the
vast profit which those who use the engine will reap by it.
The ingenious reader will, probably, here object, that the steam being
the cause of this motion and force, and that steam is but water
rarefied, the boiler, _l_, must in some certain time be emptied, so as
the work of the engine must stop to replenish the boiler, or endanger
the burning out or melting the bottom of the boiler.
To answer which, please to observe the use of the small boiler, _d_,
when it is thought fit by the person tending the engine to replenish
the great boiler, which requires an hour and a half, or two hours'
time to the sinking one foot of water; then, I say, by turning the
cock of the small boiler, _e_, you cut off all communication between
_s_, the great force-pipe, and _d_, the small boiler, by which means
_d_ grows immediately hot, by throwing a little fire into _b_, and the
water of which boils, and in a very little time it gains more strength
than the great boiler; for the force of the great boiler being
perpetually spending and going out, and the other winding up, or
increasing, it is not long before the force in _d_ exceeds that in
_l_, so that the water in _d_ being depressed in _d_ by its own steam
or vapour, must necessarily rise through the pipe, _h_, opening the
clack, _i_, and so go through the pipe, _k_, into _l_, running till
the surface of the water in _d_ is equal to the bottom of the pit,
_h_; then steam and water going together, will, by a noise in the
clack, _i_, give sufficient assurance that _d_ has discharged and
emptied itself into _l_, to within eight inches of the bottom; and
inasmuch as, from the top of _d_ to the bottom of its pipe, _h_, is
contained about as much water as will replenish _l_, one foot, so you
may be certain _l_ is replenished one foot of course; then you open
the cock, _i_, and refill _d_ immediately; so that here is a constant
motion without fear or danger of disorder, or decay, if you would, at
any time, know if the great boiler, _l_, be more than half exhausted,
turn the small cock, _n_, whose pipe will deliver water, if the water
be above the level of its bottom, which is half way down the boiler;
if not, it will deliver steam. So, likewise, will _g_ show you if you
have more or less than eight inches of water in _d_, by which means
nothing but a stupid and wilful neglect, or mischievous design,
carried on for some hours, can any ways hurt the engine; and if a
master is suspicious of the design of a servant to do mischief, it is
easily discovered by those gauge-pipes; for if he come when the engine
is at work, and find the surface, _c_, of the water in _l_, below the
bottom of the gauge-pipe, _n_, or the water in _d_ below the bottom of
_g_, such a servant deserves correction, though three hours after
that, the working on would not damage or exhaust the boilers; as that,
in a word, the clacks being in all water-works always found the better
the longer they are used, and all the moving parts of our engine being
of like nature, the furnace being made of Stourbridge, or Windsor
brick, or fire-stone, I do not see it possible for the engine to decay
in many years; for the clacks, boxes, and mitre-pipe, regulator, and
cocks, are all of brass; and the vessels made of the best hammered
copper, of sufficient thickness to sustain the force of the working
the engine. In short, the engine is so naturally adapted to perform
what is required, that even those of the most ordinary and meanest
capacity may work it for some years without any injury, if not hired
or employed by some base person on purpose to destroy it; for after
the engine is once fixed, and at work, I may modestly affirm that the
adventurer, or supervisor of the mine, will be freed from that
perpetual charge, expense, and trouble of repairs, which all other
engines ever yet employed in mines for the raising of water, are
continually liable unto.
CHAPTER SECOND.
OF THE USES THAT THIS ENGINE MAY BE APPLIED UNTO.
* * * * *
OF THE USES THAT THIS ENGINE
MAY BE APPLIED UNTO.
It may be supposed that there are few people among us so ignorant, but
must necessarily know of what value the falls of water are in most
places, as being applicable to mills, which are made after various
kinds and forms, according to the different genius and abilities of
the millwright, for mill-work being in a manner infinitely
diversified; and had I leisure to comment thereon, and give you an
account, not only of the vast variety that I have seen and heard of,
but (when encouraged) what may yet be brought to work by a steady
stream, and the rotation or circular motion of a water-wheel, it would
swell these papers to a much larger volume than was at first designed,
and frustrate my intended brevity. I only just hint this to show what
use this engine may be put to in working of mills, especially where
coals are cheap.
I have only this to urge, that water, in its fall from any determinate
height, has simply a force answerable and equal to the force that
raises it. So that an engine which will raise as much water as two
horses working together at one time in such a work can do, and for
which there must be constantly kept ten or twelve horses for doing the
same, then, I say, such an engine will do the work or labour of ten or
twelve horses; and whereas this engine may be made large enough to do
the work required in employing eight, ten, fifteen, or twenty horses
to be constantly maintained and kept for doing such a work, it will be
improper to stint or confine its uses and operation in respect of
water-mills.
2. It may be of great use for palaces, for the nobility's or
gentlemen's houses; for, by a cistern on the top of a house, yoy may,
with a great deal of ease and little charge, throw what quantity of
water you have occasion for to the top of any house; which water, in
its fall, makes you what sorts of fountains you please, and supplies
any room in the house, and it is of excellent use in case of fire, of
which more hereafter.
3. Nothing can be more fit for serving cities and towns with water,
except a crank-work by the force of a river. In the composing such
sort of engines, I think no person hath excelled the ingenious Mr.
George Sorocold; but where they are forced to use horses, or any other
strength, I believe no ingenious person will deny this engine to have
the preference in all respects, being of more universal use than any
yet discovered or invented.
4. As for draining fens, marshes, &c. I | 1,093.898738 |
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Produced by David Widger
MYTHS AND LEGENDS
OF
OUR OWN LAND
By
Charles M. Skinner
Vol. 8.
ON THE PACIFIC <DW72>
CONTENTS:
The Voyager of the Whulge
Tamanous of Tacoma
The Devil and the Dalles
Cascades of the Columbia
The Death of Umatilla
Hunger Valley
The Wrath of Manitou
The Spook of Misery Hill
The Queen of Death Valley
Bridal Veil Fall
The Governor's Right Eye
The Prisoner in American Shaft
ON THE PACIFIC COAST
THE VOYAGER OF WHULGE
Like the ancient Greeks, the Siwash of the Northwest invest the unseen
world with spiritual intelligence. Every tree has a soul; the forests
were peopled with good and evil genii, the latter receiving oblation at
the devil-dances, for it was not worth while to appease those already
good; and the mountains are the home of tamanouses, or guardian spirits,
that sometimes fight together--as, when the spirits of Mount Tacoma
eng | 1,094.25621 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Rory OConor and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
CLIMBING IN THE BRITISH ISLES
_ENGLAND_
CLIMBING
IN THE BRITISH ISLES
_3 vols. 16mo. Sold separately._
I. ENGLAND.
II. WALES. _In preparation._
III. SCOTLAND. _In preparation._
LONDON AND NEW YORK:
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
CLIMBING
IN
THE BRITISH ISLES
_I.--ENGLAND_
BY
W.P. HASKETT SMITH, M.A.
MEMBER OF THE ALPINE CLUB
WITH TWENTY-THREE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
ELLIS CARR
MEMBER OF THE ALPINE CLUB
AND FIVE PLANS
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET
1894
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
Introduction
The headings, for convenience of reference, are arranged in
one continuous alphabetical series, comprising the following
classes of subject:
I. COUNTIES AND DISTRICTS WHICH ARE OF INTEREST TO THE
MOUNTAINEER
(_e.g._ Cumberland, Cornwall, Derbyshire, Ennerdale)
II. PLACES WHICH ARE CONVENIENT AS CLIMBING CENTRES
(_e.g._ Keswick, Patterdale, Wastdale Head)
III. MOUNTAINS AND ROCKS WHICH AFFORD CLIMBS
(_e.g._ Dow Crag, Pillar, Scafell)
IV. CLIMBS OF REPUTATION, WITH DIRECTIONS FOR FINDING AND
ACCOMPLISHING THEM
(_e.g._ Deep Gill, Mickledoor, Napes Needle)
V. TECHNICAL TERMS AND EXPRESSIONS
(_e.g._ back-and-knee, chimney, toe-scrape)
VI. LOCAL NAMES FOUND AMONG THE HILLS, WITH OCCASIONAL
NOTES ON THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANING
(_e.g._ bink, clough, gill, hause, hope)
INTRODUCTION
For some years past there has been a remarkably rapid increase in the
number of men who climb for climbing's sake within the bounds of the
British Isles.
When any young and active Englishman sees a rock and is told that the
ascent of it is regarded as a kind of feat, there is no doubt what he
will want to do. He will obey what has been the instinct of the race at
any time this forty years. But lately there has been a change. What was
formerly done casually and instinctively has for the last dozen years or
so been done systematically and of set purpose, for it is now recognised
that hill-climbing in these islands may form part of a real
mountaineering education. Many might-be mountaineers have missed their
vocation because they were in the position of the prudent individual who
would not go into the water until after he should have learned to swim:
they did not become Alpine because they were afraid that they should
make fools of themselves if they went on the Alps. Yet, had they only
known it, they might have found without crossing the sea many a place
which might have been to their undeveloped instincts what the little
pond at the end of the garden has been to many a would-be skater--a
quiet spot where early flounderings would be safe from the contemptuous
glances of unsympathetic experts.
Icemanship can only be acquired through a long apprenticeship, by
tramping many a weary mile helplessly tied to the tail of a guide. But
one principal charm of hill-climbing lies in the fact that it may be
picked up by self-directed practice and does not demand the same
preliminary subjection. The course of Alpine instruction can only be
considered complete when Mr. Girdlestone's ideal of 'The High Alps
without Guides' is realised (an ideal, be it clearly understood, which
for fully ninety-nine out of every hundred climbers it would be
downright madness to attempt to carry into practice); whereas, while
rock-climbing may be enjoyed by amateurs without incurring the reproach
of recklessness, they at the same time experience the exquisite pleasure
of forming their own plans of attack, of varying the execution of them
according to their own judgment, and finally of meeting obstacles, as
they arise, with their own skill and with their own strength, and
overcoming them without the assistance of a hired professional.
Nowhere can the mere manual dexterity of climbing be better acquired
than among the fells of Cumberland; excellent practising-ground presents
itself on nearly every hill. Compared with real mountains the crags of
Cumberland are but toys, but small as they are, they have made many and
many a fine climber; and the man who has gone through a course of
training among them, who has learnt to know the exact length of his own
stride and reach, and to wriggle up a 'chimney' in approved style with
shoulder, hip and knee, may boldly fly at higher game, and when he
proceeds to tackle the giants of the Alps or Caucasus has no cause to be
afraid of the result.
As if with the express object of increasing their educational value to
the mountaineer, the hilly parts of Great Britain are peculiarly subject
to atmospheric changes. No one who has not experienced their effects
would believe the extent to which mist, snow, and even rain can change
the appearance of landmarks among the mountains; and, where landmarks
are less abundant or less striking, even the buffeting of violent wind
may cause an inexperienced man to change his direction unconsciously.
Valuable experience in things of this kind may be gained even in summer,
but in winter the conditions become more Alpine, and splendid practice
may be had in the use of the axe and rope.
Not that the latter should be neglected on difficult rocks at any time
of the year. Even in places where it gives the leader no security and to
some extent actually impedes him, the moral effect of it is good. It
wonderfully increases those feelings of united and ordered effort, of
mutual dependence and mutual confidence, and finally of cheery
subordination of self, which are not the least of the virtues or the
joys of mountaineering. How these opportunities may be used the novice
will readily learn from Mr. Charles Pilkington's admirable chapters in
the Badminton 'Mountaineering,' and from Dr. Claude Wilson's excellent
little handbook on the same subject. It is the aim of the present work
to enable him to find suitable places where the principles so admirably
laid down by those authorities may be tested and applied, and to
understand the descriptions--often involving difficult technical and
local terms--which have been published of them. When anyone with
climbing instincts finds himself in a strange place his first desire is
to discover a climb, his second to learn what its associations are; what
is it called, and why? has anyone climbed it, and what did he think of
it? To such questions as these this book endeavours to provide an
answer. It offers, in short, to the would-be climber a link, with the
guidebook on the one hand and the local specialist on the other.
It must always be remembered that a very fine rock may be a very poor
climb. It may be impossible or it may be too easy, or, again, the
material maybe dangerously rotten; and thus, though there are many
places where men can and do | 1,094.257189 |
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Produced by Elaine Laizure from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.
THE COZY LION
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
The Cozy Lion
As told by Queen Crosspatch
By
Frances Hodgson Burnett
Author of "Little Lord Fauntleroy"
With Illustrations by Harrison Cady
The Century Co.
New York
Copyright, 1907, by
THE CENTURY CO.
Published October, 1907
Printed in U. S. A.
I AM very fond of this story of the Cozy Lion because I consider
it a great credit to me. I reformed that Lion and taught him how
to behave himself. The grown-up person who reads this story aloud
to children MUST know how to Roar.
THE COZY LION
I SHALL never forget the scolding I gave him to begin with. One
of the advantages of being a Fairy even quite a common one is
that Lions can't bite you. A Fairy is too little and too light.
If they snap at you it's easy to fly through their mouths, and
even if they catch you, if you just get behind their teeth you
can make them so uncomfortable that they will beg you to get out
and leave them in peace.
Of course it was all the Lion's fault that I scolded him. Lions
ought to live far away from people. Nobody likes Lions roaming
about--particularly where there are children. But this Lion said he
wanted to get into Society, and that he was very fond of children--
little fat ones between three and four. So instead of living on a
desert, or in a deep forest or a jungle he took the large Cave on
the Huge Green Hill, only a few miles from a village full of the
fattest, rosiest little children you ever saw.
He had only been living in the Cave a few days, but even in that
short time the mothers and fathers had found out he was there, and
everybody who could afford it had bought a gun and snatched it up
even if they saw a donkey coming down the road, because they were
afraid it might turn out to be a Lion. As for the mothers, they
were nearly crazy with fright, and dare not let their children go
out to play and had to shut them up in top rooms and cupboards and
cellars, they were so afraid the Lion might be hiding behind trees
to jump out at them. So everything was beginning to be quite
spoiled because nobody could have any fun.
Of course if they had had any sense and believed in Fairies and had
just gone out some moonlight night and all joined hands and danced
slowly around in a circle and sung:
Fairies pink and Fairies rose
Fairies dancing on pearly toes
We want you, Oh! we want you!
Fairy Queens and Fairy slaves
Who are not afraid of Lions' Caves
Please to come to help us,
then it would have been all right, because we should have come in
millions, especially if they finished with this verse:
Our troubles we can never tell
But if _you_ would come it would all be well
Par-tic-u-lar-ly Silverbell.
But they hadn't sense enough for that--of course they hadn't--_of
course they hadn't_! Which shows what <DW38>s people are.
But you see I am much nicer than _un_-fairy persons, even if I have
lost my nice little, pink little, sweet little Temper and if I am
cross. So when I saw the children fretting and growing pale because
they had to be shut up, and the mothers crying into their washtubs
when they were washing, until the water slopped over, I made up my
mind I would go and talk to that Lion myself in a way he wouldn't
soon forget.
It was a beautiful morning, and the Huge Green Hill looked lovely.
A shepherd who saw me thought I was a gold and purple butterfly and
threw his hat at me--the idiot! Of course he fell down on his nose--
and very right and proper too.
When I got to the Cave, the Lion was sitting outside his door and
he was crying. He was one of these nasty-tempered, discontented
Lions who are always thinking themselves injured; large round tears
were rolling down his nose and he was sniffling. But I must say he
was handsome. He was big and smooth and had the most splendid mane
and tail I ever saw.
He would have been like a King if he had had a nicer expression.
But there he sat sniffling.
"I'm so lonely," he said. "Nobody calls. Nobody pays me any
attention. And I came here for the Society. No one is fonder of
Society than I am."
I sat down on a flowering branch near him and shouted at him,
"What's the use of Society when you eat it up?" I said.
He jumped up and lashed his tail and growled but at first he could
not see me.
"What's it for _but_ to be eaten up?" he roared. "First I want it
to entertain me and then I want it for dessert. Where are you? Who
are you?"
"I'm Queen Crosspatch--Queen Silverbell as was," I said. "I suppose
you have heard of _me_?"
"I've heard nothing good," he growled. "A good chewing is what
_you_ want!"
He _had_ heard something about me, but not enough. The truth was he
didn't really believe in Fairies--which was what brought him into
trouble.
By this time he had seen me and he was ignorant enough to think
that he could catch me, so he laid down flat in the thick, green
grass and stretched his big paws out and rested his nose on them,
thinking I would be taken in and imagine he was going to sleep. I
burst out laughing at him and swung to and fro on my flowery
branch.
"Do you want to eat me?" I said. "You'd need two or three quarts of
me with sugar and cream--like strawberries."
That made him so angry that he sprang roaring at my tree and
snapped and shook it and tore it with his claws. But I flew up into
the air and buzzed all about him and he got furious--just furious.
He jumped up in the air and lashed his tail and _thrashed_ his tail
and CRASHED his tail, and he turned round and round and tore up the
grass.
"Don't be a silly," I said. "It's a nice big tufty sort of tail and
you will only wear it out."
So then he opened his mouth and roared and roared. And what do you
suppose _I_ did? I flew right into his mouth. First I flew into his
throat and buzzed about like a bee and made him cough and cough and
cough--but he couldn't cough me up. He coughed and he houghed and
he woughed; he tried to catch me with his tongue and he tried to
catch me with his teeth but I simply made myself tinier and tinier
and got between two big fierce white double ones and took one of my
Fairy Workers' hammers out of my pocket and hammered and hammered
and hammered until he began to have such a jumping toothache that
he ran leaping and roaring down the Huge Green Hill and leaping and
roaring down the village street to the dentist's to get some
toothache drops. You can just imagine how all the people rushed
into their houses, and how the mothers screamed and clutched their
children and hid under beds and tables and in coalbins, and how the
fathers fumbled about for guns. As for the dentist, he locked his
door and bolted it and barred it, and when he found _his_ gun he
poked it out of the window and fired it off as fast as ever he
could until he had fired fifty times, only he was too frightened to
hit anything. But the village street was so full of flashes and
smoke and bullets that Mr. Lion turned with ten big roars and
galloped down the street, with guns fired out of every window where
the family could afford to keep a gun.
When he got to his home in the Huge Green Hill, he just laid down
and cried aloud and screamed and kicked his hind legs until he
scratched a hole in the floor of his cave.
"Just because I'm a Lion," he sobbed, "just because I'm a poor,
sensitive, helpless, orphan Lion nobody has one particle of
manners. They won't even sell me a bottle of toothache drops. And I
wasn't going to touch that dentist--until he had cured me and
wrapped up the bottle nicely in paper. Not a touch was I going to
touch him until he had done that."
He opened his mouth so wide to roar with grief that I flew out of
it. I had meant to give him a lesson and I'd given him one. When I
flew out of his mouth of course his beautiful double teeth stopped
aching. It was such a relief to him that it made quite a change in
his nature and he sat up and began to smile. It was a slow smile
which spread into a grin even while the tear-drops hung on his
whiskers.
"My word! How nice," he said. "It's stopped."
I had flown to the top of his ear and I shouted down it.
"I stopped it," I said. "And I began it. And if you don't behave
yourself, I'll give you earache and that will be worse."
Before I had given him his lesson he would have jumped at me but
now he knew better. He tried to touch my feelings and make me sorry
for him. He put one paw before his eyes and began to sniff again.
"I am a poor sensitive lonely orphan Lion,' he said.
"You are nothing of the sort," I answered very sharply. "You are
not poor, and heaven knows you are not sensitive, and you needn't
be lonely. I don't know whether you are an orphan or not--and I
don't care. You are a nasty, ill-tempered, selfish, biting, chewing
thing."
"There's a prejudice against Lions," he wept. "People don't like
them. They never invite them to children's parties--nice little
fat, tender, children's parties--where they would enjoy themselves
so much--and the refreshments would be just what they like best.
They don't even invite them to grown-up parties. What I want to ask
you is this: has _one_ of those villagers called on me since I came
here--even a tough one?"
"Nice stupids they would be if they did," I answered.
He lifted up his right paw and shook his head from side to side in
the most mournful way.
"There," he said. "You are just as selfish as the rest. Everybody
is selfish. There is no brotherly love or consideration in the
world. Sometimes I can scarcely bear it. I am going to ask you
another question, and it is almost like a riddle. Who did you ever
see try to give pleasure to a Lion?"
I got into his ear then and shouted down it as loud as ever I
could.
"Who did you ever see a _Lion_ try to give pleasure to?" I said.
"You just think over that. And when you find the answer, tell it to
_me_."
I don't know whether it was the newness of the idea, or the
suddenness of it, but he turned pale. Did you ever see a Lion turn
pale? I never did before and it was funny. You know people's skins
turn pale but a Lion's skin is covered with hair and you can't see
it, so his hair has to turn pale or else you would never know he
was turning pale at all. This Lion's hair was a beautiful tawny
golden color to begin with and first his whiskers turned white and
then his big mane and then his paws and then his body and last his
long splendid tail with the huge fluffy tuft on the end of it. Then
he stood up and his tail hung down and he said weakly:
"I do not know the answer to that riddle. I will go and lie down in
my Cave. I do not believe I have one friend in this world." And he
walked into his Cave and laid down and sobbed bitterly.
He forgot I was inside | 1,094.257196 |
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Produced by Marc-AndrA(C) Seekamp, Ann Jury and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
AUTUMN IMPRESSIONS
OF THE GIRONDE
In Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt. Price 6s.
RUSSIA OF TO-DAY
BY
E. VON DER BRUeGGEN
THE TIMES says:--
"Few among the numerous books dealing with the Russian Empire which
have appeared of late years will be found more profitable than Baron
von der Brueggen's 'Das Heutige Russland,' an English version of which
has now been published. The impression which it produced in Germany
two years ago was most favourable, and we do not hesitate to repeat
the advice of the German critics by whom it was earnestly recommended
to the notice of all political students. The author's reputation
has already been firmly established by his earlier works on 'The
Disintegration of Poland' and 'The Europeanization of Russia,' and in
the present volume his judgment appears to be as sound as his knowledge
is unquestionable."
Illustration: ANCIENT HEADDRESS IN AIRVAULT (DEUX SEVRES).
[_Frontispiece._
Autumn Impressions
of the Gironde
BY
I. GIBERNE SIEVEKING
AUTHOR OF
"Memoir and Letters of Francis W. Newman," and
"A Turning Point of the Indian Mutiny."
Once or twice, in every life--it may be in one form, it may be in
another--there comes one day the possibility of a glimpse through the
Magic Gates of Idealism. Some of us are not close enough to the opening
gates to catch a sight of what lies beyond, but in the eyes of those
who have seen--there is from that moment an ineffaceable, unforgettable
longing.
[Illustration]
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
LONDON
Digby, Long & Co.
18, Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C.
1910
TO FRANCE--
THE COUNTRY OF MANY IDEALS
PREFACE
To each man or woman of us there is the Country of our Ideals. The
ideals may be newly aroused; they may be of long standing. But some
time or other, in some way or other, there is the country; there is the
place; there is the sunny spot in our imagination-world which _calls_
to us--and calls to us in no uncertain voice.
It is true we are not always susceptible to that call: it is true we
are not always responsive, but it is there all the same. Sometimes
there comes to us a day when that "call" is insistent, all-compelling,
irresistible; a day in which it sounds with indescribable music,
indescribable vibration, through that inner world into which we all go
now and again, when days are monotonous or depressing.
It is impossible to conjecture why some country, some place, some
woman, should make that indescribable appeal which lays a hand on
the latch of those gates leading to that world of imagination which
exists in most of us far, far below the placid, shallow waters of
conventionalism. It is impossible to conjecture when or where the
voice and the call will sound in our ears. The man who hears it will
recognise what it means, but will in no way be able to account for it.
He will only know with what infinite satisfaction he is sensible of the
touch which enables him to "slip through the magic gates," as a great
friend once expressed it, into the world of Idealism, of Imagination.
True, the pleasure, the satisfaction, is elusive. He can lay no hand
upon those wonderful moments which come thus to him. Even before he
is aware that they have begun, he is conscious that they are already
slipping out of his grasp.
What play has ever shown this more clearly than Maeterlinck's "Blue
Bird"? Though the children go from glory to glory of lustrous
imagination, though they can go back to the land of Old Memories, to
the land of the Future, yet they cannot stay there. Though they see and
rejoice to the full in the "Blue Bird," the spirit of Happiness, yet
that one soft stroking of its feathers is all that is possible before
it flies away. For every Ideal is winged: every Conception of Happiness
but a passing vision. We have but to attempt to grasp them to find
their elusiveness is a fact from which we cannot get away.
For me, the France about which I have written in the following pages is
a country which calls to me from the world of my ideals, from the world
of my imagination. From across the seas that call stirs me and thrills
me indescribably. It is not the France of the Parisian; it is not the
France of the automobilist; it is not the France of the Cook's tourist.
It is the France upon whose shores one steps at once into _the land of
many ideals_.
I should like here to thank three friends, Messieurs Henri Guillier,
Goulon, and E. G. Sieveking, who have most kindly given me permission
to print their photographs of the part of France through which I
travelled, and more than all, the greatest friend of all, who alone
made the journey possible.
I. Giberne Sieveking.
Autumn Impressions
of the Gironde
CHAPTER I
"Mails first!" shouted the captain from the upper deck, as the steamer
from Newhaven brought up alongside the landing stage at Dieppe, and the
eager flow of the tide of passengers, anxious to forget on dry land how
roughly the "cradle of the deep" had lately rocked them, was stayed.
I looked round on the woe-begone faces of those who had answered the
call of the sea, and whose reply had been so long and so wearisome
to themselves. Why is it that a smile is always ready in waiting
at the very idea of sea-sickness? There is nothing humorous in its
presentment; nothing in its discomfort to the sufferers; but yet to the
bystander it invariably presents the idea of something comic, and, to
the man whose inside turns a somersault at the first lurch of the wave
against the side of the steamer, _mal-de-mer_ seems both a belittling,
as well as a very uncomfortable, part to play!
At Dieppe the train practically starts in the street; and while it
waited for its full complement of passengers, two or three countrywomen
came and knocked with their knuckles against the sides of the
carriages, and held up five ruddy-cheeked pears for sale. (One uses the
term "ruddy-cheeked" for apples, so why not for pears, which shew as
much cheek as the former, only of a different shape?)
The Dining-Car Service of the "_Chemin de fer de L'Ouest_," at Dieppe
airs some delightful "English" in its advertisement cards. For
instance: "A dining-car runs ordinary with the follow trains." | 1,094.257224 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?"]
[Illustration: title page art]
A MAID
OF
MANY
MOODS
_By_ VIRNA SHEARD
Toronto, THE COPP, CLARK
COMPANY, Ltd. MCMII
Copyright, 1902, By James Pott & Co.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
_First Impression, September, 1902_
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?"... _Frontispiece_
"Thou'lt light no more"
She followed the tragedy intensely
"I liked thee as a girl, Deb; but I love thee as a lad"
"It breaks my heart to see thee here, Nick"
Darby went lightly from one London topic to another
CHAPTER I
[Illustration: Chapter I headpiece]
I
It was Christmas Eve, and all the small diamond window panes of One
Tree Inn, the half-way house upon the road from Stratford to Shottery,
were aglitter with light from the great fire in the front room
chimney-place and from the many candles Mistress Debora had set in
their brass candlesticks and started a-burning herself. The place,
usually so dark and quiet at this time of night, seemed to have gone
off in a whirligig of gaiety to celebrate the Noel-tide.
In vain had old Marjorie, the housekeeper, scolded. In vain had Master
Thornbury, who was of a thrifty and saving nature, followed his
daughter about and expostulated. She only laughed and waved the
lighted end of the long spill around his broad red face and bright
flowered jerkin.
"Nay, Dad!" she had cried, teasing him thus, "I'll help thee save thy
pennies to-morrow, but to-night I'm of another mind, and will have such
a lighting up in One Tree Inn the rustics will come running from
Coventry to see if it be really ablaze. There'll not be a candle in
any room whatever without its own little feather of fire, not a dip in
the kitchen left dark! So just save thy breath to blow them out later."
"Come, mend thy saucy speech, thou'lt light no more, I tell thee,"
blustered the old fellow, trying to reach the spill which the girl held
high above her head. "Give over thy foolishness; thou'lt light no
more!"
[Illustration: "Thou'lt light no more"]
"Ay, but I will, then," said she wilfully, "an' 'tis but just to
welcome Darby, Dad dear. Nay, then," waving the light and laughing,
"don't thou dare catch it. An' I touch thy fringe o' pretty hair,
dad--thy only ornament, remember--'twould be a fearsome calamity! I'
faith! it must be most time for the coach, an' the clusters in the long
room not yet lit. Hinder me no more, but go enjoy thyself with old
Saddler and John Sevenoakes. I warrant the posset is o'erdone, though
I cautioned thee not to leave it."
"Thou art a wench to break a man's heart," said Thornbury, backing away
and shaking a finger at the pretty figure winding fiery ribbons and
criss-crosses with her bright-tipped wand. "Thou art a provoking
wench, who doth need locking up and feeding on bread and water. Marry,
there'll be naught for thee on Christmas, and thou canst whistle for
the ruff and silver buckles I meant to have given thee. Aye, an' for
the shoes with red heels." Then with dignity, "I'll snuff out some o'
the candles soon as I go below."
"An' thou do, dad, I'll make thee a day o' trouble on the morrow!" she
called after him. And well he knew she would. Therefore, it was with
a disturbed mind that he entered the sitting-room and went towards the
hearth to stir the simmering contents of the copper pot on the crane.
John Sevenoakes and old Ned Saddler, his nearest neighbours and
friends, sat one each side of the fire in their deep rush-bottomed
chairs, as they sat at least five nights out of the week, come what
weather would. Sevenoakes held a small child, whose yellow, curly head
nodded with sleep. The hot wine bubbled up as the inn-keeper stirred
it and the little spiced apples, brown with cloves, bobbed madly on top.
"It hath a savoury smell, Thornbury," remarked Saddler. "Methinks 'tis
most ready to be lifted."
"'Twill not be lifted till Deb hears the coach," answered Sevenoakes.
"'Twas so she timed it. 'On it goes at nine,' quoth she, 'an' off it
comes at ten, Cousin John. Just when Darby will be jumping from the
coach an' running in. Oh! I can't wait for the hour to come!' she
says."
"She's a headstrong, contrary wench as ever heaven sent a man," put in
Thornbury, straightening himself. "'Twere trouble saved an' I'd broken
her in long ago."
"'Twas she broke thee in long ago," said Saddler, rubbing his knotty
hands. "She hath led thee by the ear since she was three years old.
An' I had married now, an' had such a lass, I'd a brought her up
different, I warrant. Zounds! 'tis a show to see. She coaxes thee,
she bullies thee, she comes it over thee with cajolery and
blandishments an' leads thee a pretty dance."
"Thou art an old fool," returned Thornbury, mopping his face, which was
sorely scorched, "What should thou know of the bringing up of wenches?
Thou--a crabbed bachelor o' three score an' odd. Thou hast no way with
children;--i' truth I've heard Will Shakespeare say the tartness of
that face o' thine would sour ripe grapes."
Sevenoakes trotted the baby gently up and down, a look of troubled
apprehension disturbing his usually placid features. His was ever the
office of peace-maker between these two ancient cronies, and he knew to
a nicety the moment when it was wisest to try and adjust matters.
"'Tis well I mind the night this baby came," he began retrospectively,
looking up as the door opened and a tall young fellow entered, stamping
the snow off his long boots. "Marry, Nick! thou dost bring a lot o'
cold in with thee," he ended briskly, shifting his chair. "Any news o'
the coach?"
"None that I've heard," replied the man, going to the hearth and
turning his broad back to the fire. "'Tis a still night, still and
frosty, but no sound of the horn or wheels reached me though I stood
a-listening at the cross-roads. Then I turned down here an' saw how
grandly thou had'st lit the house up to welcome Darby. My faith! I'll
be glad to see him, for 'tis an age since he was home, Master
Thornbury, an' he comes now in high feather. Not every lad hath wit
and good looks enough to turn the head o' London after him. The stage
is a great place for bringing a man out. Egad! I'm half minded to try
it myself."
"I doubt not thou wilt, Nick, sooner or later; thou art a
jack-o'-all-trades," answered Thornbury, in surly tones.
Nicholas Berwick laughed and shrugged his well-set shoulders, as he
bent over and touched the child sleeping sweetly in old Sevenoakes'
arms.
"What was't I heard thee saying o' the baby as I came in; he is not
ailing, surely?"
"Not he!" answered Sevenoakes, stroking the moist yellow curls. "He's
lusty as a year-old robin, an' as chirpy when he's awake; but he's in
the land o' nod now, though his will was good to wait up for Darby like
the rest of us."
"He's a rarely beautiful little lad," said Berwick. "I've asked Deb
about him often, but she will tell me naught."
"I warrant she will na," piped up old Ned Saddler, in his reedy voice.
"I warrant she will na; 'tis no tale for a young maid's repeating.
Beshrew me! but the coach be late," he wound up irrelevantly.
"How came the child here?" persisted the young fellow, knocking back a
red log with his foot. "An' it be such a tale as you hint, Saddler, I
doubt not it's hard to keep it from slipping off thy tongue."
"'Tis a tale that slips off some tongue whenever this time o' year
comes," answered Thornbury. "I desire no more Christmas Eves like that
one four years back--please God! We were around the hearth as it might
be now, and a grand yule log we had burning, I mind me; the room was
trimmed gay an' fine with holly an' mistletoe as 'tis to-night.
Saddler was there, Sevenoakes just where he be now, an' Deb sitting
a-dreaming on the black oak settle yonder, the way she often sits, her
chin on her hand--you mind, Nick!"
"Ay!" said the man, smiling.
"She wore her hair down then," went on Thornbury, "an' a sight it were
to see."
"'Twere red as fox-fire," interrupted Saddler, aggrieved that the
tale-telling had been taken from him. "When thou start'st off on Deb,
Thornbury, thou know'st not where to bring up."
"An' Deb was sitting yonder on the oak settle," continued the innkeeper
calmly.
"An' she had not lit the house up scandalously that year as 'tis
now--for Darby was home," put in Saddler again.
"Ay! Darby was home--an' thou away, Nick--but the lad was worriting to
try his luck on the stage in London, an' all on account o' a play
little Judith Shakespeare lent him. I mind me 'twas rightly named,
'The Pleasant History o' the Taming o' a Shrew,' for most of it he read
aloud to us. Ay, Darby was home, an' we were sitting here as it might
be now, when the door burst open an' in come my lad carrying a bit of a
baby muffled top an' toe in a shepherd's plaid. 'Twas crying pitiful
and hoarse, as it had been long in the night wind."
"'Quick, Dad!' called Darby, 'Quick,' handing the bundle to Deb, 'there
be a woman perished of cold not thirty yards from the house.'
"I tramped out after him saying naught. 'Twas a bitter night an' the
road rang like metal under our feet. The country was silver-white with
snow, an' the sky was sown thick with stars. Darby'd hastened on ahead
an' lifted the wench in his arms, but I just took her from him an'
carried her in myself. Marry! she were not much more weight than a
child.
"We laid her near the fire and forced her to drink some hot sherry
sack. Then she opened her eyes wild, raised herself and looked around
in a sort o' terror, while she cried out for the baby. Deb brought it,
an' the lass seemed content, for she smiled an' fell back on the pillow
holding a bit of the shepherd's plaid tight in her small fingers.
"She was dressed in fashion of the Puritans, with kirtle of
sad-coloured homespun. The only bright thing about her was her hair,
and that curled out of the white coif she wore, golden as ripe corn.
"Well-a-day! I sent quickly for Mother Durley, she who only comes to a
house when there be a birth or a death. I knew how 'twould end, for
there was a look on the little wench's face that comes but once. She
lived till break o' day and part o' the time she raved, an' then 'twas
all o' London an' one she would go to find there; but, again she just
lay quiet, staring open-eyed. At the last she came to herself, so said
Mother Durley, an' there was the light of reason on her face. 'Twas
then she beckoned Deb, who was sitting by, to bend down close, and she
whispered something to her, though what 'twas we never knew, for my
girl said naught--and even as she spoke the end came.
"Soul o' me! but we were at our wits' end to know what to do. Where
she came from and who she was there was no telling, an' Deb raised such
a storm when I spoke o' her being buried by the parish, that 'twas not
to be thought of. One an' another came in to gaze at the little
creature till the inn was nigh full. I bethought me 'twould mayhap
serve to discover whom she might be. And so it fell. A lumbering
yeoman passing through to Oxford stood looking at her a moment as she
lay dressed the way we found her in the sad-coloured gown an' white
coif.
"'Why! Od's pitikins!' he cried. 'Marry an' Amen! This be none but
Nell Quinten! Old Makepeace Quinten's daughter from near Kenilworth.
I'd a known her anywhere!'
"Then I bid Darby ride out to bring the Puritan in all haste, but he
had the devil's work to get the man to come. He said the lass had
shamed him, and he had turned her out months before. She was no
daughter o' his he swore--with much quoting o' Scripture to prove he
was justified in disowning her.
"Darby argued with him gently to no purpose; so my lad let his temper
have way an' told the fellow he'd come to take him to One Tree Inn, an'
would take him there dead or alive. The upshot was, they came in
together before nightfall. The wench was in truth the old Puritan's
daughter, and he took her home an' buried her. But for the child, he'd
not touch it.
"''Tis a living lie!' he cried. ''Tis branded by Satan as his own!
Give it to the Parish or to them that wants it, or marry, let it bide
here! 'Tis a proper place for it in good sooth, for this be a public
house where sinful drinking goeth on an' all worldly conversation.
Moreover I saw one Master William Shakespeare pass out the door but
now--a play actor, an' the maker o' ungodly plays. 'Twas such a one
who wrought my Nell's ruin!'
"So he went on an' moore o' the sort. Gra'mercy! I had the will to
horsewhip him, an' but for the little dead maid I would. I clenched my
hands hard and watched him away; he sitting stiff atop o' Stratford
hearse by the driver. Thus he took his leave, calling back at me bits
o' Holy Writ," finished Thornbury grimly.
"And Debora told naught of what the girl said at the last?" asked
Nicholas Berwick. "That doth seem strange."
"Never a word, lad, beyond this much--she prayed her to care for the
child till his father be found."
"By St. George! but that was no modest request. What had'st thou to
say in the matter? Did'st take the heaven-sent Christmas box in good
part, Master Thornbury?"
"Nay, Nick! thou should know him some better than to ask that," said
Saddler. "Gadzooks, there were scenes! 'Twas like Thornbury to
grandfather a stray infant now, was't not?" rubbing his knees and
chuckling. "Marry! I think I see the face he wore for a full month.
''Twill go to the Parish!' he would cry, stamping around and speaking
words 'twould pass me to repeat. 'A plague on't! Here be a kettle of
fish! Why should the wench fall at my door in heaven's name? Egad! I
am a much-put-upon man.' Ay, Nick, 'twas a marvellous rare treat to
hear him."
"How came you to keep the child, sir?" asked Berwick, gravely.
The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. "'Twas Deb would have it so," he
answered. "She was fair bewitched by the little one. Thou knowest her
way, Nick, when her heart is set on anything. Peradventure, I have
humoured the lass too much, as Saddler maintains. But she coaxed and
she cried, an' never did I see her cry so before, such a storm o'
tears--save for rage," reflectively.
"Well put!" said Saddler. "Well put, Thornbury!"
"Ever had she wished for just such a one to pet, she pleaded, an' well
I knew no small child came in sight o' the inn but Deb was after it for
a plaything. Nay, there never was a stray beast about the place, that
it did not find her and follow her close, knowing 'twould be best off
so.
"Well do I mind her cuffing a big lad she found drowning some day-old
kittens in the stable--and he minds it yet I'll gainsay! She fished
out the blind wet things, an' gathering them in her quilted petticoat
brought them in here a-dripping. I' fecks! she made such a moan over
them as never was."
"Ay, Deb always has a following o' ugly, ill-begotten beasts that
nobody wants but she," said Sevenoakes. "There be old Tramp for one
now--did'st ever see such an ill-favoured beast? An' nowhere will he
sit but fair on the edge o' her gown."
"He is a dog of rare discernment--and a lucky dog to boot," said
Berwick.
"So, the outcome of it, Master Thornbury, was that the little lad is
here."
"What could a man do?" answered Thornbury, ruefully. "Hark!" starting
up as the old housekeeper entered the room, "Where be the lass,
Marjorie? An' the candles--are they burning safe?"
"Safe, but growing to the half length," she answered, peering out of
the window. "The coach must a-got overtipped, Maister."
"Where be Deb--I asked thee?"
"Soul o' me! then if thou must know, Mistress Debora hath just taken
the great stable lantern and gone along the road to meet the coach.
'An' thou dost tell my father I'll pinch thee, Marjorie!' she cried
back to me. 'When I love thee--I love thee; an' when I pinch--I pinch!
So tell him not.' But 'tis over late an' I would have it off my mind,
Maister."
"Did Tramp go with her?" asked Berwick, buttoning on his great cape and
starting for the door.
"Odso! yes! an' she be safe enow. Thou'lt see the lantern bobbing long
before thou com'st up with her."
"'Tis a wench to break a man's heart!" Thornbury muttered, standing at
the door and watching the tall figure of Berwick swing along the road.
The innkeeper waited there though a light snow was powdering his scanty
fringe of hair--white already--and lying in sparkles on his bald pate
and holiday jerkin. He was a hardy old Englishman and a little cold
was nought to him.
The night was frosty, and the "star-bitten" sky of a fathomless purple.
About the inn the snow was tinted rosily from the many twinkling lights
within.
The great oak, standing opposite the open door and stretching out its
kindly arms on either side as far as the house reached, made a network
of shadows that carpeted the ground like fine lace.
Thornbury bent his head to listen. Far off sounded the ripple of a
girl's laugh. A little wind caught it up and it
echoed--fainter--fainter. Then did his old heart take to thumping
hard, and his breath came quick.
"Ay! they be coming!" he said half aloud. "My lad--an' lass. My
lad--an' lass." He strained his eyes to see afar down the road if a
light might not be swaying from side to side. Presently he spied it, a
merry will-o'-the-wisp, and the sound of voices came to him.
So he waited tremblingly.
Darby it was who saw him first.
"'Tis Dad at the door!" he called, breaking away from Debora and
Berwick.
The girl took a step to follow, then stopped and glanced up at the man
beside her. "Let him go on alone, Nick," she said. "He hath not seen
Dad close onto two years, an' this play-acting of his hath been a
bitter dose for my father to swallow. In good sooth I have small
patience with Dad, yet more am I sorry for him. I' faith! I would
that maidens might also be in the play. Judith Shakespeare says some
day they may be--but 'twill serve me little. One of us at that
business is all Dad could bear with--an' my work is at home."
"Ay, Deb!" he answered; "thy work is at home, for now."
"For always," she answered, quickly; then, her tone changing, "think'st
thou not, Nick, that my Darby is taller? An' did'st note how handsome?"
"He is a handsome fellow," answered Berwick. "Still, I cannot see that
he hath grown. He will not be of large pattern."
"Marry!" cried the girl, "Darby is a good head taller than I. Where
dost thou keep thine eyes, Nick?"
"Nay, verily, then, he is not," answered the other; "thou art almost
shoulder to shoulder, an' still as much alike--I saw by the lantern--as
of old, when save for thy dress 'twas a puzzle to say which was which.
'Tis a reasonable likeness, as thou art twins."
Debora pursed up her lips. "He is much taller than I," she said,
determinedly. "Thou art no friend o' mine, Nicholas Berwick, an' thou
dost cut three full inches off my brother's height. He is a head
taller, an' mayhap more--so."
They were drawing up to the inn now, and through the window saw the
little group about the fire, Darby with the baby, who was fully awake,
perched high on his shoulder.
Berwick caught Deb gently, swinging her close to him, as they stood in
the shadow of the oak.
"Ah, Deb!" he said, bending his face to hers, "thou could'st make me
swear that black was white. As for Darby, the lad is as tall as thou
dost desire. Thou hast my word for't."
"'Tis well thou dost own it," she said, frowning; "though I like not
the manner o' it. Let me go, Nick."
"Nay, I will not," he said, passionately. "Be kind; give me one kiss
for Christmas. I know thou hast no love for me; thou hast told me so
often enough. I will not tarry here, Sweet; 'twould madden me--but
give me one kiss to remember when I be gone."
She turned away and shook her head.
"Thou know'st me better than to ask it," she said, softly. "Kisses are
not things to give because 'tis Christmas."
The man let go his hold of her, his handsome face darkening.
"Dost hate me?" he asked.
"Nay, then, I hate thee not," with a little toss of her head. "Neither
do I love thee."
"Dost love any other? Come, tell me for love's sake, sweetheart. An'
I thought so!"
"Marry, no!" she said. Then with a short, half-checked laugh,
"Well--Prithee but one!"
"Ah!" cried Berwick, "is't so?"
"Verily," she answered mockingly. "It is so in truth, an' 'tis just
Dad. As for Darby, I cannot tell what I feel for _him_. 'Twould be
full as easy to say were I to put it to myself, 'Dost love Debora
Thornbury?' 'Yea' or 'Nay,' for, Heaven knows, sometimes I love her
mightily--and sometimes I don't; an' then 'tis a fearsome '_don't_,'
Nick. But come thee in."
"No!" answered Berwick, bitterly. "I am not one of you." Catching her
little hands he held them a moment against his coat, and the girl felt
the heavy beating of his heart before he let them fall, and strode away.
She stood on the step looking after the solitary figure. Her cheeks
burned, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the threshold.
"Ever it doth end thus," she said. "I am not one of you," echoing his
tone. "In good sooth no. Neither is old Ned Saddler or dear John
Sevenoakes. We be but three; just Dad, an' Darby, an' Deb." Then,
another thought coming to her. "Nay _four_ when I count little Dorian.
Little Dorian, sweet lamb,--an' so I will count him till I find his
father."
A shade went over her face but vanished as she entered the room.
"I have given thee time to take a long look at Darby, Dad," she cried.
"Is't not good to have him at home?" slipping one arm around her
brother's throat and leaning her head against him.
"Where be the coach, truant?" asked Saddler.
"It went round by the Bidford road--there was no other traveller for
us. Marry, I care not for coaches nor travellers now I have Darby safe
here! See, Dad, he hath become a fine gentleman. Did'st note how
grand he is in his manner, an' what a rare tone his voice hath taken?"
The handsome boy flushed a little and gave a half embarrassed laugh.
"Nay, Debora, I have not changed; 'tis thy fancy. My doublet hath a
less rustical cut and is of different stuff from any seen hereabout,
and my hose and boots fit--which could not be said of them in olden
times. This fashion of ruff moreover," touching it with dainty
complacency, "this fashion of ruff is such as the Queen's Players
themselves wear."
Old Thornbury's brows contracted darkly and the girl turned to him with
a laugh.
"Oh--Dad! Dad! thou must e'en learn to hear of the playhouses, an'
actors with a better grace than that. Note the wry face he doth make,
Darby!"
"I have little stomach for their follies and buffooneries--albeit my
son be one of them," the innkeeper answered, in sharp tone. Then
struggling with some intense inward feeling, "Still I am not a man to
go half-way, Darby. Thou hast chosen for thyself, an' the blame will
not be mine if thy road be the wrong one. Thou canst walk upright on
any highway, lad."
"Ay!" put in old Saddler, "Ay, neighbour, but a wilful lad must have
his way."
Soon old Marjorie came in and clattered about the supper table, after
having made a great to-do over the young master.
Thornbury poured the hot spiced wine into an ancient punch-bowl, and
set it in the centre of the simple feast, and they all drew their
chairs up to the table as the bells in Stratford rang Christmas in.
Never had the inn echoed to more joyous laughing and talking, for
Thornbury and his two old friends mellowed in temper as they refilled
their flagons, and they even added to the occasion by each rendering a
song. Saddler bringing one forth from the dim recesses of his memory
that related, in seventeen verses and much monotonous chorus, the love
affairs of a certain Dinah Linn.
The child slumbered again on the oak settle in the inglenook. The
firelight danced over his yellow hair and pretty dimpled hands. The
candles burned low. Then Darby sang in flute-like voice a carol, that
was, as he told them, "the rage in London," and, afterwards, just to
please Deb, the old song that will never wear out its welcome at
Christmas-tide, "When shepherds watched their flocks."
The girl would have joined him, but there came a tightness in her
throat, and the hot stinging of tears to her eyes, and when the last
note of it went into silence she said good night, lifted the sleeping
child and carried him away.
"Deb grows more beautiful, Dad," said the young fellow, looking after
her. "Egad! what a carriage she hath! She steps like a very princess
of the blood. Hark! then," going to the latticed window and throwing
it open. "Here come the waits, Dad, as motley a crowd as ever."
The innkeeper was trimming the lantern and seeing his neighbours to the
door.
"Keep well hold of each other," called Darby after them. "I trow 'tis
a timely proverb--'United we stand, divided we fall.'"
Saddler turned with a chuckle and shook his fist at the lad, but
lurched dangerously in the operation.
"The apples were too highly spiced for such as thee," said Thornbury,
laughing. "Thou had'st best stick to caudles an' small beer."
"Nay, then, neighbour," called back Sevenoakes, with much solemnity,
"Christmas comes but once a year, when it comes it brings good
cheer--'tis no time for caudles, or small beer!"
At this Darby went into such a peal of laughter--in which the waits who
were discordantly tuning up joined him--that the sound of it must have
awakened the very echoes in Stratford town.
CHAPTER II
II
During the days following Christmas, One Tree Inn was given over to
festivity. It had always been a favoured spot with the young people
from Stratford and Shottery. In spring they came trooping to Master
Thornbury's meadow, bringing their flower-crowned queen and
ribbon-decked May-pole. It was there they had their games of
barley-break, blindman's buff and the merry cushion dance during the
long summer evenings; and when dusk fell they would stroll homeward
through the lanes sweet with flowering hedges, each one of them all
carrying a posy from Deb Thornbury's garden--for where else grew such
wondrous clove-pinks, ragged lady, lad's love, sweet-william and Queen
Anne's lace, as there? So now these old playmates of Darby's came one
by one to welcome him home and gaze at him in unembarrassed admiration.
Judith Shakespeare, who was a friend and gossip of Debora's, spent many
evenings with them, and those who knew the little maid best alone could
say what that meant, for never was there a gayer lass, or one who had a
prettier wit. To hear Judith enlarging upon her daily experiences with
people and things, was to listen to thrilling tales, garnished and
gilded in fanciful manner, till the commonplace became delightful, and
life in Stratford town a thing to be desired above the simple passing
of days in other places.
No trivial occurrence went by this little daughter of the great poet
without making some vivid impression upon her mind, for she viewed the
every-day world lying beside the peaceful Avon through the wonderful
| 1,094.35436 |
2023-11-16 18:35:18.3344280 | 7,302 | 22 |
Produced by Gardner Buchanan
THE ATTACHE
or, SAM SLICK IN ENGLAND.
By Thomas Chandler Haliburton
(Greek Text)--GREEK PROVERB.
Tell you what, report my speeches if you like, but if you put my talk
in, I'll give you the mitten, as sure as you are born.--SLICKVILLE
TRANSLATION
London, July 3rd, 1843.
MY DEAR HOPKINSON,
I have spent so many agreeable hours at Edgeworth heretofore, that my
first visit on leaving London, will be to your hospitable mansion. In
the meantime, I beg leave to introduce to you my "Attache," who will
precede me several days. His politics are similar to your own; I wish I
could say as much in favour of his humour. His eccentricities will stand
in need of your indulgence; but if you can overlook these, I am not
without hopes that his originality, quaint sayings, and queer views of
things in England, will afford you some amusement. At all events, I feel
assured you will receive him kindly; if not for his own merits, at least
for the sake of
Yours always,
THE AUTHOR.
To EDMUND HOPKINSON ESQ. Edgeworth, Gloucestershire.
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
CHAPTER I. UNCORKING A BOTTLE
CHAPTER II. A JUICY DAY IN THE COUNTRY
CHAPTER III. TYING A NIGHT-CAP
CHAPTER IV. HOME AND THE SEA
CHAPTER V. T'OTHER EEND OF THE GUN
CHAPTER VI. SMALL POTATOES AND FEW IN A HILL
CHAPTER VII. A GENTLEMAN AT LARGE
CHAPTER VIII. SEEING LIVERPOOL
CHAPTER IX. CHANGING A NAME
CHAPTER X. THE NELSON MONUMENT
CHAPTER XI. COTTAGES
CHAPTER XII. STEALING THE HEARTS OF THE PEOPLE
CHAPTER XIII. NATUR'
CHAPTER XIV. THE SOCDOLAGER
CHAPTER XV. DINING OUT
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAPTER I. THE NOSE OF A SPY
CHAPTER II. THE PATRON; OR, THE COW'S TAIL
CHAPTER III. ASCOT RACES
CHAPTER IV. THE GANDER PULLING
CHAPTER V. THE BLACK STOLE
CHAPTER VI. THE PRINCE DE JOINVILLE'S HORSE
CHAPTER VII. LIFE IN THE COUNTRY
CHAPTER VIII. BUNKUM
CHAPTER IX. THROWING THE LAVENDER
CHAPTER X. AIMING HIGH
CHAPTER XI. A SWOI-REE
CHAPTER XII. TATTERSALL'S
CHAPTER XIII. LOOKING BACK
CHAPTER XIV. CROSSING THE BORDER
CHAPTER XV. THE IRISH PREFACE
THE ATTACHE; OR SAM SLICK IN ENGLAND.
CHAPTER I. UNCORKING A BOTTLE.
We left New York in the afternoon of -- day of May, 184-, and embarked
on board of the good Packet ship "Tyler" for England. Our party
consisted of the Reverend Mr. Hopewell, Samuel Slick, Esq., myself, and
Jube Japan, a black servant of the Attache.
I love brevity--I am a man of few words, and, therefore,
constitutionally economical of them; but brevity is apt to degenerate
into obscurity. Writing a book, however, and book-making, are two very
different things: "spinning a yarn" is mechanical, and book-making
savours of trade, and is the employment of a manufacturer. The author
by profession, weaves his web by the piece, and as there is much
competition in this branch of trade, extends it over the greatest
possible surface, so as to make the most of his raw material. Hence
every work of fancy is made to reach to three volumes, otherwise it will
not pay, and a manufacture that does not requite the cost of production,
invariably and inevitably terminates in bankruptcy. A thought,
therefore, like a pound of cotton, must be well spun out to be valuable.
It is very contemptuous to say of a man, that he has but one idea, but
it is the highest meed of praise that can be bestowed on a book. A man,
who writes thus, can write for ever.
Now, it is not only not my intention to write for ever, or as Mr. Slick
would say "for everlastinly;" but to make my bow and retire very soon
from the press altogether. I might assign many reasons for this modest
course, all of them plausible, and some of them indeed quite dignified.
I like dignity: any man who has lived the greater part of his life in
a colony is so accustomed to it, that he becomes quite enamoured of it,
and wrapping himself up in it as a cloak, stalks abroad the "observed of
all observers." I could undervalue this species of writing if I
thought proper, affect a contempt for idiomatic humour, or hint at the
employment being inconsistent with the grave discharge of important
official duties, which are so distressingly onerous, as not to leave
me a moment for recreation; but these airs, though dignified, will
unfortunately not avail me. I shall put my dignity into my pocket,
therefore, and disclose the real cause of this diffidence.
In the year one thousand eight hundred and fourteen, I embarked at
Halifax on board the Buffalo store-ship for England. She was a noble
teak built ship of twelve or thirteen hundred tons burden, had excellent
accommodation, and carried over to merry old England, a very merry party
of passengers, _quorum parva pars fui_, a youngster just emerged from
college.
On the banks of Newfoundland we were becalmed, and the passengers amused
themselves by throwing overboard a bottle, and shooting at it with ball.
The guns used for this occasion, were the King's muskets, taken from the
arm-chest on the quarter-deck. The shooting was execrable. It was hard
to say which were worse marksmen, the officers of the ship, or the
passengers. Not a bottle was hit: many reasons were offered for this
failure, but the two principal ones were, that the muskets were bad, and
that it required great skill to overcome the difficulty occasioned by
both, the vessel and the bottle being in motion at the same time, and
that motion dissimilar.
I lost my patience. I had never practised shooting with ball; I had
frightened a few snipe, and wounded a few partridges, but that was
the extent of my experience. I knew, however, that I could not by any
possibility shoot worse than every body else had done, and might by
accident shoot better.
"Give me a gun, Captain," said I, "and I will shew you how to uncork
that bottle."
I took the musket, but its weight was beyond my strength of arm. I was
afraid that I could not hold it out steadily, even for a moment, it was
so very heavy--I threw it up with a desperate effort and fired. The neck
of the bottle flew up in the air a full yard, and then disappeared. I
was amazed myself at my success. Every body was surprised, but as every
body attributed it to long practice, they were not so much astonished as
I was, who knew it was wholly owing to chance. It was a lucky hit, and I
made the most of it; success made me arrogant, and boy-like, I became a
boaster.
"Ah," said I coolly, "you must be born with a rifle in your hand,
Captain, to shoot well. Every body shoots well in America. I do not call
myself a good shot. I have not had the requisite experience; but there
are those who can take out the eye of a squirrel at a hundred yards."
"Can you see the eye of a squirrel at that distance?" said the Captain,
with a knowing wink of his own little ferret eye.
That question, which raised a general laugh at my expense, was a
puzzler. The absurdity of the story, which I had heard a thousand times,
never struck me so forcibly. But I was not to be pat down so easily.
"See it!" said I, "why not? Try it and you will find your sight improve
with your shooting. Now, I can't boast of being a good marksman myself;
my studies" (and here I looked big, for I doubted if he could even read,
much less construe a chapter in the Greek Testament) "did not leave me
much time. A squirrel is too small an object for all but an experienced
man, but a "_large_" mark like a quart bottle can easily be hit at a
hundred yards--that is nothing."
"I will take you a bet," said he, "of a doubloon, you do not do it
again?"
"Thank you," I replied with great indifference: "I never bet, and
besides, that gun has so injured my shoulder, that I could not, if I
would."
By that accidental shot, I obtained a great name as a marksman, and by
prudence I retained it all the voyage. This is precisely my case now,
gentle reader. I made an accidental hit with the Clockmaker: when he
ceases to speak, I shall cease to write. The little reputation I then
acquired, I do not intend to jeopardize by trying too many experiments.
I know that it was chance--many people think it was skill. If they
choose to think so, they have a right to their opinion, and that opinion
is fame. I value this reputation too highly not to take care of it.
As I do not intend then to write often, I shall not wire-draw my
subjects, for the mere purpose of filling my pages. Still a book should
be perfect within itself, and intelligible without reference to other
books. Authors are vain people, and vanity as well as dignity is
indigenous to a colony. Like a pastry-cook's apprentice, I see so much
of both their sweet things around me daily, that I have no appetite for
either of them.
I might perhaps be pardoned, if I took it for granted, that the
dramatis personae of this work were sufficiently known, not to require
a particular introduction. Dickens assumed the fact that his book on
America would travel wherever the English language was spoken, and,
therefore, called it "Notes for General Circulation." Even Colonists
say, that this was too bad, and if they say so, it must be so. I shall,
therefore, briefly state, who and what the persons are that composed our
travelling party, as if they were wholly unknown to fame, and then leave
them to speak for themselves.
The Reverend Mr. Hopewell is a very aged clergyman of the Church of
England, and was educated at Cambridge College, in Massachusetts.
Previously to the revolution, he was appointed rector of a small parish
in Connecticut. When the colonies obtained their independence, he
remained with his little flock in his native land, and continued to
minister to their spiritual wants until within a few years, when his
parishioners becoming Unitarians, gave him his dismissal. Affable in
his manners and simple in his habits, with a mind well stored with human
lore, and a heart full of kindness for his fellow-creatures, he was at
once an agreeable and an instructive companion. Born and educated in the
United States, when they were British dependencies, and possessed of
a thorough knowledge of the causes which led to the rebellion, and the
means used to hasten the crisis, he was at home on all colonial
topics; while his great experience of both monarchical and democratical
governments, derived from a long residence in both, made him a most
valuable authority on politics generally.
Mr. Samuel Slick is a native of the same parish, and received his
education from Mr. Hopewell. I first became acquainted with him while
travelling in Nova Scotia. He was then a manufacturer and vendor of
wooden clocks. My first impression of him was by no means favourable. He
forced himself most unceremoniously into my company and conversation. I
was disposed to shake him off, but could not. Talk he would, and as his
talk was of that kind, which did not require much reply on my part, he
took my silence for acquiescence, and talked on. I soon found that he
was a character; and, as he knew every part of the lower colonies, and
every body in them, I employed him as my guide.
I have made at different times three several tours with him, the results
of which I have given in three several series of a work, entitled the
"Clockmaker, or the Sayings and Doings of Mr. Samuel Slick." Our last
tour terminated at New York, where, in consequence of the celebrity he
obtained from these "Sayings and Doings" he received the appointment of
Attache to the American Legation at the Court of St. James's. The
object of this work is to continue the record of his observations and
proceedings in England.
The third person of the party, gentle reader, is your humble servant,
Thomas Poker, Esquire, a native of Nova Scotia, and a retired member of
the Provincial bar. My name will seldom appear in these pages, as I am
uniformly addressed by both my companions as "Squire," nor shall I have
to perform the disagreeable task of "reporting my own speeches," for
naturally taciturn, I delight in listening rather than talking, and
modestly prefer the duties of an amanuensis, to the responsibilities of
original composition.
The last personage is Jube Japan, a black servant of the Attache.
Such are the persons who composed the little party that embarked at New
York, on board the Packet ship "Tyler," and sailed on the -- of May,
184-, for England.
The motto prefixed to this work
(Greek Text)
sufficiently explains its character. Classes and not individuals have
been selected for observation. National traits are fair subjects for
satire or for praise, but personal peculiarities claim the privilege of
exemption in right of that hospitality, through whose medium they have
been alone exhibited. Public topics are public property; every body has
a right to use them without leave and without apology. It is only when
we quit the limits of this "common" and enter upon "private grounds,"
that we are guilty of "a trespass." This distinction is alike obvious to
good sense and right feeling. I have endeavoured to keep it constantly
in view; and if at any time I shall be supposed to have erred (I say
"supposed," for I am unconscious of having done so) I must claim the
indulgence always granted to involuntary offences.
Now the patience of my reader may fairly be considered a "private
right." I shall, therefore, respect its boundaries and proceed at
once with my narrative, having been already quite long enough about
"uncorking a bottle."
CHAPTER II. A JUICY DAY IN THE COUNTRY.
All our preparations for the voyage having been completed, we spent
the last day at our disposal, in visiting Brooklyn. The weather was
uncommonly fine, the sky being perfectly clear and unclouded; and though
the sun shone out brilliantly, the heat was tempered by a cool, bracing,
westwardly wind. Its influence was perceptible on the spirits of every
body on board the ferry-boat that transported us across the harbour.
"Squire," said Mr. Slick, aint this as pretty a day as you'll see atween
this and Nova Scotia?--You can't beat American weather, when it chooses,
in no part of the world I've ever been in yet. This day is a tip-topper,
and it's the last we'll see of the kind till we get back agin, _I_ know.
Take a fool's advice, for once, and stick to it, as long as there is any
of it left, for you'll see the difference when you get to England. There
never was so rainy a place in the univarse, as that, I don't think,
unless it's Ireland, and the only difference atween them two is that it
rains every day amost in England, and in Ireland it rains every day and
every night too. It's awful, and you must keep out of a country-house in
such weather, or you'll go for it; it will kill you, that's sartain. I
shall never forget a juicy day I once spent in one of them dismal old
places. I'll tell you how I came to be there.
"The last time I was to England, I was a dinin' with our consul
to Liverpool, and a very gentleman-like old man he was too; he was
appointed by Washington, and had been there ever since our glorious
revolution. Folks gave him a great name, they said he was a credit to
us. Well, I met at his table one day an old country squire, that lived
somewhere down in Shropshire, close on to Wales, and says he to me,
arter cloth was off and cigars on, 'Mr. Slick,' says he, 'I'll be very
glad to see you to Norman Manor,' (that was the place where he staid,
when he was to home). 'If you will return with me I shall be glad
to shew you the country in my neighbourhood, which is said to be
considerable pretty.'
"'Well,' says I, 'as I have nothin' above particular to see to, I don't
care if I do go.'
"So off we started; and this I will say, he was as kind as he cleverly
knew how to be, and that is sayin' a great deal for a man that didn't
know nothin' out of sight of his own clearin' hardly.
"Now, when we got there, the house was chock full of company, and
considerin' it warn't an overly large one, and that Britishers won't
stay in a house, unless every feller gets a separate bed, it's a wonder
to me, how he stowed away as many as he did. Says he, 'Excuse your
quarters, Mr. Slick, but I find more company nor I expected here. In
a day or two, some on 'em will be off, and then you shall be better
provided.'
"With that I was showed up a great staircase, and out o' that by a
door-way into a narrer entry and from that into an old T like looking
building, that stuck out behind the house. It warn't the common company
sleepin' room, I expect, but kinder make shifts, tho' they was good
enough too for the matter o' that; at all events I don't want no better.
"Well, I had hardly got well housed a'most, afore it came on to rain, as
if it was in rael right down airnest. It warn't just a roarin', racin',
sneezin' rain like a thunder shower, but it kept a steady travellin'
gait, up hill and down dale, and no breathin' time nor batin' spell.
It didn't look as if it would stop till it was done, that's a fact. But
still as it was too late to go out agin that arternoon, I didn't think
much about it then. I hadn't no notion what was in store for me next
day, no more nor a child; if I had, I'd a double deal sooner hanged
myself, than gone brousing in such place as that, in sticky weather.
"A wet day is considerable tiresome, any where or any way you can fix
it; but it's wus at an English country house than any where else, cause
you are among strangers, formal, cold, gallus polite, and as thick in
the head-piece as a puncheon. You hante nothin' to do yourself and they
never have nothin' to do; they don't know nothin' about America, and
don't want to. Your talk don't interest them, and they can't talk to
interest nobody but themselves; all you've got to do, is to pull out
your watch and see how time goes; how much of the day is left, and then
go to the winder and see how the sky looks, and whether there is any
chance of holdin' up or no. Well, that time I went to bed a little
airlier than common, for I felt considerable sleepy, and considerable
strange too; so as soon as I cleverly could, I off and turned in.
"Well I am an airly riser myself. I always was from a boy, so I waked up
jist about the time when day ought to break, and was a thinkin' to get
up; but the shutters was too, and it was as dark as ink in the room, and
I heer'd it rainin' away for dear life. 'So,' sais I to myself, 'what
the dogs is the use of gittin' up so airly? I can't get out and get a
smoke, and I can't do nothin' here; so here goes for a second nap.' Well
I was soon off agin in a most a beautiful of a snore, when all at once
I heard thump-thump agin the shutter--and the most horrid noise I ever
heerd since I was raised; it was sunthin' quite onairthly.
"'Hallo!' says I to myself, 'what in natur is all this hubbub about?
Can this here confounded old house be harnted? Is them spirits that's
jabbering gibberish there, or is I wide awake or no?' So I sets right
up on my hind legs in bed, rubs my eyes, opens my ears and listens
agin, when whop went every shutter agin, with a dead heavy sound, like
somethin' or another thrown agin 'em, or fallin' agin 'em, and then
comes the unknown tongues in discord chorus like. Sais I, 'I know now,
it's them cussed navigators. They've besot the house, and are a givin'
lip to frighten folks. It's regular banditti.'
"So I jist hops out of bed, and feels for my trunk, and outs with
my talkin' irons, that was all ready loaded, pokes my way to the
winder--shoves the sash up and outs with the shutter, ready to let slip
among 'em. And what do you think it was?--Hundreds and hundreds of them
nasty, dirty, filthy, ugly, black devils of rooks, located in the trees
at the back eend of the house. Old Nick couldn't have slept near 'em;
caw caw, caw, all mixt up together in one jumble of a sound, like
"jawe."
"You black, evil-lookin', foul-mouthed villains,' sais I, 'I'd like
no better sport than jist to sit here, all this blessed day with these
pistols, and drop you one arter another, _I_ know.' But they was pets,
was them rooks, and of course like all pets, everlastin' nuisances to
every body else.
"Well, when a man's in a feeze, there's no more sleep that hitch; so I
dresses and sits up; but what was I to do? It was jist half past four,
and as it was a rainin' like every thing, I know'd breakfast wouldn't be
ready till eleven o'clock, for nobody wouldn't get up if they could help
it--they wouldn't be such fools; so there was jail for six hours and a
half.
"Well, I walked up and down the room, as easy as I could, not to waken
folks; but three steps and a round turn makes you kinder dizzy, so I
sits down again to chaw the cud of vexation.
"'Ain't this a handsum fix?' sais I, 'but it sarves you right, what
busniss had you here at all? you always was a fool, and always will be
to the eend of the chapter.--'What in natur are you a scoldin' for?'
sais I: 'that won't mend the matter; how's time? They must soon be a
stirrin' now, I guess.' Well, as I am a livin' sinner, it was only five
o'clock; 'oh dear,' sais I, 'time is like women and pigs the more you
want it to go, the more it won't. What on airth shall I do?--guess, I'll
strap my rasor.'
"Well, I strapped and strapped away, until it would cut a single hair
pulled strait up on eend out o' your head, without bendin' it--take it
off slick. 'Now,' sais I, 'I'll mend my trowsers I tore, a goin' to
see the ruin on the road yesterday; so I takes out Sister Sall's little
needle-case, and sows away till I got them to look considerable jam
agin; 'and then,' sais I, 'here's a gallus button off, I'll jist fix
that,' and when that was done, there was a hole to my yarn sock, so I
turned too and darned that.
"'Now,' sais I, 'how goes it? I'm considerable sharp set. It must be
gettin' tolerable late now.' It wanted a quarter to six. 'My! sakes,'
sais I, 'five hours and a quarter yet afore feedin' time; well if that
don't pass. What shall I do next?' 'I'll tell you what to do,' sais I,
'smoke, that will take the edge of your appetite off, and if they don't
like it, they may lump it; what business have they to keep them horrid
screetchin' infarnal, sleepless rooks to disturb people that way?' Well,
I takes a lucifer, and lights a cigar, and I puts my head up the chimbly
to let the smoke off, and it felt good, I promise _you_. I don't know as
I ever enjoyed one half so much afore. It had a rael first chop flavour
had that cigar.
"'When that was done,' sais I, 'What do you say to another?' 'Well, I
don't know,' sais I, 'I should like it, that's a fact; but holdin' of
my head crooked up chimbly that way, has a' most broke my neck; I've got
the cramp in it like.'
"So I sot, and shook my head first a one side and then the other, and
then turned it on its hinges as far as it would go, till it felt about
right, and then I lights another, and puts my head in the flue again.
"Well, smokin' makes, a feller feel kinder good-natured, and I began to
think it warn't quite so bad arter all, when whop went my cigar right
out of my mouth into my bosom, atween the shirt and the skin, and burnt
me like a gally nipper. Both my eyes was fill'd at the same time, and
I got a crack on the pate from some critter or another that clawed and
scratched my head like any thing, and then seemed to empty a bushel of
sut on me, and I looked like a chimbly sweep, and felt like old Scratch
himself. My smoke had brought down a chimbly swaller, or a martin, or
some such varmint, for it up and off agin' afore I could catch it, to
wring its infarnal neck off, that's a fact.
"Well, here was somethin' to do, and no mistake: here was to clean and
groom up agin' till all was in its right shape; and a pretty job it was,
I tell you. I thought I never should get the sut out of my hair, and
then never get it out of my brush again, and my eyes smarted so, they
did nothing but water, and wink, and make faces. But I did; I worked on
and worked on, till all was sot right once more.
"'Now,' sais I, 'how's time?' 'half past seven,' sais I, 'and three
hours and a half more yet to breakfast. Well,' sais I, 'I can't stand
this--and what's more I won't: I begin to get my Ebenezer up, and feel
wolfish. I'll ring up the handsum chamber-maid, and just fall to, and
chaw her right up--I'm savagerous.'* 'That's cowardly,' sais I, 'call
the footman, pick a quarrel with him and kick him down stairs, speak but
one word to him, and let that be strong enough to skin the <DW53> arter it
has killed him, the noise will wake up folks _I_ know, and then we shall
have sunthin' to eat.'
[* Footnote: The word "savagerous" is not of "Yankee" but of "Western
origin."--Its use in this place is best explained by the following
extract from the Third Series of the Clockmaker. "In order that the
sketch which I am now about to give may be fully understood, it may
be necessary to request the reader to recollect that Mr. Slick is a
_Yankee_, a designation the origin of which is now not very obvious,
but it has been assumed by, and conceded by common consent to, the
inhabitants of New England. It is a name, though sometimes satirically
used, of which they have great reason to be proud, as it is descriptive
of a most cultivated, intelligent, enterprising, frugal, and industrious
population, who may well challenge a comparison with the inhabitants of
any other country in the world; but it has only a local application.
"The United States cover an immense extent of territory, and the
inhabitants of different parts of the Union differ as widely in
character, feelings, and even in appearance, as the people of different
countries usually do. These sections differ also in dialect and in
humour, as much as in other things, and to as great, if not a greater
extent, than the natives of different parts of Great Britain vary from
each other. It is customary in Europe to call all Americans, Yankees;
but it is as much a misnomer as it would be to call all Europeans
Frenchmen. Throughout these works it will be observed, that Mr. Slick's
pronunciation is that of the Yankee, or an inhabitant of the _rural
districts_ of New England. His conversation is generally purely so; but
in some instances he uses, as his countrymen frequently do from choice,
phrases which, though Americanisms, are not of Eastern origin. Wholly
to exclude these would be to violate the usages of American life; to
introduce them oftener would be to confound two dissimilar dialects,
and to make an equal departure from the truth. Every section has its own
characteristic dialect, a very small portion of which it has imparted
to its neighbours. The dry, quaint humour of New England is occasionally
found in the west, and the rich gasconade and exaggerative language of
the west migrates not unfrequently to the east. This idiomatic
exchange is perceptibly on the increase. It arises from the travelling
propensities of the Americans, and the constant intercourse mutually
maintained by the inhabitants of the different States. A droll or
an original expression is thus imported and adopted, and, though not
indigenous, soon becomes engrafted on the general stock of the language
of the country."--3rd Series, p. 142.]
"I was ready to bile right over, when as luck would have it, the rain
stopt all of a sudden, the sun broke out o' prison, and I thought I
never seed any thing look so green and so beautiful as the country
did. 'Come,' sais I, 'now for a walk down the avenue, and a comfortable
smoke, and if the man at the gate is up and stirrin', I will just pop in
and breakfast with him and his wife. There is some natur there, but here
it's all cussed rooks and chimbly swallers, and heavy men and fat
women, and lazy helps, and Sunday every day in the week.' So I fills my
cigar-case and outs into the passage.
"But here was a fix! One of the doors opened into the great staircase,
and which was it? 'Ay,' sais I, 'which is it, do you know?' 'Upon my
soul, I don't know,' sais I; 'but try, it's | 1,094.354468 |
2023-11-16 18:35:18.3425520 | 7,436 | 10 |
Produced by David Edwards, Demian Katz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
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MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 16
JUNE 12, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
QUEST
_OR_ THREE CHUMS
IN STRANGE WATERS
_By THE AUTHOR OF "MOTOR MATT"_
[Illustration: _"HELUP, OR I VAS A GONER!" YELLED CARL,
LEAPING INTO THE WATER AS MOTOR MATT
MADE READY TO HURL THE HARPOON._]
_STREET & SMITH,
PUBLISHERS,
NEW YORK_
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 16. NEW YORK, June 12, 1909. Price Five Cents.
Motor Matt's Quest;
OR,
THREE CHUMS IN STRANGE WATERS.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. IN THE DEPTHS.
CHAPTER II. OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH.
CHAPTER III. THE SEALED ORDERS.
CHAPTER IV. THE AMERICAN CONSUL.
CHAPTER V. MOTOR MATT'S FORBEARANCE.
CHAPTER VI. "ON THE JUMP."
CHAPTER VII. THE LANDING PARTY.
CHAPTER VIII. CARL IN TROUBLE.
CHAPTER IX. A FRIEND IN NEED.
CHAPTER X. STRANGE REVELATIONS.
CHAPTER XI. ONE CHANCE IN TEN.
CHAPTER XII. BY A NARROW MARGIN.
CHAPTER XIII. WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO HAPPEN.
CHAPTER XIV. MOTOR MATT'S GREAT PLAY.
CHAPTER XV. ON THE WAY TO BELIZE.
CHAPTER XVI. A DASH OF TABASCO.
Mischievous Ned.
TERRIBLE FATE OF A DARING INDIAN.
STUMBLING UPON GOLD MINES.
YEAR OF THE COCK.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Motor Matt=, a lad who is at home with every variety of motor, and
whose never-failing nerve serves to carry him through difficulties
that would daunt any ordinary young fellow. Because of his daring
as a racer with bicycle, motor-cycle and automobile he is known as
"Mile-a-minute Matt." Motor-boats, air ships and submarines come
naturally in his line, and consequently he lives in an atmosphere of
adventure in following up his "hobby."
=Dick Ferral=, a young sea dog from Canada, with all a sailor's
superstitions, but in spite of all that a royal chum, ready to stand
by the friend of his choice through thick and thin.
=Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German boy, stout of frame
as well as of heart, who is led by a fortunate accident to link his
fortunes with those of Motor Matt.
=Hays Jordan=, United States consul at Belize. A man of pluck and
determination, who furnishes valuable information about his friend,
Jeremiah Coleman, and even more valuable personal services during the
rescue of Coleman.
=Jeremiah Coleman=, another United States consul who has been
spirited away by Central American revolutionists in the hope of
driving a sharp bargain with the United States Government for the
release of a captured filibuster named James Sixty.
=Tirzal=, a half-breed mahogany-cutter who serves Jordan in the
capacity of spy, and who has been a pilot along the coast.
=Speake, Gaines and Clackett=, part of the crew of the _Grampus_.
=Cassidy=, mate of the _Grampus_ who, because of a fancied grievance,
takes the wrong trail at the forks of the road. An old friend whom
Matt found to be an enemy and then made a friend again.
=Abner Fingal=, skipper of the notorious schooner, _North Star_, and
brother of James Sixty, to whose evil nature Motor Matt owes most of
his present troubles.
=Captain Nemo, Jr.=, skipper of the submarine, _Grampus_, and who
falls victim to a sudden illness. Because of the captain's sickness,
Matt is placed in command of the _Grampus_.
=Ysabel Sixty=, an old acquaintance who plays an important part in
the story.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE DEPTHS.
"Motor Matt!"
"What is it, captain?"
"We are in St. George's Bay, ten miles from the Port of Belize, British
Honduras. Two days ago, while we were well out in the gulf, I opened
the letter containing the first part of my sealed orders. Those orders,
as you know, sent us to Belize. Before we reach there and open the
envelope containing the rest of our orders, I think it necessary to
test out the _Grampus_ thoroughly. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the
instructions yet to be read may call for work that will demand the last
ounce of preparation we can give the submarine. I have stopped the
motor, and we are lying motionless on the surface of the sea. The lead
shows that there are two hundred and twenty-five feet of water under
us. The steel shell of the _Grampus_ is warranted to stand the pressure
of water at that depth. Do you follow me?"
"Certainly, captain."
"Now, Matt, I have been watching you for a long time, and I believe
that you know more about the gasoline motor than I do, and fully as
much about maneuvring the submarine. We are going to dive to two
hundred and ten feet--the deepest submersion by far the _Grampus_ ever
made. I wish you to take entire charge. If you get into difficulties,
you must get out of them again, for I intend to stand by and not put
in a word unless tragedy stares us in the face and you call on me for
advice."
A thrill ran through Motor Matt. The submarine, with all her
complicated equipment, was for a time to be under his control. This
move of Captain Nemo, Jr.'s, perhaps, was a test for him no less than
for the _Grampus_.
For a brief space the young motorist bent his head thoughtfully.
"Do you hesitate, Matt?" asked Captain Nemo, Jr.
"Not at all, sir," was the calm answer. "I was just running over in
my mind the things necessary to be done in making such a deep dive.
The pressure at two hundred and ten feet will be terrific. At that
depth, the lid of our hatchway will be supporting a weight of more than
thirty-two tons."
"Exactly," answered the captain, pleased with the way Matt's mind was
going over the work.
"If there happened to be anything wrong with the calculations of the
man who built the _Grampus_, captain, she would be smashed like an egg
shell."
"We are going to prove his calculations." The captain seated himself
on a low stool. "Gaines is at the motor, Clackett is at the submerging
tanks, Speake has charge of the storage batteries and compressed
air, and Cassidy is here in the periscope room with us to drive the
_Grampus_ in any direction you desire."
"Dick Ferral is with Gaines," added Matt, "and Carl Pretzel is with
Clackett."
"Exactly. Every man is at his station, and some of the stations are
double manned. Now, then, go ahead."
Matt whirled to a speaking tube.
"We're going to make a record dive, Clackett," he called into the tube,
"and Captain Nemo, Jr., has placed me in charge----"
"Bully for the captain!" came back the voice of Clackett, echoing
weirdly distinct in the periscope room.
"Hoop-a-la!" bubbled the exultant tones of Matt's Dutch chum. "Der king
oof der modor poys iss der poy for me."
"Our submergence will be two hundred and ten feet," went on Matt. "You
and Carl, Clackett, will put the steel baulks in place. I'll have Dick
and Gaines help you."
Another order was called to the engine room, and presently there
were sounds, forward and aft, which indicated that the metal props,
to further strengthen the steel shell, were being dropped into their
supports.
"Cassidy," said Matt, "see that the double doors of the hatch are
secured."
"Aye, aye, sir," answered the mate, darting up the conning-tower ladder.
"Speake," ordered Matt, through another tube, "see that the tension
indicators are in place."
"Double doors of the hatch secured," reported Cassidy a moment later.
"Pressure sponsons in place," came rattling through the tube from
Clackett.
"Tension indicators in position," announced Speake.
"Dive at the rate of twelve yards to the minute, Clackett," ordered
Matt.
A hiss of air, escaping from the ballast tanks as the water came in,
was heard. A tremor ran through the steel fabric, followed by a gentle
downward motion. Matt kept his eyes on the manometric needles. Twenty
yards, twenty-five, thirty, and forty were indicated. A pressure of ten
pounds to the square centimeter was recorded.
"Plates are beginning to bend, captain," called Speake.
This was not particularly alarming, for the baulks would settle down to
their work.
"Close the bulkhead doors, Dick!" called Matt.
"Aye, aye, old ship!" returned Dick, and sounds indicated that the
order was immediately carried out.
"Sixty yards," called Clackett; "sixty-five, seventy----"
"Hold her so!" cried Matt.
"What is the danger point in the matter of flexion, captain?" asked
Matt, turning to Nemo, Jr., whose gray head was bowed forward on his
hand, while his gleaming eyes regarded the cool, self-possessed young
motorist with something like admiration.
"Ten millimeters," was the answer.
"We still have a margin of three millimeters and are at the depth you
indicated."
"Bravo! We are five yards from the bottom. Do a little cruising, Matt.
Let us see how the _Grampus_ behaves at this depth."
The entire shell of the submarine was under an enormous pressure.
Matt gave the order to start the motor, and the popping of the engine
soon settled into a low hum of perfectly working cylinders. A forward
motion was felt by those in the submarine.
"Not many people have ever had the novel experience of navigating the
ocean seventy yards below the surface," remarked the captain, with a
slow smile.
"It's a wonderful thing!" exclaimed Matt. "The _Grampus_ seems equal to
any task you set for her, captain."
The air of the periscope room was being exhausted by the breathing of
Matt, Nemo, Jr., and Cassidy. Matt ordered the bulkhead doors opened,
in order that fresh oxygen might be admitted from the reservoirs. Just
before the doors were opened, Captain Nemo, Jr.'s face had suddenly
paled, and he had swayed on his seat, throwing a hand to his chest.
"You can't stand this, captain!" exclaimed Matt, jumping to the
captain's side. "Hadn't we better ascend?"
The captain collected himself quickly and waved the youth away.
"Never mind me, my lad," he answered. "I feel better, now that a little
fresh oxygen is coming in to us. Go on with your maneuvring."
All was silent in the submarine, save for the croon of the engine,
running as sweetly as any Matt had ever heard. Aside from a faint
oppression in the chest and a low ringing in the ears, the _Grampus_
might have been cruising on the surface, so far as her passengers could
know.
Cassidy was at the wheel, steering, his passive eyes on the compass.
Matt turned away from the manometer with a remark on his lips, but
before the words could be spoken there was a shock, and the submarine
shivered and stopped dead.
"Shiminy grickets!" whooped the voice of Carl. "Ve must haf run indo
vone oof der moundains in der sea."
"Full speed astern, Gaines," cried Matt.
The blades of the propeller revolved fiercely. The steel hull shook and
tugged, but all to no purpose.
Captain Nemo, Jr., sat quietly in his seat and never offered a
suggestion. His steady eyes were on Motor Matt.
The king of the motor boys realized that they were in a terrible
predicament. Suppose they were hopelessly entangled in the ocean's
depths? Suppose there was no escape for them, and the shell of the
_Grampus_ was to be their tomb?
These reflections did not shake the lad's nerve. His face whitened a
little, but a resolute light gleamed in his gray eyes.
"How are the bow plates, Speake?" he demanded through one of the tubes.
Speake was in the torpedo room.
"Right as a trivet!" answered Speake.
After five minutes of violent and useless churning of the screw, Matt
turned to Cassidy. The mate, grave-faced and anxious, was looking at
him and waiting for orders.
"Rig the electric projector, Cassidy," said Matt calmly.
"Aye, aye, sir," replied the mate.
When the little searchlight was in position, a gleam was thrown
through one of the forward lunettes out over the bow of the _Grampus_.
Matt, feeling keenly the weight of responsibility that rested on his
shoulders, mounted the iron ladder to the conning tower and looked
through one of the small windows.
To his intense astonishment he found the bottom of the sea pervaded
with a faintly luminous light, perhaps due to some phosphorescence
given off by the marine growth. Through this glow traveled the brighter
gleam of the searchlight.
The _Grampus_ was lying in a dense forest of nodding, moss-covered
stems. The _algae_ of the ocean bed, with its lianes and creeping
growth, twisted all about the submarine, fluttering and waving in the
currents caused by the swiftly revolving propeller.
A gasp escaped Matt's lips, however, when he fixed his attention
forward. For a full minute he stood on the ladder, taking in the weird
and dangerous predicament of the _Grampus_.
Then an exclamation fell from his lips, and he looked down to see
Captain Nemo, Jr., slowly mounting to his side.
"Look!" whispered Matt hoarsely, nodding toward the lunettes.
The captain pressed his eyes against the thick glass and then dropped
back.
"A ship!" he exclaimed. "We have rammed an old Spanish galleon and are
caught in her rotting timbers!"
He looked upward, his startled eyes engaging Matt's, and the two
staring at each other.
CHAPTER II.
OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH.
What the captain had said was true. The _Grampus_, cruising in those
great depths, had had the misfortune to hurl herself bodily on into an
ancient wreck.
The wreck, which must have lain for centuries there on the bottom, was
covered with marine growth, yet, nevertheless, seemed wonderfully well
preserved. The high bow and poop, covered with serpent-like lianes and
creeping weeds, were erect in the water, for the galleon lay on an even
keel. The ship's two masts and steep bowsprit had been broken off, and
the decks were a litter of weeds, and shells, and sand.
The _Grampus_, cleaving the heavy submarine growth, had flung her sharp
prow into the galleon's side and was embedded almost to the flagstaff.
The captain and Matt descended silently into the periscope room.
"We jammed into an old wreck, did we?" queried Cassidy, calmly but with
a look on his face which reflected the perturbation of his mind.
"Yes," answered Matt. "Some Spanish ship went down here--perhaps loaded
with treasure for across the sea."
"Hardly loaded with treasure, Matt," spoke up the captain. "This is
the Spanish Main, and the reefs off Honduras offered shelter for many
a pirate in the old days. This galleon, I am inclined to think, was
stripped of her treasure by some buccaneer and sunk. It is too bad that
she was sunk in the course we happened to be taking."
The rack of the useless motor ceased on an order from Matt; in the
deep, death-like silence that intervened, a wail came up from the tank
room.
"Vat's der madder mit us, Matt? Dit ve run indo a cave in der ocean?
Oof ve can't ged oudt vat vill pecome oof us?"
"We ran into an old Spanish ship, Carl," answered Matt, "and we are so
jammed in the side of the hulk that we haven't been able, so far, to
back out."
"Ach, du lieber! Meppy ve von't nefer be aple to pack oudt! Meppy ve
vas down here for keeps, hey? Nexdt dime I go down in some supmarines,
you bed my life I make a vill pefore I shtart."
Carl, white as a sheet and scared, came rolling into the periscope
room. Dick likewise showed up from forward.
"Strike me lucky, old ship," said he, "I hadn't any notion this was to
be our last cruise."
"It's not," answered Matt. "We'll get out of this."
He turned to Captain Nemo, Jr., who was again seated quietly, his calm
eyes on the king of the motor boys.
"The power of the screw, unaided," said the captain, "will not serve to
get us clear of the wreck. What are you going to do, Matt?"
Matt thought for a moment.
"Am I to have my way, captain?" he asked.
"Certainly. I want to see what you can do."
"Speake! Gaines! Clackett!" called Matt. "Come up here, at once."
From the engine room, the torpedo room, and the ballast room came the
rest of the submarine's crew. Their faces were gray with anxiety, but
they were men of pluck and determination, and could be depended on to
fight for life until the very last.
"Men," said Matt, "we have rammed an old hulk that has been lying for
centuries in the bottom of St. George's Bay. The nose of the _Grampus_
is caught and held in the wreck's side, and the full power of the
engine is not sufficient to pull us out. We shall have to try something
else--something that will put a great strain on the steel shell of the
submarine, considering the pressure the boat is under at this enormous
depth. I am going to give some orders, and on the swiftness with which
they are carried out our lives may depend. You will all go back to your
stations, Carl with Clackett and Dick with Gaines; and when I shout the
word 'Ready!' the engine will be started with all power astern. At the
same instant, Clackett and Carl will open the pipes and admit air into
the ballast tanks, and open the valves that let out the water. We may
have to do all this several times, if necessary, but you fellows have
got to be prompt in doing what you are told."
Again was admiration reflected in Captain Nemo's pale face. Leaning
back against the steel wall of the periscope room, he settled himself
quietly to await developments.
"Count on me," said Clackett, as he and Carl disappeared.
"And on us," said Gaines, leaving the periscope room with Dick.
Cassidy merely gave a nod and turned to his steering wheel. Matt went
up into the tower and placed himself at one of the lunettes.
His heart was beating against his ribs with trip-hammer blows, but his
brain was cool and clear.
When he had given the crew sufficient time to gain their stations, he
lifted his voice loudly.
"_Ready!_"
The word rang through the periscope room and echoed clatteringly
through the steel hull.
The propeller began to whirl like mad, and the sudden opening of the
ballast tanks depressed the free rear portion of the submarine.
For a full minute the wild struggle went on, and so shaken was the boat
that it seemed as though she must fly in pieces. Then, abruptly, the
_Grampus_ leaped backward and upward, clearing the forest-like growth
of seaweed at a gigantic bound.
The upward motion was felt by every one in the boat, and cries of
exultation came to Matt's ears in clamoring echoes.
Slipping like lightning down the ladder, he shouted to Gaines to stop
the madly-working engine and reverse it at a more leisurely speed.
Like a huge air bubble, the _Grampus_ swung up and up, and when she
emerged above the surface, and Matt could see sunlight through the
dripping lunettes, he turned off the electric projector, opened the
hatch and threw it back, and gulped down deep breaths of the warm,
fresh air.
Once more slipping down the ladder, he saluted the captain.
"I turn the ship over to you, sir," said he, and collapsed on a stool,
mopping the perspiration from his face.
"You're a brick!" grunted Cassidy, picking up the course for Belize.
"Hooray for Motor Matt, king of the motor boys!" came a thrilling shout
from somewhere in the bowels of the craft.
For an instant, the steel walls echoed with the jubilant yells of Carl,
Dick, Gaines, Speake, and Clackett.
"It came near to taking the ginger all out of me, captain," breathed
Matt. "The novelty of the thing was mighty trying."
Captain Nemo, Jr., still strangely pale, was regarding the youth
fixedly. For some moments after the cheering ceased he said nothing;
then, leaning abruptly forward, he caught Matt's hand.
The captain's flesh was as cold as ice.
"Captain!" the young motorist exclaimed, starting up, "there's
something wrong with you! Do you feel----"
The captain waved his hand deprecatingly, and the calm, inscrutable
smile hovered about his thin lips.
"Let that pass for a moment, my lad," said he. "I was testing the
_Grampus_, but, more than that, I was likewise testing _you_. Since
we picked up Carl and Dick, off the _Dolphin_, and before that, while
we were cruising about trying to find them,[A] you have been serving
your apprenticeship on the submarine. I have always had the utmost
confidence in you, Motor Matt, and I have now, I think, tested your
knowledge of the _Grampus_ in a manner which leaves no room for
doubt. You are able to run the boat, and to extricate her from any
difficulties in which she might become entangled, as well, if not
better, than I could do myself."
[A] This reference of Captain Nemo, Jr., has to do with the thrilling
experiences of Carl and Dick while they were at swords' points with
Captain James Sixty, the filibuster, for an extended account of which
see No. 15 of the MOTOR STORIES, "Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The
Strange Cruise of the _Grampus_."
Matt, from the captain's manner, had suspected that the gray-haired
inventor of the craft had tried to bring out all that was in him.
Captain Nemo, Jr., of course, had not been able to forecast the trouble
that was to overtake the submarine in the bottom of the bay, but this
dangerous experience had served only to show Matt's resourcefulness to
better advantage.
"You are cool-headed in time of danger," proceeded the captain, "and,
no matter what goes wrong, your ability is always on tap and can be
brought to bear instantly upon anything you desire to accomplish."
The red ran into Matt's face and he waved a hand deprecatingly.
"I'm not a particle better than a lot of other fellows," said he, "who
try to use their eyes, and hands, and brains."
"I expected you to say that, Matt," continued the captain. "The test,
in your case, was hardly necessary, for I have watched your work in
a lot of trying situations--and it has always been the same, steady,
resourceful, reliable. Just now, we are going to Belize, British
Honduras, to carry out some work for our government. As I have already
told you, I don't know what that work is. Two sealed envelopes were
given me by Captain Wynekoop of the U. S. cruiser _Seminole_. The first
one told us to proceed to Belize. The next one, which I have here in my
pocket, will instruct you relative to the work in prospect, and----"
"Instruct _me_?" broke in Matt, startled.
The captain nodded.
"I have not recovered from the strange illness which overtook me in
New Orleans, as a result of inhaling the poisonous odor given off by
the head of that idol. I feel that another attack is coming upon me--I
have felt it for several hours--and, inasmuch as the government is
watching the work of the _Grampus_ with the intention of buying her at
a good round price if she makes good, our sealed orders must be carried
out. For this work, Matt, you are my choice; you are to command the
_Grampus_, do everything that you think--that you think----"
Captain Nemo, Jr., paused, struggled with the words for a space, then
drooped slowly forward and fell from his seat to the floor of the room.
There he lay, unconscious and breathing heavily.
CHAPTER III.
THE SEALED ORDERS.
For a brief space Motor Matt and Cassidy stood looking down at the
prostrate form crumpled at their feet. The captain had been stricken so
suddenly that they were astounded.
Cassidy took a look through the periscope and lashed the wheel; then he
hurried to help Matt, who was lifting the unconscious man to a long
locker at the side of the room.
"He ain't never been right since he was sick in New Orleans," muttered
Cassidy. "He jumped into work before he was well enough."
The captain's former illness had been of a peculiar nature. An idol's
head, steeped in some noxious liquor that caused the head to give off
a deadly odor, was, according to his firm belief, the cause of his
sickness. Carl had also come under the influence of the poisonous odor,
but it had had no such effect upon him. However, no two persons are
exactly alike, and sometimes a thing that will work havoc with one may
have no effect upon another.
"His heart action is good, Cassidy," said Matt.
"He's a sick man for all that," replied the mate. "I've noticed for
several hours he was nervous like. We'll have to take him ashore at
Belize, and you'll have to be the captain while we're doing the work
that's to be done."
There was an under-note in Cassidy's voice that caused Matt to give him
a keen look. The mate was a good fellow, but he was second in command,
aboard the _Grampus_, and it was quite natural for him to expect to be
the one who stepped into the captain's shoes.
"You heard what Captain Nemo, Jr., said?" asked Matt.
"Sure, I did," returned the mate gruffly.
"I had not the least notion he was picking me for any such place."
"He's a queer chap, the cap'n is," said Cassidy, averting his face and
getting up from the side of the locker. "I'll go get him a swig of
brandy--maybe it'll bring him round."
When Cassidy returned from the storeroom with the brandy flask, Matt
could hardly avoid detecting that he had himself sampled the liquor.
Matt was disagreeably surprised, for he had not known that the mate was
a drinking man.
While they were forcing a little of the brandy down the captain's
throat, Dick and Carl came into the periscope room.
"Vat's der madder mit der gaptain?" asked Carl, as he and Dick crowded
close to the locker.
Matt told of the illness that had so suddenly overtaken the master of
the submarine.
"Shiver me, but it's main queer!" exclaimed Dick.
"For the last hour," went on Matt, "the captain's hands have been like
ice and his face pale. I knew he didn't feel well, but I hadn't any
idea he was as bad as this."
"Tough luck!" growled Cassidy.
"Will we need a pilot to take us into Belize?" asked Matt.
"We can't get very close to the town, but will have to lay off and go
ashore in a boat. I know the place well enough to take the _Grampus_ to
a safe berth."
"Then you'd better go up in the lookout, Cassidy, and see to laying us
alongside the town."
A mutinous look flickered for an instant on Cassidy's weather-beaten
face. He hesitated, and then, without a word, turned away and climbed
into the conning tower.
A moment more and the captain had revived and opened his eyes.
"How are you feeling, sir?" queried Matt.
"Far from well, my lad," was the answer, in a weak voice. "Are we off
Belize?"
"Not yet, sir, but we are drawing close."
"We are close enough so that we can read the second half of our sealed
orders."
The captain lifted a hand and removed from the breast pocket of his
coat a sealed envelope, which he handed to Matt.
"Open it, Matt," said he, "and read it aloud."
The young motorist paused.
"Captain," said he, "wouldn't Cassidy be the right man for carrying out
the work that brought us into these waters? He is the mate, you know,
and I think he expects----"
"Cassidy is here to obey orders," interrupted the captain. "Cassidy
has a failing, and that failing is drink. No man that takes his liquor
is ever to be depended on. As long as I'm around, and can watch him,
Cassidy keeps pretty straight, but if I'm laid up at Belize, as I
expect to be, I prefer to have some one in command of the _Grampus_
whom I can trust implicitly. Read the orders."
Matt tore open the envelope and removed the inclosed sheet.
"On Board U. S. Cruiser _Seminole_, at Sea.
"CAPTAIN NEMO, Jr.,
"Submarine _Grampus_.
"SIR: Acting under orders from the Secretary of the Navy, I have
the honor to request that the _Grampus_ lend her aid to the rescue
of United States Consul Jeremiah Coleman, who has been sequestered
by Central American revolutionists, presumably under orders from
Captain James Sixty, of the brig _Dolphin_, who is now a prisoner
in our hands. Mr. Hays Jordan, the United States consul at Belize,
will inform you as to the place where Mr. Coleman is being held.
This is somewhere up the Rio Dolce, in a place inaccessible to even
gunboats of the lightest draught, and it is hoped the _Grampus_ may
be able to accomplish something. Present this letter to Mr. Jordan
immediately upon reaching Belize, and be guided in whatever you do by
his knowledge and judgment. I have the honor to remain, sir,
"Your most obedient,
"ARTHUR WYNEKOOP, Captain Cruiser _Seminole_."
A movement behind Matt caused him to look around. Cassidy had descended
quietly from the conning tower and was steering the ship entirely by
the periscope.
"We are off Belize, sir," announced Cassidy, "and two small sailboats
are coming this way. We are to anchor at the surface, I suppose?"
Matt did not know how long the mate had been in the periscope room, but
supposed he had been there long enough to overhear the instructions.
"Certainly," said the captain.
Cassidy touched a jingler connected with the engine room. The hum of
the motor slowly ceased.
"Get out an anchor fore-and-aft, Speake," the mate called through one
of the speaking tubes.
"Aye, aye, sir," came the response through the tube.
A little later a muffled rattling could be heard as a chain was paid
out through the patent water-tight hawse hole. Presently the rattling
stopped, and the _Grampus_ shivered and swung to her scope of cable.
More rattling came from the stern, and soon two anchors were holding
the submarine steady in her berth.
"I want you to go ashore, Matt," said Captain Nemo, Jr., "and see the
American consul. Find a place where I can be taken care of; also, show
that letter to the consul and tell him you are my representative.
Better take Dick with you."
"Very good, sir," replied Matt.
A bl | 1,094.362592 |
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A NOVELIST ON NOVELS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
NOVELS:
A BED OF ROSES
THE CITY OF NIGHT
ISRAEL KALISCH[1]
THE MAKING OF AN ENGLISHMAN[2]
THE SECOND BLOOMING
THE STRANGERS' WEDDING
OLGA NAZIMOV (Short Stories)
MISCELLANEOUS:
WOMAN AND TO-MORROW
ANATOLE FRANCE
DRAMATIC ACTUALITIES
THE INTELLIGENCE OF WOMAN ETC.
[Footnote 1: Published in the U.S.A. and Canada under the title, 'Until
the Day Break']
[Footnote 2: Published in the U.S.A. and Canada under the title, 'The
Little Beloved']
A NOVELIST
ON
NOVELS
BY
W. L. GEORGE
LONDON: 48 PALL MALL
W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.
GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
Copyright 1918
NOTE
The chapters that follow have been written in varying moods, and express
the fluctuating feelings aroused in the author by the modern novel and
its treatment at the hands of the public. Though unrelated with the
novel, the chapters on 'Falstaff,' 'The Esperanto of Art,' and 'The
Twilight of Genius' have been included, either because artistically in
keeping with other chapters, or because their general implications
affect the fiction form.
A half of the book has not before now been published in Great Britain
and Dominions.
CONTENTS
PAGE
A DECEPTIVE DEDICATION 1
LITANY OF THE NOVELIST 24
WHO IS THE MAN? 62
THREE YOUNG NOVELISTS:
1. _D. H. LAWRENCE_ 90
2. _AMBER REEVES_ 101
3. _SHEILA KAYE-SMITH_ 109
FORM AND THE NOVEL 118
SINCERITY: THE PUBLISHER AND THE POLICEMAN 124
THREE COMIC GIANTS:
1. _TARTARIN_ 147
2. _FALSTAFF_ 161
3. _MUeNCHAUSEN_ 177
THE ESPERANTO OF ART 191
THE TWILIGHT OF GENIUS 208
A Deceptive Dedication
I
I have shown the manuscript of this book to a well-known author. One of
those staid, established authors whose venom has been extracted by the
mellow years. My author is beyond rancour and exploit; he has earned the
right to bask in his own celebrity, and needs to judge no more, because
no longer does he fear judgment. He is like a motorist who has sowed his
wild petrol. He said to me: 'You are very, very unwise. I never
criticise my contemporaries, and, believe me, it doesn't pay.' Well, I
am unwise; I always was unwise, and this has paid in a coin not always
recognised, but precious to a man's spiritual pride. Why should I not
criticise my contemporaries? It is not a merit to be a contemporary.
Also, they can return the compliment; some of them, if I may venture
upon a turn of phrase proper for Mr Tim Healy, have returned the
compliment before they got it. It may be unwise, but I join with
Voltaire in thanking God that he gave us folly. So I will affront the
condemnatory vagueness of wool and fleecy cloud, be content to think
that nobody will care where I praise, that everybody will think me
impertinent where I judge. I will be content to believe that the
well-known author will not mind if I criticise him, and that the others
will not mind either. I will hope, though something of a Sadducee, that
there is an angel in their hearts.
I want to criticise them and their works because I think the novel, this
latest born of literature, immensely interesting and important. It is
interesting because, more faithfully than any other form, it expresses
the mind of man, his pains that pass, his hopes that fade and are born
again, his discontent pregnant with energy, the unrulinesses in which he
misspends his vigour, the patiences that fit him to endure all things
even though he dare them not. In this, all other forms fail: history,
because it chronicles battles and dates, yet not the great movements of
the peoples; economics, because in their view all men are vile;
biography, because it leads the victim to the altar, but never
sacrifices it. Even poetry fails; I do not try to shock, but I doubt
whether the poetic is equal to the prose form.
I do not want to fall into the popular fallacy that prose and poetry
each have their own field, strictly preserved, for prose is not always
prosy, nor poetry always poetic; prose may contain poetry, poetry cannot
contain prose, just as some gentlemen are bounders, but no bounders are
gentlemen. But the admiration many people feel for poetry derives from a
lack of intelligence rather than from an excess of emotion, and they
would be cured if, instead of admiring, they read. Some subjects and
ideas naturally fall into poetry, mainly the lyric ideas; 'To Anthea,'
and 'The Skylark' would, in prose, lie broken-pinioned upon the ground,
but the exquisiteness of poetry, when it conveys the ultimate aspiration
of man, defines its limitations. Poetry is child of the austerity of
literature by the sensuality of music. Thus it is more and less than its
forbears; speaking for myself alone, I feel that 'Epipsychidion' and the
'Grecian Urn' are just a little less than the Kreutzer Sonata, that
Browning and Whitman might have written better in prose, though they
might thus have been less quoted. For poetry is too often
_schwaermerei_, a thing of lilts; when it conveys philosophical ideas,
as in Browning and in that prose writer gone astray, Shakespeare, it
suffers the agonising pains of constriction. Rhyme and scansion tend to
limit and hamper it; everything can be said in prose, but not in poetry;
to prose no licence need be granted, while poetry must use and abuse it,
for prose is free, poetry shackled by its form. No doubt that is why
poetry causes so much stir, for it surmounts extraordinary difficulties,
and men gape as at a tenor who attains a top note. However exquisite,
the scope of poetry is smaller than that of prose, and if any doubt it
let him open at random an English Bible and say if Milton can
out-thunder Job, or Swinburne outcloy the sweetness of Solomon's Song.
More than interesting, the novel is important because, low as its status
may be, it does day by day express mankind, and mankind in the making.
Sometimes it is the architect that places yet another brick upon the
palace of the future. Always it is the showman of life. I think of
'serious books,' of the incredible heaps of memoirs, works on finance,
strategy, psychology, sociology, biology, omniology... that fall every
day like manna (unless from another region they rise as fumes) into the
baskets of the reviewers. All this paper... they dance their little
dance to four hundred readers and a great number of second-hand
booksellers, and lo! the dust of their decay is on their brow. They live
a little longer than an article by Mr T. P. O'Connor, and live a little
less.
The novel, too, does not live long, but I have known one break up a
happy home, and another teach revolt to several daughters; can we give
greater praise? Has so much been achieved by any work entitled _The
Foundations of the Century_, or something of that sort? The novel,
despised buffoon that it is, pours out its poison and its pearls within
reach of every lip; its heroes and heroines offer examples to the reader
and make him say: 'That bold, bad man... you wouldn't think it to look
at me, who'm a linen-draper, but it's me.' If, in this preface, I may
introduce a personal reminiscence, I can strengthen my point by saying
that after publishing _The Second Blooming_ I received five letters from
women I did not know, who wholly recognised themselves in my principal
heroine, of course the regrettable one.
The novel moulds by precept and example, and therefore we modern
jesters, inky troubadours, are responsible for the gray power which we
wield behind the throne. Given this responsibility, it is a pity there
should be so many novels, for the reader is distracted with various
examples, and painfully hesitates between the career of Raffles and that
of John Inglesant. Thus the novel fires many a sanctimoniousness, makes
lurid many a hesitating life. If only we could endow it! But we cannot,
for the old saying can be garbled: call no novelist famous until he is
dead.
It is a fascinating idea, this one of endowing the novel. In principle
it is not difficult, only we must assume our capable committee and that
is quite as difficult as ignoring the weight of the elephant. I wonder
what would happen if an Act of Parliament were to endow genius! I wonder
who would sit on the sub-committee appointed by the British Government
to endow literature. I do not wonder, I know. There would be Professor
Saintsbury, Mr Austin Dobson, Professor Walter Raleigh, Sir Sidney Lee,
Professor Gollancz, all the academics, all the people drier than the
drought, who, whether the god of literature find himself in the car or
in the cart, never fail to get into the dickey. I should not even wonder
if, by request of the municipality of Burton-on-Trent, it were found
desirable to infuse a democratic element into the sub-committee by
adding the manager of the Army and Navy Stores and, of course, Mr
Bottomley. Do not protest: Mr Bottomley has recently passed embittered
judgments, under the characteristic heading 'Dam-Nation,' on Mr Alec
Waugh, who ventured, in a literary sketch, to show English soldiers
going over the top with oaths upon their lips and the courage born of
fear in their hearts. I think Mr Bottomley would like to have Mr Waugh
shot, and the editor of _The Nation_ confined for seven days in the
Press Bureau, for having told the truth in literary form. I do not
impugn his judgment of what it feels like to go over the top, for he
has had long experience of keeping strictly on the surface.
No, our sub-committee would be appointed without the help of Thalia and
Calliope. It would register judgments such as those of the famous
sub-committee that grants the Nobel Prizes. That committee, during its
short life, has managed to reward Sully-Prudhomme and to leave out
Swinburne, to give a prize to Sienkewicz, whom a rather more recent
generation has found so suitable for the cinema. It has even given a
prize to Mr Rudyard Kipling, but whether in memory of literature or
dynamite is not known.
So literary genius must, as before, look for its endowment in the
somewhat barren heart of man, and continue to shed a hundred seeds in
its stony places, in the forlorn hope that the fowls of the air may not
devour them all, and that a single ear of corn may wilt and wither its
way into another dawn.
II
The reading of most men and women provides distressing lists. So far as
I can gather from his conversation, the ordinary, busy man, concerned
with his work, finds his mental sustenance in the newspapers,
particularly in _Punch_, in the illustrated weeklies and in the journals
that deal with his trade; as for imaginative literature, he seems to
confine himself to Mr Nat Gould, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mr W. W.
Jacobs, Mr Mason, and such like, who certainly do not strain his
imaginative powers; he is greatly addicted to humour of the coarser
kind, and he dissipates many of his complexes by means of vile stories
which he exchanges with his fellows; these do not at all represent his
kindliness and his respectability. Sometimes he reads a shocker, the
sort that is known as 'railway literature,' presumably because it cannot
hold the attention for more than the time that elapses between two
stops.
The more serious and scholarly man, who abounds in every club, is
addicted to the monthly reviews, (price two-and-six; he does not like
the shilling ones), to the _Times_, to the _Spectator_; that kind of man
is definitely stodgy and prides himself upon being sound. He is fond of
memoirs, rather sodden accounts of aristocrats and politicians, of the
dull, ordinary lives of dull, ordinary people; when he has done with the
book it goes to the pulping machine, but some of the pulp gets into that
man's brain. ('Ashes to ashes, pulp to pulp.') He likes books of travel,
biographies, solid French books (strictly by academicians), political
works, economic works. His conversation sounds like it, and that is why
his wife is so bored; his emotions are reflex and run only round the
objects he can see; art cannot touch him, and no feather ever falls upon
his brow from an airy wing. He commonly tells you that good novels are
not written nowadays; he must be excused that opinion, for he never
tries to read them. The only novels with which the weary Titan refreshes
his mind are those of Thackeray, sometimes of Trollope; the more
frivolous sometimes go so far as to sip a little of the honey that falls
from the mellifluous lips of Mr A. C. Benson.
The condition of women is different. They care for little that ends in
'ic,' and so their consumption of novels is enormous. The commonplace
woman is attracted by the illustrated dailies and weeklies, but she also
needs large and continuous doses of religious sentimentality, of papier
mache romance, briefly, of novels described in literary circles as
'bilge,' such as the works of Mr Hall Caine, Mrs Barclay, Miss E. M.
Dell, and a great many more; if she is of the slightly faster kind that
gives smart lunch parties at the Strand Corner House, her diet is
sometimes a little stronger; she takes to novels of the orchid house and
the tiger's lair, to the artless erotics of Miss Elinor Glyn, Mr Hubert
Wales, and Miss Victoria Cross. She likes memoirs too, memoirs of vague
Bourbons and salacious Bonapartes; she takes great pleasure in the
historical irregularities of cardinals. She likes poetry too as conveyed
by Miss Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
If that type of woman were not a woman the arts could base as few hopes
on her as they do on men, but the most stupid woman is better ground
than the average man, because she is open, while he is smug. So it is no
wonder that among the millions of women who mess and muddle their way
through the conservatories and pigsties of literature, should be found
the true reading public, the women who are worth writing for, who read
the best English novels, who are in touch with French and Russian
literature, who reads plays, and even essays, ancient and modern. Hail
Mary, mother of mankind; but for these the arts must starve!
That fine public cannot carry us very far. They are not enough to keep
literature vigorous by giving it what it needs: a consciousness of
fellowship with many readers. If literature is to flourish (of which I
am not sure, though endure in some form it will), the general public
taste must be raised. I feel that taste can be raised and cultivated,
and many have felt that too. From the middle of the nineteenth century
onwards, and especially since 1870, an ascending effort has been made to
stimulate the taste of the rising artisan. Books like Lord Avebury's
_Pleasures of Life_, like _Sesame and Lilies_, collections such as the
_Hundred Best Books_ and the _Hundred Best Pictures_, have all been
attuned to that key. The only pity is that the selections, nearly all of
them excellent, were immeasurably above the heads of the public for
which they were meant. Two recent instances are worth analysing. One of
them is _A Library for Five Pounds_ by Sir William Robertson Nicoll,
(whom Mr Arnold Bennett delighteth to revile), the other _Literary Taste
and How to Form It_, by Mr Bennett himself. Now Sir William Robertson
Nicoll's book is much more sensible than the funereal lists available at
most polytechnics. The author does not pretend that one should read
Plato in one's bath; he seems to realise the state of mind of the
ordinary, fairly busy, fairly willing, fairly intelligent person. A sign
of it is that he selects only sixty-one works, and out of those allows
twenty-seven novels. Of the rest, most are readable, except _Pilgrim's
Progress_ and _The Origin of Species_, a touching couple. The list is by
far the best guide I have ever seen, but... there is not a living
author in it. It is not a library, it is a necropolis. The novelists
that Sir William Robertson Nicoll recommends are Scott, Jane Austen,
Dickens, Thackeray, Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot, Hawthorne, Trollope,
Blackmore, Defoe, and Swift. All their books are readable, but they do
not take by the hand the person who has thought wrong or not thought at
all. When you want to teach a child history you do not dump upon its
desk Hume and Smollett, in forty volumes; you lead it by degrees, by
means of text-books, that is _according to plan_. That is how I conceive
literary education, but before suggesting a list, let us glance at
_Literary Taste and How to Form It_. In this book the author shows
himself much more unpractical and much less sympathetic than Sir William
Robertson Nicoll (whom Mr Bennett delighteth to revile). The book itself
is very interesting; it is bright, intelligent; it teaches you how to
read, and how to make allowances for the classics; it tells you how you
may woo your way to Milton, but, after all, when you have done, you find
that you have not wooed your way an inch nearer. That is because Mr
Arnold Bennett takes up to his public an attitude more highbrowed than I
could imagine if I were writing a skit on his book. Mr Bennett's idea of
a list for the aspirant to letters is to throw the London Library at his
head; he lays before us a stodgy lump of two or three hundred volumes,
many of them excellent, and many more absolutely penal. It is enough to
say that he seriously starts his list with the Venerable Bede's
_Ecclesiastical History_. Bede! the dimmest, most distant of English
chroniclers, who depicts the dimmest and most distant period of English
history; once, in an A.B.C., I saw a shopman reading _Tono-Bungay_,
which was propped against the cruet. Does Mr Bennett imagine that man
dropping the tear of emotion and the gravy of excitement upon the
Venerable Bede? And if one goes on with the list and discovers the
_Autobiography of Lord Herbert of Cherbury_, _Religio Medici_,
Berkeley's _Principles of Human Knowledge_, Reynold's _Discourses on
Art_, the works of Pope, _Voyage of the Beagle_... one comes to
understand how such readers may have been made by such masters. From the
beginning to the end of that list my mind is obsessed by the word
'stodge,' and the novels do not relieve it much. There are a good many,
but they comprise the usual Thackeray, Scott, Dickens... need I go on?
Relief is found only in Fielding, Sterne, and in one book each of
Marryat, Lever, Kingsley, and Gissing. These authors are admitted
presumably because they are dead.
In all this, where is hope? How many green daffodil heads, trying to
burst their painful way through the heavy earth of a dull life, has Mr
Bennett trampled on? Is it impossible to find some one who is (as Mr
Bennett certainly is), capable of the highest artistic appreciation and
of high literary achievement, and who will, for a moment, put himself in
the place of the people he is addressing? Is it impossible for an adult
to remember that as a boy he hated the classics? Has he forgotten that
as a young man he could be charmed, but educated only by means of a
machine like the one they use for stuffing geese? The people we want to
introduce to literature are, nearly all of them, people who work; some
earn thirty shillings a week, and ponder a great deal on how to live on
it; some earn hundreds a year and are not much better off; all are
occupied with material cares, their work, their games, their gardens,
their loves; nearly all are short of time, and expend on work, transit,
and meals, ten to twelve hours a day. They read in tubes and omnibuses,
in the midst of awful disturbance and overcrowding; also they are deeply
corrupted by the daily papers, where nothing over a column is ever
printed, where the news are conveyed in paragraphs and headlines, so
that they never have to concentrate, and find it difficult to do so;
they are corrupted too by the vulgarity and sensationalism which are the
bones and blood of the magazines, until they become unable to think
without stimulants.
It is no use saying those people are lost. They are not lost, but they
have gone astray, or rather, nobody has ever tried to turn their faces
the right way. Certainly Mr Arnold Bennett does nothing for them. If
they could read _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ they would,
but they cannot. People cannot plunge into old language, old
atmospheres; they have no links with these things; their imagination is
not trained to take a leap; many try, and nearly all fail because their
literary leaders go to sleep, or march them into bogs. No crude mind can
jump into ancient literature; modern literature alone can help it,
namely cleanse its _nearest_ section, and prepare it for further strain.
The limits of literary taste can, in each person, be carried as far as
that person's intellectual capacity goes, but only _by degrees_. In
other words, limit your objective instead of failing at a large
operation.
I am not prepared to lay down a complete list, but I am prepared to hint
at one. If I had to help a crude but willing taste, I would handle its
reading as follows:--
FIRST PERIOD
Reading made up exclusively of recent novels, good, well-written,
thoughtful novels, not too startling in form or contents. I would begin
on novels because anybody can read a novel, and because the first
cleansing operation is to induce the subject to read good novels instead
of bad ones. Here is a preliminary list:--
_Tony-Bungay_ (Wells)
_Kipps_ (Wells)
_The Custom of the Country_ (Wharton)
_The Old Wives' Tale_ (Bennett)
_The Man of Property_ (Galsworthy)
_Jude the Obscure_ (Hardy)
_Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ (Hardy)
_Sussex Gorse_ (Kaye-Smith)
and say twenty or thirty more of this type, all published in the last
dozen years. It is, of course, assumed that interest would be
maintained by conversation.
SECOND PERIOD
After the subject (victim, if you like) had read say thirty of the best
solid novels of the twentieth century, I think I should draw him to the
more abstruse modern novels and stories. In the first period he would
come in contact with a general criticism of life. In the second period
he would read novels of a more iconoclastic and constructive kind, such
as:--
_The Island Pharisees_ (Galsworthy)
_The New Machiavelli_ (Wells)
_Sinister Street_ (Mackenzie)
_The Celestial Omnibus_ (Forster)
_The Longest Journey_ (Forster)
_Sons and Lovers_ (Lawrence)
_The White Peacock_ (Lawrence)
_Ethan Frome_ (Wharton)
_Round the Corner_ (Cannan)
Briefly, the more ambitious kind of novel, say thirty or forty
altogether. At that time, I should induce the subject to browse
occasionally in the _Oxford Book of English Verse_.
THIRD PERIOD
Now only would I come to the older novels, because, by then, the mind
should be supple enough to stand their congestion of detail, their
tendency to caricature, their stilted phrasing, and yet recognise their
qualities. Here are some:--
_The Rise of Silas Lapham_ (Howells)
_Vanity Fair_ (Thackeray)
_The Vicar of Wakefield_ (Goldsmith)
_The Way of All Flesh_ (Butler)
_Quentin Durward_ (Scott)
_Guy Mannering_ (Scott)
Briefly, the bulk of the works of Thackeray, Jane Austen, Charlotte
Bronte, and George Eliot. 'Barry Lyndon' twice, and Trollope never.
Here, at last, the solid curriculum, but only, you will observe, when a
little of the mud of the magazines had been cleaned off. Rather more
verse too, beginning with Tennyson and Henley, passing on to Rossetti
and perhaps to Swinburne. Verse, however, should not be pressed. But I
think I should propose modern plays of the lighter kind, Mr Bernard
Shaw's _Major Barbara_ and _John Bull's Other Island_, for instance. One
could pass by degrees to the less obvious plays of Mr Shaw, certainly to
those of St John Hankin, and perhaps to _The Madras House_. I think also
a start might be made on foreign works, but these would develop mainly
in the
FOURTH PERIOD
Good translations being available, I would suggest notably:--
_Madame Bovary_ (Flaubert)
_Resurrection_ (Tolstoi)
_Fathers and Children_ (Turgenev)
Various short stories of Tchekoff.
And then, _if the subject seemed to enjoy these works_,
_L'Education Sentimentale_ (Flaubert)
_Le Rouge et le Noir_ (Stendhal)
_The Brothers Karamazov_ (Dostoievsky)
Mark this well, if the subject seemed to enjoy them. If there is any
strain, any boredom, there is lack of continuity, and a chance of losing
the subject's interest altogether. I think the motto should be 'Don't
press'; that is accepted when it comes to golf; why has it never been
accepted when it affects man? This period would, I think, end with the
lighter plays of Shakespeare, such as _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, _The
Taming of the Shrew_, and perhaps _Hamlet_. I think modern essays should
also come in _via_ Mr E. V. Lucas, Mr Belloc, and Mr Street; also I
would suggest Synge's travels in Wicklow, Connemara, and the Arran
Islands; this would counteract the excessive fictional quality of the
foregoing.
FIFTH PERIOD
I submit that, by that time, if the subject had a good average mind, he
would be prepared by habit to read older works related with the best
modern works. The essays of Mr Lucas would prepare him for the works of
Lamb; those of Mr Belloc, for the essays of Carlyle and Bacon. Thus
would I lead back to the heavier Victorian novels, to the older ones of
Fielding and Sterne. If any taste for plays has been developed by
Shakespeare, it might be turned to Marlowe, Congreve, and Sheridan. The
drift of my argument is: read the easiest first; do not strain; do not
try to 'improve your mind,' but try to enjoy yourself. Than books there
is no better company, but it is no use approaching them as dour
pedagogues. Proceed as a snob climbing the social ladder, namely, know
the best people in the neighbourhood, then the best people they know.
The end is not that of snobbery, but an eternal treasure.
I think that my subject, if capable of developing taste, would find his
way to the easier classic works, such as Carlyle's _French Revolution_,
Boswell's _Life of Johnson_, perhaps even to Wesley's _Journal_. But at
that stage the subject would have to be dismissed to live or die. Enough
would have been done to lead him away from boredom, from dull solemnity
and false training, to purify his taste and make it of some use. The day
is light and the past is dark; all eyes can see the day and find it
splendid, but eyes that would pierce the darkness of the past must grow
familiar with lighter mists; to every man the life of the world about
him is that man's youth, while old age is ill to apprehend.
Litany of the Novelist
There are times when one wearies of literature; when one reads over
one's first book, reflects how good it was, and how greatly one was
misunderstood; when one considers the perils and misadventures of so
accidental a life and likens oneself to those dogs described by Pliny
who run fast as they drink from the Nile for fear they should be seized
by the crocodiles; when one tires of following Mr Ford Madox Hueffer's
advice, 'to sit down in the back garden with pen, ink, and paper, to put
vine leaves in one's hair and to write'; when one remembers that in
Flaubert's view the literary man's was a dog's life (metaphors about
authors lead you back to the dog) but that none other was worth living.
In those moods, one does not agree with Flaubert; rather, one agrees
with Butler:--
'... those that write in rhyme still make
The one verse for the other's sake;
For one for sense and one for rhyme,
I think's sufficient at one time.'
One sees life like Mr Polly, as 'a rotten, beastly thing.' One sighs for
adventure, to become a tramp or an expert witness. One knows that one
will never be so popular as Beecham's pills; thence is but a step to
picture oneself as less worthy.
We novelists are the showmen of life. We hold up its mirror, and, if it
look at us at all, it mostly makes faces at us. Indeed a writer might
have with impunity sliced Medusa's head: she would never have noticed
him. The truth is that the novelist is a despised creature. At moments,
when, say, a learned professor has devoted five columns to showing that
a particular novelist is one of the pests of society, the writer feels
exalted. But as society shows no signs of wanting to be rid of the pest,
the novelist begins to doubt his own pestilency. He is wrong. In a way,
society knows of our existence, but does not worry; it shows this in a
curiously large number of ways, more than can be enumerated here. It
sees the novelist as a man apart; as a creature fraught with venom, and,
paradoxically, a creature of singularly lamb-like and unpractical
temperament.
Consider, indeed, the painful position of a respectable family whose
sons make for Threadneedle Street every day, its daughters for Bond
Street and fashion, or for the East End, good works, and social
advancement. Imagine that family, who enjoys a steady income, shall we
say in the neighbourhood of L5000 a year, enough to keep it in modest
comfort, confronted with the sudden infatuation of one of its daughters
for an unnamed person, met presumably in the East End where he was
collecting copy. You can imagine the conversation after dinner:--
Angeline: 'What does he do, father? Oh, well! he's a novelist.'
Father:.... What! a novelist! One of those long-haired, sloppy-collared
ragamuffins without any soles to their boots! Do you think that because
I've given you a motor-car I'm | 1,094.454276 |
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Transcriber's Note.
Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. The inconsistent
use of hyphens has been retained.
Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been
replaced | 1,094.47244 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: "WILL HE COME?"
_From the Painting by Marcus Stone, R.A._
_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W._]
* * * * | 1,094.557782 |
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2
THE ENCLOSURES IN ENGLAND
STUDIES IN HISTORY, ECONOMICS AND PUBLIC LAW
EDITED BY THE FACULTY OF POLITICAL SCIENCE OF
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Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections
is found at the end of the text.
[Illustration: "Oh, dear! oh, dear me!" Page 85.]
[Illustration: MINNIE and her PETS
BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE
MINNIE'S PET PARROT.]
MINNIE'S PET PARROT.
BY
MRS. MADELINE LESLIE,
AUTHOR OF "THE LESLIE STORIES," "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER,"
ETC.
ILLUSTRATED.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD,
1864.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
A. R. BAKER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
TO MY YOUNG FRIEND,
HENRY FOWLE DURANT, JR.
=These Little Volumes=
ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY THE AUTHOR,
IN THE EARNEST HOPE THAT THEY MAY INCREASE IN HIM THAT
LOVE OF NATURE AND OF RURAL LIFE WHICH HAS EVER
EXERTED SO SALUTARY AN INFLUENCE IN THE
FORMATION OF THE CHARACTERS OF
THE WISE AND GOOD.
MINNIE AND HER PETS.
Minnie's Pet Parrot.
Minnie's Pet Cat.
Minnie's Pet Dog.
Minnie's Pet Horse.
Minnie's Pet Lamb.
Minnie's Pet Monkey.
INTRODUCTION.
The object of these little books is not so much to give full, scientific
information with regard to the animals of which they treat, as to bring
before the child such facts concerning them as shall interest him in
their history, awaken a desire to know more of the particular traits of
each, and especially lead him to be kind to them as a part of God's
creation.
Natural history we deem, according to the opinion of an eminent writer,
as "not only the most captivating of the sciences, but the most
humanizing. It is impossible to study the character and habits of the
lower animals without imbibing an interest in their wants and feelings."
Dr. Chalmers, who was famous for his interest in the brute creation,
says, "To obtain the regards of man's heart in behalf of the lower
animals, we should strive to draw his mind toward them. The poor brutes
look, tremble, and give the signs of suffering, as we do. A threatened
blow strikes them with terror, and they have the same distortions of
agony on the infliction of it. Their blood circulates as ours does. They
sicken, and grow feeble with age, and finally die, as we do. They
possess also instincts which expose them to suffering in another
quarter. The lioness, robbed of her whelps, makes the wilderness ring
with her cries; and the little bird, whose tender household has been
stolen, fills and saddens all the grove with her pathetic melody."
The author has been careful to select only facts well authenticated. She
takes this opportunity to acknowledge most gratefully her indebtedness
to those friends who have contributed original anecdotes which have come
under their own observation; and also to state that she has quoted from
most of the popular English works on these subjects, prominent among
which are Jesse, Richardson, and Hamilton, on dogs; Youatt, the Ettrick
Shepherd, and Randall, on sheep; Morris, Brown's Natural History,
Chambers's Miscellany, etc.
She has been greatly encouraged, in the preparation of these volumes for
the young, by the flattering reception of the previous productions of
her pen. If these should meet with similar favor, they may be followed
by other volumes of the same character and objects.
THE AUTHOR.
MINNIE'S PET PARROT.
CHAPTER I.
MINNIE AND HER PARROT.
In these little books, I am going to tell you about Minnie, her home,
and her pets; and I hope it will teach every boy and every girl who
reads them to be kind to animals, as Minnie was. Minnie Lee had a
pleasant home. She was an only child, and as her parents loved to
please her, they procured every thing which they thought would make her
happy. The first pet Minnie had was a beautiful tortoise-shell kitten,
which she took in | 1,094.754224 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the more than four hundred
original illustrations and an audio illustration.
See 42386-h.htm or 42386-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/423 | 1,095.058041 |
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THE OUTCASTS
[Illustration: SHAG CARRIED THE DOG-WOLF ON HIS BACK.]
THE
OUTCASTS
BY W. A. FRASER
ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR HEMING
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK ----- MDCCCCI
_Copyright, 1901, by_
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Illustrations
_The full-page subjects from drawings by Arthur Heming. The
head- and tail-pieces from drawings by J. S. Gordon_
FACING
Shag carried the Dog-wolf on his back Title
"Lying on my back as though I were dead, I
held my tail straight up" 6
"I am no Wolf, Shag; I am A'tim, which
meaneth a Dog in the talk of the Crees" 10
One after another they hurtled into the
slaughter-pen of the Blood Indians' corral 36
Muskwa had A'tim in his long-clawed grasp 66
"Steady, Dog-Wolf, steady," admonished
Shag, "this is a friend of mine" 78
"Oh, don't mention it!" exclaimed the Wolf;
"no doubt we shall find something for
dinner, presently" 114
"Thou art a traitor, and a great liar," said
the Bull 136
THE OUTCASTS
[Illustration]
THE OUTCASTS
CHAPTER ONE
A'tim the Outcast was half Wolf, half Huskie Dog. That meant
ferocity and bloodthirst on the one side, and knowledge of Man's
ways on the other. Also, that he was an Outcast; for neither side
of the house of his ancestry would have aught of him.
A'tim was bred in the far Northland, where the Cree Indians trail
the white snow-waste with Train Dogs; and one time A'tim had
pressed an unwilling shoulder to a dog-collar. Now he was an
outcast vagabond on the southern prairie, close to the Montana
border-land.
It was September; and all day A'tim had skulked in the willow
cover of Belly River flat-lands, close to the lodges of the Blood
Indians.
Nothing to eat had come the way of the Dog-Wolf; only a little
knowledge of something that was to happen, for he had heard
things,--the voices of the Indians sitting in council had slipped
gently down the wind to his sharp Wolf ears.
As he crawled up the river bank close to Belly Buttes and looked
across the plain, he could see the pink flush of eventide, like a
fairy veil, draping the cold blue mountains--the Rockies.
"Good-night, warm Brother," he said, blinking at the setting sun;
"I wonder if you are going to sleep with an empty stomach, as
must A'tim."
The soft-edged shafts of gold-yellow quivered tremblingly behind
the blue-gray mountains, as though Sol were laughing at the
address of the Outcast. The Dog-Wolf looked furtively over his
shoulder at the smoke-wreathed cones of the Blood tepees. The
odor of many flesh-pots tickled his nostrils until they quivered
in longing desire. Buh-h-h! but he was hungry! All his life he
had been hungry; only at long intervals had a gorge of much
eating fallen to his lot.
"Good-night, warm Brother," he said again, turning stubbornly
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2023-11-16 18:35:19.2367630 | 7,436 | 12 |
Produced by Don Lainson
PEACE MANOEUVRES
By Richard Harding Davis
The scout stood where three roads cut three green tunnels in the pine
woods, and met at his feet. Above his head an aged sign-post pointed
impartially to East Carver, South Carver, and Carver Centre, and left
the choice to him.
The scout scowled and bit nervously at his gauntlet. The choice was
difficult, and there was no one with whom he could take counsel. The
three sun-shot roads lay empty, and the other scouts, who, with him,
had left the main column at sunrise, he had ordered back. They were to
report that on the right flank, so far, at least, as Middleboro, there
was no sign of the enemy. What lay beyond, it now was his duty to
discover. The three empty roads spread before him like a picture
puzzle, smiling at his predicament. Whichever one he followed left two
unguarded. Should he creep upon for choice Carver Centre, the enemy,
masked by a mile of fir trees, might advance from Carver or South
Carver, and obviously he could not follow three roads at the same time.
He considered the better strategy would be to wait where he was,
where the three roads met, and allow the enemy himself to disclose his
position. To the scout this course was most distasteful. He assured
himself that this was so because, while it were the safer course, it
wasted time and lacked initiative. But in his heart he knew that was not
the reason, and to his heart his head answered that when one's country
is at war, when fields and fire-sides are trampled by the iron heels
of the invader, a scout should act not according to the dictates of
his heart, but in the service of his native land. In the case of this
particular patriot, the man and scout were at odds. As one of the
Bicycle Squad of the Boston Corps of Cadets, the scout knew what, at
this momentous crisis in her history, the commonwealth of Massachusetts
demanded of him. It was that he sit tight and wait for the hated
foreigners from New York City, New Jersey, and Connecticut to show
themselves. But the man knew, and had known for several years, that
on the road to Carver was the summer home of one Beatrice Farrar. As
Private Lathrop it was no part of his duty to know that. As a man and
a lover, and a rejected lover at that, he could not think of anything
else. Struggling between love and duty the scout basely decided to leave
the momentous question to chance. In the front tire of his bicycle was
a puncture, temporarily effaced by a plug. Laying the bicycle on the
ground, Lathrop spun the front wheel swiftly.
"If," he decided, "the wheel stops with the puncture pointing at Carver
Centre, I'll advance upon Carver Centre. Should it point to either of
the two other villages, I'll stop here.
"It's a two to one shot against me, any way," he growled.
Kneeling in the road he spun the wheel, and as intently as at Monte
Carlo and Palm Beach he had waited for other wheels to determine his
fortune, he watched it come to rest. It stopped with the plug pointing
back to Middleboro.
The scout told himself he was entitled to another trial. Again he spun
the wheel. Again the spokes flashed in the sun. Again the puncture
rested on the road to Middleboro.
"If it does that once more," thought the scout, "it's a warning that
there is trouble ahead for me at Carver, and all the little Carvers."
For the third time the wheel flashed, but as he waited for the impetus
to die, the sound of galloping hoofs broke sharply on the silence. The
scout threw himself and his bicycle over the nearest stone wall, and,
unlimbering his rifle, pointed it down the road.
He saw approaching a small boy, in a white apron, seated in a white
wagon, on which was painted, "Pies and Pastry. East Wareham." The boy
dragged his horse to an abrupt halt.
"Don't point that at me!" shouted the boy.
"Where do you come from?" demanded the scout.
"Wareham," said the baker.
"Are you carrying any one concealed in that wagon?"
As though to make sure the baker's boy glanced apprehensively into
the depths of his cart, and then answered that in the wagon he carried
nothing but fresh-baked bread. To the trained nostrils of the scout this
already was evident. Before sunrise he had breakfasted on hard tack
and muddy coffee, and the odor of crullers and mince pie, still warm,
assailed him cruelly. He assumed a fierce and terrible aspect.
"Where are you going?" he challenged.
"To Carver Centre," said the boy.
To chance Lathrop had left the decision. He believed the fates had
answered.
Dragging his bicycle over the stone wall, he fell into the road.
"Go on," he commanded. "I'll use your cart for a screen. I'll creep
behind the enemy before he sees me."
The baker's boy frowned unhappily.
"But supposing," he argued, "they see you first, will they shoot?"
The scout waved his hand carelessly.
"Of course," he cried.
"Then," said the baker, "my horse will run away!"
"What of it?" demanded the scout. "Are Middleboro, South Middleboro,
Rock, Brockton, and Boston to fall? Are they to be captured because
you're afraid of your own horse? They won't shoot REAL bullets! This is
not a real war. Don't you know that?"
The baker's boy flushed with indignation.
"Sure, I know that," he protested; "but my horse--HE don't know that!"
Lathrop slung his rifle over his shoulder and his leg over his bicycle.
"If the Reds catch you," he warned, in parting, "they'll take everything
you've got."
"The Blues have took most of it already," wailed the boy. "And just as
they were paying me the battle begun, and this horse run away, and I
couldn't get him to come back for my money."
"War," exclaimed Lathrop morosely, "is always cruel to the innocent." He
sped toward Carver Centre. In his motor car, he had travelled the road
many times, and as always his goal had been the home of Miss Beatrice
Farrar, he had covered it at a speed unrecognized by law. But now he
advanced with stealth and caution. In every clump of bushes he saw an
ambush. Behind each rock he beheld the enemy.
In a clearing was a group of Portuguese cranberry pickers, dressed as
though for a holiday. When they saw the man in uniform, one of the women
hailed him anxiously.
"Is the parade coming?" she called.
"Have you seen any of the Reds?" Lathrop returned.
"No," complained the woman. "And we been waiting all morning. When will
the parade come?"
"It's not a parade," said Lathrop, severely. "It's a war!"
The summer home of Miss Farrar stood close to the road. It had been so
placed by the farmer who built it, in order that the women folk might
sit at the window and watch the passing of the stage-coach and the
peddler. Great elms hung over it, and a white fence separated the road
from the narrow lawn. At a distance of a hundred yards a turn brought
the house into view, and at this turn, as had been his manoeuvre at
every other possible ambush, Lathrop dismounted and advanced on foot. Up
to this moment the road had been empty, but now, in front of the Farrar
cottage, it was blocked by a touring-car and a station wagon. In the
occupants of the car he recognized all the members of the Farrar
family, except Miss Farrar. In the station wagon were all of the Farrar
servants. Miss Farrar herself was leaning upon the gate and waving them
a farewell. The touring-car moved off down the road; the station wagon
followed; Miss Farrar was alone. Lathrop scorched toward her, and when
he was opposite the gate, dug his toes in the dust and halted. When he
lifted his broad-brimmed campaign hat, Miss Farrar exclaimed both with
surprise and displeasure. Drawing back from the gate she held herself
erect. Her attitude was that of one prepared for instant retreat. When
she spoke it was in tones of extreme disapproval.
"You promised," said the girl, "you would not come to see me."
Lathrop, straddling his bicycle, peered anxiously down the road.
"This is not a social call," he said. "I'm on duty. Have you seen the
Reds?"
His tone was brisk and alert, his manner preoccupied. The ungraciousness
of his reception did not seem in the least to disconcert him.
But Miss Farrar was not deceived. She knew him, not only as a persistent
and irrepressible lover, but as one full of guile, adroit in tricks,
fertile in expedients. He was one who could not take "No" for an
answer--at least not from her. When she repulsed him she seemed to grow
in his eyes only the more attractive.
"It is not the lover who comes to woo," he was constantly explaining,
"but the lover's WAY of wooing."
Miss Farrar had assured him she did not like his way. She objected
to being regarded and treated as a castle that could be taken only by
assault. Whether she wished time to consider, or whether he and his
proposal were really obnoxious to her, he could not find out. His policy
of campaign was that she, also, should not have time to find out. Again
and again she had agreed to see him only on the condition that he would
not make love to her. He had promised again and again, and had failed
to keep that promise. Only a week before he had been banished from her
presence, to remain an exile until she gave him permission to see her
at her home in New York. It was not her purpose to return there for two
weeks, and yet here he was, a beggar at her gate. It might be that he
was there, as he said, "on duty," but her knowledge of him and of the
doctrine of chances caused her to doubt it.
"Mr. Lathrop!" she began, severely.
As though to see to whom she had spoken Lathrop glanced anxiously over
his shoulder. Apparently pained and surprised to find that it was to him
she had addressed herself, he regarded her with deep reproach. His eyes
were very beautiful. It was a fact which had often caused Miss Farrar
extreme annoyance.
He shook his head sadly.
"'Mr. Lathrop?'" he protested. "You know that to you I am always
'Charles--Charles the Bold,' because I am bold to love you; but never
'Mr. Lathrop,' unless," he went on briskly, "you are referring to a
future state, when, as Mrs. Lathrop, you will make me--"
Miss Farrar had turned her back on him, and was walking rapidly up the
path.
"Beatrice," he called. "I am coming after you!"
Miss Farrar instantly returned and placed both hands firmly upon the
gate.
"I cannot understand you!" she said. "Don't you see that when you act
as you do now, I can't even respect you? How do you think I could ever
care, when you offend me so? You jest at what you pretend is the most
serious thing in your life. You play with it--laugh at it!"
The young man interrupted her sharply.
"It's like this," he said. "When I am with you I am so happy I can't be
serious. When I am NOT with you, it is SO serious that I am utterly and
completely wretched. You say my love offends you, bores you! I am sorry,
but what, in heaven's name, do you think your NOT loving me is doing to
ME? I am a wreck! I am a skeleton! Look at me!"
He let his bicycle fall, and stood with his hands open at his sides, as
though inviting her to gaze upon the ruin she had caused.
Four days of sun and rain, astride of a bicycle, without food or sleep,
had drawn his face into fine, hard lines, had bronzed it with a healthy
tan. His uniform, made by the same tailor that fitted him with polo
breeches, clung to him like a jersey. The spectacle he presented was
that of an extremely picturesque, handsome, manly youth, and of that
fact no one was better aware than himself.
"Look at me," he begged, sadly.
Miss Farrar was entirely unimpressed.
"I am!" she returned, coldly. "I never saw you looking so well--and you
know it." She gave a gasp of comprehension. "You came here because you
knew your uniform was becoming!"
Lathrop regarded himself complacently.
"Yes, isn't it?" he assented. "I brought on this war in order to wear
it. If you don't mind," he added, "I think I'll accept your invitation
and come inside. I've had nothing to eat in four days."
Miss Farrar's eyes flashed indignantly.
"You're NOT coming inside," she declared; "but if you'll only promise to
go away at once, I'll bring you everything in the house."
"In that house," exclaimed Lathrop, dramatically, "there's only one
thing that I desire, and I want that so badly that 'life holds no charm
without you.'"
Miss Farrar regarded him steadily.
"Do you intend to drive me away from my own door, or will you go?"
Lathrop picked his wheel out of the dust.
"Good-by," he said. "I'll come back when you have made up your mind."
In vexation Miss Farrar stamped her foot upon the path.
"I HAVE made up my mind!" she protested.
"Then," returned Lathrop, "I'll come back when you have changed it."
He made a movement as though to ride away, but much to Miss Farrar's
dismay, hastily dismounted. "On second thoughts," he said, "it isn't
right for me to leave you. The woods are full of tramps and hangers-on
of the army. You're not safe. I can watch this road from here as well as
from anywhere else, and at the same time I can guard you."
To the consternation of Miss Farrar he placed his bicycle against the
fence, and, as though preparing for a visit, leaned his elbows upon it.
"I do not wish to be rude," said Miss Farrar, "but you are annoying me.
I have spent fifteen summers in Massachusetts, and I have never seen a
tramp. I need no one to guard me."
"If not you," said Lathrop easily, "then the family silver. And think
of your jewels, and your mother's jewels. Think of yourself in a house
filled with jewels, and entirely surrounded by hostile armies! My duty
is to remain with you."
Miss Farrar was so long in answering, that Lathrop lifted his head
and turned to look. He found her frowning and gazing intently into the
shadow of the woods, across the road. When she felt his eyes upon her
she turned her own guiltily upon him. Her cheeks were flushed and her
face glowed with some unusual excitement.
"I wish," she exclaimed breathlessly--"I wish," she repeated, "the Reds
would take you prisoner!"
"Take me where?" asked Lathrop.
"Take you anywhere!" cried Miss Farrar. "You should be ashamed to talk
to me when you should be looking for the enemy!"
"I am WAITING for the enemy," explained Lathrop. "It's the same thing."
Miss Farrar smiled vindictively. Her eyes shone. "You need not wait
long," she said. There was a crash of a falling stone wall, and of
parting bushes, but not in time to give Lathrop warning. As though from
the branches of the trees opposite two soldiers fell into the road;
around his hat each wore the red band of the invader; each pointed his
rifle at Lathrop.
"Hands up!" shouted one. "You're my prisoner!" cried the other.
Mechanically Lathrop raised his hands, but his eyes turned to Miss
Farrar.
"Did you know?" he asked.
"I have been watching them," she said, "creeping up on you for the last
ten minutes."
Lathrop turned to the two soldiers, and made an effort to smile.
"That was very clever," he said, "but I have twenty men up the road, and
behind them a regiment. You had better get away while you can."
The two Reds laughed derisively. One, who wore the stripes of a
sergeant, answered: "That won't do! We been a mile up the road, and you
and us are the only soldiers on it. Gimme the gun!"
Lathrop knew he had no right to refuse. He had been fairly surprised,
but he hesitated. When Miss Farrar was not in his mind his amateur
soldiering was to him a most serious proposition. The war game was a
serious proposition, and that, through his failure for ten minutes to
regard it seriously, he had been made a prisoner, mortified him keenly.
That his humiliation had taken place in the presence of Beatrice Farrar
did not lessen his discomfort, nor did the explanation he must later
make to his captain afford him any satisfaction. Already he saw himself
playing the star part in a court-martial. He shrugged his shoulders and
surrendered his gun.
As he did so he gloomily scrutinized the insignia of his captors.
"Who took me?" he asked.
"WE took you," exclaimed the sergeant.
"What regiment?" demanded Lathrop, sharply. "I have to report who took
me; and you probably don't know it, but your collar ornaments are upside
down." With genuine exasperation he turned to Miss Farrar.
"Lord!" he exclaimed, "isn't it bad enough to be taken prisoner, without
being taken by raw recruits that can't put on their uniforms?"
The Reds flushed, and the younger, a sandy-haired, rat-faced youth,
retorted angrily: "Mebbe we ain't strong on uniforms, beau," he snarled,
"but you've got nothing on us yet, that I can see. You look pretty with
your hands in the air, don't you?"
"Shut up," commanded the other Red. He was the older man, heavily built,
with a strong, hard mouth and chin, on which latter sprouted a three
days' iron-gray beard. "Don't you see he's an officer? Officers don't
like being took by two-spot privates."
Lathrop gave a sudden start. "Why," he laughed, incredulously, "don't
you know--" He stopped, and his eyes glanced quickly up and down the
road.
"Don't we know what?" demanded the older Red, suspiciously.
"I forgot," said Lathrop. "I--I must not give information to the
enemy--"
For an instant there was a pause, while the two Reds stood irresolute.
Then the older nodded the other to the side of the road, and in whispers
they consulted eagerly.
Miss Farrar laughed, and Lathrop moved toward her.
"I deserve worse than being laughed at," he said. "I made a strategic
mistake. I should not have tried to capture you and an army corps at the
same time."
"You," she taunted, "who were always so keen on soldiering, to be taken
prisoner," she lowered her voice, "and by men like that! Aren't they
funny?" she whispered, "and East Side and Tenderloin! It made me
homesick to hear them! I think when not in uniform the little one drives
a taxicab, and the big one is a guard on the elevated."
"They certainly are very 'New York,'" assented Lathrop, "and very
tough."
"I thought," whispered Miss Farrar, "those from New York with the Red
Army were picked men."
"What does it matter?" exclaimed Lathrop. "It's just as humiliating to
be captured by a ballroom boy as by a mere millionaire! I can't insist
on the invading army being entirely recruited from Harvard graduates."
The two Reds either had reached a decision, or agreed that they could
not agree, for they ceased whispering, and crossed to where Lathrop
stood.
"We been talking over your case," explained the sergeant, "and we see
we are in wrong. We see we made a mistake in taking you prisoner. We had
ought to shot you dead. So now we're going to shoot you dead."
"You can't!" objected Lathrop. "It's too late. You should have thought
of that sooner."
"I know," admitted the sergeant, "but a prisoner is a hell of a
nuisance. If you got a prisoner to look after you can't do your own
work; you got to keep tabs on him. And there ain't nothing in it for the
prisoner, neither. If we take you, you'll have to tramp all the way to
our army, and all the way back. But, if you're dead, how different! You
ain't no bother to anybody. You got a half holiday all to yourself, and
you can loaf around the camp, so dead that they can't make you work, but
not so dead you can't smoke or eat." The sergeant smiled ingratiatingly.
In a tempting manner he exhibited his rifle. "Better be dead," he urged.
"I'd like to oblige you," said Lathrop, "but it's against the rules. You
CAN'T shoot a prisoner."
The rat-faced soldier uttered an angry exclamation. "To hell with the
rules!" he cried. "We can't waste time on him. Turn him loose!"
The older man rounded on the little one savagely. The tone in which he
addressed him was cold, menacing, sinister. His words were simple, but
his eyes and face were heavy with warning.
"Who is running this?" he asked.
The little soldier muttered, and shuffled away. From under the brim of
his campaign hat, his eyes cast furtive glances up and down the road.
As though anxious to wipe out the effect of his comrade's words, the
sergeant addressed Lathrop suavely and in a tone of conciliation.
"You see," he explained, "him and me are scouts. We're not supposed to
waste time taking prisoners. So, we'll set you free." He waved his hand
invitingly toward the bicycle. "You can go!" he said.
To Miss Farrar's indignation Lathrop, instead of accepting his freedom,
remained motionless.
"I can't!" he said. "I'm on post. My captain ordered me to stay in front
of this house until I was relieved."
Miss Farrar, amazed at such duplicity, exclaimed aloud:
"He is NOT on post!" she protested. "He's a scout! He wants to stop
here, because--because--he's hungry. I wouldn't have let you take him
prisoner, if I had not thought you would take him away with you." She
appealed to the sergeant. "PLEASE take him away," she begged.
The sergeant turned sharply upon his prisoner.
"Why don't you do what the lady wants?" he demanded.
"Because I've got to do what my captain wants," returned Lathrop, "and
he put me on sentry-go, in front of this house."
With the back of his hand, the sergeant fretfully scraped the three
days' growth on his chin. "There's nothing to it," he exclaimed, "but
for to take him with us. When we meet some more Reds we'll turn him
over. Fall in!" he commanded.
"No!" protested Lathrop. "I don't want to be turned over. I've got a
much better plan. YOU don't want to be bothered with a prisoner. I don't
want to be a prisoner. As you say, I am better dead. You can't shoot
a prisoner, but if he tries to escape you can. I'll try to escape. You
shoot me. Then I return to my own army, and report myself dead. That
ends your difficulty and saves me from a court-martial. They can't
court-martial a corpse."
The face of the sergeant flashed with relief and satisfaction. In his
anxiety to rid himself of his prisoner, he lifted the bicycle into the
road and held it in readiness.
"You're all right!" he said, heartily. "You can make your getaway as
quick as you like."
But to the conspiracy Miss Farrar refused to lend herself.
"How do you know," she demanded, "that he will keep his promise? He
may not go back to his own army. He can be just as dead on my lawn as
anywhere else!"
Lathrop shook his head at her sadly.
"How you wrong me!" he protested. "How dare you doubt the promise of a
dying man? These are really my last words, and I wish I could think of
something to say suited to the occasion, but the presence of strangers
prevents."
He mounted his bicycle. "'If I had a thousand lives to give,'" he
quoted with fervor, "'I'd give them all to--'" he hesitated, and smiled
mournfully on Miss Farrar. Seeing her flushed and indignant countenance,
he added, with haste, "to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts!"
As he started on his wheel slowly down the path, he turned to the
sergeant.
"I'm escaping," he explained. The Reds, with an enthusiasm undoubtedly
genuine, raised their rifles, and the calm of the Indian summer was
shattered by two sharp reports. Lathrop, looking back over his shoulder,
waved one hand reassuringly.
"Death was instantaneous," he called. He bent his body over the
handle-bar, and they watched him disappear rapidly around the turn in
the road.
Miss Farrar sighed with relief.
"Thank you very much," she said.
As though signifying that to oblige a woman he would shoot any number of
prisoners, the sergeant raised his hat.
"Don't mention it, lady," he said. "I seen he was annoying you, and
that's why I got rid of him. Some of them amateur soldiers, as soon as
they get into uniform, are too fresh. He took advantage of you because
your folks were away from home. But don't you worry about that. I'll
guard this house until your folks get back."
Miss Farrar protested warmly.
"Really!" she exclaimed; "I need no one to guard me."
But the soldier was obdurate. He motioned his comrade down the road.
"Watch at the turn," he ordered; "he may come back or send some of the
Blues to take us. I'll stay here and protect the lady."
Again Miss Farrar protested, but the sergeant, in a benign and fatherly
manner, smiled approvingly. Seating himself on the grass outside the
fence, he leaned his back against the gatepost, apparently settling
himself for conversation.
"Now, how long might it have been," he asked, "before we showed up, that
you seen us?"
"I saw you," Miss Farrar said, "when Mr.--when that bicycle scout was
talking to me. I saw the red bands on your hats among the bushes."
The sergeant appeared interested.
"But why didn't you let on to him?"
Miss Farrar laughed evasively.
"Maybe because I am from New York, too," she said. "Perhaps I wanted to
see soldiers from my city take a prisoner."
They were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the smaller soldier.
On his rat-like countenance was written deep concern.
"When I got to the turn," he began, breathlessly, "I couldn't see him.
Where did he go? Did he double back through the woods, or did he have
time to ride out of sight before I got there?"
The reappearance of his comrade affected the sergeant strangely. He
sprang to his feet, his under jaw protruding truculently, his eyes
flashing with anger.
"Get back," he snarled. "Do what I told you!"
Under his breath he muttered words that, to Miss Farrar, were
unintelligible. The little rat-like man nodded, and ran from them down
the road. The sergeant made an awkward gesture of apology.
"Excuse me, lady," he begged, "but it makes me hot when them rookies
won't obey orders. You see," he ran on glibly, "I'm a reg'lar; served
three years in the Philippines, and I can't get used to not having my
men do what I say."
Miss Farrar nodded, and started toward the house. The sergeant sprang
quickly across the road.
"Have you ever been in the Philippines, Miss?" he called. "It's a great
country."
Miss Farrar halted and shook her head. She was considering how far
politeness required of her to entertain unshaven militiamen, who
insisted on making sentries of themselves at her front gate.
The sergeant had plunged garrulously into a confusing description of the
Far East. He was clasping the pickets of the fence with his hands,
and his eyes were fastened on hers. He lacked neither confidence nor
vocabulary, and not for an instant did his tongue hesitate or his eyes
wander, and yet in his manner there was nothing at which she could take
offence. He appeared only amiably vain that he had seen much of the
world, and anxious to impress that fact upon another. Miss Farrar was
bored, but the man gave her no opportunity to escape. In consequence she
was relieved when the noisy approach of an automobile brought him to
an abrupt pause. Coming rapidly down the road was a large touring-car,
filled with men in khaki. The sergeant gave one glance at it, and leaped
across the road, taking cover behind the stone wall. Instantly he raised
his head above it and shook his fist at Miss Farrar.
"Don't tell," he commanded. "They're Blues in that car! Don't tell!"
Again he sank from sight.
Miss Farrar now was more than bored, she was annoyed. Why grown men
should play at war so seriously she could not understand. It was absurd!
She no longer would remain a party to it; and, lest the men in the car
might involve her still further, she retreated hastily toward the house.
As she opened the door the car halted at the gate, and voices called to
her, but she pretended not to hear them, and continued up the stairs.
Behind her the car passed noisily on its way.
She mounted the stairs, and crossing a landing moved down a long hall,
at the further end of which was her bedroom. The hall was uncarpeted,
but the tennis shoes she wore made no sound, nor did the door of her
bedroom when she pushed it open.
On the threshold Miss Farrar stood quite still. A swift, sinking nausea
held her in a vice. Her instinct was to scream and run, but her throat
had tightened and gone dry, and her limbs trembled. Opposite the door
was her dressing-table, and reflected in its mirror were the features
and figure of the rat-like soldier. His back was toward her. With one
hand he swept the dressing-table. The other, hanging at his side, held
a revolver. In a moment the panic into which Miss Farrar had been thrown
passed. Her breath and blood returned, and, intent only on flight, she
softly turned. On the instant the rat-faced one raised his eyes, saw her
reflected in the mirror, and with an oath, swung toward her. He drew the
revolver close to his cheek, and looked at her down the barrel. "Don't
move!" he whispered; "don't scream! Where are the jewels?"
Miss Farrar was not afraid of the revolver or of the man. She did not
believe either would do her harm. The idea of both the presence of the
man in her room, and that any one should dare to threaten her was what
filled her with repugnance. As the warm blood flowed again through her
body her spirit returned. She was no longer afraid. She was, instead,
indignant, furious.
With one step she was in the room, leaving the road to the door open.
"Get out of here," she commanded.
The little man snarled, and stamped the floor. He shoved the gun nearer
to her.
"The jewels, damn you!" he whispered. "Do you want me to blow your fool
head off? Where are the jewels?"
"Jewels?" repeated Miss Farrar. "I have no jewels!"
"You lie!" shrieked the little man. "He said the house was full of
jewels. We heard him. He said he would stay to guard the jewels."
Miss Farrar recognized his error. She remembered Lathrop's jest, and
that it had been made while the two men were within hearing, behind the
stone wall.
"It was a joke!" she cried. "Leave at once!" She backed swiftly toward
the open window that looked upon the road. "Or I'll call your sergeant!"
"If you go near that window or scream," whispered the rat-like one,
"I'll shoot!"
A heavy voice, speaking suddenly from the doorway, shook Miss Farrar's
jangled nerves into fresh panic.
"She won't scream," said the voice.
In the door Miss Farrar saw the bulky form of the sergeant, blocking her
escape.
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2023-11-16 18:35:19.3355890 | 7,436 | 17 |
Produced by Bryan Ness, Annie McGuire and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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material from the Google Print project.)
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| Transcriber's Note |
|Spelling, punctuation and inconsistencies |
|in the original journal have been retained. |
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Scientific and Religious Journal.
VOL. I. JANUARY, 1880. NO. 1.
THE CONFLICT.
The pyramids, temples and palaces of Thebes are monuments of the ancient
intellects of our race. Great thinkers only were capable of giving to
the world the Vedas, the Apollo Belvidere and the Parthenon. The arts
and astronomy of Egypt harmonize very poorly with the idea that modern
scientists have all the wisdom and intelligence known in the history of
the ages. Among the wonderful characters of olden times we find
Epictetus, Josephus, Strabo, Pliny, Seneca, Virgil, Aristotle, Plato,
Tacitus, Thucydides and Herodotus.
The "Speculation of Evolution of Species" was advocated among the Greeks
six hundred years before the birth of Christ. Two thousand and three
hundred years ago the entire system of German philosophy, along with
modern pantheism, was advocated by the Buddhists and Brahmins.
In many very important respects the ancients were in advance of us,
especially in the arts, and we can not boast of superiority in either
letters or philosophy. "The gentlemen of modern materialistic schools do
not compare favorably with Plato and Cicero in the elevation and
reverence of their opinions." "Science has certainly made some
advancement, but where is the warrant for the boasting" of sciolists of
modern times?
Buddhists taught the most perfect outline of materialism in general.
"They believed in a supreme force, but denied the existence of a Supreme
Being. They rejected inquiry into first causes as unscientific,"
maintaining that facts alone were to be dealt with in all our
investigations.
The Brahmin contemplated the moment when his spirit would flow back into
the great "Pantheistic Being."
Modern materialists say, "We deal only with facts." "We never
speculate." The Buddhists, and the unbelievers who figure so boastingly
upon the rostrum in modern times, speak alike. They say: "As many facts
and second causes as you please, but ask no questions about first
causes; _that_ is unscientific." We should ask no questions (?) about
the invisible. They have been very true (?) to their own principles.
There is nothing speculative (?) in the hypothesis that General George
Washington was evolved from a crustacean. There never was a more absurd
and wild speculation. It is an old speculation. Anaximander, who lived
six centuries before Christ, advocated the assumption. His words are the
following: "The sun's heat, acting on the original miry earth, produced
filmy bladders or bubbles, and these, becoming surrounded with a prickly
rind, at length burst open, and as from an egg, animals came forth. At
first they were ill-formed and imperfect, but subsequently they
elaborated and developed." This has the genuine ring of the language of
modern unbelievers.
Christianity, in its beginning, had to encounter this "speculation"
along with the current literature and philosophy of a civilization which
was semi-barbarous and centuries old, but it triumphed over all, and in
the third century it triumphed everywhere. Since that time one effort
has been made upon the part of paganism to regain her former strength in
the old world. Julian made that effort. He tried to revive and establish
the supremacy of pagan thought by the power of the state. Subsequent to
this it disappeared in the east, and has only plead for toleration in
the west. But the dark ages came on in all their hideousness, and
unbelief developed itself about the close of the fifteenth century, all
over Europe. Paganism, as the result, was fostered near the bosom of
the church. The fifth Lateran Council proclaimed anew the tenet of the
imperishability of the spirit of man. The Padua University adopted a
system of materialism taught in the works of Alexander, of Aphrodisias.
A form of pantheism known in the philosophy of Averroes soon became a
center of skepticism.
In the latter part of the seventeenth century modern unbelievers began
their assaults. Lord Herbert and Hobbs in England, Spinoza in Holland,
and Bayle in France.
In seventeen hundred and thirteen Anthony Collins published a discourse
for the encouragement of a "clique" called "Free-thinkers." This
discourse was thoroughly answered by Bently. In seventeen hundred and
twenty-seven Woolston made an effort to rationalize the miracles out of
existence, interpreting them after the style of Mr. Strauss. Three years
later Tyndal got out his dialogue called "Christianity as old as the
Creation." The world received in return for this "Butler's Analogy of
Natural and Revealed Religion." In seventeen hundred and thirty-seven
Morgan's "Moral Philosophy" made its appearance, claiming the
sufficiency of the moral law without any other religion. Warburton's
"Divine Legation of Moses" was gotten up in reply to this philosophy.
Thomas Chubb wrote a discourse upon reason, and got out a few other
small tracts denying the utility of prayer, and calling in question the
truth of the Scriptures of both Testaments, in the line of Morgan's
philosophy. Bolingbroke, ignorant of the law, "that the greatest good of
the greatest number is to be sought after," even at the expense of the
lives of a few wicked Canaanites, assailed the justice and the
benevolence of the Bible God after Col Ingersoll's style, and boldly
avowed that the miracles of the New Testament never transpired; said,
"If they did occur they attested the Revelation." Voltaire lived between
1694 and 1788. He made himself busy in France, while Bolingbroke and
Tyndal and Woolston, and Hume and Morgan were at work in England. Then
Didoret, of France, made his appearance upon the stage as a bold
defender of Atheism. Next comes D'Holbach, the leading author of the
"Systeme de la Nature," which came out in 1774. Its object was to strike
down the idea of a God, of an intelligence separate from matter, of
free-will, and of immortality. Didoret and others are accused of
assisting in getting this book before the world. Rousseau lived in those
times, and assailed Christianity after the manner of Hume. To all these
enemies of Christianity we must add Condillac, who originated the
materialistic philosophy of France.
Gibbon and Paine came into notice after Bolingbroke, and the terrible
strife continued. Christianity was pronounced dead, and a prostitute was
chosen to impersonate the "Goddess of Reason" in the national
convention. God being dethroned in France, we should naturally look
there for the "absolute liberty" which unbelievers talk so much about.
But how was it? Were the people without a religious nature? Could they
think more freely? Were they in any sense better off? No, they "followed
the prostitute into the church of 'Notre Dame' in a grand procession and
seated her upon the high altar, where she was worshiped by the
audience." This was the result of the labors of all the authors to which
I have called your attention. It was a wonderful gain? In all the public
cemeteries this inscription was read: "Death is an eternal sleep."
Cabanis, Destutt de Tracy and Volney close up the seventeenth century,
but just about this time the "Critique of Pure Reason," a work which is
the bed-rock of modern metaphysics, makes its appearance. According to
its teachings there are no realities in the world.
The struggle is passed in England. In France all are dull, drowsy. In
Germany all are hungry for the food that satisfies unbelievers. The
"Critique of Pure Reason" was followed by the labors of Fitche. He was
succeeded by Schelling, and he by Hegel. All forms of torture must be
added to this account of the conflict if we would get a glimpse of the
strength of the Christian religion and of the religious element in man's
nature, from the amount of resistance which they have defied. Eusebius
says, "The swords became dull and shattered" under Diocletian. "The
executioners became weary and had to relieve each other." This would not
look as though Christianity would take the throne in four score years,
but it did in spite of all those cruel murders. Through Constantine it
became the state religion of the Roman Empire. Paganism crumbled down
and Christianity triumphed over all the opposition of the old world. The
books of the Old and New Testaments have all been thoroughly tested,
over and over in the fiery furnace of criticism, but Christianity still
lives to bless the hearts of widows and orphans; to bless the
disappointed and disconsolate. To-day there are more Christians in the
world than ever before.
What has unbelief to give to the people of our age more than it offered
centuries ago? Nothing! Nothing!! Nothing!!!
"There is nothing new under the sun."
THE BIBLE--THE BACKGROUND AND THE PICTURE.
This book is admired and respected above all others for its antiquity,
its usefulness, its conflicts, and character. It has been expressly
denominated "The book of books." Its professions are such that no
reasonable man can consistently lay it aside without giving it a careful
examination. The nature of every question determines its claims upon our
intelligence. If it professes to involve only a small interest its
claims are not so pressing.
The questions of the Bible hold in their principles the present and
eternal interests of our humanity, and therefore challenge the attention
of the world. Thousands of the wisest and best men of the ages have been
intensely interested in its contents. Its great influence and reputation
are evidences of its trustworthiness, and of the consistency and
intelligence of those who give it their attention; for sensible men do
not disregard questions of great importance. This book contains a
record of many ugly, dark and wicked deeds, known in the lives of wicked
men and nations, with imperfections and apostacies of individuals in
high places. This is what we must look for in a book of its pretensions.
It professes to contain a revelation of God and his will to man. The
ugly, wicked, licentious, and bloody things constitute the background of
the picture, representing man in all his ways. It is also shaded with
all there was, and is, of moral and noble character in the human. God
with his attributes, as the true, grand and glorious Bible picture,
shines out through this human background. The justice of God, with his
love, long suffering and tender mercies, his approbation and
disapprobation, must in the very nature of things be revealed in
connection with human character as it presents itself in iniquity and
crime, in piety and virtue, both individual and national, in order that
the revelation may be complete, full and perfect. The history of men and
nations must also be true, sufficiently full to call out, in the divine
dealings, all there is in the divine character; otherwise, the
revelation would be partial and imperfect.
No physician ever revealed his skill without his patients. No court has
ever revealed its justice without its cases. The doctor's dealings with
his patients measure the extent of his known skill. Allowing that he
understands himself and the conditions of his patients perfectly, and
does his whole duty, the revelation of his skill must be perfect, to the
full extent of its connection with the diseases treated. So it is with
the revealed justice of the court. This rule is a necessary law,
governing all revelations of character, both human and divine; otherwise
we are left in the dark with reference to the true character of the one
who makes the revelation. Our common sense is such that we are always
led astray by improper action, unless our superior wisdom enables us to
know that the action is improper. Improper action upon the part of a
doctor reveals imperfect skill; on the part of the court it reveals
imperfect justice, if it is not an entire want of skill and justice.
No such imperfection belongs to our God; therefore the revelation which
he made needs only to be understood and it will never mislead us. These
great principles of common sense are to be applied in the revelations of
God to the nations as the God of nations. Such being the case, we have a
very interesting field of thought before us in the bloody scenes that
are known in the history of nations, as it is given in the Bible. Where
is the morality and righteousness of the wars of which we read? Where is
the justice and goodness of God in the bloody wars of Israel? Where is
the righteousness of capital punishment? A great many persons say, in
their ignorance, there is no righteousness in those things. Friend,
travel slowly over this ground. "Take the shoes off thy feet, for it is
holy ground." Go into the Bible and look! God is there. You knew it not.
Principles never change. Circumstances change and necessitate changes of
law, but that which was right at any time in the history of our race is
right at all times, under the same circumstances. Is there such a thing
as morality carried into public relations? Is there such a thing as
jurisprudence? Yes; jurisprudence is morality carried into public
relations in the following law: "That course of conduct which pertains
to the greatest good of the greatest number is right." This law is of
universal application. It belongs to men in all their relations, both
public and private, collectively and individually. In the relation of
the State to its citizens it taxes them for the support of government,
it fines, imprisons and puts them to death for crime. In the relation of
nation to nation it imposes tariffs and declares war, filling history
with scenes of blood and woe. The common sense of mankind approves this
law, and the Bible declares it just. Wars were approved of God, when
they were for the greatest good of the greater number. It was upon the
same principle that all the divine judgments were administered, from the
destruction of the Antediluvians down to the overthrow of Jerusalem by
Titus.
This law is the substratum in moral righteousness, underlying all that
is right. Such is its wonderful latitude and longitude that, in order to
carry it out, it sometimes becomes necessary to tilt a nation into a
sea of blood and replace it with a better people. Unbelievers and
skeptics who admit this are guilty of wresting Bible facts from their
proper places and testing them upon the plane of morality, regardless of
the laws of jurisprudence.
This erroneous method of reasoning leads the minds of many ignorant and
unsuspecting persons away from the right ways of God. The guilty
reasoner justifies taxation, fines, imprisonment and wars in the history
of his own country.
It sometimes seems cruel to carry out this great moral principle of
which we are treating; it is nevertheless right, and men who abuse its
facts and turn things upside down are guilty of opposing the right.
Unbelievers are guilty of selecting from the Bible all that can be
tortured out of its place in the laws of jurisprudence and made to look
ugly out of its proper relations, and are continually holding such
things up before the people, turning them into ridicule, and at the same
time they have been through all the bloody scenes of war and justify
themselves, wishing to be known in many instances as Major, General or
Colonel. We have some such in our own country. They seem to have never
learned that many things which are good for humanity are very ugly out
of their proper relations. I am glad that God has revealed himself in
the jurisprudence of nations, for the facts given inspire confidence in
rulers and officials, strength to judges upon the bench, and nerve to
warriors who are acting with direct reference to the "greatest good of
the greatest number."
A history of God in his dealings with states and nations in order to a
perfect revelation of himself necessitates a history of states and
nations so far as it is necessary to make known the approbation and
disapprobation of God in connection with all that may ever enter into
national or state character. Without this we would find states and
nations where God did not see fit to show himself. We must find him
wherever we find man, approving or disapproving. This is just what we do
in the Bible. We do it in no other book. But let us ever remember that
all that is wicked had its origin with wicked men and demons, and that
the Divine Being, with all his attributes, appears in the foreground in
all his relations to men and their conduct, as the grand Bible picture
shining out through all the darkness and gloom, surrounded with the
virtues and noble deeds of all his worshipers, and that he is building
up and throwing down as his righteous judgment approves or disapproves.
This revelation of God is like the sun at noonday bursting through dark
and heavy clouds and blessing the earth with its rays. In making this
revelation, which is related negatively or affirmatively to all there is
in human history, God saw fit to communicate his will through man, and
in his own language, except in the gift of the great charter of the
national existence of the children of Israel and the great foundation
truth of the church of God. These he uttered with his own wonderful
voice.
Was it reasonable to expect a revelation from God? Is it necessary to
the greatest good of the greatest number? If so, it is a thought at once
involving the moral character of God and necessitating a revelation of
himself. In answering these questions intelligently we must look after
the demands for such a communication. Where shall we find them? Answer,
in the wants of our humanity. Here two kinds of light are needed for two
pair of eyes in order that we may be happy in two respects. First,
physical light for the physical eyes, in order to the enjoyment of
physical life in a material world. Second, the light of knowledge for
the eyes of the understanding, in order to the enjoyment of spiritual
life in a spiritual world. It is universally conceded that there are
means provided in nature to meet man's physical wants and adaptations
that manifest the wisdom that belongs to God; also, that it would have
been the work of a demon to create man with these wants, like so many
empty vessels, without any provision to satisfy or fill them. Without
those supplies our suffering would be great and our wretchedness
unendurable. Is there no liability to mental suffering? Are there no
spiritual wants consequent upon the nature of mind?
Is it not unreasonable to allow that "Infinite wisdom" provided for all
our physical wants and left our spirits with all their demands, like so
many children away out in the darkness without hope, uneasy, restless,
always dissatisfied, and ever trying to get into the possession of the
knowledge of the unseen and future, without one ray of mental light
shining out from the heavens upon our relations to perfect our condition
and declare the glorious goodness of an all-wise Creator? Volney says,
"Provident nature having endowed the heart of man with inexhaustible
hope, he set about finding happiness in this world, and failing in his
efforts, he set out in his imagination and created a world for himself,
where, free from tyrants, he could have all his wrongs redressed and
enjoy unsullied bliss." This is Volney's account of the origin of
religion, the tap-root of the tree. It contains a most wonderful
concession, one that Tyndal made when he said, "There is a place in
man's psychological nature for religion." Is there a place in man's
physical nature for bread and meat, for food of every variety that man's
soul desires? Do we attribute all the mercies of physical life to a
supreme intelligence? Has that intelligence created us and left us
endowed with "Inexhaustible hope," to be disappointed forever, and the
only result, the "imaginary" creation of the Christian's happy heaven.
But Volney makes another grand concession in the quotation which I have
given, and that is the nature of the Christian's future world in its
relations to wrongs as well as tyrants, neither are to exist there. That
the Christian's religion, with its beautiful world, does fill up the
soul's demands is a fact unintentionally conceded by Volney, and known
throughout the land in the contentment and bliss and heroism of the
dying Christian. In this hope alone man's spiritual wants are met. This,
with all that pertains to it, is in the revelation that God has made to
our race. How could this be made? I answer, it was made by the spirit of
God. "Holy men of old spake as they were moved upon by the Holy Spirit."
This is what we call _inspiration_. This word is a translation of
"_Theopneustos_," which is from "Theos," _God_, "pneuma," _spirit_,
_Spirit of God_. Is it reasonable to allow that this revelation could be
given by the spirit of God through holy men? I will let an infidel
answer this question. Bolingbroke said, "It is just as easy to
comprehend the operation of the spirit of God upon the mind of a prophet
in order to give his will to us as it is to comprehend the operations of
our own spirits upon our physical nature in order to an expression of
our own thoughts." Has such a revelation been made? From all we know of
man, his wants, and the adaptation of means in nature to those wants, we
are driven to the conclusion that it has, presenting the means adapted
to our spiritual wants so perfectly as to enable us to realize fully
what Volney declares our very nature, as creatures of hope, impelled us
to create "in our imaginations for ourselves." There is no consistent
ground that any man can occupy between Christianity and Atheism. And if
there is no God, "nature," or the "forces," or whatever lies behind
them, to which they belong, as the manifest energies of the same, call
it what you may, has made a very unreasonable, bungling mistake in
giving in the very nature of man's mind an empty vessel that is to be
filled only by the false whims of the imagination of an ever restless
and dissatisfied spirit, which, in that case, is to be eternally
disappointed and plunged deeper down by the realization of the fact that
all its anxieties and hopes were only so many misleading demons.
In order to a perfect revelation of God to man it was necessary that the
entire page, the "background" as well as the "foreground," or the human
as well as the divine, should be truth, and in every case, all the truth
that was necessary to enable man to realize and understand the whys and
wherefores of the divine procedure; and also to call out in word or
action the Divine Being in all his relations to the conduct of the
children of men. Such a record is found in the Bible, given to us by men
who were impelled and borne by the Holy Spirit when they wrote and
spoke. But it was not necessary that anything upon the dark human
"background" of this picture should have its origin with God; it was
only necessary that, having originated with man, men or demons, it
should be put to record just as it was in all its heinousness and
wickedness in order that we might see the true character of God in his
relations to it. If a wise physician should undertake to make himself
known to the world he would not give us a history of all he did with
every patient, and at the same time fail to give us just so much of the
true history of each patient as would be necessary to enable us to
understand him in all that he did, for both stand or fall together. So
it is in the Bible revelation of God to man. Take away the "background"
of the picture, and the picture itself is destroyed. That which skeptics
in their ignorance are always trying to ridicule is just as essential to
a revelation of God in his justice, purity, love and power as the word
of God himself. That is to say, the revelation has an objective as well
as a subjective side. The subjective is God in his attributes, and the
objective is man in his works. It was the objective that drew out the
subjective, because all was done for the objective. Take either side
away and the revelation ceases to exist. On the subjective side all is
of God in its origin, is charged up to him, being spoken by him, and in
his name, or done by him, or by his authority. The indices to this great
truth are in these or similar phrases, "Hear, O, Israel, thus saith the
Lord, thy God," "Thus saith the Lord," "And the Lord said," "The Lord
spake, saying," "The Lord said unto me," "The word of the Lord came unto
me," "The Lord commanded," "The burthen of the word of the Lord to,"
"The Lord answered, saying." We are not authorized to charge, as many
through their ignorance or wickedness have done, all that we read about
in the Bible to God as the author. The words and doings of wicked men
and demons are truthfully recorded there, and they are often licentious
and blasphemous. The words and doings of good men and angels are there,
and the words and doings of God are there. We are authorized to charge
to God's account that only which is spoken in his name, or by his
instructions, along with that which was done by him, or by his
authority, or approved by him. When we get outside of these
common-sense thoughts in our interpretations of Bible history we are
acting upon our own responsibility, and are liable to be found doing
violence to the divine will. If we contradict the record we call in
question the veracity of the spirit which controlled the writer, whether
the statement relates to God, man or demons. But this statement does not
apply to mistranslations, for it is one thing to contradict an
uninspired translator, and another altogether to contradict the
statement of one controlled by the spirit of God. We fearlessly assert
that the Bible is just the book that common-sense and reason demands
that it should be in order to contain a revelation of God to man. We
would as soon attempt to destroy the divine and lovely side, as change
its character, so far as to take from its pages its record of
wickedness, misery and woe, for it amounts to the same thing. One more
question of importance bearing on this subject demands our attention,
and that is the question of miracles. Men have, without any authority
from the Bible, treated all miracles as violations of natural law. But
it would be well for us to determine the extent of our knowledge of
natural laws before we thus dogmatize. That which we call miracle may be
in perfect harmony with law that lies just beyond our knowledge.
Omniscience seems to be a necessary qualification for such theorizing as
asserts that miracles are violations of the laws of nature. Omnipotence
is an essential attribute of the Ruler of the universe. But in order to
its existence, the Infinite one must be above the laws which he has
established, able to take hold of those laws and handle them as he sees
proper, otherwise he is not all-powerful. On the simple plane of nature
we get lost. Who can account for "Partheno Genesis," or generation
without any known sexual organs, which obtains in the animal kingdom.
"The spirit of God moved upon," "brooded over" the face of the great
deep and life filled the waters. "The Holy Spirit overshadowed the
Virgin" and the Nazarene was begotten. The original expresses the same
idea in both cases. Scientists who are radical materialists admit this
wonderful feat in the animal kingdom as a natural affair, and yet,
without any authority from the Bible, speak of the birth of Christ as
the result of "Miraculous conception," in the sense of a violation of
natural law. What natural law is violated in "Partheno Genesis?" With me
it is allowable that a thousand more just such beings might be, and if
necessary to the accomplishment of the great purposes of God, would be
produced under the same circumstances and by the same instrumentalities.
The feature of the question of miracles which bears on the subject of a
divine revelation must now be considered. It is this, would a book
containing such a record as that which we have in the Bible, except the
record of miracles, reveal God in his attributes to our world? We lay it
down as a correct proposition that we must have creative and life-giving
power manifested in order to a revelation of God.
If the Bible contained no record of the exercise of powers above the
human it would reveal only a human God, which would be no God; and
common sense would declare, "It is a book treating of, and presenting
man in his attributes." Those facts upon its pages which are in the
power of God alone confirm, that is, make sure, the revelation of God to
man. Without this feature of the book common sense would have at least
one good excuse for rejecting its claims. The Master recognizes this
fact in the saying, "If I do not the works of my Father believe me not,
but if I do, though ye believe not me, believe the works, that ye may
know and believe that the Father is in me and I in him." Here we have
the fact of "God revealed in the flesh," evinced by the works which the
Savior performed. The foundation of faith, or the obligation to believe,
is identified with those works. They were a greater evidence of his
divinity than the words of any prophet, although those words were the
words of the Divine Spirit. Jesus said, "I have greater witness than
that of John, for the works which the Father hath given me to finish,
the same works that I do, bear witness of me that the Father hath sent
me." "If I had not done among them the works which none other man did,
they had not had sin; their rejection of my claims would be justifiable
but for the fact that my divinity is demonstrated in the works which I
do." The same thought accompanies the introduction of the gospel of
Jesus Christ in the preaching of the Apostles. Paul said, "Our gospel
came not unto you in word only, but in power, and in the Holy Spirit."
"They went everywhere preaching the word; the Lord working with them and
confirming the word with signs following." The confirmation was not in
the simple fact that miracles were wrought, but in their character. The
miracles of Christ were not in the power of false prophets, magicians,
or demons. They were in the power of God. Peter said, "God anointed
Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power," and that "He
went about doing good, and healing all who were oppressed of the devil;
for God was with him." The presence of God was manifested in his
miracles.
The question is often asked, "Why were they not continued throughout the
Christian dispensation?" Answer: If they had been continued, they would
have lost all their power over the mind by becoming ordinary, and then
they would cease to have any bearing whatever in the establishment of a
divine proposition. It was not necessary to continue them beyond the
witnesses whose testimony closed up the revelation of God. "A covenant
once confirmed no man disannulleth or addeth thereto." A continual
repetition of the evidence of confirmation was not necessary in order to
give faith in a communication already confirmed and left in a historic
age for the faith of the world. It is true of sense that the continual
sensuous experience causes the object experienced to lose its
controlling power, but the opposite is true of faith. So he who knew
best what man's nature required ordained that the just should walk by
faith and not by sense. And to this end he confirmed "once" the
revelation of himself and his will, and left it in the world as his
witness to produce faith. "If we receive the witness of men the witness
of God is greater; for this is the witness of God which he hath
testified of his Son. He that believeth hath the witness in himself; he
that believeth not God hath made him a liar, because he believeth not
the _record_ that God gave of his Son." Is it not a dangerous thing to
make God a liar? Is it not a great insult? All unbelievers are thus
guilty before God. Our Savior did not speak unadvisedly when he said:
"He that believeth not shall be condemned."
"Life and immortality are brought to light through the Gospel." Is it
not strange that dying men will reject the motive of life? "This is the
record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his
Son; he that hath the Son hath life, and he that hath not the Son of God
hath not life." Jesus "came to his own and his own received him not, but
as many as received him to them gave he power to become the sons of
God." Will we possess him through faith and live, or shall we make God a | 1,095.355629 |
2023-11-16 18:35:19.6371590 | 90 | 14 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team.
ELSON
GRAMMAR SCHOOL LITERATURE
BOOK FOUR
BY
WILLIAM H. ELSON
SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS, CLEVELAND, OHIO
AND
CHRISTINE KECK
PRINCIPAL OF SIGSBEE SCHOOL, GRAND RAPIDS, MICH.
1912 | 1,095.657199 |
2023-11-16 18:35:20.2771800 | 3,081 | 74 |
Produced by KD Weeks, Chris Curnow and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Note
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.
Given the publication date (late 17th century), the capitalization,
spelling and punctuation of the original, is variable, There are a
number of instances where it is very likely a printer’s error has been
made, These have been corrected, and are summarized in the transcriber’s
note at the end of the text.
There are several full page panelled illustrations, which were not
included in the pagination, and have been moved slightly in the text in
order to avoid falling within a paragraph. Each panel serves as
illustration of a numbered chapter.
Several concessions to modernity are made. The text employed the long
‘s’ (‘ſ’), which has been rendered here as a modern ‘s’. Likewise the
ligature of ‘ct’ is given as the two separate characters.
[Illustration]
THE
~English Rogue~:
Continued in the Life of
MERITON LATROON,
AND OTHER
_EXTRAVAGANTS_.
Comprehending the most Eminent
CHEATS
OF
BOTH SEXES.
Read, _but do’nt_ Practice: _for the Author findes,
They which live_ Honest _have most quiet mindes_.
Dixero si quid forte jocosius hoc mihi juris
Cum & enia dabis.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The _Fourth_ Part.
----------------------------------------------------------------
With the Illustration of Pictures to every
Chapter.
----------------------------------------------------------------
_LONDON_,
Printed for _Francis Kirkman_, and are to be Sold by
_William Rands_ at the _Crown_ in _Duck-lane_. 1680.
THE
PREFACE.
Gentlemen
W_e see there is a necessity for our travailing in the common road or_
High-way _of_ Prefacing; _as if the Reader could neither receive nor
digest the_ Pabulum mentis, _or fatten by the mental nourishment,
without a preparatory. And yet we think it savours neither of civility,
nor good manners to fall on without saying something of a grace; but we
do not love that it should be so tedious, as to take away your stomack
from the meat, and therefore that we may not be condemned for that
prolixity we mislike in others, we shall briefly tell you how little we
value the favour of such_ Readers, _who take a pride to blast the_ Wits
_of others, imagining thereby to augment the reputation of their own:
What unexpected success we have obtained in the publication of the
former parts, will keep us from despairing, that in this we shall be
less fortunate than in the other. But although our_ Books _have been
generally received with great applause, and read with much delight and
satisfaction, at home and abroad, (having travailed many thousand miles)
yet we do not imagine them to be without their_ Errata’s, _for which
they have suffered very hard Correction; this is a younger brother to
the former, lawfully begotten, and if you will compare their faces, you
will find they resemble one another very much: Or else match this
pattern with the former cloth, you will find it of the same colour,
wool, and spinning, only it having passed the curious hands of an
excellent_ Artist, _he hath by shearing and dressing it made it somewhat
thinner, and withall finer, than was intended; however we hope it will
prove a good_ lasting piece, _and serviceable. You cannot imagin the
charge and trouble we have been at, in raising this building, which we
must acknowledg was erected upon an old foundation. From the actions of
others we gather’d matter, which materials we methodized, and so formed
this structure. We challenge nothing but the order; it may be called
ours, as the_ Bucentauro _may be now called the same it was some hundred
of years since, when the Pope therein first married the_ Duke _of_
Venice _to the_ Seas, _having been from that time so often mended and
repaired, as that it is thought, there is not left a chip of her
primitive building. So what remarkable stories, and strange relations we
have taken up on trust, by hear-say, or otherwise, we have so altered by
augmentation, or deminution, (as occasion served) that this may be more
properly called a new Composition, rather than an old Collection, of
what witty_ Extravagancies _are therein contained. As to the verity of
those ingenious Exploits, Subtle Contrivances, crafty projects, horrid
villanies_, &c. _we have little to say, but though we shall not assert
the truth of them all, yet there are none, which carry not circumstances
enough to make apparent their probability. And you may confidently
believe, that most of them have been lately acted, though not by one,
two, three, a score, nay many more. To conclude, (least we tire your
patience with tedious preambles) it is our desire that you will have a
charitable opinion of us, and censure not our writings according to
their desert; we are ready to condemn them, before you examine their
faults, what would ye more? We are not insensible, that_ ours _are many,
and are forc’t to bear the burden of the_ Printers _too; we know the
stile is mean and vulgar, so are the Interlocutors, and therefore most
requisite and allowable; the Subject is Evil, (you say) and may vitiate
the Reader; the_ Bee _gathers honey from the worst of weeds; and the_
Toad _poison, from the best of Herbs. An ignorant young_ Plowman
_learn’d from a Sermon how to steal an Ox, by the Parsons introducing a
Simile; even as_ the stubborn Horn is made soft, pliable, and to be
shaped as you please, by laying a Hot loaf thereon; _so is &c. which he
trying so effectually chang’d the form of the_ Ox-head, _that the right
Owner knew not his own Beast. There is no matter so good, but may be
perverted, which is worst of all, for_, Corruptio optimi est pessima;
_and there is no Subject so bad, out of which some good may not be
collected; this drolling discourse, will, I question not, in the
reading, prove not only facetious, but profitable, which if you find, we
have obtain’d our desired end._
(_Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci._)
_And subscribe our selves_
Your Friends and Servants
_Richard Head_. _Fra. Kirkman_.
[Illustration]
THE
ENGLISH ROGUE
Continued in the Life of
MERITON LATROON,
AND OTHER
EXTRAVAGANTS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_PART, IV._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAP. I.
_Sayling from St._ Helena, &c. _Landing at_ Messina, _the Captain_,
Latroon, &c. _sell Ship and Goods; the Seamen falling out and killing
one another, they leave them and go for_ Palermo; _Thence they travel
into the Country, and describe it with its Rarities and Wonders. A
comical Adventure in a house supposedly haunted, as they travelled
through_ Gergento _with their Mulletteer_.
Whilst we anchored at the Island of St. _Helena_ there happened a sad
Accident; whilst we were recreating and refreshing our selves in the
Island, one of our men (that brought us ashore in the Skiff) being an
excellent Swimmer, stript himself, and over the side of the Boat he
went, he had not been long in the water before such as stood on the
shore to see him swim, perceived a _Shark_ to make towards him; who
cryed out, A _Shark_, a _Shark_, hasten to the Boat; which he did with
incredible speed, and had laid his hands on her side as the _Shark_
snapt at his Leg, and having it in his mouth turned on his back, and
twisted it off from his knee. The fellow protested to me that when this
was done, he felt no pain any where but under his Arm-pits; the fellow
was drest and perfectly cur’d; afterwards this very _Shark_ was taken by
one of our men, fishing for him with a great piece of Raw-Beef, and when
his belly was ripp’d open, the Leg was found whole therein. From St.
_Helena_, having taken in fresh water, and gotten in some other
refreshment that the Island afforded, we set sail with a fresh breeze
and good weather.
Our Captain getting himself into the great Cabbin, gave the word for me,
I coming to him, now, said he, let you and I have a little private
discourse together, to the intent that we may perfect with safety what
we have enterpriz’d with hazard. You know my full intent as to the
disposing of the Ship and Goods to my own use and benefit, excepting
only what is yours, and the rest of our Comrades: What your old friend
in Breeches hath with great hazard ventur’d for, let her enjoy it freely
since she hath deserved it, and that you may see the frankness of my
Spirit, go, get our friends together that I may inform them, that though
I play the Rogue with others, yet I will be just to them; your _Newgate_
Birds will have such as wrong their own fraternity to be stigmatiz’d,
and branded with a name of Infamy indelible.
I quickly got them together, and having provided for us what Meat and
Liquors (the best) he had aboard, he then told us that we were all
heartily welcome, and that he was now, more than ever our friend, and
having taken a good lusty draught of what he had before him, seeing it
go round; friends and fellow-Travellers, said he, from my Childhood I
have had wondrous and various vicissitudes of Fortune, in so much that
though the relation of several of your lives which I have had, seems
very strange and eminently remarkable to me, yet when you shall hear me
giving you an account of the transactions of my life, which I shall
trouble you with very speedily, you will look upon them as incredible as
_Mounsieur_ St. _Serfs_ Voyage into the Moon, or the Travels of Sir
_John Mandivle_; In all the various windings and turnings of my life, I
never was settled long in one Condition. It is true, from very low and
mean beginnings I have got to the height of considerable employments,
from a Parish Child, I was for my Rogueries condemned to be transported,
by subtle deportment and insinuating behaviour I changed my Doom, and
was made Cabbin-boy, from thence I did gradually rise passing through
every Office that doth belong to a Ship till I was constituted a
Captain, several Voyages I have made to most parts of the known World,
and have gotten great sums of money, but no sooner did I call it my own,
but it vanished by shipwrack, or I was taken Prisoner and lost it that
way. I am now in my declension, and having a fairer opportunity than
ever I yet had, or ever thought to have to enrich my self, and sit down
quietly in some remote Corner of the World, I am resolved to lay hold on
it. And now coming near the Coast of _Europe_ I shall tell you my
resolution, that I intend to make my self a voluntary Exile to my own
Countrey. In order thereunto I shall shape my course for the
_Streights_, which will harbor my design in disposing of my goods,
neither will it be prejudicial to you to accompany me thither, since
from thence you may dispose your selves to the best and most flourishing
Countries of the World.
Here he paused a while to hear our opinion, which we acquainted him with
unanimously, that we were very joyful to continue longer in his company,
and that we would see him anchored in his designed Port, or run what
ever fortune should befal him; having assured him this, he continued his
discourse: Since I know your minds, and am, and shall be obliged to you
for your societies, I shall endeavour to requite your kindnesses: and
that my words may not seem airy pretences without performances, I shall
make this Proposition which if granted, you shall know how I have
studied a way to gratifie you. It is this, Master _Latroon_, the
Scrivener there, and Drugster, shall give each of them one hundred
pounds a piece to Mistress _Dorothy_, and that I may not exempt my self
from helping her forward into the World, I will give the like sum with
this Box of rough Diamonds, which I know is worth as much more; we all
consented: next, said he, every man according to his stock of money
expended in the procuration of what Commodities we have aboard upon the
Sale thereof shall receive it again, and his profit thereof according to
proportion, with an equal dividend of what Goods was taken upon credit.
You shall see me so just to you, that I will somewhat injure my self by
taking no fraught from you, but instead thereof the principal Officers
shall share with us, and the private Seamen shall have double pay | 1,096.29722 |
2023-11-16 18:35:20.5360300 | 2,610 | 82 |
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Internet Archive.)
THE MODERN RAILROAD
[Illustration: READY FOR THE DAY'S RUN]
THE MODERN RAILROAD
BY EDWARD HUNGERFORD
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE CORKY," "THE MAN WHO STOLE A
RAILROAD," ETC.
WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1911
COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1911
Published November, 1911
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
PRESS OF THE VAIL COMPANY
COSHOCTON, U. S. A.
TO MY FATHER
IN RECOGNITION OF HIS
INTEREST AND APPRECIATION
THIS BOOK
IS DEDICATED
PREFACE
To bring to the great lay mind some slight idea of the intricacy and the
involved detail of railroad operation is the purpose of this book. Of the
intricacies and involved details of railroad finance and railroad
politics; of the quarrels between the railroads, the organizations of
their employees, the governmental commissions, or the shippers, it says
little or nothing. These difficult and pertinent questions have been and
still are being competently discussed by other writers.
The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy of the editors and
publishers of _Harper's Monthly_, _Harper's Weekly_, _The Saturday Evening
Post_, and _Outing_ in permitting the introduction into this work of
portions or entire articles which he has written for them in the past. He
would also feel remiss if he did not publish his sincere acknowledgments
to "The American Railway," a compilation from _Scribner's Magazine_,
published in 1887, Mr. Logan G. McPherson's "The Workings of the
Railroad," Mr. C. F. Carter's "When Railroads Were New," and Mr. Frank H.
Spearman's "The Strategy of Great Railroads." Out of a sizable reference
library of railroad works, these volumes were the most helpful to him in
the preparation of certain chapters of this book.
E. H.
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK,
_August 1, 1911_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE RAILROADS AND THEIR BEGINNINGS 1
Two great groups of railroads; East to West, and North to
South--Some of the giant roads--Canals--Development of the
country's natural resources--Railroad projects--Locomotives
imported--First locomotive of American manufacture--Opposition
of canal-owners to railroads--Development of Pennsylvania's
anthracite mines--The merging of small lines into systems.
CHAPTER II
THE GRADUAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE RAILROAD 15
Alarm of canal-owners at the success of railroads--The making of
the Baltimore & Ohio--The "Tom Thumb" engine--Difficulties in
crossing the Appalachians--Extension to Pittsburgh--Troubles of
the Erie Railroad--This road the first to use the telegraph--The
prairies begin to be crossed by railways--Chicago's first
railroad, the Galena & Chicago Union--Illinois Central--Rock
Island, the first to span the Mississippi--Proposals to run
railroads to the Pacific--The Central Pacific organized--It and
the Union Pacific meet--Other Pacific roads.
CHAPTER III
THE BUILDING OF A RAILROAD 34
Cost of a single-track road--Financing--Securing a charter--
Survey-work and its dangers--Grades--Construction--Track-laying.
CHAPTER IV
TUNNELS 48
Their use in reducing grades--The Hoosac Tunnel--The use of
shafts--Tunnelling under water--The Detroit River tunnel.
CHAPTER V
BRIDGES 56
Bridges of timber, then stone, then steel--The Starucca
Viaduct--The first iron bridge in the United States--Steel
bridges--Engineering triumphs--Different types of railroad
bridge--The deck span and the truss span--Suspension
bridges--Cantilever bridges--Reaching the solid rock with
caissons--The work of "sand-hogs"--The cantilever over the Pend
Oreille River--Variety of problems in bridge-building--Points in
favor of the stone bridge--Bridges over the Keys of Florida.
CHAPTER VI
THE PASSENGER STATIONS 80
Early trains for suburbanites--Importance of the towerman--
Automatic switch systems--The interlocking machine--Capacities
of the largest passenger terminals--Room for locomotives,
car-storage, etc.--Storing and cleaning cars--The concourse--
Waiting-rooms--Baggage accommodations--Heating--Great
development of passenger stations--Some notable stations in
America.
CHAPTER VII
THE FREIGHT TERMINALS AND THE YARDS 107
Convenience of having freight stations at several points in a
city--The Pennsylvania Railroad's scheme at New York as an
example--Coal handled apart from other freight--Assorting the
cars--The transfer house--Charges for the use of cars not
promptly returned to their home roads--The hard work of the
yardmaster.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LOCOMOTIVES AND THE CARS 119
Honor required in the building of a locomotive--Some of the
early locomotives--Some notable locomotive-builders--Increase
of the size of engines--Stephenson's air-brake--The workshops--
The various parts of the engine--Cars of the old-time--
Improvements by Winans and others--Steel cars for freight.
CHAPTER IX
REBUILDING A RAILROAD 138
Reconstruction necessary in many cases--Old grades too heavy--
Curves straightened--Tunnels avoided--These improvements
required especially by freight lines.
CHAPTER X
THE RAILROAD AND ITS PRESIDENT 152
Supervision of the classified activities--Engineering,
operating, maintenance of way, etc.--The divisional system as
followed in the Pennsylvania Road--The departmental plan as
followed in the New York Central--Need for vice-presidents--The
board of directors--Harriman a model president--How the
Pennsylvania forced itself into New York City--Action of a
president to save the life of a laborer's child--"Keep right on
obeying orders"--Some railroad presidents compared--High
salaries of presidents.
CHAPTER XI
THE LEGAL AND FINANCIAL DEPARTMENTS 170
Functions of general counsel, and those of general attorney--A
shrewd legal mind's worth to a railroad--The function of the
claim-agent--Men and women who feign injury--The secret service
as an aid to the claim-agent--Wages of employees the greatest of
a railroad's expenditures--The pay-car--The comptroller or
auditor--Division of the income from through tickets--Claims for
lost or damaged freight--Purchasing-agent and store-keeper.
CHAPTER XII
THE GENERAL MANAGER 187
His duty to keep employees in harmonious actions--"The
superintendent deals with men; the general manager with
superintendents"--"The general manager is really king"--Cases
in which his power is almost despotic--He must know men.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SUPERINTENDENT 202
His headship of the transportation organism--His manner of
dealing with an offended shipper--His manner with commuters--His
manner with a spiteful "kicker"--A dishonest conductor who had a
"pull"--A system of demerits for employees--Dealing with
drunkards--With selfish and covetous men.
CHAPTER XIV
OPERATING THE RAILROAD 220
Authority of the chief clerk and that of the assistant
superintendent--Responsibilities of engineers, firemen, master
mechanic, train-master, train-despatcher--Arranging the
time-table--Fundamental rules of operation--Signals--Selecting
engine and cars for a train--Clerical work of conductors--A trip
with the conductor--The despatcher's authority--Signals along
the line--Maintenance of way--Superintendent of bridges and
buildings--Road-master--Section boss.
CHAPTER XV
THE FELLOWS OUT UPON THE LINE 243
Men who run the trains must have brain as well as muscle--Their
training--From farmer's boy to engineer--The brakeman's
dangerous work--Baggagemen and mail clerks--Hand-switchmen--The
multifarious duties of country station-agents.
CHAPTER XVI
KEEPING THE LINE OPEN 256
The wrecking train and its supplies--Floods dammed by an
embankment--Right of way always given to the wrecking-train--
Expeditious work in repairing the track--Collapse of the roof of
a tunnel--Telegraph crippled by storms--Winter storms the
severest test--Trains in quick succession help to keep the line
open in snowstorms--The rotary plough.
CHAPTER XVII
THE G. P. A. AND HIS OFFICE 276
He has to keep the road advertised--Must be an after-dinner
orator, and many-sided--His geniality, urbanity, courtesy--
Excessive rivalry for passenger traffic--Increasing luxury in
Pullman cars--Many printed forms of tickets, etc.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LUXURY OF MODERN RAILROAD TRAVEL 292
Special trains provided--Private cars--Specials for actors,
actresses, and musicians--Crude coaches on early railroads--
Luxurious old-time sleeping-cars--Pullman's sleepers made at
first from old coaches--His pioneer--The first dining-cars--The
present-day dining-cars--Dinners, _table d'hote_ and _a la
carte_--_Cafe_-cars--Buffet-cars--Care for the comfort of women.
CHAPTER XIX
GETTING THE CITY OUT INTO THE COUNTRY 311
Commuters' trains in many towns--Rapid increase in the volume of
suburban travel--Electrification of the lines--Long Island
Railroad almost exclusively suburban--Varied distances of
suburban homes from the cities--Club-cars for commuters--
Staterooms in the suburban cars--Special transfer commuters.
CHAPTER XX
FREIGHT TRAFFIC 325
Income from freight traffic greater than from passenger--
Competition in freight rates--Afterwards a standard rate-sheet--
Rate-wars virtually ended by the Interstate Commerce Commission
classification of freight into groups--Differential freight
rates--Demurrage for delay in emptying cars--Coal traffic--
Modern methods of handling lard and other freight.
CHAPTER XXI
THE DRAMA OF THE FREIGHT 343
Fast trains for precious and perishable goods--Cars invented for
fruits and for fish--Milk trains--Systematic handling of the
cans--Auctioning garden-truck at midnight--A historic city
freight-house.
CHAPTER XXII
MAKING TRAFFIC 355
Enticing settlers to the virgin lands of the West--Emigration
bureaus--Railways extended for the benefit of | 1,096.55607 |
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Produced by Judith Boss
THE TROLL GARDEN
AND
SELECTED STORIES
By Willa Cather
Contents
_Selected Stories_
On the Divide
Eric Hermannson's Soul
The Enchanted Bluff
The Bohemian Girl
_The Troll Garden_
Flavia and Her Artists
The Sculptor's Funeral
"A Death in the Desert"
The Garden Lodge
The Marriage of Phaedra
A Wagner Matinee
Paul's Case
SELECTED STORIES
On the Divide
Near Rattlesnake Creek, on the side of a little draw stood Canute's
shanty. North, east, south, stretched the level Nebraska plain of long
rust-red grass that undulated constantly in the wind. To the west the
ground was broken and rough, and a narrow strip of timber wound along
the turbid, muddy little stream that had scarcely ambition enough to
crawl over its black bottom. If it had not been for the few stunted
cottonwoods and elms that grew along its banks, Canute would have shot
himself years ago. The Norwegians are a timber-loving people, and if
there is even a turtle pond with a few plum bushes around it they seem
irresistibly drawn toward it.
As to the shanty itself, Canute had built it without aid of any kind,
for when he first squatted along the banks of Rattlesnake Creek there
was not a human being within twenty miles. It was built of logs split
in halves, the chinks stopped with mud and plaster. The roof was covered
with earth and was supported by one gigantic beam curved in the shape of
a round arch. It was almost impossible that any tree had ever grown in
that shape. The Norwegians used to say that Canute had taken the log
across his knee and bent it into the shape he wished. There were
two rooms, or rather there was one room with a partition made of ash
saplings interwoven and bound together like big straw basket work. In
one corner there was a cook stove, rusted and broken. In the other a
bed made of unplaned planks and poles. It was fully eight feet long, and
upon it was a heap of dark bed clothing. There was a chair and a bench
of colossal proportions. There was an ordinary kitchen cupboard with
a few cracked dirty dishes in it, and beside it on a tall box a tin
washbasin. Under the bed was a pile of pint flasks, some broken,
some whole, all empty. On the wood box lay a pair of shoes of almost
incredible dimensions. On the wall hung a saddle, a gun, and some ragged
clothing, conspicuous among which was a suit of dark cloth, apparently
new, with a paper collar carefully wrapped in a red silk handkerchief
and pinned to the sleeve. Over the door hung a wolf and a badger skin,
and on the door itself a brace of thirty or forty snake skins whose
noisy tails rattled ominously every time it opened. The strangest things
in the shanty were the wide windowsills. At first glance they looked as
though they had been ruthlessly hacked and mutilated with a hatchet, but
on closer inspection all the notches and holes in the wood took form and
shape. There seemed to be a series of pictures. They were, in a rough
way, artistic, but the figures were heavy and labored, as though they
had been cut very slowly and with very awkward instruments. There were
men plowing with little horned imps sitting on their shoulders and on
their horses' heads. There were men praying with a skull hanging over
their heads and little demons behind them mocking their attitudes. There
were men fighting with big serpents, and skeletons dancing together. All
about these pictures were blooming vines and foliage such as never grew
in this world, and coiled among the branches of the vines there was
always the scaly body of a serpent, and behind every flower there was
a serpent's head. It was a veritable Dance of Death by one who had felt
its sting. In the wood box lay some boards, and every inch of them
was cut up in the same manner. Sometimes the work was very rude and
careless, and looked as though the hand of the workman had trembled. It
would sometimes have been hard to distinguish the men from their evil
geniuses but for one fact, the men were always grave and were either
toiling or praying, while the devils were always smiling and dancing.
Several of these boards had been split for kindling and it was evident
that the artist did not value his work highly.
It was the first day of winter on the Divide. Canute stumbled into his
shanty carrying a basket of cobs, and after filling the stove, sat
down on a stool and crouched his seven foot frame over the fire, staring
drearily out of the window at the wide gray sky. He knew by heart every
individual clump of bunch grass in the miles of red shaggy prairie that
stretched before his cabin. He knew it in all the deceitful loveliness
of its early summer, in all the bitter barrenness of its autumn. He had
seen it smitten by all the plagues of Egypt. He had seen it parched by
drought, and sogged by rain, beaten by hail, and swept by fire, and in
the grasshopper years he had seen it eaten as bare and clean as bones
that the vultures have left. After the great fires he had seen it
stretch for miles and miles, black and smoking as the floor of hell.
He rose slowly and crossed the room, dragging his big feet heavily as
though they were burdens to him. He looked out of the window into the
hog corral and saw the pigs burying themselves in the straw before the
shed. The leaden gray clouds were beginning to spill themselves, and the
snow flakes were settling down over the white leprous patches of frozen
earth where the hogs had gnawed even the sod away. He shuddered and
began to walk, trampling heavily with his ungainly feet. He was the
wreck of ten winters on the Divide and he knew what that meant. Men fear
the winters of the Divide as a child fears night or as men in the North
Seas | 1,096.560489 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: THOMAS JEFFERSON.
_From Portrait by Gilbert Stuart._]
[Illustration: MONTICELLO:--THE WESTERN FRONT.]
THE DOMESTIC LIFE
OF
THOMAS JEFFERSON.
COMPILED FROM
FAMILY LETTERS AND REMINISCENCES,
BY HIS GREAT-GRANDDAUGHTER,
SARAH N. RANDOLPH.
[Illustration: Jefferson's seal]
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1871.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
PREFACE.
I do not in this volume write of Jefferson either as of the great
man or as of the statesman. My object is only to give a faithful
picture of him as he was in private life--to show that he was, as
I have been taught to think of him by those who knew and loved him
best, a beautiful domestic character. With this view I have collected
the reminiscences of him which have been written by his daughter and
grandchildren. From his correspondence, published and unpublished,
I have culled his family letters, and here reproduce them as being
the most faithful witnesses of the warmth of his affections, the
elevation of his character, and the scrupulous fidelity with which he
discharged the duties of every relation in life.
I am well aware that the tale of Jefferson's life, both public and
private, has been well told by the most faithful of biographers in
"Randall's Life of Jefferson," and that much of what is contained in
these pages will be found in that admirable work, which, from the
author's zealous devotion to truth, and his indefatigable industry
in collecting his materials, must ever stand chief among the most
valuable contributions to American history. I propose, however, to
give a sketch of Jefferson's private life in a briefer form than it
can be found in either the thirteen volumes of the two editions of
his published correspondence, or in the three stout octavo volumes of
his Life by Randall. To give a bird's-eye view of his whole career,
and to preserve unbroken the thread of this narrative, I quote freely
from his Memoir, and from such of his letters as cast any light upon
the subject, filling up the blanks with my own pen.
Jefferson's executor having a few months ago recovered from the
United States Government his family letters and private papers, which
had been exempted from the sale of his public manuscripts, I am
enabled to give in these pages many interesting letters never before
published.
No man's private character has been more foully assailed than
Jefferson's, and none so wantonly exposed to the public gaze, nor
more fully vindicated. I shall be more than rewarded for my labors
should I succeed in imparting to my readers a tithe of that esteem
and veneration which I have been taught to feel for him by the person
with whom he was most intimate during life--the grandson who, as a
boy, played upon his knee, and, as a man, was, as he himself spoke of
him, "the staff" of his old age.
The portrait of Jefferson is from a painting by Gilbert Stuart, in
the possession of his family, and by them considered as the best
likeness of him. The portrait of his daughter, Martha Jefferson
Randolph, is from a painting by Sully. The view of Monticello
represents the home of Jefferson as it existed during his lifetime,
and not as it now is--a ruin.
THE AUTHOR.
JUNE, 1871.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Jefferson's Birthplace.--Sketch of his early Life.--Character
of his Parents.--His Grandfather, Isham Randolph.--Peter
Jefferson's Friendship for William Randolph.--Randolph dies,
and leaves his young Son to the Guardianship of Jefferson.--
His faithful Discharge of the Trust.--Thomas Jefferson's
earliest Recollections.--His Father's Hospitality.--First
Acquaintance with Indians.--Life of the early Settlers of
Virginia: its Ease and Leisure.--Expense of Thomas Jefferson's
early Education.--Death of his Father.--Perils of his
Situation.--Letter to his Guardian.--Goes to William and
Mary College.--Extract from his Memoir.--Sketch of
Fauquier.--Of Wythe Page 17
CHAPTER II.
Intense Application as a Student.--Habits of Study kept up
during his Vacations.--First Preparations made for Building
at Monticello.--Letters to his College Friend, John Page.--
Anecdote of Benjamin Harrison.--Jefferson's Devotion to his
eldest Sister.--He witnesses the Debate on the Stamp
Act.--First Meeting with Patrick Henry.--His Opinion of
him.--His superior Education.--Always a Student.--Wide Range
of Information.--Anecdote.--Death of his eldest Sister.--His
Grief.--Buries himself in his Books.--Finishes his Course of
Law Studies.--Begins to practise.--Collection of Vocabularies
of Indian Languages.--House at Shadwell burnt.--Loss of his
Library.--Marriage.--Anecdote of his Courtship.--Wife's
Beauty.--Bright Prospects.--Friendship for Dabney Carr.--His
Talents.--His Death.--Jefferson buries him at Monticello.--His
Epitaph 31
CHAPTER III.
Happy Life at Monticello.--Jefferson's fine Horsemanship.--Birth
of his oldest Child.--Goes to Congress.--Death of his Mother.--
Kindness to British Prisoners.--Their Gratitude.--His Devotion to
Music.--Letter to General de Riedesel.--Is made Governor of
Virginia.--Tarleton pursues Lafayette.--Reaches Charlottesville.--
The British at Monticello.--Cornwallis's Destruction of Property
at Elk Hill.--Jefferson retires at the End of his Second Term as
Governor.--Mrs. Jefferson's delicate Health.--Jefferson meets with
an Accident.--Writes his Notes on Virginia.--The Marquis de
Chastellux visits Monticello.--His Description of it.--Letter of
Congratulation from Jefferson to Washington.--Mrs. Jefferson's
Illness and Death.--Her Daughter's Description of the Scene.--
Jefferson's Grief 48
CHAPTER IV.
Visit to Chesterfield County.--Is appointed Plenipotentiary to
Europe.--Letter to the Marquis de Chastellux.--Goes North with
his Daughter.--Leaves her in Philadelphia, and goes to
Congress.--Letters to his Daughter.--Sails for Europe.--His
Daughter's Description of the Voyage.--His Establishment and
Life in Paris.--Succeeds Franklin as Minister there.--Anecdotes
of Franklin.--Extracts from Mrs. Adams's Letters.--Note from
Jefferson to Mrs. Smith 67
CHAPTER V.
Jefferson's first Impressions of Europe.--Letter to Mrs.
Trist.--To Baron De Geismer.--He visits England.--Letter to
his Daughter.--To his Sister.--Extract from his Journal kept
when in England.--Letter to John Page.--Presents a Bust of
Lafayette to chief Functionaries of Paris.--Breaks his
Wrist.--Letter to Mrs. Trist.--Mr. and Mrs. Cosway.--
Correspondence with Mrs. Cosway.--Letter to Colonel
Carrington.--To Mr. Madison.--To Mrs. Bingham.--Her Reply 79
CHAPTER VI.
Death of Count de Vergennes.--Jefferson is ordered to Aix by
his Surgeon.--Death of his youngest Child.--Anxiety to have
his Daughter Mary with him.--Her Reluctance to leave
Virginia.--Her Letters to and from her Father.--Jefferson's
Letters to Mrs. and Mr. Eppes.--To Lafayette.--To the Countess
de Tesse.--To Lafayette.--Correspondence with his Daughter
Martha 101
CHAPTER VII.
Increased Anxiety about his youngest Daughter.--Her Aunt's
Letter.--She arrives in England.--Mrs. Adams receives her.--
Letter to Mrs. Eppes.--To Madame de Corny.--To J. Bannister.--
To his Sister.--Letter to Mr. Jay.--To Madame de Brehan.--To
Madame de Corny.--Weariness of Public Life.--Goes to
Amsterdam.--Letter to Mr. Jay.--To Mr. Izard.--To Mrs. Marks.--
To Mr. Marks.--To Randolph Jefferson.--To Mrs. Eppes 124
CHAPTER VIII.
Jefferson asks for leave of Absence.--Character of the Prince
of Wales.--Letters to Madame de Brehan.--Fondness for Natural
History.--Anecdote told by Webster.--Jefferson's Opinion of
Chemistry.--Letter to Professor Willard.--Martha Jefferson.--She
wishes to enter a Convent.--Her Father takes her Home.--He is
impatient to return to Virginia.--Letter to Washington.--To Mrs.
Eppes.--Receives leave of Absence.--Farewell to France.--
Jefferson as an Ambassador.--He leaves Paris.--His Daughter's
Account of the Voyage, and Arrival at Home.--His Reception by
his Slaves 139
CHAPTER IX.
Letters on the French Revolution 154
CHAPTER X.
Washington nominates Jefferson as Secretary of State.--
Jefferson's Regret.--Devotion of Southern Statesmen to Country
Life.--Letter to Washington.--Jefferson accepts the
Appointment.--Marriage of his Daughter.--He leaves for New
York.--Last Interview with Franklin.--Letters to Son-in-law.--
Letters of Adieu to Friends in Paris.--Family Letters. 169
CHAPTER XI.
Jefferson goes with the President to Rhode Island.--Visits
Monticello.--Letter to Mrs. Eppes.--Goes to Philadelphia.--
Family Letters.--Letter to Washington.--Goes to Monticello.--
Letters to his Daughter.--His Ana.--Letters to his Daughter.--
To General Washington.--To Lafayette.--To his Daughter 189
CHAPTER XII.
Anonymous Attacks on Jefferson.--Washington's Letter to him.--
His Reply.--Letter to Edmund Randolph.--Returns to
Philadelphia.--Washington urges him to remain in his
Cabinet.--Letters to his Daughter.--To his Son-in-law.--To
his Brother-in-law.--Sends his Resignation to the President.--
Fever in Philadelphia.--Weariness of Public Life.--Letters
to his Daughters.--To Mrs. Church.--To his Daughter.--Visits
Monticello.--Returns to Philadelphia.--Letter to Madison.--To
Mrs. Church.--To his Daughters.--Interview with Genet.--Letter
to Washington.--His Reply.--Jefferson returns to Monticello.--
State of his Affairs, and Extent of his Possessions.--Letter to
Washington.--To Mr. Adams.--Washington attempts to get
Jefferson back in his Cabinet.--Letter to Edmund Randolph,
declining.--Pleasures of his Life at Monticello.--Letter to
Madison.--To Giles.--To Rutledge.--To young Lafayette 213
CHAPTER XIII.
Description of Monticello and Jefferson by the Duc de la
Rochefoucauld-Liancourt.--Nominated Vice-President.--Letter
to Madison.--To Adams.--Preference for the Office of
Vice-President.--Sets out for Philadelphia.--Reception
there.--Returns to Monticello.--Letters to his Daughter.--Goes
to Philadelphia.--Letter to Rutledge.--Family Letters.--To
Miss Church.--To Mrs. Church 235
CHAPTER XIV.
Jefferson goes to Philadelphia.--Letters to his Daughters.--
Returns to Monticello.--Letters to his Daughter.--Goes back
to Philadelphia.--Family Letters.--Letters to Mrs. and Miss
Church.--Bonaparte.--Letters to his Daughters.--Is nominated
as President.--Seat of Government moved to Washington.--Spends
the Summer at Monticello.--Letters to his Daughter.--Jefferson
denounced by the New England Pulpit.--Letter to Uriah Gregory.--
Goes to Washington 254
CHAPTER XV.
Results of Presidential Election.--Letter to his Daughter.--
Balloting for President.--Letter to his Daughter.--Is
inaugurated.--Returns to Monticelllo.--Letters to his
Daughter.--Goes back to Washington.--Inaugurates the Custom
of sending a written Message to Congress.--Abolishes Levees.--
Letter to Story.--To Dickinson.--Letter from Mrs. Cosway.--
Family Letters.--Makes a short Visit to Monticello.--
Jefferson's Sixtieth Year 271
CHAPTER XVI.
Returns to Washington.--Letters to his Daughters.--Meets with
a Stranger in his daily Ride.--Letters to his Daughter.--To
his young Grandson.--To his Daughter, Mrs. Randolph.--Last
Letters to his Daughter, Mrs. Eppes.--Her Illness.--Letter to
Mr. Eppes.--Goes to Monticello.--Death of Mrs. Eppes.--Account
of it by a Niece.--Her Reminiscences of Mary Jefferson Eppes.--
Letter to Page.--To Tyler.--From Mrs. Adams.--Mr. Jefferson's
Reply.--Midnight Judges.--Letters to his Son-in-law 288
CHAPTER XVII.
Renominated as President.--Letter to Mazzei.--Slanders against
Jefferson.--Sad Visit to Monticello.--Second Inauguration.--
Receives the Bust of the Emperor of Russia.--Letters to and
from the Emperor.--To Diodati.--To Dickinson.--To his
Son-in-law.--Devotion to his Grandchildren.--Letter to
Monroe.--To his Grandchildren.--His Temper when roused.--Letter
to Charles Thompson.--To Dr. Logan.--Anxious to avoid a Public
Reception on his Return home.--Letter to Dupont de Nemours.--
Inauguration of Madison.--Harmony in Jefferson's Cabinet.--Letter
to Humboldt.--Farewell Address from the Legislature of
Virginia.--His Reply.--Reply to an Address of Welcome from
the Citizens of Albemarle.--Letter to Madison.--Anecdote of
Jefferson.--Dr. Stuart says he is quarelling with the Almighty 310
CHAPTER XVIII.
His final Return home.--Wreck of his Fortunes.--Letter to Mr.
Eppes.--To his Grand-daughter, Mrs. Bankhead.--To
Kosciusko.--Description of the Interior of the House at
Monticello.--Of the View from Monticello.--Jefferson's
Grandson's Description of his Manners and Appearance.--
Anecdotes.--His Habits.--Letter to Governor Langdon.--To
Governor Tyler.--Life at Monticello.--Jefferson's Studies
and Occupations.--Sketch of Jefferson by a Grand-daughter.--
Reminiscences of him by another Grand-daughter 329
CHAPTER XIX.
Letter to his Grand-daughter, Mrs. Bankhead.--To Dr. Rush.--
To Duane.--Anxiety to reopen Correspondence with John Adams.--
Letter to Benjamin Rush.--Old Letter from Mrs. Adams.--Letter
from Benjamin Rush.--Letter from John Adams.--The
Reconciliation.--Character of Washington.--Devotion to
him.--Letter to Say.--State of Health.--Labors of
Correspondence.--Cheerfulness of his Disposition.--Baron
Grimour.--Catherine of Russia.--Ledyard.--Letter to Mrs.
Trist.--To John Adams.--Gives Charge of his Affairs to his
Grandson.--Letter to his Grandson, Francis Eppes.--Description
of Monticello by Lieutenant Hall.--Letter to Mrs. Adams.--Her
Death.--Beautiful Letter to Mr. Adams.--Letter to Dr. Utley.--
Correspondence with Mrs. Cosway.--Tidings from Old French
Friends 349
CHAPTER XX.
Letters to John Adams.--Number of Letters written and
received.--To John Adams.--Breaks his Arm.--Letter to Judge
Johnson.--To Lafayette.--The University of Virginia.--Anxiety
to have Southern Young Men educated at the South.--Letters on
the Subject.--Lafayette's Visit to America.--His Meeting with
Jefferson.--Daniel Webster's Visit to Monticello, and
Description of Mr. Jefferson 378
CHAPTER XXI.
Pecuniary Embarrassments.--Letter from a Grand-daughter.--Dr.
Dunglison's Memoranda.--Sells his Library.--Depressed
Condition of the Money Market.--Disastrous Consequences to
Jefferson.--His Grandson's Devotion and Efforts to relieve
him.--Mental Sufferings of Mr. Jefferson.--Plan of Lottery to
sell his Property.--Hesitation of Virginia Legislature to grant
his Request.--Sad Letter to Madison.--Correspondence with
Cabell.--Extract from a Letter to his Grandson, to Cabell.--
Beautiful Letter to his Grandson.--Distress at the Death of his
Grand-daughter.--Dr. Dunglison's Memoranda.--Meeting in
Richmond.--In Nelson County.--New York, Philadelphia, and
Baltimore come to his Relief.--His Gratitude.--Unconscious
that at his Death Sales of his Property would fail to pay his
Debts.--Deficit made up by his Grandson.--His Daughter left
penniless.--Generosity of Louisiana and South Carolina 397
CHAPTER XXII.
Letter to Namesake.--To John Adams.--Declining Health.--Dr.
Dunglison's Memoranda.--Tenderness to his Family.--Accounts
of his Death by Dr. Dunglison and Colonel Randolph.--Farewell
to his Daughter.--Directions for a Tombstone.--It is erected
by his Grandson.--Shameful Desecration of Tombstones at
Monticello 419
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
THOMAS JEFFERSON (From Portrait by Stuart) } _In Front._
MONTICELLO (The Western View) }
JEFFERSON'S SEAL _Title-Page._
JEFFERSON'S COAT OF ARMS _On Cover._
JEFFERSON'S MARRIAGE LICENSE-BOND (Fac-simile) 42
PART OF DRAFT OF DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE (Fac-simile) 52
MARTHA JEFFERSON RANDOLPH (From Portrait by Sully) 65
JEFFERSON'S HORSE-CHAIR (Still preserved at Monticello) 289
MONTICELLO (Plan of the First Floor) 334
THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA (In 1850) 386
JEFFERSON'S GRAVE (Near Monticello) 432
THE
DOMESTIC LIFE OF JEFFERSON.
CHAPTER I.
Jefferson's Birthplace.--Sketch of his early Life.--Character
of his Parents.--His Grandfather, Isham Randolph.--Peter
Jefferson's Friendship for William Randolph.--Randolph dies,
and leaves his young Son to the Guardianship of Jefferson.--His
faithful Discharge of the Trust.--Thomas Jefferson's earliest
Recollections.--His Father's Hospitality.--First Acquaintance
with Indians.--Life of the early Settlers of Virginia: its Ease
and Leisure.--Expense of Thomas Jefferson's early Education.--
Death of his Father.--Perils of his Situation.--Letter to his
Guardian.--Goes to William and Mary College.--Extract from his
Memoir.--Sketch of Fauquier.--Of Wythe.
On a long, gently sloping hill five miles east of Charlottesville,
Virginia, the traveller, passing along the county road of Albemarle,
has pointed out to him the spot where Thomas Jefferson was born,
April 13th, 1743. A few aged locust-trees are still left to mark the
place, and two or three sycamores stretch out their long majestic
arms over the greensward beneath, once the scene of young Jefferson's
boyish games, but now a silent pasture, where cattle and sheep
browse, undisturbed by the proximity of any dwelling. The trees are
all that are left of an avenue planted by him on his twenty-first
birthday, and, as such, are objects of peculiar interest to those who
love to dwell upon the associations of the past.
The situation is one well suited for a family mansion--offering from
its site a landscape view rarely surpassed. To the south are seen
the picturesque valley and banks of the Rivanna, with an extensive,
peaceful-looking horizon view, lying like a sleeping beauty, in the
east; while long rolling hills, occasionally rising into mountain
ranges until at last they are all lost in the gracefully-sweeping
profile of the Blue Ridge, stretch westward, and the thickly-wooded
Southwest Mountains, with the highly-cultivated fields and valleys
intervening, close the scene on the north, and present landscapes
whose exquisite enchantment must ever charm the beholder.
A brief sketch of Jefferson's family and early life is given in the
following quotation from his Memoir, written by himself:
_January 6, 1821._--At the age of 77, I begin to make some
memoranda, and state some recollections of dates and facts
concerning myself, for my own more ready reference, and for the
information of my family.
The tradition in my father's family was, that their ancestor
came to this country from Wales, and from near the mountain of
Snowden, the highest in Great Britain. I noted once a case from
Wales in the law reports, where a person of our name was either
plaintiff or defendant; and one of the same name was Secretary
to the Virginia Company. These are the only instances in which I
have met with the name in that country. I have found it in our
early records; but the first particular information I have of
any ancestor was of my grandfather, who lived at the place in
Chesterfield called Osborne's, and owned the lands afterwards
the glebe of the parish. He had three sons: Thomas, who died
young; Field, who settled on the waters of the Roanoke, and
left numerous descendants; and Peter, my father, who settled on
the lands I still own, called Shadwell, adjoining my present
residence. He was born February 29th, 1708, and intermarried
1739 with Jane Randolph, of the age of 19, daughter of Isham
Randolph, one of the seven sons of that name and family settled
at Dungeness, in Goochland. They trace their pedigree far back
in England and Scotland, to which let every one ascribe the
faith and merit he chooses.
My father's education had been quite neglected; but being of a
strong mind, sound judgment, and eager after information, he
read much, and improved himself; insomuch that he was chosen,
with Joshua Fry, Professor of Mathematics in William and
Mary College, to run the boundary-line between Virginia and
North Carolina, which had been begun by Colonel Byrd, and was
afterwards employed with the same Mr. Fry to make the first map
of Virginia which had ever been made, that of Captain Smith
being merely a conjectural sketch. They possessed excellent
materials for so much of the country as is below the Blue Ridge,
little being then known beyond that ridge. He was the third or
fourth settler, about the year 1737, of the part of the country
in which I live. He died August 17th, 1757, leaving my mother
a widow, who lived till 1776, with six daughters and two sons,
myself the elder.
To my younger brother he left his estate on James River, called
Snowden, after the supposed birthplace of the family; to myself,
the lands on which I was born and live. He placed me at the
English school at five years of age, and at the Latin at nine,
where I continued until his death. My teacher, Mr. Douglas, a
clergyman from Scotland, with the rudiments of the Latin and
Greek languages, taught me the French; and on the death of
my father I went to the Rev. Mr. Maury, a correct classical
scholar, with whom I continued two years.
The talents of great men are frequently said to be derived from the
mother. If they are inheritable, Jefferson was entitled to them on
both the paternal and maternal side. His father was a man of most
extraordinary vigor, both of mind and body. His son never wearied of
dwelling with all the pride of filial devotion and admiration on the
noble traits of his character. To the regular duties of his vocation
as a land-surveyor (which, it will be remembered, was the profession
of Washington also) were added those of county surveyor, colonel of
the militia, and member of the House of Burgesses.
Family tradition has preserved several incidents of the survey of the
boundary-line between Virginia and North Carolina, which prove him to
have been a man of remarkable powers of endurance, untiring energy,
and indomitable courage. The perils and toils of running that line
across the Blue Ridge were almost incredible, and were not surpassed
by those encountered by Colonel Byrd and his party in forcing the
same line through the forests and marshes of the Dismal Swamp in the
year 1728. On this expedition Colonel Jefferson and his companions
had often to defend themselves against the attacks of wild beasts
during the day, and at night found but a broken rest, sleeping--as
they were obliged to do for safety--in trees. At length their supply
of provisions began to run low, and his comrades, overcome by hunger
and exhaustion, fell fainting beside him. Amid all these hardships
and difficulties, Jefferson's courage did not once flag, but living
upon raw flesh, or whatever could be found to sustain life, he
pressed on and persevered until his task was accomplished.
So great was his physical strength, that when standing between two
hogsheads of tobacco lying on their sides, he could raise or "head"
them both up at once. Perhaps it was because he himself rejoiced in
such gigantic strength that it was his frequent remark that "it is
the strong in body who are both the strong and free in mind." This,
too, made him careful to have his young son early instructed in
all the manly sports and exercises of his day; so that while still
a school-boy he was a good rider, a good swimmer, and an ardent
sportsman, spending hours and days wandering in pursuit of game along
the sides of the beautiful Southwest Mountains--thus strengthening
his body and his health, which must otherwise have given way under
the intense application to study to which he soon afterwards devoted
himself.
The Jeffersons were among the earliest immigrants to the colony,
and we find the name in the list of the twenty-two members who
composed the Assembly that met in Jamestown in the year 1619--the
first legislative body that was ever convened in America.[1] Colonel
Jefferson's father-in-law, Isham Randolph, of Dungeness, was a man of
considerable eminence in the colony, whose name associated itself in
his day with all that was good and wise. In the year 1717 he married,
in London, Jane Rogers. Possessing the polished and courteous
manners of a gentleman of the colonial days, with a well-cultivated
intellect, and a heart in which every thing that is noble and true
was instinctive, he charmed and endeared himself to all who were
thrown into his society. He devoted much time to the study of
science; and we find the following mention of him in a quaint letter
from Peter Collinson, of London, to Bartram, the naturalist, then on
the eve of visiting Virginia to study her flora:
When thee proceeds home, I know no person who will make thee
more welcome than Isham Randolph. He lives thirty or forty
miles above the falls of James River, in Goochland, above the
other settlements. Now, I take his house to be a very suitable
place to make a settlement at, for to take several days'
excursions all round, and to return to his house at night....
One thing I must desire of thee, and do insist that thee must
oblige me therein: that thou make up that drugget clothes, to
go to Virginia in, and not appear to disgrace thyself or me;
for though I should not esteem thee the less to come to me in
what dress thou wilt, yet these Virginians are a very gentle,
well-dressed people, and look, perhaps, more at a man's outside
than his inside. For these and other reasons, pray go very
clean, neat, and handsomely-dressed to Virginia. Never mind thy
clothes; I will send thee more another year.
[1] The Jeffersons first emigrated to Virginia in 1612.
In reply to Bartram's account of the kind welcome which he received
from Isham Randolph, he writes: "As for my friend Isham, who I am
also personally known to, I did not doubt his civility to thee. I
only wish I had been there and shared it with thee." Again, after
Randolph's death, he writes to Bartram that "the good man is gone to
his long home, and, I doubt not, is happy."
Such was Jefferson's maternal grandfather. His mother, from whom he
inherited his cheerful and hopeful temper and disposition, was a
woman of a clear and strong understanding, and, in every respect,
worthy of the love of such a man as Peter Jefferson.
Isham Randolph's nephew, Colonel William Randolph, of Tuckahoe, was
Peter Jefferson's most intimate friend. A pleasing incident preserved
in the family records proves how warm and generous their friendship
was. Two or three days before Jefferson took out a patent for a
thousand acres of land on the Rivanna River, Randolph had taken out
one for twenty-four hundred acres adjoining. Jefferson, not finding a
good site for a house on his land, his friend sold him four hundred
acres of his tract, the price paid for these four hundred acres
being, as the deed still in the possession of the family proves,
"Henry Weatherbourne's biggest bowl of arrack punch."
Colonel Jefferson called his estate "Shadwell," after the parish
in England where his wife was born, while Randolph's was named
"Edgehill," in honor of the field on which the Cavaliers and
Roundheads first crossed swords. By an intermarriage between their
grandchildren, these two estates passed into the possession of
descendants common to them both, in whose hands they have been
preserved down to the present day.
On the four hundred acres thus added by Jefferson to his original
patent, he erected a plain weather-boarded house, to which he took
his young bride immediately after his marriage, and where they
remained until the death of Colonel William Randolph, of Tuckahoe, in
1745.
It was the dying request of Colonel Randolph, that his friend
Peter Jefferson should undertake the management of his estates and
the guardianship of his young son, Thomas Mann Randolph. Being
unable to fulfill this request while living at Shadwell, Colonel
Jefferson removed his family to Tuckahoe, and remained there seven
years, sacredly guarding, like a Knight of the Round Table, the
solemn charge intrusted to him, without any other reward than the
satisfaction of fully keeping the promise made to his dying friend.
That he refused to receive any other compensation for his services
as guardian is not only proved by the frequent assertion of his son
in after years, but by his accounts as executor, which have ever
remained unchallenged.[2]
[2] In spite of these facts, however, some of Randolph's
descendants, with more arrogance than gratitude, speak of Colonel
Jefferson as being a paid agent of their ancestor.
Thomas Jefferson was not more than two years old when his father
moved to Tuckahoe, yet he often declared that his earliest
recollection in life was of being, on that occasion, handed up to a
servant on horseback, by whom he was carried on a pillow for a long
distance. He also remembered that later, when five years old, he
one day became impatient for his school to be out, and, going out,
knelt behind the house, and there repeated the Lord's Prayer, hoping
thereby to hurry up the desired hour.
Colonel Jefferson's house at Shadwell was near the public highway,
and in those days of primitive hospitality was the stopping-place for
all passers-by, and, in the true spirit of Old Virginia hospitality,
was thrown open to every guest. Here, too, the great Indian Chiefs
stopped, on their journeys to and from the colonial capital, and
it was thus that young Jefferson first became acquainted with and
interested in them and their people. More than half a century later
we find him writing to John Adams:
I know much of the great Ontassete, the warrior and orator of
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_Compliments of_
_BOOKER T. WASHINGTON_
_Principal Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute
Tuskegee Institute, Alabama_
TUSKEGEE AND ITS PEOPLE
[Illustration: BOOKER T. WASHINGTON.]
TUSKEGEE & ITS PEOPLE: THEIR IDEALS AND ACHIEVEMENTS
EDITED BY
BOOKER T. WASHINGTON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published June, 1905_
PREFACE
In a general way the reading public is fairly well acquainted with the
work of the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute, but there is
continued demand for definite information as to just what the graduates
of that institution are doing with their education.
That inquiry is partly answered by this book. The scope of the Tuskegee
Institute work is outlined by the chapters contained in Part I, while
those of Part II evidence the fact that the graduates of the school are
grappling at first-hand with the conditions that environ the masses of
the <DW64> people.
At the school, in addition to the regular Normal School course of
academic work, thirty-six industries are taught the young men and women.
These are: Agriculture; Basketry; Blacksmithing; Bee-keeping;
Brickmasonry; Plastering; Brick-making; Carpentry; Carriage Trimming;
Cooking; Dairying; Architectural, Freehand, and Mechanical Drawing;
Dressmaking; Electrical and Steam Engineering; Founding; Harness-making;
Housekeeping; Horticulture; Canning; Plain Sewing; Laundering;
Machinery; Mattress-making; Millinery; Nurse Training; Painting;
Sawmilling; Shoemaking; Printing; Stock-raising; Tailoring; Tinning; and
Wheelwrighting.
Since the founding of the institution, July 4, 1881, seven hundred and
forty-six graduates have gone out from the institution, while more than
six thousand others who were not able to remain and complete the
academic course, and thereby secure a diploma, have been influenced for
good by it.
The school has sought from the very beginning to make itself of
practical value to the <DW64> people and to the South as well. It has
taught those industries that are of the South, the occupations in which
our men and women find most ready employment, and unflinchingly has
refused to abandon its course; it has sought to influence its young men
and women to live unselfish, sacrificing lives; to put into practise the
lessons taught on every side that make for practical, helpful every-day
living.
In the main those who go out from Tuskegee Institute, (1) follow the
industry they have been taught, (2) teach in a public or private school
or teach part of the year and farm or labor the rest, (3) follow
housekeeping or other domestic service, or (4) enter a profession or the
Government service, or become merchants. Among the teachers are many who
instruct in farming or some industry; the professional men are largely
physicians, and the professional women mostly trained nurses. Dr.
Washington, the Principal of the school, makes the unqualified
statement: "After diligent investigation, I can not find a dozen former
students in idleness. They are in shop, field, schoolroom, home, or the
church. They are busy because they have placed themselves in demand by
learning to do that which the world wants done, and because they have
learned the disgrace of idleness and the sweetness of labor."
No attempt has here been made to represent all of the industries; no
attempt has especially been made to confine representation to those who
are working at manual labor. The public, or at least a part of it,
somewhat gratuitously, has reached the conclusion that Tuskegee
Institute is a "servant training school," or an employment agency. That
is a mistaken idea.
The object of the school is to train men and women who will go out and
repeat the work done here, to teach what they have learned to others,
and to leaven the whole mass of the <DW64> people in the South with a
desire for the knowledge and profitable operation of those industries in
which they have in so large a measure the right of way. Tuskegee
students and graduates are never urged not to take such service,
especially not to refuse in preference to idleness, but it all involves
a simple, ordinary, economic principle. Capable men and women, skilled
in the industrial | 1,096.85822 |
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Produced by Nahum Maso i Carcases 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:
Obvious punctuation errors and misprints have been corrected.
Blank pages present in the printed original have been deleted in
the e-text version.
Text in Italics is indicated between _underscores_
Text in small capitals has been replaced by regular uppercase text.
* * * * *
CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE
A Story for Boys
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
AUTHOR OF "FRANK'S CAMPAIGN," "ERIE TRAIN BOY,"
"ADRIFT IN NEW YORK," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
PREFACE.
In deference to the expressed wishes of some of his young friends,
the author has essayed a story of the sea, and now presents "Charlie
Codman's Cruise," as the third volume of the Campaign Series. It will
be found more adventurous than its predecessors, and the trials which
Charlie is called upon to encounter are of a severer character than
befell Frank Frost or Paul Prescott. But it will be found that they
were met with the same manly spirit, and a like determination to be
faithful to duty at all hazards.
Though not wholly a stranger to the sea, the author is quite aware of
the blunders to which a landsman is exposed in treating of matters and
a mode of life which, at the best, he must comprehend but imperfectly,
and has endeavored to avoid, as far as possible, professional
technicalities, as not essential to the interest of the story.
With these few words he submits the present volume to his young
readers, hoping for it a welcome even more generous than has been
accorded to "Frank's Campaign" and "Paul Prescott's Charge."
CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE.
I.
CHARLIE AND THE MISER.
Charlie Codman turned out of Washington into Bedford Street just as the
clock in the Old South steeple struck two. He was about fourteen, a
handsome, well-made boy, with a bright eye and a manly expression. But
he was poor. That was evident enough from his clothes, which, though
neat and free from dust, were patched in several places. He had a small
roll of daily papers under his arm, the remains of his stock in trade,
which he had been unable wholly to dispose of.
Some of my readers may know that the Latin School and English High
School are kept in the same building. At two o'clock both are
dismissed. Charlie had scarcely passed the school-house when a crowd
of boys issued from the school-yard, and he heard his name called from
behind. Looking back he recognized a boy somewhat smaller than himself,
with whom he had formed an acquaintance some time before.
"Where are you bound, Charlie?" asked Edwin Banks.
"I'm going home now."
"What luck have you had this morning?"
"Not much. I've got four papers left over, and that will take away
about all my profits."
"What a pity you are poor, Charlie. I wish you could come to school
with us."
"So do I, Eddie. I'd give a good deal to get an education, but I feel
that I ought to help mother."
"Why won't you come some time, and see us, Charlie? Clare and myself
would be very glad to see you at any time."
"I should like to go," said Charlie, "but I don't look fit."
"Oh, never mind about your clothes. I like you just as well as if you
were dressed in style."
"Perhaps I'll come some time," said Charlie. "I'd invite you to come
and see me, but we live in a poor place."
"Just as if I should care for that. I will come whenever I get an
invitation."
"Then come next Saturday afternoon. I will be waiting for you as you
come out of school."
Charlie little thought where he would be when Saturday came.
Shortly after the boys separated, and Charlie's attention was arrested
by the sight of an old man with a shambling gait, who was bending
over and anxiously searching for something on the sidewalk. Charlie
recognized him at once as "old Manson, the miser," for this was the
name by which he generally went.
Old Peter Manson was not more than fifty-five, but he looked from
fifteen to twenty years older. If his body had been properly cared
for, it would have been different; but, one by one, its functions had
been blunted and destroyed, and it had become old and out of repair.
Peter's face was ploughed with wrinkles. His cheeks were thin, and the
skin was yellow and hung in folds. His beard appeared to have received
little or no attention for a week, at least, and was now stiff and
bristling.
The miser's dress was not very well fitted to his form. It was in
the fashion of twenty years before. Grayish pantaloons, patched in
divers places with dark cloth by an unskilful hand; a vest from which
the buttons had long since departed, and which was looped together
by pieces of string, but not closely enough to conceal a dirty and
tattered shirt beneath; a coat in the last stages of shabbiness; while
over all hung a faded blue cloak, which Peter wore in all weathers. In
the sultriest days of August he might have been seen trudging along in
this old mantle, which did him the good service of hiding a multitude
of holes and patches, while in January he went no warmer clad. There
were some who wondered how he could stand the bitter cold of winter
with no more adequate covering; but if Peter's body was as tough as
his conscience, there was no fear of his suffering.
Charlie paused a moment to see what it was that the old man was hunting
for.
"Have you lost anything?" he asked.
"Yes," said Peter, in quavering accents. "See if you can't find it,
that's a good boy. Your eyes are better than mine."
"What is it?"
"It is some money, and I--I'm so poor, I can't afford to lose it."
"How much was it?"
"It wasn't much, but I'm so poor I need it."
Charlie espied a cent, lying partially concealed by mud, just beside
the curb-stone. He picked it up.
"This isn't what you lost, is it?"
"Yes," said Peter, seizing it eagerly. "You're a good boy to find it. A
good boy!"
"Well," thought Charlie, wondering, as the old man hobbled off with his
recovered treasure, "I'd rather be poor than care so much for money as
that. People say old Peter's worth his thousands. I wonder whether it
is so."
Charlie little dreamed how much old Peter was likely to influence his
destiny, and how, at his instigation, before a week had passed over his
head, he would find himself in a very disagreeable situation.
We must follow Peter.
With his eyes fixed on the ground he shuffled along, making more rapid
progress than could have been expected. Occasionally he would stoop
down and pick up any little stray object which arrested his attention,
even to a crooked pin, which he thrust into his cloak, muttering as he
did so, "Save my buying any. I haven't had to buy any pins for more'n
ten years, and I don't mean to buy any more while I live. Ha! ha!
Folks are _so_ extravagant! They buy things they don't need, or that
they might pick up, if they'd only take the trouble to keep their eyes
open. 'Tisn't so with old Peter. He's too cunning for that. There goes
a young fellow dressed up in the fashion. What he's got on must have
cost nigh on to a hundred dollars. What dreadful extravagance! Ha!
ha! It hasn't cost old Peter twenty dollars for the last ten years. If
he had spent money as some do, he might have been in the poor-house by
this time. Ugh! ugh! it costs a dreadful sum to live. If we could only
come into the world with natural clothes, like cats, what a deal better
it would be. But it costs the most for food. Oh dear! what a dreadful
appetite I've got, and I _must_ eat. All the money spent for victuals
seem thrown away. I've a good mind, sometimes, to go to the poor-house,
where it wouldn't cost me anything. What a blessing it would be to eat,
if you could only get food for nothing!"
It is very clear that Peter would have been far better off, as far as
the comforts of life are concerned, in the city almshouse; but there
were some little obstacles in the way of his entering. For instance,
it would scarcely have been allowed a public pensioner to go round
quarterly to collect his rents,--a thing which Peter would hardly have
relinquished.
Reflections upon the cost of living brought to Peter's recollection
that he had nothing at home for supper. He accordingly stepped into a
baker's shop close at hand.
"Have you got any bread cheap?" he inquired of the baker.
"We intend to sell at moderate prices."
"What do you ask for those loaves?" said the old man, looking wistfully
at some fresh loaves piled upon the counter, which had been but a short
time out of the oven.
"Five cents apiece," said the baker. "I'll warrant you will find them
good. They are made of the best of flour."
"Isn't five cents rather dear?" queried Peter, his natural appetite
struggling with his avarice.
"Dear!" retorted the baker, opening his eyes in astonishment; "why, my
good sir, at what price do you expect to buy bread?"
"I've no doubt they're very good," said Peter, hastily; "but have you
any stale loaves? I guess they'll be better for me."
"Yes," said the baker, "I believe I have, but they're not as good as
the fresh bread."
"How do you sell your stale loaves?" inquired Peter, fumbling in his
pocket for some change.
"I sell them for about half price--three cents apiece."
"You may give me one, then; I guess it'll be better for me."
Even Peter was a little ashamed to acknowledge that it was the price
alone which influenced his choice.
The baker observed that, notwithstanding his decision, he continued to
look wistfully towards the fresh bread. Never having seen old Peter
before, he was unacquainted with his character, and judging from his
dilapidated appearance that he might be prevented, by actual poverty,
from buying the fresh bread, exclaimed with a sudden impulse: "You seem
to be poor. If you only want one loaf, I will for this once give you a
fresh loaf for three cents--the same price I ask for the stale bread."
"Will you?"
Old Peter's eyes sparkled with eagerness as he said this.
"Poor man!" thought the baker with mistaken compassion; "he must
indeed be needy, to be so pleased."
"Yes," he continued, "you shall have a loaf this once for three cents.
Shall I put it in a paper for you?"
Peter nodded.
Meanwhile he was busy fumbling in his pockets for the coins requisite
to purchase the loaf. He drew out three battered cents, and deposited
them with reluctant hand on the counter. He gazed at them wistfully
while the baker carelessly swept them with his hand into the till
behind the counter; and then with a sigh of resignation, at parting
with the coins, seized the loaf and shambled out into the street.
He put the bundle under his arm, and hastened up the street, his mouth
watering in anticipation of the feast which awaited him. Do not laugh,
reader,--little as you may regard a fresh loaf of bread, it was indeed
a treat to Peter, who was accustomed, from motives of economy, to
regale himself upon stale bread.
The baker was congratulating himself upon having done a charitable
action, when Peter came back in haste, pale with affright.
"I--I--," he stammered, "must have dropped some money. You haven't
picked up any, have you?"
"Not I!" said the baker, carelessly. "If you dropped it here you will
find it somewhere on the floor. Stay, I will assist you."
Peter seemed rather disconcerted than otherwise by this offer of
assistance, but could not reasonably interpose any objection.
After a very brief search Peter and the baker simultaneously discovered
the missing coin. The former pounced upon it, but not before the latter
had recognized it as a gold piece.
"Ho, ho!" thought he, in surprise, "my charity is not so well bestowed
as I thought. Do you have many such coins?" he asked, meaningly.
"I?" said Peter, hastily, "Oh no! I am very poor. This is all I have,
and I expect it will be gone soon,--it costs so much to live!"
"It'll never cost you much," thought the baker, watching the shabby
figure of the miser as he receded from the shop.
II.
A MISER'S HOUSEHOLD.
Peter Manson owned a small house in an obscure street. It was a
weather-beaten tenement of wood, containing some six or eight rooms,
all of which, with one exception, were given over to dirt, cobwebs,
gloom, and desolation. Peter might readily have let the rooms which
he did not require for his own use, but so profound was his distrust
of human nature, that not even the prospect of receiving rent for
the empty rooms could overcome his apprehension of being robbed by
neighbors under the same roof. For Peter trusted not his money to banks
or railroads, but wanted to have it directly under his own eye or
within his reach. As for investing his gold in the luxuries of life,
or even in what were generally considered its absolute necessaries, we
have already seen that Peter was no such fool as that. A gold eagle
was worth ten times more to him than its equivalent in food or clothing.
With more than his usual alacrity, old Peter Manson, bearing under his
cloak the fresh loaf which he had just procured from the baker on such
advantageous terms, hastened to his not very inviting home.
Drawing from his pocket a large and rusty door-key, he applied it to
the door. It turned in the lock with a creaking sound, and the door
yielding to Peter's push he entered.
The room which he appropriated to his own use was in the second story.
It was a large room, of some eighteen feet square, and, as it is
hardly necessary to say, was not set off by expensive furniture. The
articles which came under this denomination were briefly these,--a
cherry table which was minus one leg, whose place had been supplied by
a broom handle fitted in its place; three hard wooden chairs of unknown
antiquity; an old wash-stand; a rusty stove which Peter had picked up
cheap at an auction, after finding that a stove burned out less fuel
than a fireplace; a few articles of crockery of different patterns,
some cracked and broken; a few tin dishes, such as Peter found
essential in his cooking; and a low truckle bedstead with a scanty
supply of bedclothes.
Into this desolate home Peter entered.
There was an ember or two left in the stove, which the old man
contrived, by hard blowing, to kindle into life. On these he placed a
few sticks, part of which he had picked up in the street early in the
morning, and soon there was a little show of fire, over which the miser
spread his hands greedily as if to monopolize what little heat might
proceed therefrom. He looked wistfully at the pile of wood remaining,
but prudence withheld him from putting on any more.
"Everything costs money," he muttered to himself. "Three times a day
I have to eat, and that costs a sight. Why couldn't we get along with
eating once a day? That would save two thirds. Then there's fire. That
costs money, too. Why isn't it always summer? Then we shouldn't need
any except to cook by. It seems a sin to throw away good, bright,
precious gold on what is going to be burnt up and float away in smoke.
One might almost as well throw it into the river at once. Ugh! only to
think of what it would cost if I couldn't pick up some sticks in the
street. There was a little girl picking up some this morning when I was
out. If it hadn't been for her, I should have got more. What business
had she to come there, I should like to know?"
"Ugh, ugh!"
The blaze was dying out, and Peter was obliged, against his will, to
put on a fresh supply of fuel.
By this time the miser's appetite began to assert itself, and rising
from his crouching position over the fire he walked to the table on
which he had deposited his loaf of bread. With an old jack-knife he
carefully cut the loaf into two equal parts. One of these he put back
into the closet. From the same place he also brought out a sausage, and
placing it over the fire contrived to cook it after a fashion. Taking
it off he placed it on a plate, and seated himself on a chair | 1,096.858295 |
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A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE
A BOOK OF
IRISH VERSE
SELECTED FROM MODERN WRITERS
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
AND NOTES
BY W.B. YEATS
METHUEN AND CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON
1900
_Revised Edition_
W.H. WHITE AND CO. LTD.
RIVERSIDE PRESS, EDINBURGH
TO THE MEMBERS
OF
THE NATIONAL LITERARY SOCIETY OF DUBLIN
AND THE
IRISH LITERARY SOCIETY OF LONDON CONTENTS
PAGE
Preface xiii
Modern Irish Poetry xvii
Old Age _Oliver Goldsmith_ (1725-1774) 1
The Village Preacher " " " " 2
The Deserter's Meditation _John Philpot Curran_ (1750--1817) 3
'Thou canst not boast' _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ (1751-1816) 4
Kathleen O'More _James Nugent Reynolds_ ( -1802) 5
The Groves of Blarney _Richard Alfred Milliken_ (1767-1815) 6
The Light of other Days _Thomas Moore_ (1779-1852) 10
'At the Mid Hour of
Night' " " " " 11
The Burial of Sir John
Moore _Rev. Charles Wolfe_ (1791-1823) 12
The Convict of Clonmel _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_ (1795-1839) 14
The Outlaw of Loch Lene " " " 16
Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear " " " 17
Love Song _George Darley_ (1795-1846) 20
The Whistlin' Thief _Samuel Lover_ (1797-1868) 22
Soggarth Aroon _John Banim_ (1798-1842) 24
Dark Rosaleen _James Clarence Mangan_ (1803-1849) 27
Lament for the Princes
of Tyrone and Tyrconnell " " " 31
A Lamentation for the
Death of Sir Maurice
Fitzgerald " " " 41
The Woman of Three
Cows _James Clarence Mangan_ (1803-1849) 43
Prince Alfrid's Itinerary
through Ireland " " " 47
O'Hussey's Ode to The
Maguire " " " 50
The Nameless One " " " 55
Siberia " " " 57
Hy-Brasail _Gerald Griffin_ (1803-1840) 59
Mo Craoibhin Cno _Edward Walsh_ (1805-1850) 61
Mairgread Ni Chealleadh " " " " 63
From the Cold Sod
that's o'er you " " " " 65
The Fairy Nurse " " " " 67
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe _Michael Doheny_ (1805-1863) 69
Lament of the Irish
Emigrant _Lady Dufferin_ (1807-1867) 71
The Welshmen of
Tirawley _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ (1810-1886) 74
Aideen's Grave " " " " " 91
Deirdre's Lament for
the Sons of Usnach " " " " " 99
The Fair Hills of Ireland " " " " " 102
Lament over the Ruins
of the Abbey of Timoleague " " " " " 104
The Fairy Well of Lagnanay " " " " " 107
On the Death of Thomas
Davis " " " " " 111
The County of Mayo _George Fox_ 115
The Wedding of the
Clans _Aubrey de Vere_ (1814) 117
The Little Black Rose _Aubrey de Vere_ (1814) 119
Song " " " " 120
The Bard Ethell " " " " 121
Lament for the Death
of Eoghan Ruadh
O'Neill _Thomas Davis_ (1814-1845) 135
Maire Bhan Astor " " " " 138
O! the Marriage " " " " 140
A Plea for Love " " " " 142
Remembrance _Emily Bronte_ (1818-1848) 143
A Fragment from 'The
Prisoner: a Fragment' " " " " 145
Last Lines " " " " 147
The Memory of the Dead _John Kells Ingram_ (? 1820) 148
The Winding Banks of
Erne _William Allingham_ (1824-1889) 150
The Fairies " " " " 157
The Abbot of Inisfalen. " " " " 160
Twilight Voices " " " " 164
'Four Ducks on a Pond' " " " " 166
The Lover and Birds " " " " 167
The Celts _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_ (1825-1868) 169
Salutation to the Celts " " " 172
The Gobban Saor " " " 174
Patrick Sheehan _Charles J. Kickham_ (1825-1882) 176
The Irish Peasant Girl " " " " " 180
To God and Ireland
True _Ellen O'Leary_ (1831-1889) 182
The Banshee _John Todhunter_ (1836) 183
Aghadoe " " " 186
A Mad Song _Hester Sigerson_ 188
Lady Margaret's Song _Edward Dowden_ (1843) 188
Song _Arthur O'Shaughnessy_ (1844-1881) 189
Father O'Flynn _Alfred Perceval Graves_ (1846) 191
Song _Rosa Gilbert_ 192
Requiescat _Oscar Wilde_ (1855) 193
The Lament of Queen
Maev _Thomas William Rolleston_ (1857) 195
The Dead at Clonmacnois " " " " 197
The Spell-struck " " " " 198
'Were you on the
Mountain?' _Douglas Hyde_ 199
'My Grief on the Sea' " " 200
My Love, O, she is my
Love " " 201
I shall not die for thee " " 204
Riddles " " 205
Lough Bray _Rose Kavanagh_ (1861-1891) 206
The Children of Lir _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_ 209
St. Francis to the Birds " " " 212
Sheep and Lambs " " " 215
The Gardener Sage " " " 216
The Dark Man _Nora Hopper_ 218
The Fairy Fiddler " " 219
Our Thrones Decay _A.E._ 220
Immortality " 221
The Great Breath " 221
Sung on a By-way " 222
Dream Love " 223
Illusion " 223
Janus " 224
Connla's Well " 225A
Names _John Eglinton_ 226A
That _Charles Weekes_ 227A
Think " " 227A
Te Martyrum Candidatus _Lionel Johnson_ 228A
The Church of a Dream " " 229A
Ways of War " " 230A
The Red Wind _Lionel Johnson_ 231A
Celtic Speech " " 232A
To Morfydd " " 225
Can Doov Deelish _Dora Sigerson_ 226
ANONYMOUS
Shule Aroon 231
| 1,096.860094 |
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Soldiers of Fortune Series
AT THE FALL OF PORT ARTHUR
Or
A Young American in the Japanese Navy
by
EDWARD STRATEMEYER
Author of "Under the Mikado's Flag," "On to Pekin," "Two Young
Lumbermen," "Old Glory Series," "Colonial Series,"
"Pan-American Series," etc.
Illustrated by A. B. Shute
[Illustration: "It is coming this way!" yelled Larry.----_Page 84._]
[Illustration: Printer's logo]
Boston:
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
1930
Copyright, 1905, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company
All rights reserved
AT THE FALL OF PORT ARTHUR
Printed in U.S.A.
PREFACE
"AT THE FALL OF PORT ARTHUR" is a complete tale in itself, but forms the
third volume in a line issued under the general title of "Soldiers of
Fortune Series."
The story relates primarily the adventures of Larry Russell and his
old-time sea chum, Luke Striker, already well known to the readers of my
"Old Glory Series." Larry and Luke are aboard of their old ship, the
_Columbia_, bound from Manila to Nagasaki, with a cargo designed for the
Japanese Government. This is during the war between Russia and Japan,
and when close to the Japanese coast the schooner is sighted by a
Russian warship and made a prize of war.
As prisoners both Larry and Luke see something of life in the Russian
navy. When close to Vladivostok, the Russian warship falls in with
several ships of the Japanese fleet, and after a thrilling sea-fight
surrenders with her prize. This brings Larry and Luke before Admiral
Togo, and as Larry's brother Ben, with their mutual friend, Gilbert
Pennington, is already in the Japanese army, Larry enters the Japanese
navy and Luke follows suit. The siege and bombardment of Port Arthur are
at their height; and the particulars are given of many battles both on
the sea and on land, leading up to the ultimate surrender of that brave
Russian commander, General Stoessel, and the fall of the city. By this
surrender the Japanese obtained many thousands of prisoners of war,
hundreds of cannon, with large quantities of ammunition, and several
scores of vessels, useful for either fighting purposes or as transports.
Moreover, this victory placed the entire southern portion of Manchuria
under Japanese control, giving the army untrammeled use of the railroad
running from Port Arthur to Liao-Yang, a city on the road to Mukden,
captured some time before, as already related in another volume of this
series, entitled "Under the Mikado's Flag."
As I have mentioned in a previous work, it is as yet impossible to state
what the outcome of this terrific conflict will be. So far victory has
perched largely upon the standard of Japan. The Russian navy has been
practically shattered and its army fought to a standstill. The cost of
the war | 1,096.954225 |
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DEVOTIONAL POETRY
FOR THE
CHILDREN.
SECOND PART.
"_Make us beautiful within,
By Thy Spirit's holy light;
Guard us when our faith | 1,097.232998 |
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Transcriber’s Note: Footnotes in this book have been renumbered
sequentially for the convenience of this e-text. Some, though | 1,097.497802 |
2023-11-16 18:35:21.5571570 | 1,717 | 28 | PHILADELPHIA***
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THE HERRIGES HORROR IN PHILADELPHIA.
A Full History of the Whole Affair.
A Man Kept in a Dark Cage Like a Wild
Beast for Twenty Years,
As Alleged,
in His Own Mother's and Brother's House.
The Most Fiendish Cruelty of the Century.
Illustrated with Reliable Engravings,
Drawn Specially for This Work.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by C. W.
ALEXANDER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court in and for the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
THE HERRIGES HORROR.
"Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands morn."
Every now and then the world is startled with an event of a like character
to the one which has just aroused in the city of Philadelphia the utmost
excitement, and which came near producing a scene of riot and even
bloodshed.
John Herriges is the name of the victim, and for an indefinite period of
from ten to twenty years has been confined in a little cagelike room and
kept in a condition far worse than the wild animals of a menagerie.
What adds an additional phase of horror to the case of this unfortunate
creature is the fact that he was thus confined in the same house with his
own brother and mother. To our minds this is the most abhorrent feature of
the whole affair.
We can imagine how a stranger, or an uncle, or an aunt possessed with the
demon of avarice could deliberately imprison the heir to a coveted estate
in some out of the way room or loft of a large building where the victim
would be so far removed from sight and sound as to prevent his groans and
tears being heard or seen. But how a brother and, Merciful Heaven, a
mother could live in a shanty of a house year after year with a brother,
and son shut up and in the condition in which the officers of the law
found poor John Herriges, is more than we can account for by any process
of reasoning. It only shows what perverted human nature is capable of.
THE HOUSE OF HORROR.
The house in which lived the Herriges family is a little two storied frame
building or more properly shanty, rickety and poverty stricken in its
appearance, more resembling the abodes of the denizens of Baker street
slums than the home of persons of real wealth as it really is. It stands
on the northeast corner of Fourth and Lombard streets, in Philadelphia.
Immediately to the north of it is an extensive soap boiling establishment,
while directly adjoining it in the east are some frame shanties still
smaller and more delapidated than itself, and which, belonging to the
Herriges also, were rented by Joseph Herriges, the accused, for a most
exhorbitant sum. To the credit of the occupants of these shanties, we must
say that by means of whitewash they have made them look far preferable to
that of their landlord--at least in appearance.
On the north of the soap boiling establishment referred to stretches the
burial ground of St. Peter's Episcopal Church, with its hundreds of
monuments and green graves, while on the opposite side of Fourth street
lies the burial ground of the Old Pine Street Church, with its almost
numberless dead.
The writer of this recollects years ago, when a boy, often passing and
repassing the Herriges house, and noticing on account of its forlorn
appearance and the comical Dutch Pompey which stood upon the wooden
pedestal at the door to indicate the business of a tobacconist.
How little he thought when contemplating it, that a human being languished
within its dingy wooden walls, in a condition worse than that of the
worst-cared-for brutes.
A fact in connection with this case is remarkable, which is this. On a
Sabbath morning there is no one spot in the whole city of Philadelphia,
standing on which, you can hear so many different church bells at once, or
so many different choirs singing the praises of Almighty God. And on every
returning Sunday the poor prisoner's ears drank in the sacred harmony. God
knows perhaps at such times the angels ministered to him in his dismal
cage, sent thither with sunshine that could not be shut out by human
monsters. Think of it, reader, a thousand recurring Sabbaths found the
poor young imbecile growing from youth to a dreadfully premature old age.
The mind staggers to think of it. Could we trace day by day the long
wearisome hours of the captive's life, how terrible would be the journey.
We should hear him sighing for the bright sun light that made the grave
yard green and clothed all the monuments in beautiful flowers. How he
would prize the fragrance of a little flower, condemned as he was to smell
nothing but the dank, noisome effluvia of the soap boiler's factory.
Hope had no place in his cramped, filthy cage. No genius but that of
Dispair ever found tenement in the grimed little room.
But though so long, oh, so long, Liberty came at last, and the pining boy,
now an old man, was set free, through the agency of a poor, but noble
woman, Mrs. Gibson, who had the heart to feel and the bravery to rescue
from his hellish bondage the unfortunate.
THE GIBSON'S HISTORY OF THE AFFAIR.
On the 1st of June 1870 Thos. J. Gibson and his mother rented the frame
house 337 Lombard Street from Joseph Herriges. The house adjoined Herriges
cigar store. Mr. Hoger, a shoemaker, living next door to Mrs. Gibson's,
told her at the time she moved into the house, that she would see a crazy
man in Herriges house and not to be afraid of him. Mrs. Charnes, living
next door but one, for seventeen years, laughed at her, when she asked
about the crazy man living locked up in Herriges house, as though making
light of the whole matter.
VERBATIM COPY OF AGREEMENT BETWEEN JOSEPH HERRIGES AND THE GIBSONS.
This Contract and Agreement is that the rent of sixteen dollars per month
is to be paid punctually in advance each and every month hereafter, and if
the terms of this contract is not complied with I will leave the house and
give up the possession to the lessor or his representatives.
THOS. J. GIBSON.
Received of Ann Gibson sixteen dollars for one month's rent in advance
from June 1. To 30 1870 rent to begin on 1. June and end on the 30.
Rented May 27 1870
J. HERRIGES.
THE DISCOVERY.
On Monday, June 14th, Mr. Gibson's little sister was sent up-stairs to get
ready for school, and on going to the window she was frightened by seeing
a man looking through the crevices of an upper window in Herriges house,
which window was in the second story. This window was closely barred with
pieces of plank from top to bottom.
The man was mum | 1,097.577197 |
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E-text prepared by Audrey Longhurst, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
SEVENOAKS
A Story of Today
by
J.G. HOLLAND
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Published by Arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons
1875
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Which tells about Sevenoaks, and how Miss Butterworth passed one of
her evenings
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Belcher carries his point at the town-meeting, and the poor are
knocked down to Thomas Buffum
CHAPTER III.
In which Jim Fenton is introduced to the reader and introduces himself to
Miss Butterworth
CHAPTER IV.
In which Jim Fenton applies for lodgings at Tom Buffum's boarding-house,
and finds his old friend
CHAPTER V.
In which Jim enlarges his accommodations and adopts a violent method
of securing boarders
CHAPTER VI.
In which Sevenoaks experiences a great commotion, and comes to the
conclusion that Benedict has met with foul play
CHAPTER VII.
In which Jim and Mike Conlin pass through a great trial and come out
victorious
CHAPTER VIII.
In which Mr. Belcher visits New York, and becomes the Proprietor of
"Palgrave's Folly."
CHAPTER IX.
Mrs. Talbot gives her little dinner party, and Mr. Belcher makes an
exceedingly pleasant acquaintance
CHAPTER X.
Which tells how a lawyer spent his vacation in camp, and took home a
specimen of game that he had never before found in the woods
CHAPTER XI.
Which records Mr. Belcher's connection with a great speculation and
brings to a close his residence in Sevenoaks
CHAPTER XII.
In which Jim enlarges his plans for a house, and completes his plans for
a house-keeper
CHAPTER XIII.
Which introduces several residents of Sevenoaks to the Metropolis and
a new character to the reader
CHAPTER XIV.
Which tells of a great public meeting in Sevenoaks, the burning in effigy
of Mr. Belcher, and that gentleman's interview with a reporter
CHAPTER XV.
Which tells about Mrs. Dillingham's Christmas and the New Year's
Reception at the Palgrave Mansion
CHAPTER XVI.
Which gives an account of a voluntary and an involuntary visit of Sam
Yates to Number Nine
CHAPTER XVII.
In which Jim constructs two happy-Davids, raises his hotel, and dismisses
Sam Yates
CHAPTER XVIII.
In which Mrs. Dillingham makes some important discoveries, but fails to
reveal them to the reader
CHAPTER XIX.
In which Mr. Belcher becomes President of the Crooked Valley Railroad,
with large "Terminal facilities," and makes an adventure into a
long-meditated crime
CHAPTER XX.
In which "the little woman" announces her engagement to Jim Fenton
and receives the congratulations of her friends
CHAPTER XXI.
In which Jim gets the furniture into his house, and Mike Conlin gets
another installment of advice into Jim
CHAPTER XXII.
In which Jim gets married, the new hotel receives its mistress, and
Benedict confers a power of attorney
CHAPTER XXIII.
In which Mr. Belcher expresses his determination to become a "founder,"
but drops his noun in fear of a little verb of the same name
CHAPTER XXIV.
Wherein the General leaps the bounds of law, finds himself in a new
world, and becomes the victim of his friends without knowing it
CHAPTER XXV.
In which the General goes through a great many trials, and meets at last
the one he has so long anticipated
CHAPTER XXVI.
In which the case of "Benedict _vs._ Belcher" finds itself in court, an
interesting question of identity is settled, and a mysterious
disappearance takes place
CHAPTER XXVII.
In which Phipps is not to be found, and the General is called upon to do
his own lying
CHAPTER XXVIII.
In which a heavenly witness appears who cannot be cross-examined, and
before which the defense utterly breaks down
CHAPTER XXIX.
Wherein Mr. Belcher, having exhibited his dirty record, shows a clean
pair of heels
CHAPTER XXX.
Which gives the history of an anniversary, presents a tableau, and drops
the curtain
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TELLS ABOUT SEVENOAKS, AND HOW MISS BUTTERWORTH PASSED ONE OF HER
EVENINGS.
Everybody has seen Sevenoaks, or a hundred towns so much like it, in
most particulars, that a description of any one of them would present it
to the imagination--a town strung upon a stream, like beads upon a
thread, or charms upon a chain. Sevenoaks was richer in chain than
charms, for its abundant water-power was only partially used. It
plunged, and roared, and played, and sparkled, because it had not half
enough to do. It leaped down three or four cataracts in passing through
the village; and, as it started from living springs far northward among
the woods and mountains, it never failed in its supplies.
Few of the people of Sevenoaks--thoughtless workers, mainly--either knew
or cared whence it came, or whither it went. They knew it as "The
Branch;" but Sevenoaks was so far from the trunk, down to which it sent
its sap, and from which it received no direct return, that no
significance was attached to its name. But it roared all day, and roared
all night, summer and winter alike, and the sound became a part of the
atmosphere. Resonance was one of the qualities of the oxygen which the
people breathed, so that if, at any midnight moment, the roar had been
suddenly hushed, they would have waked with a start and a sense of
suffocation, and leaped from their beds.
Among the charms that dangled from this liquid chain--depending from the
vest of a landscape which ended in a ruffle of woods toward the north,
overtopped by the head of a mountain--was a huge factory that had been
added to from time to time, as necessity demanded, until it had become
an imposing and not uncomely pile. Below this were two or three
dilapidated saw-mills, a grist-mill in daily use, and a fulling-mill--a
remnant of the old times when homespun went its pilgrimage to town--to
be fulled, colored, and dressed--from all the sparsely settled country
around.
On a little plateau by the side of The Branch was a row of stores and
dram-shops and butchers' establishments. Each had a sort of square,
false front, pierced by two staring windows and a door, that reminded
one of a lion _couchant_--very large in the face and very thin in the
flank. Then there were crowded in, near the mill, little rows of
one-story houses, occupied entirely by operatives, and owned by the
owner of the mill. All the inhabitants, not directly connected with the
mill, were as far away from it as they could go. Their houses were set
back upon either acclivity which rose from the gorge that the stream had
worn, dotting the hill-sides in every direction. There was a clumsy
town-hall, there were three or four churches, there was a high school
and a low tavern. It was, on the whole, a village of importance, but the
great mill was somehow its soul and center. A fair farming and grazing
country stretched back from it eastward and westward, and Sevenoaks was
its only home market.
It is not proposed, in this history, to tell where Sevenoaks was, and is
to-day. It may have been, or may be, in Maine, or New Hampshire, or
Vermont, or New York. It was in the northern part of one of these
States, and not far from the border of a wilderness, almost as deep and
silent as any that can be found beyond the western limit of settlement
and civilization. The red man had left it forever, but the bear, the
deer and the moose remained. The streams and lakes were full of trout;
otter and sable still attracted the trapper, and here and there a
lumberman lingered alone in his cabin, enamored of the solitude and the
wild pursuits to which a hardly gentler industry had introduced him.
Such lumber as could be drifted down the streams had long been cut and
driven out, and the woods were left to the hunter and his prey, and to
the incursions of sportsmen and seekers for health, to whom the rude
residents became guides, cooks, and servants of all work, for the sake
of occasional society, and that ever-serviceable consideration--money.
There were two establishments in Sevenoaks which stood so far away from
the stream that they could hardly be described as attached to it.
Northward, on the top of the bleakest hill in the region, stood the
Sevenoaks poor-house. In dimensions and population, it was utterly out
of proportion to the size of the town, for the people of Sevenoaks
seemed to degenerate into paupers with wonderful facility. There was one
man in the town who was known to be getting rich, while all the rest
grew poor. Even the keepers of the dram-shops, though they seemed to do
a thriving business, did not thrive. A great deal of work was done, but
people were paid very little for it. If a man tried to leave the town
for the purpose of improving his condition, there was always some
mortgage on his property, or some impossibility of selling what he had
for money, or his absolute dependence on each day's labor for each day's
bread, that stood in the way. One by one--sick, disabled, discouraged,
dead-beaten--they drifted into the poor-house, which, as the years went
on, grew into a shabby, double pile of buildings, between which ran a
county road.
This establishment was a county as well as a town institution, and,
theoretically, one group of its buildings was devoted to the reception
of county paupers, while the other was assigned to the poor of
Sevenoaks. Practically, the keeper of both mingled his boarders
indiscriminately, to suit his personal convenience.
The hill, as it climbed somewhat abruptly from the western bank of the
stream--it did this in the grand leisure of the old geologic
centuries--apparently got out of breath and sat down when its task was
half done. Where it sat, it left a beautiful plateau of five or six
acres, and from this it rose, and went on climbing, until it reached the
summit of its effort, and descended the other side. On the brow of this
plateau stood seven huge oaks which the chopper's axe, for some reason
or another, had spared; and the locality, in all the early years of
settlement, was known by the name of "The Seven Oaks." They formed a
notable landmark, and, at last, the old designation having been worn by
usage, the town was incorporated with the name of Sevenoaks, in a single
word.
On this plateau, the owner of the mill, Mr. Robert Belcher--himself an
exceptional product of the village--had built his residence--a large,
white, pretentious dwelling, surrounded and embellished by all the
appointments of wealth. The house was a huge cube, ornamented at its
corners and cornices with all possible flowers of a rude architecture,
reminding one of an elephant, that, in a fit of incontinent playfulness,
had indulged in antics characteristic of its clumsy bulk and brawn.
Outside were ample stables, a green-house, a Chinese pagoda that was
called "the summer-house," an exquisite garden and trees, among which
latter were carefully cherished the seven ancient oaks that had given
the town its name.
Robert Belcher was not a gentleman. He supposed himself to be one, but
he was mistaken. Gentlemen of wealth usually built a fine house; so Mr.
Belcher built one. Gentlemen kept horses, a groom and a coachman; Mr.
Belcher did the same. Gentlemen of wealth built green-houses for
themselves and kept a gardener; Mr. Belcher could do no less. He had no
gentlemanly tastes, to be sure, but he could buy or hire these for
money; so he bought and hired them; and when Robert Belcher walked
through his stables and jested with his men, or sauntered into his
green-house and about his grounds, he rubbed his heavy hands together,
and fancied that the costly things by which he had surrounded himself
were the insignia of a gentleman.
From his windows he could look down upon the village, all of which he
either owned or controlled. He owned the great mill; he owned the
water-privilege; he owned many of the dwellings, and held mortgages on
many others; he owned the churches, for all purposes practical to
himself; he owned the ministers--if not, then this was another mistake
that he had made. So long as it was true that they could not live
without him, he was content with his title. He patronized the church,
and the church was too weak to decline his ostentatious courtesy. He
humiliated every man who came into his presence, seeking a subscription
for a religious or charitable purpose, but his subscription was always
sought, and as regularly obtained. Humbly to seek his assistance for any
high purpose was a concession to his power, and to grant the assistance
sought was to establish an obligation. He was willing to pay for
personal influence and personal glory, and he often paid right royally.
Of course, Mr. Belcher's residence had a library; all gentlemen have
libraries. Mr. Belcher's did not contain many books, but it contained a
great deal of room for them. Here he spent his evenings, kept his papers
in a huge safe built into the wall, smoked, looked down on the twinkling
village and his huge mill, counted his gains and constructed his
schemes. Of Mrs. Belcher and the little Belchers, he saw but little. He
fed and dressed them well, as he did his horses. All gentlemen feed and
dress their dependents well. He was proud of his family as he saw them
riding in their carriage. They looked gay and comfortable, and were, as
he thought, objects of envy among the humbler folk of the town, all of
which reflected pleasantly upon himself.
On a late April evening, of a late spring in 18--, he was sitting in
his library, buried in a huge easy chair, thinking, smoking, scheming.
The shutters were closed, the lamps were lighted, and a hickory fire was
blazing upon the hearth. Around the rich man were spread the luxuries
which his wealth had bought--the velvet carpet, the elegant chairs, the
heavy library table, covered with costly appointments, pictures in broad
gold frames, and one article of furniture that he had not been
accustomed to see in a gentleman's library--an article that sprang out
of his own personal wants. This was an elegant pier-glass, into whose
depths he was accustomed to gaze in self-admiration. He was flashily
dressed in a heavy coat, buff waistcoat, and drab trousers. A gold chain
of fabulous weight hung around his neck and held his Jurgensen repeater.
He rose and walked his room, and rubbed his hands, as was his habit;
then paused before his mirror, admired his robust figure and large face,
brushed his hair back from his big brow, and walked on again. Finally,
he paused before his glass, and indulged in another habit peculiar to
himself.
"Robert Belcher," said he, addressing the image in the mirror, "you are
a brick! Yes, sir, you are a brick! You, Robert Belcher, sir, are an
almighty smart man. You've outwitted the whole of 'em. Look at me, sir!
Dare you tell me, sir, that I am not master of the situation? Ah! you
hesitate; it is well! They all come to me, every man of 'em It is 'Mr.
Belcher, will you be so good?' and 'Mr. Belcher, I hope you are very
well,' and 'Mr. Belcher, I want you to do better by me.' Ha! ha! ha! ha!
My name is Norval. It isn't? Say that again and I'll throttle you! Yes,
sir, I'll shake your rascally head off your shoulders! Down, down in the
dust, and beg my pardon! It is well; go! Get you gone, sir, and remember
not to beard the lion in his den!"
Exactly what this performance meant, it would be difficult to say. Mr.
Belcher, in his visits to the city, had frequented theaters and admired
the villains of the plays he had seen represented. He had noticed
figures upon the boards that reminded him of his own. His addresses to
his mirror afforded him an opportunity to exercise his gifts of
speech and action, and, at the same time, to give form to his
self-gratulations. They amused him; they ministered to his preposterous
vanity. He had no companions in the town, and the habit gave him a sense
of society, and helped to pass away his evenings. At the close of his
effort he sat down and lighted another cigar. Growing drowsy, he laid it
down on a little stand at his side, and settled back in his chair for a
nap. He had hardly shut his eyes when there came a rap upon his door.
"Come in!"
"Please, sir," said a scared-looking maid, opening the door just wide
enough to make room for her face.
"Well?" in a voice so sharp and harsh that the girl cringed.
"Please, sir, Miss Butterworth is at the door, and would like to see
you."
Now, Miss Butterworth was the one person in all Sevenoaks who was not
afraid of Robert Belcher. She had been at the public school with him
when they were children; she had known every circumstance of his
history; she was not dependent on him in any way, and she carried in her
head an honest and fearless tongue. She was an itinerant tailoress, and
having worked, first and last, in nearly every family in the town, she
knew the circumstances of them all, and knew too well the connection of
Robert Belcher with their troubles and reverses. In Mr. Belcher's
present condition of self-complacency and somnolency, she was not a
welcome visitor. Belligerent as he had been toward his own image in the
mirror, he shrank from meeting Keziah Butterworth, for he knew
instinctively that she had come with some burden of complaint.
"Come in," said Mr. Belcher to his servant, "and shut the door behind
you."
The girl came in, shut the door, and waited, leaning against it.
"Go," said her master in a low tone, "and tell Mrs. Belcher that I am
busy, and that she must choke her off. I can't see her to-night. I can't
see her."
The girl retired, and soon afterward Mrs. Belcher came, and reported
that she could do nothing with Miss Butterworth--that Miss Butterworth
was determined to see him before she left the house.
"Bring her in; I'll make short work with her."
As soon as Mrs. Belcher retired, her husband hurried to the mirror,
brushed his hair back fiercely, and then sat down to a pile of papers
that he always kept conveniently upon his library table.
"Come in," said Mr. Belcher, in his blandest tone, when Miss Butterworth
was conducted to his room.
"Ah! Keziah?" said Mr. Belcher, looking up with a smile, as if an
unexpected old friend had come to him.
"My name is Butterworth, and it's got a handle to it,' said that
bumptious lady, quickly.
"Well, but, Keziah, you know we used to--"
"My name is Butterworth, I tell you, and it's got a handle to it."
"Well, Miss Butterworth--happy to see you--hope you are well--take a
chair."
"Humph," exclaimed Miss Butterworth, dropping down upon the edge of a
large chair, whose back felt no pressure from her own during the
interview. The expression of Mr. Belcher's happiness in seeing her, and
his kind suggestion concerning her health, had overspread Miss
Butterworth's countenance with a derisive smile, and though she was
evidently moved to tell him that he lied, she had reasons for
restraining her tongue.
They formed a curious study, as they sat there together, during the
first embarrassing moments. The man had spent his life in schemes for
absorbing the products of the labor of others. He was cunning, brutal,
vain, showy, and essentially vulgar, from his head to his feet, in
every fiber of body and soul. The woman had earned with her own busy
hands every dollar of money she had ever possessed. She would not have
wronged a dog for her own personal advantage. Her black eyes, lean and
spirited face, her prematurely whitening locks, as they were exposed by
the backward fall of her old-fashioned, quilted hood, presented a
physiognomy at once piquant and prepossessing.
Robert Belcher knew that the woman before him was fearless and
incorruptible. He knew that she despised him--that bullying and
brow-beating would have no influence with her, that his ready badinage
would not avail, and that coaxing and soft words would be equally
useless. In her presence, he was shorn of all his weapons; and he never
felt so defenseless and ill at ease in his life.
As Miss Butterworth did not seem inclined to begin conversation, Mr.
Belcher hem'd and haw'd with affected nonchalance, and said:
"Ah!--to--what am I indebted for this visit. Miss--ah--Butterworth?"
"I'm thinking!" she replied sharply, looking into the fire, and pressing
her lips together.
There was nothing to be said to this, so Mr. Belcher looked doggedly at
her, and waited.
"I'm thinking of a man, and-he-was-a-man-every-inch-of-him, if there
ever was one, and a gentleman too, if-I-know-what-a-gentleman-is, who
came to this town ten years ago, from-nobody-knows-where; with a wife
that was an angel, if-there-is-any-such-thing-as-an-angel."
Here Miss Butterworth paused. She had laid her foundation, and proceeded
at her leisure.
"He knew more than any man in Sevenoaks, but he didn't know how to take
care of himself," she went on. "He was the most ingenious creature God
ever made, I do think, and his name was Paul Benedict."
Mr. Belcher grew pale and fidgeted in his chair.
"And his name was Paul Benedict. He invented something, and
then he took it to Robert Belcher, and he put it into his
mill, and-paid-him-just-as-little-for-it-as-he-could. And
then he invented something more, and-that-went-into-the-mill;
and then something more, and the patent was used by Mr.
Belcher for a song, and the man grew poorer and poorer,
while-Mr.-Belcher-grew-richer-and-richer-all-the-time. And
then he invented a gun, and then his little wife died,
and what with the expenses of doctors and funerals and
such things, and the money it took to get his patent,
which-I-begged-him-for-conscience'-sake-to-keep-out-of-Robert-Belcher's-hands,
he almost starved with his little boy, and had to go to Robert
Belcher for money."
"And get it," said Mr. Belcher.
"How much, now? A hundred little dollars for what was worth a hundred
thousand, unless-everybody-lies. The whole went in a day, and then he
went crazy."
"Well, you know I sent him to the asylum," responded Mr. Belcher.
"I know you did--yes, I know you did; and you tried to get him well
enough to | 1,097.756467 |
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FINDEN'S VIEWS
_OF THE_
PORTS, HARBOURS & WATERING PLACES
_OF_
GREAT BRITAIN,
Continued by
W. H. BARTLETT.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TYNEMOUTH PRIORY AND LIGHT-HOUSE.
_THE LIFE-BOAT_]
* * * * *
THE
PORTS, HARBOURS, WATERING-PLACES,
And Picturesque Scenery
OF
GREAT BRITAIN.
ILLUSTRATED BY VIEWS TAKEN ON THE SPOT,
BY
W. H. BARTLETT, J. D. HARDING, T. CRESWICK,
AND OTHERS.
* * * * *
WITH DESCRIPTIONS, HISTORICAL AND TOPOGRAPHICAL.
* * * * *
VOL. I.
VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD AND IVY LANE, LONDON.
LIST OF PLATES.
The arrangement adopted in this List is that of starting from
the metropolis, and following the line of the Eastern coast of
Great Britain as far northward as Banff, and then returning
westward to the River Thames. But as the description of each
plate is complete in a single leaf, and there is not any series
of folios, the order can be varied at the taste of the
purchaser, if directions to that effect be given to the binder.
VOLUME I.
FRONTISPIECE--LONDON, SOUTHWARK, AND BLACKFRIARS BRIDGES.
VIGNETTE--TYNEMOUTH PRIORY AND LIGHTHOUSE, WITH LIFE-BOAT.
HARWICH.
YARMOUTH, NORFOLK.
--------- WITH THE QUAY AND SHIPPING.
--------- WITH NELSON'S PILLAR.
CROMER, NORFOLK.
HULL--KINGSTON-ON-HULL.
BURLINGTON QUAY.
FLAMBOROUGH-HEAD, WITH THE LIGHTHOUSE.
SCARBOROUGH, WITH THE HARBOUR, CASTLE, &c.
WHITBY, WITH MONASTIC RUINS.
------- FROM THE NORTH-WEST.
ROBIN HOOD'S BAY, YORKSHIRE.
HARTLEPOOL.
SUNDERLAND, WITH THE LIGHTHOUSE, SOUTH PIER.
----------- THE BRIDGE FROM THE WEST.
SHIELDS, ENTRANCE TO THE HARBOUR.
NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE, TOWN AND HARBOUR.
BLYTH, NEAR THE HARBOUR.
TYNEMOUTH CASTLE, WITH VESSEL ON THE ROCKS.
CULLERCOATS.
DUNSTANBOROUGH CASTLE, FROM THE EAST.
---------------------- BY MOONLIGHT.
BAMBOROUGH CASTLE, FROM THE SOUTH-EAST.
------------------ FROM THE NORTH-WEST.
CASTLE OF HOLY ISLAND AND ABBEY OF LINDISFARN.
--------------------- FROM THE WESTWARD.
BERWICK FROM THE SOUTH-EAST.
LEITH, WITH THE DOCKS, AND EDINBURGH IN THE DISTANCE.
NEWHAVEN, WITH THE PIERS, EDINBURGH.
DUNDEE, ENTRANCE TO THE PORT.
------- FROM THE FIFE SIDE OF THE TAY.
ABBEY OF ARBROATH.
MONTROSE, WITH THE HARBOUR AND CHAIN-BRIDGE.
DUNNOTTAR CASTLE, NEAR STONEHAVEN.
STONEHAVEN, WITH THE TOWN AND HARBOUR.
ABERDEEN, ENTRANCE TO THE HARBOUR.
--------- FROM ABOVE THE CHAIN-BRIDGE.
--------- THE LIGHTHOUSE.
SLAINES CASTLE, SEAT OF THE EARL OF ERROLL.
BULLERS OF BUCHAN.
PETERHEAD, TOWN, HARBOUR, AND LIGHTHOUSE.
MACDUFF, TOWN AND HARBOUR.
BANFF.
PORT-GLASGOW, WITH THE PIER AND DOCKS.
GREENOCK, WITH THE CUSTOM-HOUSE.
BROOMIELAW, WITH THE NEW BRIDGE, GLASGOW.
THE SOLWAY, VIEW ACROSS THE FRITH.
ALLONBY, WATERING-PLACE, WITH FISHING-BOATS.
MARYPORT, TOWN AND HARBOUR, ENGLISH COAST.
MARYPORT-PIER, IN A STORM.
WORKINGTON, CUMBERLAND.
WHITEHAVEN, CUMBERLAND.
----------- THE HARBOUR.
ST. BEES' COLLEGE, WITH THE VILLAGE.
ST. BEES' HEAD AND LIGHTHOUSE.
FLEETWOOD-ON-WYRE.
BLACKPOOL, WATERING-PLACE.
BLACKPOOL SANDS.
LYTHAM, LANCASHIRE.
SOUTHPORT SANDS, LANCASHIRE.
THE
PORTS AND HARBOURS
OF
GREAT BRITAIN.
TYNEMOUTH LIGHTHOUSE AND PRIORY.
Our present engraving is a view of Tynemouth Lighthouse and Priory, with
the life-boat in the act of saving the crew of a vessel, which has
struck upon the rocks at the foot of the cliff on which the lighthouse
is built. This incident, so effectively and appropriately introduced by
the artist, Balmer, who has frequently witnessed the scene which he has
depicted, is peculiarly characteristic of the neighbourhood of
Tynemouth; for, in consequence of the danger of the entrance to Shields
Harbour in stormy weather, with the wind from the eastward, more vessels
are there lost than at the entrance of any other harbour in Great
Britain; and in no part of the kingdom has the value of the life-boat
been more frequently experienced.
The view is taken from the entrance to Shields Harbour, about half a
mile to the south-west of the lighthouse, which is seen rising from
behind the extremity of the cliff which overlooks the entrance to
Prior's Haven. Towards the centre of the land view are the ruins of
Tynemouth Priory; while farther to the left, in the same distance, is
seen the castle, now modernised and occupied as a garrison. The
fore-ground to the left is the bank which forms the south-western
boundary of Prior's Haven; and the rocks which are seen at its foot are
a portion of the formidable _Black Middens_, which lie on the north side
of the entrance to the harbour.
The principal feature of the engraving under observation is the view of
the life-boat, which is introduced with a thorough knowledge of the
subject, and with a feeling and a character of truth which mere
imagination can never inspire. The downward plunge of a boat's bows
among broken water, while her stern is at the same time elevated by a
slanting wave, was never more happily represented. A person who has been
at sea, may almost fancy that he hears the resounding dash of the water
against the curved bow, and the seething of the angry wave as it rises
on each side. The idea of motion is admirably conveyed in the
representation of the wave lashing over the floating mast, which is
tossed about like a light spar by the violence of the sea; and the
continued inward roll of the water, from the side and bow of the boat
towards the shore, is no less naturally expressed.
Part of the life-boat's crew, with most of the oars double-manned, are
seen "giving way," with strenuous efforts, through the breakers, while
others are endeavouring to save the shipwrecked seamen; and one of the
men at the steer-oar appears to be encouraging the sailor who clings to
the floating mast. The position of the boat, with her stem towards the
harbour, and the shipwrecked men seated towards her stern, indicate that
she is returning from the vessel, the top of whose masts are seen, and
that she is now endeavouring to save such men as were washed overboard
when the vessel sunk. The flying of the spray declares the loudness of
the wind; and though a cheering glimpse of sunshine appears to illumine
the land, yet the dark cloud, which seems to rest upon the waters to the
right, sufficiently informs us of the gloominess of the prospect when
looking towards the sea.
In consequence of a bar of sand, which stretches across the mouth of the
Tyne, where the outward current of the river at ebb tide is met by the
inward roll of the sea; and from the Herd Sand on the south, and the
Black Middens on the north, the entrance to Shields Harbour | 1,097.757905 |
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scanned images of public domain material from the Internet
Archive.
[Illustration: Book Cover]
[Illustration: HORSELYDOWN FAIR, IN THE TIME OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.--Page
255.]
NOOKS AND CORNERS
OF
ENGLISH LIFE,
Past and Present.
BY
JOHN TIMBS,
AUTHOR OF "STRANGE STORIES OF THE ANIMAL WORLD,"
"THINGS NOT GENERALLY KNOWN," ETC.
SECOND EDITION.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._
LONDON:
GRIFFITH AND FARRAN,
(_Successors to Newbery and Harris_,)
CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD.
M DCCC LXVII.
PREFACE.
Pictures of the Domestic Manners of our forefathers, at some of the most
attractive periods of English History, form the staple of the present
volume. These Pictures are supplemented by Sketches of subordinate
Scenes and Incidents which illustrate great changes in Society, and tend
to show, in different degrees, the Past as the guide for the | 1,097.854443 |
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the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
MANNERS AND RULES
OF
GOOD SOCIETY
_OR SOLECISMS TO BE AVOIDED_
BY A MEMBER
OF THE ARISTOCRACY
THIRTY-EIGHTH EDITION
[Illustration: Decoration]
LONDON
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1916
(_All rights reserved_)
_Printed in Great Britain_
PREFACE
"MANNERS AND RULES OF GOOD SOCIETY" contains all the information
comprised in the original work, "Manners and Tone of Good Society," but
with considerable additions. In a volume of this nature it is necessary
to make constant revisions, and this is periodically done to keep it up
to date, that it may be depended upon as being not only the most
reliable, but also the _newest book of etiquette_.
A comparison of the number of chapters and their subjects with those of
the early editions would best demonstrate how the work has grown, not
merely in bulk, but in importance also. This extension has allowed many
subjects to be more exhaustively treated than heretofore, and it now
includes every rule and point that could possibly be comprehended in its
title.
The work throughout its many editions has commended itself to the
attention of thousands of readers, and it is hoped the present edition
will be received by society in general with the marked success of its
predecessors.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS ix
I. THE MEANING OF ETIQUETTE 1
II. INTRODUCTIONS 6
III. LEAVING CARDS 19
IV. PAYING CALLS 32
V. PRECEDENCY 44
VI. THE COLLOQUIAL APPLICATION OF TITLES 53
VII. POINTS OF ETIQUETTE AS REGARDS ROYAL PERSONAGES 61
VIII. POINTS OF ETIQUETTE WHEN TRAVELLING ABROAD, AND
PRESENTATIONS AT FOREIGN COURTS 65
IX. THE RECEIVED MODE OF PRONOUNCING CERTAIN SURNAMES 68
X. PRESENTATIONS AT COURTS AND ATTENDING COURTS 73
XI. PRESENTATIONS AT LEVEES AND ATTENDING LEVEES 82
XII. BALLS AND STATE BALLS 87
XIII. DINNER GIVING AND DINING OUT 99
XIV. DINNER-TABLE ETIQUETTE 116
XV. EVENING PARTIES 122
XVI. WEDDINGS AND WEDDING LUNCHEONS 128
XVII. WEDDING RECEPTIONS 143
XVIII. WEDDING EXPENSES 146
XIX. AFTERNOON "AT HOMES" 151
XX. "AT HOME" DAYS 159
XXI. COLONIAL ETIQUETTE 161
XXII. INDIAN ETIQUETTE 164
XXIII. GARDEN-PARTIES 166
XXIV. TOWN GARDEN-PARTIES 171
XXV. EVENING GARDEN-PARTIES 174
XXVI. LUNCHEONS 176
XXVII. BREAKFASTS 183
XXVIII. PICNICS AND WATER-PARTIES 186
XXIX. JUVENILE PARTIES 190
XXX. WRITTEN INVITATIONS 195
XXXI. REFUSING INVITATIONS 200
XXXII. WALKING, DRIVING, AND RIDING 202
XXXIII. BOWING 206
XXXIV. THE COCKADE 209
XXXV. COUNTRY-HOUSE VISITS 211
XXXVI. HUNTING AND SHOOTING 219
XXXVII. SHAKING HANDS 225
XXXVIII. CHAPERONS AND DEBUTANTES 228
XXXIX. PRESENTATIONS AT THE VICEREGAL COURT, DUBLIN CASTLE 229
XL. HOSTESSES 234
XLI. THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF LADY PATRONESSES OF PUBLIC
BALLS 239
XLII. PERIODS OF MOURNING 242
XLIII. ENGAGED 250
XLIV. SILVER WEDDINGS 253
XLV. SUBSCRIPTION DANCES 256
XLVI. GIVING PRESENTS 259
XLVII. CHRISTENING PARTIES 261
INDEX 265
INTRODUCTORY REMARKS
The title of this work sufficiently indicates the nature of its
contents. The Usages of Good Society relate not only to good manners and
to good breeding, but also to the proper etiquette to be observed on
every occasion.
Not only are certain rules laid down, and minutely explained, but the
most comprehensive instructions are given in each chapter respecting
every form or phase of the subject under discussion that it may be
clearly understood what _is_ done, or what is _not_ done, in good
society, and also how what _is_ done in good society should be done. It
is precisely this knowledge that gives to men and women the
consciousness of feeling thoroughly at ease in whatever sphere they may
happen to move, and causes them to be considered well bred by all with
whom they may come in contact.
A solecism may be perhaps in itself but a trifling matter, but in the
eyes of society at large it assumes proportions of a magnified aspect,
and reflects most disadvantageously upon the one by whom it is
committed; the direct inference being, that to be guilty of a solecism
argues the offender to be unused to society, and consequently not on an
equal footing with it. This society resents, and is not slow in making
its disapproval felt by its demeanour towards the offender.
Tact and innate refinement, though of the greatest assistance to one
unused to society, do not suffice of themselves; and although counting
for much, cannot supply the want of the actual knowledge of what is
customary in society. Where tact and innate refinement do not exist--and
this is not seldom the case, as they are gifts bestowed upon the few
rather than upon the many--then a thorough acquaintance with the social
observances in force in society becomes more than ever necessary, and
especially to those who, socially speaking, are desirous of making their
way in the world.
Those individuals who have led secluded or isolated lives, or who have
hitherto moved in other spheres than those wherein well-bred people
move, will gather all the information necessary from these pages to
render them thoroughly conversant with the manners and amenities of
society.
This work will be found of equal service to both men and women, as in
each chapter the points of social etiquette to be observed by both sexes
have been fully considered.
Those having the charge of young ladies previous to their introduction
into society, either mothers, chaperons, or governesses, will also
derive much useful and practical information from the perusal of this
work, while to those thoroughly versed in the usages of society it
cannot fail to commend itself, containing as it does many useful and
valuable hints on social questions.
MANNERS AND RULES OF GOOD SOCIETY
CHAPTER I
THE MEANING OF ETIQUETTE
What is etiquette, and what does the word convey? It is a poor one in
itself, and falls very far short of its wide application. It has an
old-fashioned ring about it, savouring of stiffness, primness, and
punctiliousness, which renders it distasteful to many possessing
advanced ideas; and yet the word etiquette is not so very old either, as
Johnson did not include it in his dictionary, and Walker apologises for
introducing it into his, and according to the authorities he quotes, it
is supposed to be derived from stichos, stichus, stichetus, sticketta,
and from thence to etiquette. But whether derived from the Latin or the
French--and many incline to the latter opinion--there is no doubt that
could a new word be found to replace this much abused one, it would be a
welcome addition to our vocabulary. The word has unfortunately become
associated in our minds with forms, ceremonies, and observances, in an
exaggerated degree; and it has been so constantly misused and
misinterpreted and misunderstood that ridicule and contempt have been
most unjustly and unfairly thrown upon it. The true meaning of
etiquette can hardly be described in dictionary parlance; it embraces
the whole gamut of good manners, good breeding, and true politeness. One
of the reasons which have no doubt contributed to bring the word
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available by the Internet Archive.)
Life and Writings
of
Maurice Maeterlinck
BY
JETHRO BITHELL
London and Felling-on-Tyne:
THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE
TO
ALBERT MOCKEL,
THE PENETRATING CRITIC, THE SUBTLE POET
"Maurice Maeterlinck.--Il debuta... dans _La Pleiade_
par un chef-d'oeuvre: _Le Massacre des Innocents_. Albert
Mockel devint plus tard son patient et infatigable apotre
a Paris. C'est lui qui nous fit connaitre _Les Serres Chaudes_
et surtout cette _Princesse Maleine_ qui formula definitivement
l'ideal des Symbolistes au theatre."
STUART MERRILL,
_Le Masque_, Serie ii, No. 9 and 10.
PREFACE
It is not an easy task to write the life of a man who is still living.
If the biographer is hostile to his subject, the slaughtering may be an
exciting spectacle; if he wishes, not to lay a victim out, but to pay a
tribute of admiration tempered by criticism, he has to run the risk of
offending the man he admires, and all those whose admiration is in the
nature of blind hero-worship. If he is conscientious, the only thing he
can do is to give an honest expression of his own views, or a mosaic of
the views of others which seem to him correct, knowing that he may be
wrong, and that his authorities may be wrong, but challenging
contradiction, and caring only for the truth as it appears to him.
So much for the tone of the book; there are difficulties, too, when the
lion is alive, in setting up a true record of his movements. If the lion
is a raging lion, how easy it is to write a tale of adventure; but if
the lion is a tame specimen of his kind, you have either to _imagine_
exploits, making mountains out of molehills, or you have to give a page
or so of facts, and for the rest occupy yourself with what is really
essential.
When the lion is as tame as Maeterlinck is (or rather as Maeterlinck
chooses to appear), the case is peculiarly difficult. The events in
Maeterlinck's life are his books; and these are not, like Strindberg's
books, for instance, so inspired by personality that they in themselves
form a fascinating biography. They reveal little of the sound man of
business Maeterlinck is; they do not show us what faults or passions he
may have; they tell us little of his personal relations--in short,
Maeterlinck's books are practically impersonal.
The biographer cannot take handfuls of life out of Maeterlinck's own
books; and it is not much he can get out of what has been written about
him, very little of which is based on personal knowledge. Maeterlinck
has always been hostile to collectors of "copy," those great purveyors
of the stuff that books are made of. Huret made him talk, or says he
did, when Maeterlinck took him into the beer-shop; and a few words of
that interview will pass into every biography. That was at a time when
he hated interviews. He wrote to a friend on the 4th of October, 1890:
"I beg you _in all sincerity, in all sincerity_, if you can stop
the interviews you tell me of, for the love of God stop them. I am
beginning to get frightfully tired of all this. Yesterday, while I
was at dinner, two reporters from... fell into my soup. I am going
to leave for London, I am sick of all that is happening to me. So
if you can't stop the interviews they will interview my
servant."[1]
This is not a man who would chatter himself away,[2] not even to Mr
Frank Harris, who found him aggressive (and no wonder either if the
Englishman said by word of mouth what he says in print, namely that _The
Treasure of the Humble_ was written "at length" after _The Life of the
Bee_, _Monna Vanna_, and the translation of _Macbeth_![3]). The fact is,
there is very little printed matter easily available on the biography
proper of Maeterlinck. It is true we have several accounts of him by his
wife in a style singularly like his own; we have gossip; we have
delightful portraits of the houses he lives in--but we have no bricks
for building with.
A future biographer may have at his hands what the present lacks; but I
for my part have no other ambition for this book than that it should be
a running account of Maeterlinck's works, with some suggestions as to
their interpretation and value.
JETHRO BITHELL.
Hammerfield,
Nr. Hemel Hempstead,
31st January, 1913.
[1] Gerard Harry, _Maeterlinck_, p. 18.
[2] "Monsieur Maeterlinck being as all the world knows, hermetically
mute."--(Gregoire Le Roy), _Le Masque_ (Brussels), Serie ii, No. 5 | 1,097.856759 |
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THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._
VOL. XV | 1,097.856887 |
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NEWFOUNDLAND TO
COCHIN CHINA.
[Illustration: TRAIN EMERGING FROM SNOW-SHED. Page 90.]
NEWFOUNDLAND
TO
COCHIN CHINA
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[Illustration: THE SUPPER [Page 37]]
THE
ASSOCIATE HERMITS
By
Frank R. Stockton
Author of
"The Great Stone of Sardis"
With Illustrations by A. B. Frost
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1900
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
THE GREAT STONE OF SARDIS. A Novel.
Illustrated by Peter Newell. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1 50.
"The Great Stone of Sardis" is as queer and preposterous as
can be imagined, yet as plausible and real-seeming as a legal
document.... There is a treat in the book.--_Independent_, N. Y.
A new and worthy example of Stockton's kindly, wholesome,
original, and inexhaustible humor.--_Syracuse Post._
Narrated with a seriousness that gives the adventures a semblance
of matters of fact. Through the narrative runs a love interest which
Mr. Stockton manages with great skill.--_Washington Post._
NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Dawn of a Wedding-journey 1
II. Enter Margery 7
III. Sadler's 15
IV. A Cataract of Information 23
V. Camp Rob 35
VI. Camp Roy 42
VII. A Stranger 52
VIII. The Bishop's Tale 63
IX. Matlack's Three Troubles 74
X. A Ladies' Day in Camp 82
XI. Margery Takes the Oars 90
XII. The Bishop Engages the Attention of the Guides 100
XIII. The World Goes Wrong with Mr. Raybold 105
XIV. The Assertion of Individuality 113
XV. A Net of Cobwebs to Cage a Lion 123
XVI. A Man who Feels Himself a Man 135
XVII. Mrs. Perkenpine Asserts Her Individuality 143
XVIII. The Hermits Associate 153
XIX. Margery's Breakfast 161
XX. Martin Asserts His Individuality 173
XXI. The Individuality of Peter Sadler 185
XXII. A Tranquillizing Breeze and a Hot Wind 194
XXIII. Mrs. Perkenpine Finds out Things about Herself 205
XXIV. A Dissolving Audience 212
XXV. A Moonlight Interview 220
XXVI. An Elopement 229
XXVII. Mrs. Perkenpine Delights the Bishop 239
XXVIII. The Hermits Continue to Favor Association 248
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE SUPPER Frontispiece
"'CAN THIS BE SADLER'S?'" 16
"'THEY THROW THE OTHER THINGS BACK'" 54
"A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING" 80
"BUT THE BISHOP KNEW BETTER" 98
"WITH A GREAT HEAVE SENT HIM OUT INTO THE WATER" 102
"'WHERE ARE ALL OUR FRIENDS?'" 150
"'HAVEN'T TRIED IT'" 202
"'IF THEY AIN'T THE | 1,098.054278 |
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file was produced from images produced by Core Historical
Literature in Agriculture (CHLA), Cornell University)
***********************************************************************
* Transcriber's Note: Obvious typos were fixed and use of hyphens was *
* normalized throughout, but all other spelling and punctuation was *
* retained as it appeared in the original text. *
***********************************************************************
ASPARAGUS
ITS CULTURE FOR HOME USE AND FOR MARKET
A PRACTICAL TREATISE ON THE PLANTING, CULTIVATION, HARVESTING,
MARKETING, AND PRESERVING OF ASPARAGUS, WITH NOTES ON ITS HISTORY AND
BOTANY
BY
F. M. HEXAMER
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
ORANGE JUDD COMPANY
1914
_Printed in U. S. A._
[Illustration: BEGINNING OF THE ASPARAGUS INDUSTRY IN CALIFORNIA]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vi
I. Historical Sketch 1
II. Botany 4
III. Cultural Varieties 17
IV. Seed Growing 26
V. The Raising of Plants 30
VI. Selection of Plants 38
VII. The Soil and Its Preparation 43
VIII. Planting 49
IX. Cultivation 61
X. Fertilizers and Fertilizing 72
XI. Harvesting and Marketing 83
XII. Forcing 100
XIII. Preserving Asparagus 112
XIV. Injurious Insects 126
XV. Fungus Diseases 137
XVI. Asparagus Culture in Different Localities 145
INDEX 167
ILLUSTRATIONS
Beginning of the Asparagus Industry in California
_Frontispiece_
PAGE
Asparagus Plumosus Nanus 5
Asparagus Sprengeri 7
Asparagus Laricinus 9
Asparagus Racemosus, var. Tetragonus 11
Asparagus Sarmentosus 12
Crown, Roots, Buds, Spear 14
Stem, Leaves, Flowers, Berries 14
Flowers 15
Palmetto Asparagus 21
Pot-Grown Plant 37
Horizontal Development of Roots 51
Trenches Ready for Planting 57
Hudson's Trencher 58
Root in Proper Position for Covering 59
Cross-section of Trenches After Planting 60
Asparagus Field Ridged in Early Spring 67
Leveling the Ridges After Cutting Season 69
Fertilized Asparagus Plot 75
Unfertilized Asparagus Plot 77
Basket of Asparagus 85
Cutting and Picking Up Asparagus 86
Horse Carrier for Ten Boxes 87
Asparagus Knives 89
End and Side View of White Asparagus Bunches 90
Conover's Asparagus Buncher 91
Watt's Asparagus Buncher 92
Rack and Knives Used in New England 93
At the Bunching Table 94
Box of Giant Asparagus 97
Southern Asparagus Crate 98
Tunnel for Forcing Steam Through the Soil 107
A Long Island Asparagus Cannery 113
Sterilizing Tank 115
Sterilizing Room 117
Interior View of a California Asparagus Cannery 119
Perspective View of a California Asparagus Cannery 121
Cannery in Asparagus Fields 123
Common Asparagus Beetle 127
Asparagus Attacked by Beetles 129
Spotted Ladybird 131
Twelve-spotted Asparagus Beetle 134
Asparagus Stems Affected with Rust 138
Portion of Rusted Asparagus Stems 139
Asparagus Field on Bouldin Island 161
PREFACE
The cultivation of asparagus for home use as well as for market is so
rapidly increasing, and reliable information pertaining to it is so
frequently asked for, that a book on this subject is evidently needed.
While all works on vegetable culture treat more or less extensively on
its cultivation, so far there has been no book exclusively devoted to
asparagus published in America. Asparagus is one of the earliest, most
delicious, and surest products of the garden. Its position among other
vegetables is unique, and when once planted it lasts a lifetime; it may
be prepared for | 1,098.156154 |
2023-11-16 18:35:22.1483130 | 3,569 | 6 |
Produced by R. G. P. M. van Giesen
[Illustration: cover]
THE GREAT ADVENTURE SERIES
Percy F. Westerman:
THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE
Rowland Walker:
THE PHANTOM AIRMAN
DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
DEVILLE MCKEENE:
THE EXPLOITS OF THE MYSTERY AIRMAN
BLAKE OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE
BUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V 2
OSCAR DANBY, V.C.
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
[Illustration: "Blake released his grip of the rough-and-ready dart."
--_Page_ 65.]
THE
SECRET BATTLEPLANE
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF
"THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R.," ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: logo]
S. W. PARTRIDGE & Co.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published 1916_
_Frequently reprinted_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SNOWED UP
II. A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR
III. THE WONDERS OF THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
IV. A TRIAL TRIP
V. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR
VI. THE INTERRUPTED VIGIL
VII. THE BATTLEPLANE'S OFFICIAL DEBUT
VIII. A CROSS-CHANNEL FLIGHT
IX. A FIGHT TO A FINISH
X. TRICKED
XI. THE FATE OF A SPY
XII. SERGEANT O'RAFFERTY'S LUCKY BOMB
XIII. THE FRONTIER
XIV. ATHOL TACKLES VON SECKER
XV. GAME TO THE LAST
XVI. _À BERLIN_
XVII. DISABLED
XVIII. TURNING THE TABLES
XIX. A DUEL WITH A ZEPPELIN
XX. LIBERATED
XXI. ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER
XXII. ALL GOES WELL WITH ENGLAND
CHAPTER I
SNOWED UP
"THAT rotter of a garage fellow!" exclaimed Athol Hawke explosively.
"He hasn't done a thing to the wheel; and, what is more, he rushed
me sixpence for garaging the bike, the young swindler."
"Didn't you go for him?" enquired his chum, Dick Tracey.
"He wasn't there to go for," replied Athol. "He was away on some
job, and left the explanations to a youngster. But, my word, it is
snowing! Think she'll stick it with that groggy wheel?"
The scene was the Market Square, Shrewsbury. The time, nine o'clock
on a Saturday morning, March, 1916. It was, as Athol remarked,
snowing. A week or more of intermittent blizzards had culminated in a
steady fall of large, crisp flakes, and judging by the direction of
the wind, the heavy, dull-grey clouds and an erratic barometer, the
worst was yet to come.
Athol Hawke was a lad of seventeen, although he looked several years
older. He was tall, lightly yet firmly built, of bronzed complexion,
grey eyes and with dark hair. The fact that he was wearing waterproof
overalls, leggings and fur gloves tended to conceal his build.
His companion, who was similarly attired, was Athol's junior by the
short space of three days. In height he was five feet seven--four
inches less than that of his chum; build, thick-set; complexion might
have been fair but exposure to wintry conditions had resulted in his
face being burnt to a reddish colour. His hair was light brown, with
a tendency to crispness; his eyes blue. By disposition he was
remarkably bright and cheerful, characteristics that served as a foil
to Hawke's almost invariable staidness.
The two chums were riding a motor-bicycle and side-car. They had
"been on the road" nearly a week. What possessed them to select a
time of blizzard and equinoctial gales to go tearing across England;
why they were apparently "joy-riding" in wartime; why they chose a
district that was most decidedly within the region of activity of
hostile air-craft--all this will have to be explained in due course.
At eleven o'clock on the previous day they had ridden into the quaint
and picturesque old town of Shrewsbury, having left Chester shortly
after daybreak. During the run they had made the disconcerting
discovery that several of the spokes of the side-car wheel had worked
loose, possibly owing to the drag of the snow and the atrocious
"pot-holes" and setts of Lancashire. The wheel might last out till
the end of their tour--and it might not. Dick suggested risking it,
but the ever-cautious Athol demurred. They would remain at
Shrewsbury, he declared, until the following day and get the damage
made good.
A motor mechanic had promised faithfully to carry out the job, and
had let them down badly.
"Well, what's the programme?" asked Athol. "We may be able to push
on, but I guess it's pretty thick over the hills. Already there's a
good two inches of snow--and it's still tumbling down."
Dick surveyed his surroundings in his customary optimistic manner.
The cobbled square was already hidden by a dazzling white mantle. The
roofs of the old buildings and the detached pillared market-house
were covered with fallen flakes. A weather-worn statue, poised
stolidly upon a lofty pedestal, was fast resembling the time-honoured
character of Father Christmas.
Save for a few belated lady-clerks of the Army Pay Department, who
cast curious glances at the two snow-flaked motor-cyclists as they
hastened to their daily toil, the square was deserted. At the corner
of an adjacent street two recruiting sergeants stood in meditative
silence, regarding with a set purpose the pair of strapping youths.
"More of 'em, by Jove!" exclaimed Dick, as his eyes caught those of
one of the representatives of His Majesty's Army. "Here they come,
old man. Stand by to give 'em five rounds rapid."
"Nothin' doing, sergeant," announced Athol as the foremost non-com.,
beaming affably, vouchsafed some remark about the weather as a
preliminary feeler to a more important topic. His companion had
diplomatically "frozen on" to Dick.
With a dexterity acquired by much practice each lad unbuttoned his
mackintosh coat and from the inner breast pocket of his coat produced
a formidable-looking document.
"Bless my soul!" ejaculated the first sergeant. "Who'd a' thought it?
Very good, sir; we can't touch you--at least, not yet. You never
know."
"You speak words of wisdom, sergeant," rejoined Athol, as he replaced
his paper. "Now, to get back to more immediate surroundings, what do
you think of our chances of getting to Ludlow to-day?"
"On that thing?" asked the sergeant. "Not much. It's as thick as can
be over Wenlock Edge. This is nothing to what's it's like up there.
You'd never get through."
The word "never" put Dick on his mettle.
"We'll have a jolly good shot at it, anyway," he said. "Come along,
Athol, old man. Hop in and we'll have a shot at this Excelsior
business."
Athol Hawke would like to have lodged a protest. He was anxious
concerning the groggy side-car wheel, but almost before he knew where
he was, Dick Tracey had started the engine and the motor was swishing
through the crisp, powdery snow.
Down the steep Wyle Cop and across the narrow English Bridge they
went, then turning shook the snow of Shrewsbury from the wheels,
since it was literally impossible to shake the dust from their feet.
Mile after mile they reeled off, the road rising steadily the while.
Tearing through the snow flakes was really exhilarating. The air was
keen and bracing; the scenery fairy-like in the garb of glittering
white.
"Glad we pushed on," exclaimed Dick. "We're doing it on our heads,
don't you know. The little beast of an engine is pulling splendidly."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a perceptible
slowing down of the three-wheeled vehicle, although the motor
throbbed with increasing rapidity.
"Belt slipping," declared Athol laconically.
"It's the leather one," said his companion as he stopped the engine
and dismounted.
"We'll shove the rubber one on. Leather always is rotten stuff to
slip in the wet, and yet there's a proverb, 'There's nothing like
leather.'"
"Doubt whether the other one will do any better," remarked Hawke.
"See, the lowermost part of the belt rim has been ploughing through
the snow. This is the thickest we've had so far."
"It is," assented Dick. "But we'll push on. It is a pity to turn
back. We can't be so very far from Church Stretton now. From there
it's downhill almost all the rest of the way."
The change of belts was effected and the journey resumed. For the
next quarter of a mile progress was good, although great care had to
be exercised to avoid the snow-banks on either side of the road.
Presently the road dipped with considerable steepness, and bending to
the right crossed a small bridge. Beyond, it again rose and with
increased gradient, and appeared to plunge directly between two lofty
hills. The rising ground was thickly covered with pine trees, each
branch bending under the weight of virgin snow.
"Looks like a bit of Switzerland," observed Dick. "Hanged if I can
see why people want to go abroad to see scenery when there are places
like this at home. But, my word, we've a stiff bit of road to tackle!
Wonder if she'll do it?"
"She's got to," said Athol grimly. He was one of those fellows who
embark upon an undertaking with evident misgivings, but when fairly
in the thick of it warm to their task and are undaunted in spite of
difficulties and rebuffs.
But there are limitations even to the capabilities of a three and a
half horse power motor. Right nobly the engine did its work, but once
again the belt slipped with exasperating loss of power. So deep was
the snow at this point that the lower framework of the side-car was
ploughing through it, while the heated crank case coming in direct
contact with the snow was throwing off vapour like a high pressure
steam engine. To add to the difficulty an accumulation of compressed
snow had choked the front mudguard.
"All alight here!" shouted Dick. "By Jove, we'll have to jolly well
push up this hill."
With the engine still running on low gear the lads literally put
their shoulders to the wheel. It was hard work. In spite of the
lowness of the temperature they were glowing with exertion, as, under
their united efforts, they advanced at the rate of a mile an hour.
"Jolly long way to the top," panted Dick. "Hope we don't get snowed
up. I say, that looks cheerful."
He pointed to a derelict motor car, almost hidden in a drift by the
side of the road, where the bank of snow had risen to at least seven
feet in height.
"Can't be much farther to Church Stretton," said Athol encouragingly.
"Buck up, old man."
For another fifty feet they struggled manfully, until Tracey switched
off the motor and brought the bike to a standstill.
"Spell-oh!" he announced, shaking the powdered snow from his cap.
"I've had enough for a bit."
"If we stop we--like the drunken man--'goes over,'" declared Athol.
"Every minute things are getting worse."
"Can't help it," rejoined Dick breathlessly. "Like the engine, I'm
badly overheated."
For some moments the two chums stood still, taking in as much of the
scenery as the snowstorm permitted, for so thick was the air with
falling flakes that they could form no idea of the height of the
hills on either hand.
Presently a horseman appeared, his mount floundering through the
snow. So narrow was the track that in order to pass the bike and
side-car he had to plunge into the drift.
"Pretty thick," remarked Athol.
"Ay, that it is," replied the man. "An' it's worse up yonder."
"Any village about here?" asked Dick.
"Not for some miles," was the reply. "And not a house, if it comes to
that."
The man rode on. He seemed loth to waste time in conversation.
"We've struck the worst part of Wenlock Edge, it seems," said Athol
consulting his road map. "It would have paid us to have stuck to the
Severn valley, only we both wanted to see Ludlow and its castle.
Well, ready?"
Dick nodded assent, and restarted the engine. Although the belt
slipped frantically the slight friction of the pulley aided the
bodily efforts of the lads. By dint of much exertion another hundred
yards were covered; then despite their efforts they came to a dead
stop.
"How about turning back?" suggested Dick.
"No good," decided Athol. "We might get to the bottom of the
hill--might not. It's a moral cert we could not get up the rise on
the other side of the bridge."
"And we can't leave the bike here," added his companion. "It would
completely block the road."
"The road is blocked already, I fancy. The plain fact is this: we're
snowed up, and what's more the side-car wheel has gone to pot at
last."
CHAPTER II
A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR
"GET the luggage out, old man," said Dick. "We'll pad the hoof and
see if we can find a cottage. We might, with luck, get a fellow with
a horse to pull the bike to the top of the hill."
"I guess the job's beyond the powers of a gee-gee," remarked Athol,
who, ankle-deep in snow, was unstrapping the luggage from the
carrier. "We'll have a shot at hiking the show into the drift. It
seems fairly firm snow on this side."
By dint of strenuous efforts the two lads succeeded in lifting the
heavy side-car to the fringe of the road, leaving a space of less
than six feet between the wheel of the car and the snow-bank on the
opposite face of the track. Then, shouldering their belongings, the
weather-bound travellers trudged stolidly up the hilly road.
"Here's a jamboree!" exclaimed Dick after a long silence. He was
regaining his breath and with it his exuberant spirits. "We'll have
something to remember. By Jove, isn't this a ripping country?"
"It's all very fine," said Athol guardedly, "but, remember, we may be
held up for a fortnight. This stuff takes a jolly lot of thawing,
you know. Hulloa! There's someone hammering."
"The child is correct," declared Dick with a laugh. "And hammering
metal work. I believe our friend the horseman was a little out in his
statements. There must be a human habitation of sorts, and, judging
by the direction of the sounds--unless the acoustic properties of | 1,098.168353 |
2023-11-16 18:35:22.2341740 | 90 | 8 |
Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
CECILIA, Volume 1 (of 3)
or
MEMOIRS OF AN HEIRESS
By Frances Burney
PREFACE
"Fanny's Cecilia came out last summer, and is as much liked and read,
I believe, as any book ever was," wrote Charlotte Burney in Jan | 1,098.254214 |
2023-11-16 18:35:22.2361890 | 78 | 9 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: A BIG BLACK BEAR MADE FURIOUS EFFORTS TO SEIZE DOUR AND
DANDY. _See page 19_.]
TI-TI-PU
A BOY OF RED RIVER
BY
J. MACDONALD O | 1,098.256229 |
2023-11-16 18:35:22.5797490 | 885 | 25 |
E-text prepared by David Edwards, Katherine Ward, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from
digital material generously made available by Internet Archive
(http://www.archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 30589-h.htm or 30589-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://www.archive.org/details/continentaldrago00stepiala
Transcriber's note:
Hyphenation has been made consistent.
Archaic and variable spellings are preserved.
The author's punctuation style is preserved, except quotation
marks, which have been standardized.
Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
Text in bold face is enclosed by equal signs (=bold=).
THE CONTINENTAL DRAGOON.
by
R. N. STEPHENS.
* * * * *
Works of R. N. STEPHENS.
An Enemy to the King.
The Continental Dragoon.
_In Press_:
The Road to Paris.
L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY, Publishers,
(INCORPORATED)
196 Summer St., Boston, Mass.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "_'Take that rebel alive!' ordered Colden._"
Photogravure from original drawing by H. C. Edwards.]
THE CONTINENTAL DRAGOON
A Love Story of Philipse Manor-House in 1778
by
ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS
Author of
"An Enemy to the King"
Illustrated by H. C. Edwards
"Love's born of a glance, I say"
Boston
L. C. Page and Company
(Incorporated)
1898
Copyright, 1898
By L. C. Page and Company
(Incorporated)
Entered at Stationer's Hall, London
FIFTH THOUSAND
Colonial Press:
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U. S. A.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. The Riders 11
II. The Manor-house 32
III. The Sound of Galloping 50
IV. The Continental Dragoon 65
V. The Black Horse 87
VI. The One Chance 116
VII. The Flight of the Minutes 140
VIII. The Secret Passage 156
IX. The Confession 180
X. The Plan of Retaliation 197
XI. The Conquest 214
XII. The Challenge 236
XIII. The Unexpected 252
XIV. The Broken Sword 267
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
"'Take that rebel alive!' ordered Colden." Frontispiece
"'Give it to the Colonel.'" 82
"Leaned forward on the horse's neck." 111
"'You are too late, Jack!'" 154
"'Go, I say!'" 196
"'I take my leave of this house!'" 248
CHAPTER I.
THE RIDERS.
"I dare say 'tis a wild, foolish, dangerous thing; but I do it,
nevertheless! As for my reasons, they are the strongest. First, I wish
to do it. Second, you've all opposed my doing it. So there's an end of
the matter!"
It was, of course, a woman that spoke,--moreover, a young one.
And she added:
"Drat the wind! Can't we ride faster? 'Twill be dark before we reach
the manor-house. Get along, Cato!"
She was one of three on horseback, who went northward on | 1,098.599789 |
2023-11-16 18:35:22.6342270 | 5,462 | 46 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Mayflower and Her Log by Ames, v1
#1 in our series by Azel Ames
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THE MAY-FLOWER AND HER LOG
July 15, 1620--May 6, 1621
Chiefly from Original Sources
By AZEL AMES, M.D.
Member of Pilgrim Society, etc.
"Next to the fugitives whom Moses led out of Egypt, the little
shipload of outcasts who landed at Plymouth are destined to
influence the future of the world."
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
INTRODUCTORY
O civilized humanity, world-wide, and especially to the descendants of
the Pilgrims who, in 1620, laid on New England shores the foundations of
that civil and religious freedom upon which has been built a refuge for
the oppressed of every land, the story of the Pilgrim "Exodus" has an
ever-increasing value and zest. The little we know of the inception,
development, and vicissitudes of their bold scheme of colonization in the
American wilderness only serves to sharpen the appetite for more.
Every detail and circumstance which relates to their preparations; to the
ships which carried them; to the personnel of the Merchant Adventurers
associated with them, and to that of the colonists themselves; to what
befell them; to their final embarkation on their lone ship,--the immortal
MAY-FLOWER; and to the voyage itself and to its issues, is vested to-day
with, a supreme interest, and over them all rests a glamour peculiarly
their own.
For every grain of added knowledge that can be gleaned concerning the
Pilgrim sires from any field, their children are ever grateful, and
whoever can add a well-attested line to their all-too-meagre annals is
regarded by them, indeed by all, a benefactor.
Of those all-important factors in the chronicles of the "Exodus,"--the
Pilgrim ships, of which the MAY-FLOWER alone crossed the seas,--and of
the voyage itself, there is still but far too little known. Of even this
little, the larger part has not hitherto been readily accessible, or in
form available for ready reference to the many who eagerly seize upon
every crumb of new-found data concerning these pious and intrepid
Argonauts.
To such there can be no need to recite here the principal and familiar
facts of the organization of the English "Separatist" congregation under
John Robinson; of its emigration to Holland under persecution of the
Bishops; of its residence and unique history at Leyden; of the broad
outlook of its members upon the future, and their resultant determination
to cross the sea to secure larger life and liberty; and of their initial
labors to that end. We find these Leyden Pilgrims in the early summer of
1620, their plans fairly matured and their agreements between themselves
and with their merchant associates practically concluded, urging forward
their preparations for departure; impatient of the delays and
disappointments which befell, and anxiously seeking shipping for their
long and hazardous voyage.
It is to what concerns their ships, and especially that one which has
passed into history as "the Pilgrim bark," the MAY-FLOWER, and to her
pregnant voyage, that the succeeding chapters chiefly relate. In them the
effort has been made to bring together in sequential relation, from many
and widely scattered sources, everything germane that diligent and
faithful research could discover, or the careful study and re-analysis of
known data determine. No new and relevant item of fact discovered,
however trivial in itself, has failed of mention, if it might serve to
correct, to better interpret, or to amplify the scanty though priceless
records left us, of conditions, circumstances, and events which have
meant so much to the world.
As properly antecedent to the story of the voyage of the MAY-FLOWER as
told by her putative "Log," albeit written up long after her boned lay
bleaching on some unknown shore, some pertinent account has been given of
the ship herself and of her "consort," the SPEEDWELL; of the difficulties
attendant on securing them; of the preparations for the voyage; of the
Merchant Adventurers who had large share in sending them to sea; of their
officers and crews; of their passengers and lading; of the troubles that
assailed before they had "shaken off the land," and of the final
consolidation of the passengers and lading of both ships upon the MAY-
FLOWER, for the belated ocean passage. The wholly negative results of
careful search render it altogether probable that the original journal or
"Log" of the MAY-FLOWER (a misnomer lately applied by the British press,
and unhappily continued in that of the United States, to the recovered
original manuscript of Bradford's "History of Plimoth Plantation "), if
such journal ever existed, is now hopelessly lost.
So far as known, no previous effort has been made to bring together in
the consecutive relation of such a journal, duly attested and in their
entirety, the ascertained daily happenings of that destiny-freighted
voyage. Hence, this later volume may perhaps rightly claim to present--
and in part to be, though necessarily imperfect--the sole and a true "Log
of the MAY-FLOWER." No effort has been made, however, to reduce the
collated data to the shape and style of the ship's "Log" of recent times,
whose matter and form are largely prescribed by maritime law. While it is
not possible to give, as the original--if it existed--would have done,
the results of the navigators' observations day by day; the "Lat." and
"Long."; the variations of the wind and of the magnetic needle; the
tallies of the "lead" and "log" lines; "the daily run," etc.--in all
else the record may confidently be assumed to vary little from that
presumably kept, in some form, by Captain Jones, the competent Master of
the Pilgrim bark, and his mates, Masters Clarke and Coppin.
As the charter was for the "round voyage," all the features and incidents
of that voyage until complete, whether at sea or in port, properly find
entry in its journal, and are therefore included in this compilation,
which it is hoped may hence prove of reference value to such as take
interest in Pilgrim studies. Although the least pleasant to the author,
not the least valuable feature of the work to the reader--especially if
student or writer of Pilgrim history--will be found, it is believed, in
the numerous corrections of previously published errors which it
contains, some of which are radical and of much historical importance.
It is true that new facts and items of information which have been coming
to light, in long neglected or newly discovered documents, etc., are
correctives of earlier and natural misconceptions, and a certain
percentage of error is inevitable, but many radical and reckless errors
have been made in Pilgrim history which due study and care must have
prevented. Such errors have so great and rapidly extending power for
harm, and, when built upon, so certainly bring the superstructure
tumbling to the ground, that the competent and careful workman can render
no better service than to point out and correct them wherever found,
undeterred by the association of great names, or the consciousness of his
own liability to blunder. A sound and conscientious writer will welcome
the courteous correction of his error, in the interest of historical
accuracy; the opinion of any other need not be regarded.
Some of the new contributions (or original demonstrations), of more or
less historical importance, made to the history of the Pilgrims, as the
author believes, by this volume, are as follows:--
(a) A closely approximate list of the passengers who left Delfshaven on
the SPEEDWELL for Southampton; in other words, the names--those of Carver
and Cushman and of the latter's family being added--of the Leyden
contingent of the MAY-FLOWER Pilgrims.
(b) A closely approximate list of the passengers who left London in the
MAY-FLOWER for Southampton; in other words, the names (with the deduction
of Cushman and family, of Carver, who was at Southampton, and of an
unknown few who abandoned the voyage at Plymouth) of the English
contingent of the MAY-FLOWER Pilgrims.
(c) The establishment as correct, beyond reasonable doubt, of the date,
Sunday, June 11/21, 1620, affixed by Robert Cushman to his letter to the
Leyden leaders (announcing the "turning of the tide" in Pilgrim affairs,
the hiring of the "pilott" Clarke, etc.), contrary to the conclusions of
Prince, Arber, and others, that the letter could not have been written on
Sunday.
(d) The demonstration of the fact that on Saturday, June 10/20, 1620,
Cushman's efforts alone apparently turned the tide in Pilgrim affairs;
brought Weston to renewed and decisive cooperation; secured the
employment of a "pilot," and definite action toward hiring a ship,
marking it as one of the most notable and important of Pilgrim " | 1,098.654267 |
2023-11-16 18:35:22.6425570 | 3,193 | 21 |
Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Nigel Blower and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 93.
October 29th, 1887.
QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY.
EXTRACT FROM A GRAND OLD DIARY. MONDAY, OCT. 17.
Self, wife, and HERBERT started early to escape our kind-hearted,
clear-headed admirers; so early, that I scarcely had time before
leaving to write thirty post-cards, seventy-six pages of notes for
my next magazine article, and to cut down half-a-dozen trees. Train
announced to leave Chester at 10:30, but got off at the hour.
This little joke (WATKIN'S notion) caused much amusement. Through
opera-glasses we could see bands of music, deputations, &c.,
constantly coming to the railway-stations to meet our train after
it had passed. Too bad! However, to prevent disappointment, and as
CHAMBERLAIN has been imitating me and vulgarised my original idea, I
knocked off some speeches, in pencil, and HERBERT threw them out of
the window as fast as I could write them. So far as we could make out
with a telescope, some of them reached their destination, and seemed
to be well received.
[Illustration: Master Willie Gladstone "really enjoying, and in some
measure appreciating and understanding," our Mr. Agnew's lectures on
Art.
_Vide Times Report, Oct. 18._]
Awfully pleased to meet Mr. WILLIAM AGNEW at Manchester. Odd
coincidence of Christian names. I shall speak of him and allude to him
as "The Other WILLIAM." He promised to keep by me, and show me all the
pictures worth seeing.
"T'Other WILLIAM," said I, "you are very good. As you know, I take a
great and sincere interest in pictures and works of Art, although I
know very little about them." T'Other WILLIAM protested. "No, T'Other
WILLIAM, I am right. You have been the means of providing me with
a commodity most difficult of all others to procure if you do not
possess it yourself--that is to say, you have provided me with
brains." Further protests from T'Other One. "No, T'Other WILLIAM,
hear me out; for you know in all cases where a judgment has had to be
passed upon works of Art, I have been accustomed to refer a great deal
to you, and lean upon you, because you have been constantly the means
of enabling me really to see, and really to enjoy, and in some measure
to appreciate and understand, all that you have shown to me."
I was so pleased with this little speech that I made HERBERT take it
down as I repeated it to him privately when T'Other was looking in
another direction. When I brought it out afterwards, at luncheon in
the Palm-house, it went wonderfully. So it should, because I felt
every word of it. T'Other WILLIAM is one of the kindest and most
courteous of my friends.
I was very pleased with the Exhibition, although perhaps (I am not
certain of this) I might have seen it better had not about four
thousand visitors followed our little party everywhere, cheering
vociferously. I was consequently obliged to keep my attention most
carefully fixed upon the exhibits, as when I caught any stranger's
eye, the stranger immediately (but with an eagerness that did not
exceed the limits of good behaviour) called upon me to make a speech
then and there upon the subject of "Home Rule." I am sure I should
on each and every occasion have only been too delighted, had not Sir
ANDREW warned me not to indulge too much in that sort of thing. The
crowd, however, had its decided advantage, inasmuch as we were carried
off our feet everywhere. In this luxurious fashion we were wafted to
Messrs. DOULTON'S Pottery Manufactory, to Mr. JESSE HAWORTH'S loan
exhibition of Egyptian antiquities, the name "JESSE" recalled to me
the poor misguided JOE'S "JESSE," the second fiddle, but _toujours
fidele_, and to a great many other shows of almost equal interest.
But of course _the_ feature of the Exhibition was the collection
of pictures. I was absolutely delighted. T'Other WILLIAM explained
everything, and amongst other portraits showed me one of myself by
MILLAIS. I imagine that everybody must have thought it very like,
because when they observed me inspecting it, they cheered more
vigorously than ever. For my part I can't help feeling that Sir JOHN
might have done more with the collars. He has not (to my thinking,
although I confess I may be wrong) put quite enough starch in them.
This is my own idea, as I did not consult T'Other One upon the
subject. Great as my reliance is upon him concerning works of Art, I
reserve the right of using my own judgment in the matter of collars.
Passing through the galleries I was delighted with everything I saw.
The only drawback to my pleasure was the fact that I was followed (as
I have already hinted) by a cheering crowd, who occasionally, and, no
doubt, accidentally, drowned the voice of my kind Mentor. Under other
circumstances I should have drawn the distinction between the Mentor
and the Tor-mentors. Think this, but don't say it. For instance, when
we were standing in front of "_Ramsgate Sands_," this is what reached
my ears eager for instruction:--
"'_Ramsgate Sands_,' by FRITH--(_'Hooray!'_)--who, as you know, has
just written--(_'Speech! Speech!' 'Home Rule!' 'Three cheers for
MORLEY!'_)--full of anecdotes of all sorts of interesting people. If
you went to Ramsgate now, you would find----(_'We are going to give
you another carpet, old man!' 'Hooray, hooray, hooray!' 'Three
Cheers for Home Rule!--An extra one for Manchester!'_)--and
practically the sand-frequenters we are carefully examining in this
picture are of thirty years ago. (_'Speech! Speech!'_) You must
know----(_'Hooray, hooray, hooray!'_)"
And at this period my dear friend was silenced by our being carried
away in an irresistible stream to the Palm-house, where we took part
in an excellent luncheon. Here I delivered my speech, which I
pride myself was first-rate. I called Manchester the Modern Athens,
explaining, however, that no offence was intended to the capital
of Midlothian. Take it all round, then, in spite of the "exuberant
interest" shown in me by my fellow-citizens, I have had a very
pleasant day, thanks chiefly to T'Other WILLIAM.
* * * * *
A PROGRESSIVE PROGRAMME.
_October 25._--Lecture by amiable Police Magistrate to six hulking
rowdies, who have been assaulting the Police, on the duty of "bearing
distress patiently." Tells them "not to do it again," and dismisses
them with aid from the Poor Box and his blessing. Surprise of rowdies.
_October 26._--Unemployed employ themselves in sacking portion of Bond
Street, during temporary withdrawal of Police for a little rest.
_October 27._--Sitting Alderman at Mansion House gives a Socialist
Deputation some sympathetic and fatherly advice, and recommends them
to "study laws of supply and demand." Invites them to Lord Mayor's
Banquet. Deputation accepts invitation readily, and, on emerging
into street, is chivied down Cheapside by infuriated mob of other
Socialists, who have not received invitations.
_October 28._--New Leaders of Mob (_vice_ Deputation, resigned)
denounce sympathetic Alderman as a "bloated exploiter." Nelson
Monument pulled down. Ten leading tradesmen, in neighbourhood of
Trafalgar Square, unable to do any business, owing to streets being
blocked with rioters, go into bankruptcy.
_October 29._--Gathering of "Unemployed" in Westminster Abbey.
Unemployed complain bitterly because chairs have no cushions. The
Dean, conducted to pulpit under strong police escort, preaches very
conciliatory sermon on duty of Upper Classes, all, except Deans, to
give most of what they possess to poor; advises poor to wait patiently
till they get it. Retires under heavy shower of hymn-books. Unemployed
"remain to prey."
_October 30._--Westminster Abbey sacked, in consequence of Dean's
conciliatory sermon. The Canons go off.
_November 1._--Mansion House Relief Fund started. Fifty thousand
pounds subscribed the first day by leading philanthropists who
have had all their windows broken. Trade paralysed, and numbers of
Unemployed consequently increasing. Speech by celebrated Statesman,
contrasting disorder and lawlessness in Ireland with universal
contentment and order existing in England.
_November 2._--Mob helps itself to chief pictures in National Gallery,
on ground that they "belong to the people." Raffle organised for the
Raffaelles. Fifteen policemen have their ribs broken.
_November 3._--Whole Police Force disabled by angry mob armed with
bludgeons and revolvers. Sympathetic Alderman at Mansion House
ventures to ask Government if "matters are not really going a little
too far," and is ducked in Thames. All the West-End shops in-wested by
looters.
_November 4._--Prime Minister declares that "much as he regrets the
depression of trade and want of employment, yet he thinks that on the
whole, recent proceedings have not been quite creditable to Capital
City of Empire." Military called out, and streets cleared in no time.
Ringleaders of mob arrested, and given a year's imprisonment with hard
labour. Trafalgar Square railed round and planted with prickly cactus.
Business resumed and confidence restored. Government begins to think
of a Bill to deal with _real_ London grievances--such as rack-rents,
slum-dwellings, and foreign pauper labour. [_And high time too!_
* * * * *
A CLOUD OF YACHTS.--The account of the British owner published last
week, confirms the notion that the much-talked-of superiority of
the _Thistle_ over the _Volunteer_ was mere vapouring. This is not
surprising. All that could be appropriately expected from such a weed
was smoke!
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S PARALLELS. No. 3.
[Illustration: DON CHAMBERLAIN QUIXOTE AND SANCHO JESSE PANZA.
_Sancho Panza (to himself)._ "I CANNOT HELP IT,--FOLLOW HIM I MUST:
I HAVE EATEN HIS BREAD, I LOVE HIM: ABOVE ALL I AM FAITHFUL."--_Don
Quixote_, Part ii., Book iii., Ch. xxxiii.]
* * * * *
THE NEW QUIXOTE.
_Fragments from a forthcoming Romance of (Political) Chivalry and
(Party) Knight-Errantry._
***
The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years. He was of a strong
constitution, spare-bodied, of a keen, not to say hatchet-like visage,
a very early (and rapid) riser, and a lover of the orchid.
***
His judgment being somewhat obscured, he was seized with one of the
strangest fancies that ever entered the head of any naturally astute
person. This was a belief that it behoved him, as well for the
advancement of his own glory as the service of his country, to become
a knight-errant (though, indeed, there was, perhaps, about him more
of the errant than the knightly), and traverse the northern parts of
Hibernia, armed and mounted, in quest of adventures, redressing every
species of grievance save such as were not found in his own list, or
"programme," which latter, indeed, he would by no means admit to be
"grievances" at all. The poor gentleman imagined himself to be at
least crowned Autocrat of Orangeia by the valour of his arm; and
thus wrapt in these agreeable illusions, and borne away by the
extraordinary pleasure he found in them, he hastened to put his design
into execution.
The first thing he did was to scour up some rusty armour which had
done service in the time of his great-grandfather, and had lain many
years neglected in a corner. This he cleaned and furbished up as well
as he could, but he found one great defect--it would not in any part
stand one stroke from modern steel, much less one shot from modern
gun. However, as he was rather fired with the yearning to attack than
impressed with the necessity for defence, this deficiency troubled him
but little.
In the next place he visited his steed, which though but a hobby of
wooden aspect and no paces, yet in his eyes it surpassed any charger
that the Achilles of Hawarden ever bestrode, or the Automedon of Derby
ever handled. Many days was he deliberating upon what name he should
give it; for, as he said to himself, it would be very improper that
a horse so excellent appertaining to a Knight so famous should be
without an appropriate name; he therefore endeavoured to find one that
should express what he had been before he belonged to a knight-errant,
and also what he now was; nothing could, indeed, be more reasonable
than that, when the master changed his state, the horse should
likewise change his name, and assume one pompous and high-sounding, as
became the new order he now professed. Failing in this endeavour, he
called his hobby, provisionally at least, _Ne Plus Ulster_, a name
which if it suggested a sorry joke, was so far fitting that it was
bestowed upon a sorry nag.
***
In the meantime our knight-errant had brought his persuasive powers to
bear upon | 1,098.662597 |
2023-11-16 18:35:22.6501310 | 351 | 148 |
Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines,
Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE
STRAND MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly_
Vol. 5, Issue. 29.
May 1893
[Illustration: "EXCUSE OUR INTRUSION, MADAM."
(_In the Shadow of the Sierras._)]
IN THE SHADOW OF THE SIERRAS
BY IZA DUFFUS HARDY.
Barbara Thorne sat leaning her head on her hand, looking at a photograph
that lay on the table beneath her eyes. She had not intended to look for
_that_ when she pulled out a dusty drawer full of old letters, papers,
and account-books to arrange and set in order. But when in the course of
her rummaging and tidying she found that picture in her hand, she paused
in her task. The neglected drawer stood open, with its dusty packets and
rolls of faded papers. Barbara had forgotten it and all else around her.
She sat there lost in memory, her eyes fixed upon the "counterfeit
presentment" of the face that once had been all the world to her. She
did not often think of Oliver Desmond now; to think of him meant only
pain--pain of outraged pride and wounded love. She had outgrown the time
when she could not tear her thoughts from him, when his face was in her
"mind's eye" by night and day, and yet she shrank with a shuddering
revolt of anguish from those pictures of the past which she could not
| 1,098.670171 |
2023-11-16 18:35:23.2612630 | 7,437 | 34 |
Produced by Turgut Dincer (This file was produced from
images generously made available by Hathi Trust)
STANHOPE PRIZE ESSAY--1859.
THE
CAUSES OF THE SUCCESSES
OF THE
OTTOMAN TURKS.
BY
JAMES SURTEES PHILLPOTTS,
SCHOLAR OF NEW COLLEGE.
[Illustration]
OXFORD:
T. and G. SHRIMPTON.
M DCCC LIX.
THE CAUSES OF THE SUCCESSES OF THE OTTOMAN TURKS.
By the fall of the Seljukian dynasty in Asia Minor, a vast number of
Turks, scattered over the fertile tracts of Western Asia, were left
without any organized government. The Emirs of the Seljouks in their
different districts tried to set up separate kingdoms for themselves,
but their power was successfully exercised only in making depredations
upon each other. For some time they were under the sway of the Khans of
Persia, but the decline of the Mogul Empire after the death of Cazan,
freed them from this control[1]. During this time of general anarchy,
a clan of Oghouz Turks, under Ertogruhl, settled in the dominions of
Alaeddin, the chief of Iconium. These Turks were of the same family as
the Huns and Avars, and the other Barbarian hordes, whose invasions
had continually devastated Europe for nearly ten centuries[2]; nor had
the energy and restless activity of their race yet begun to fail. They
were all united by the affinity of race, as well as by their language,
and by the common bond of the Sunnite creed. In return for Ertogruhl’s
services in war Alaeddin gave him a grant of territory in the highlands
of Phrygia. The warlike spirit of Ertogruhl’s son Othman, raised him to
the rank of an independent chieftain, and he soon made himself master
of strong positions on the borders of the Greek Empire. With ill-judged
parsimony, the Emperor Michael had disbanded the militia, who guarded
the passes of Mount Olympus, and had thus left Bithynia open to
attack. Orchan, the son of Othman, took advantage of these favourable
occurrences, enlarged his territory at the expense of the Greeks, and
by uniting several of the scattered Turkish tribes under one head, laid
the foundation of the Ottoman Empire.
Thus the circumstances of the times were throughout eminently
favourable to the Ottomans. The fall of the Seljouk monarchy, and
the consequent diffusion of the Turkish population, had given free
scope to their enterprising spirit. Through the civil wars of the
Byzantine Emperors and the disputes of the Venetians and Genoese, they
were enabled to gain their first footing in Europe. Had Amurath’s
attempt to extend his kingdom over the Christian nations of Thrace and
Roumelia been made in the 11th century, he would have roused all Europe
in common resistance to his rising power. But in 1388, the Servian
confederacy could obtain no aid from Western Christendom. As long as
Richard II. was king of England, and Charles VI. of France--while
Germany was ruled by the dissolute Winceslaus--Amurath had little to
fear from the powers of the West[3]. Spain was too much occupied by
her wars with the Moslems at home to think of the sufferings of her
Christian brethren in the East. Nor was there any danger that the rival
popes of Avignon and Rome would forget their private animosities to
assist in arresting the fall of a distant and schismatical church.
At the crowning point of their success, the siege of Constantinople
by Mahomet II., the advantages of time were again on the side of the
Ottomans. The Roman pontiff, furious at their obstinacy in refusing
to join the communion of the Latin church, had conceived an aversion
for the Greeks which could hardly be exceeded by any abhorrence of
the Mnssulman’s creed. It might have been expected that he would
rouse himself to prevent the destruction of the Eastern defences
of Christendom, but he chose rather a selfish and inglorious part,
content to foresee and even to foretell the coming overthrow of the
Greek Empire[4]. Thus did the Patriarch of the West, the natural head
of any confederacy for the succour of Constantinople, look on at its
fall with seeming unconcern. Meanwhile the English and the French were
engaged in a quarrel too deadly to be reconciled. The Germans would
not join with the Hungarians, nor would the Spanish have any concert
with the Genoese. In short no coalition of the powers of Europe was
possible. Even the Greeks themselves were too much divided by religious
dissensions to offer united resistance to their Moslem foe, and their
want of union could only be equalled by their cowardice. The valour
of the last Constantine did indeed shed glory over his own particular
fate, but the issue of the struggle could not be doubtful when the
disciplined troops and the famed artillery of the Turk were opposed to
the feeble and disunited force of the enervated Byzantines.
These external circumstances are important, as having been auxiliary to
the rise of the Ottomans. But the main causes of their success must be
sought in the wisdom of their rulers and in the institutions which they
established.
Their government was most singularly constituted, and of a character
totally dissimilar to any of the governments of Christendom. The
institutions too from which they derived their solid and lasting power
were for the most part peculiar to themselves. On these institutions
the stability of the Ottoman greatness mainly rested. With their first
appearance it arose; with their gradual development it had grown; as
they were neglected and fell into disuse, the ancient glory of the
Crescent was dimmed, obscured, and finally extinguished.
Even in the legendary history of the founder of their nation is
shadowed forth the faint outline of their peculiar, policy. By patient
waiting till he attained his purpose, Othman won his wife from an alien
tribe. His expeditions were sanctioned by the blessing of the Holy
Scheik Edebali. From the fruit of these expeditions, from the Christian
captives who were condemned to slavery, was selected the wife of his
son Orchan. A Christian apostate, ‘Michael of the Pointed Beard’ was
the chief of Othman’s captains.
It was from the example of their founder, they would have us
believe, that they adopted customs of receiving renegades, of foreign
intermarriage, a warlike zeal sanctioned by religion, a system of
slavery-institutions which in later times were the distinguishing
characteristics of their race[5]. It matters not if these accounts
of Othman’s early history be the invention of later times; this
rather shows (since fiction is more philosophical than truth), that
the Ottomans themselves were convinced that it was mainly on the
preservation of these usages that their greatness rested. It was,
however, reserved for the sons of Othman to set the system on a
permanent basis, and to the legislative genius of Alaeddin in the
succeeding reign, was chiefly due the stability of the Ottoman race.
In general the Asiatic dynasties culminate to their height of power
with a marvellous rapidity, and then, dependent solely on the merits
of their rulers, with no institutions calculated to ensure any lasting
greatness, fall by a decline no less rapid and less marvellous than
their rise. The career of Ottoman conquest lacked the dazzling grandeur
which invests the exploits of Genghis Khan, or Timour, but it was not
destined to be as ephemeral as they. In its slow and cautious advance,
in the gradual organization of conquered provinces, in the unswerving
patience which waited always for the fittest opportunity, it bore no
faint resemblance to the stately march of Roman sovereignty.
The close of Othman’s life of seventy years saw him but just made
possessor of a single city of importance. It was not till the reign of
Orchan that the Ottomans ceased to acknowledge the sovereignty of the
Iconian Sultans, and first adopted a coinage of their own. The wise
policy of Orchan’s coadjutor, Alaeddin, gave them a respite from war
for twenty years, in which time he consolidated the small kingdom they
had already won, and perfected a system which was to be the instrument
of future conquest.
It was during this period of tranquillity that the organization of
the army was effected--an organization which, possessing in itself
the various merits of the most invincible forces that have ever been
collected--the asceticism and brotherhood of the Spartan companies, the
mixture of races in the army of Hannibal, the religious zeal of the
English Puritans, and the devotion of Caesar’s 10th legion--added to
all these, two peculiarities of their creed, the absolute subjection of
every individual to the sacred authority of the Sultan, and the warlike
inspirations of a religion that taught them that ‘in the conflict of
the crossing scymetars Paradise was to be won.’
It is a remarkable and significant fact, that this abstinence from war
for the long period of twenty years was never repeated by the Ottomans
during the time of their success. That soldiers long unemployed must
become either citizens or rebels is an axiom which must have special
force in a government like that of the Ottomans. War was the normal
condition of their race. It was to this object that not only their
iconoclastic creed, but the whole tenor of their institutions pointed,
and in this aspect they must chiefly be contemplated.
The feudal system of the Ottomans was essentially military. It was the
device of an aggressive power and was made to answer a double purpose;
to secure the permanency of its conquests, and to supply soldiers for
war. Ottoman feudalism was wholly different from that which prevailed
in Western Europe. The great distinction lay in the fact, that among
the Ottomans all the feudal vassals held their fiefs directly of
the Sultan, or his officers; whereas in Western Europe, between the
sovereigns and the lower tenants was interposed a powerful class,
which always more or less counterbalanced the supreme power. The one
was the division of a kingdom into petty fiefs, the other the fusion
of conquered territories under the sway of one victorious monarch. It
was through the feudal system of the Ottomans, in combination with
their institution of slavery, that war was made to feed war; that every
conquest supplied the means for future conquest.
The use of the Ottoman system for the supply of soldiers in time of
war may be estimated from the fact, that an armed horseman was required
for every fief of the value of twelve pounds a year, and another for
every additional twenty pounds. In the time of Solyman these fiefs were
able to furnish 150,000 cavalry[6]. The feudal troops were always kept
in readiness, nor was anything required to summon them to the field
but an order of the Sultan to the two Beglerbegs of the Empire from
whom it was communicated to a regular gradation of officers entrusted
with the task of mustering these Spahi, or Cavaliers, in their separate
divisions[7]. This force served without pay. If they fell in battle,
they were honoured as martyrs: if they distinguished themselves, or if
the expedition was successful, they were rewarded with larger gifts of
property. All their hopes of advancement depended upon the Sultan, and
his success in war. They were ready to do his bidding in any part of
the world, for the greater part of every country which they subdued was
divided among the members of their own body.
It is to this institution of feudalism that we must look for an
explanation of the fact, that the Turkish conquests, unlike those of
other great conquerors, seldom returned to their original possessors.
Immediately an additional piece of territory was gained, it became an
integral part of the Empire. Thus it was that the Sultans were able to
consolidate and unite their dominions, step by step, with every fresh
acquisition of land. In most cases, the conquest of distant territories
has been any thing rather than lucrative to the victorious nation. But
the Turkish conquests reimbursed the Sultan, and enriched the nation;
some portions of land were regularly assigned to the sovereign, and
others became public property.
Thus the community of the Timarli, or fief-holders, carried out, on
a large scale, the intention of the Roman system of colonise, both
as guarding the dangerous frontiers and ensuring the preservation of
conquered lands.
But there is one aspect of the Ottoman feudalism which we have not
yet regarded, and which redounds more than any other to their honor.
Toleration of creed, with one remarkable exception, was given to the
conquered Christians, and even in the days of Othman, equal protection
was dealt out alike to Greek and Turk, Christian and Mahometan. This
tolerant and enlightened system induced numbers of the Christians who
dwelt on the borders of the Ottoman Empire to exchange their hard
position, as Hungarian serfs, for that of Rayas under the Turks.
We have said that there was one most signal exception to the general
toleration of their rule, and this was the institution of the corps
of Janissaries, the Yengi Cheri, or “New Soldiers” of Alaeddin. The
importance of a well-disciplined standing army struck the far-seeing
mind of Orchan’s coadjutor, and to the organization of the army he
gave his chief attention during the twenty years of peace of which
we have spoken. He first formed, of the native Osmanli, a corps of
paid infantry. But it soon appeared that these Turks were too proud
and turbulent to endure the necessary discipline. In this perplexity
we are told that Alaeddin sought the advice of his relative Black
Khalil Tschendereli. Black Khalil’s counsel dictated a device of the
most subtle and effective kind--that the Ottoman army must be formed
out of the children of the conquered Christians, who should be forced
to become Mahometans. By this means, he argued, you will gain troops
which can be schooled to any discipline. To the Mussulman religion
you will gain many converts, while you will prevent any rebellion of
your Christian subjects by the incorporation of the whole strength of
their race with your own forces. The plan was adopted by Alaeddin and
carried out in the next reign by the First Amurath. Amurath’s warlike
spirit, and the lust of conquest that was predominant in his race, led
him to make repeated expeditions against the Sclavonic tribes of Servia
and Bosnia. Among this hardy race he found no treasures of gold and
silver--no spoil for his conquering army--but he found an inexhaustible
supply of brave soldiers[8]. The children who were taken captive in his
wars were immediately disciplined in the schools of the Janissaries,
and in due time drafted into their ranks. Those who were not available
for this purpose, or for the service of the Sultan, were sold as
slaves, and thus brought in a considerable revenue to the Turkish
Emperor.
As long as the flower of the Christian youth were converted not merely
into Mahometans, but into devoted supporters of the Ottoman power,
any revolt of the Rayas was impossible. In their strict discipline
and continued occupation the proselytes lost all remembrance of their
kindred and their country. With the highest positions in the Empire
open to their ambition, they might well glory in a station that raised
them over the heads of the native Osmanli. The rigorous pride with
which they kept their own body aloof from any foreign admixture may
offer a parallel to that remarkable system by which the proudest
chivalry of Egypt was formed out of Circassian slaves.
Thus at the court of the Sultan were gathered an abundance of men,
from various nations, devoted only to the common weal of the race into
which they were adopted. Not only were there the prisoners taken in
war, as well as the tithe, so to speak, of Christian children taken
every five years, but from every pacha of the Empire came presents
of slaves to the Sultan[9]. These slaves were divided into different
classes, according to their abilities. Those who were destined for
Janissaries were trained to every exercise that could increase their
physical strength, and inure them to toil and hardship. Others were
educated for the more immediate service of the Sultan, either as his
state-officers or his body-guard. Thus the Turkish armies, though
they were those of an Asiatic nation, were composed of the hardiest
of Europeans. Nor were these Europeans ever suffered to fall into the
enervating habits of Asiatics. They had no homes in which they could be
pampered with Oriental luxury. Their barracks were like monasteries;
their dress the dark robes of monks; their meals the frugal fare of
mountaineers. They were not allowed to take wives; they might ply no
trades; engage in no commerce; nor were any admitted into their body
who had not gone through the regular course of this discipline. At home
they lived as if they were in the camp; in the camp they preserved the
same order, the same discipline as at home. War was the occupation
of their life. They had given no “hostages to fortune;” they had no
domestic ties that could bind them to a peaceful life. Their hopes of
advancement rested on their valour in battle. They were justly proud of
the achievements of their corps, and were stimulated by every motive of
ambition, self-interest, and the love of glory, above all, emulation
to surpass the successes of their predecessors. They knew that the
watchful eyes of the Sultan were on them in the fight, and that every
deed of heroism would meet with its appropriate reward. If he fell,
what recked a Janissary of death, save as the glorious consummation
of his prowess, as the opening of Paradise to the martyr who had won
it[10]?
The testimony of contemporary writers to the wonderful efficacy of
this remarkable institution is unanimous. Schwendi, a general of their
opponents, owns that the Janissaries had never turned their backs in
battle. Busbequius, the German ambassador, struck with admiration at
their discipline and endurance, warns his countrymen of the nature of
the foe whom they must be prepared to encounter, if they enter a war
with the Turks. Barbaro, an ambassador of the Venetian government,
comments with wonder on the fact that the power of the Ottomans
mainly rested on a corps of compulsory converts from Christianity.
The Venetian Relationi, quoted by Von Ranke, are full of the remarks
of ambassadors expressing their admiration of the whole system of the
Ottoman arms[11].
One of the most conspicuous features of their discipline was the
order, temperance, and cleanliness of an Ottoman camp, as constrasted
with the drunken, dissolute, and filthy habits of the armies of
Christendom[12]. Frequently encamped as they were in the pestilential
districts which proved disastrous to the French and English armies at
the commencement of the late Russian war, we can easily understand how
great an advantage over their opponents these wise regulations secured
them in their campaigns.
The fiery valour of the Christian knights might surpass the more
patient courage of the Ottoman troops, but their pride of birth, and
spirit of independence would not brook the discipline, nor render
the obedience, for which the Janissaries were remarkable; and to
this may be attributed the fatal results of the battle of Nicopolis.
At Kossova the Asiatic wing of the Turkish army had recoiled from
the repeated onsets of the Bosnian king and his warriors, but the
Janissaries ‘fighting with the zeal of proselytes’ against their
Sclavonic brethren recovered the fortunes of the day for Amurath[13].
At Varna the panic which had spread through the Turkish troops from
the furious attacks of Ladislaus and Hunyades was only checked by the
firm resistance, the unflinching endurance of the Janissaries[14]. When
the desperate and heroic resistance of the last Greek Emperor, and his
few brave adherents, had driven back the Anatolian soldiery, and the
fate of Constantinople was still hanging in the balance, it was their
surpassing valour that turned the scales of victory, bore down all
resistance, and won Eastern Rome for the capital of the Ottoman Empire.
At the great crises of their history we have seen how it was the
power of the Janissaries that saved the Ottomans; but in every
battle, in every campaign, the possession of a formidable corps of
well-disciplined infantry at a time when their opponents had no regular
infantry at all, gave them a continual advantage. It has been remarked
that the Ottomans never encountered the forces of the only two European
nations who had at this time any organized foot-soldiers[15]. We all
know how the chivalry of France fell before the English bowmen at
Cressy and Poictiers, and how the troops of Austria fled before the
halberdiers of Switzerland, and we may doubt whether the Janissaries
would have been equally invincible had they met the English or the
Swiss on the battle-fields of Servia.
The institution of the Janissary force must not be considered as a
system of mere cruelty and intolerance. The records of the age tell us
that it was an usual occurrence for Christian parents voluntarily to
bring their sons to the press-gang of the Janissaries, in order that in
due time they might be enrolled in their ranks, while the high offices
which were thrown open to these proselytes of Mahometanism brought
renegades in numbers to the Sultan’s court, where no distinction of
birth or country interfered to mar their fortunes. This system of
the reception of refugees from all countries gained for the Ottomans
many of the greatest names which adorn their history. Of the ten
grand-viziers of Solyman, eight were renegades from Christianity. It
was indeed noted as an unusual circumstance that one of his viziers was
a native Turk[16]. Piale, who defeated the united Christian fleets in
1560 off the isle of Djerbe, was himself the son of Christian parents.
Cicala Pasha, the great commander under the successors of Solyman,
was an Italian by birth, but as aga of the Janissaries became one of
the fiercest enemies of the Christians. And in the earliest times we
find that Evrenos, who under Bajazet and Amurath I. added the greater
part of Greece to the Ottoman dominions, was originally a Christian
chieftain and a guardian of the passes of Mount Olympus. During the
flourishing period of the Empire nearly all the high civil and military
offices were filled by Christian slaves, who had risen either from the
ranks of the Janissaries, or who had been brought up by the Mufti in
the profession of the law[17]. Thus, to use the words of Gibbon, “a
servile class, an artificial people, were raised by the discipline of
education to obey, to conquer, and to command[18].”
If it be true according to the account we have given of the
constitution of the Empire, that the highest offices of the state were
conferred by the ruling prince on men raised by his own hand from
slavery--that the feudal tenants were subject to a single superior, and
the army directed by a single will,--it is evident that nothing but
the largest capacity for legislation and military command could have
successfully wielded such enormous authority.
Of the extraordinary genius of the early Sultans there is abundant
proof[19]. The character of Othman was precisely suited for one
who was to be the founder of a dynasty. He was conspicuous among a
warlike tribe for his boldness and independence, and he possessed that
marvellous influence over the minds of those around him, which is one
of the peculiar characteristics of the greatest men. In Orchan we see
the enduring watchfulness, the indomitable resolution which never fails
to attain its object, while in the person of Alaeddin his coadjutor we
may admire the far-sighted legislator, the brightness of whose original
genius shone forth undimmed by the prejudices of an unenlightened
age. By the organization of a standing army he marked out future
conquests for his race, while by the tolerant spirit of his legislation
he ordained that a due protection should be given to the conquered.
Amurath by a series of successful campaigns gained the city of
Adrianople for his capital. Then with admirable prudence he paused for
a while to consolidate his conquests and mature his resources, and thus
paved the way for his final victory at Kossova. The name of Yilderim
or the Thunderbolt testifies to the energy of the First Bajazet, but
it was a just punishment for his overbearing pride in later years that
the Tartar Conqueror Timour was provoked to crush his power on the
field of Angora, and to doom him to an ignominious captivity. The work
of the destroyer was for the time complete, and it seemed as if the
Ottoman power was irrecoverably ruined. But the mould into which their
national life had been cast was not so easily destroyed. The force of
their institutions still remained, and the people were still attached
to the tolerance of their ancient government, and so, after many years
of civil war, the unity of the Ottoman power was easily restored by
the vigorous hand of Mahomet the First. The bold measures of Amurath
II. caused the signal overthrow of his Hungarian opponents at Varna,
and the annexation of Servia and Bosnia in the succeeding reign are
due in great measure to his toleration and prudence. The abdication
of his father gave Mahomet the Second experience in the command of an
Empire at the early age of eighteen, and a double failure as viceroy
secured him wisdom for his sole reign. Setting aside any consideration
of his character, it is impossible to deny his legislative ability
and military genius, in building up the greatness of his nation.
The domestic dissensions of the Empire, under the feebler hand of
Bajazet II., showed how requisite a warlike and energetic Sultan was
to its preservation under its peculiar constitution. Tabriz, and the
subjection of the Mamelukes, were monuments of the ferocious spirit of
the warrior Selim. By ceaseless carnage he made himself master of the
whole of Egypt, took great part of Syria, and added the Caliphate to
the titles of the Ottoman sovereign. At the moment when his cruelty had
nearly driven his people to rebellion, the rise of Solyman furnished a
pillar of strength to the house of Othman. At the time of his reign the
thrones of Europe, as well as those of Persia and India, were occupied
by some of the most powerful sovereigns of modern times. But in “a
century rich with mighty spirits” there are few names which can compare
with that of Solyman the Magnificent, the great lawgiver and commander
of his nation. Under his sway, the dynasty of the Ottoman Turks reached
its zenith. Though the institutions of his predecessors, and the
military organization they had bequeathed, supplied a foundation, yet
it was in great measure to his own genius, vigour, and capacity, that
the mighty fabric of the Ottoman power owed its stupendous greatness,
and that an Empire founded but three centuries before by a few families
of wandering Turkomans, then numbered among its subjects twenty
different races, and nearly fifty millions of inhabitants, and still
survives with wonderful tenacity, after three centuries of decline,
unbroken by a single vicissitude of success.
Thus for ten successive reigns, with perhaps a single exception, the
throne of the Ottoman Turks was held by men of extraordinary talents.
Nor was this vigour of the early Sultans merely accidental. The strict
discipline to which they were subjected in early years, the attention
that was paid to their education, and their subsequent training in the
council and the field, must all have tended to this result.
The real weakness of the Ottoman government, its absolute dependence
on a single man, was marvellously compensated and overcome by a
continued succession of vigorous sovereigns. The superiority of a
well regulated constitution over a despotism generally lies in a
comparative equality of ability through all its different members. As
long as absolute power is held by the strong hand of a great man all is
prosperous. But a continued succession of great men rarely occurs, and
when it falls to an irresolute hand to wield the sceptre of despotism
the real weakness of the system appears. In France, the Revolution was
the ultimate result of the exercise of unlimited power, by Louis the
fourteenth; in England, the great Rebellion was the final issue of the
attempt to subject the English people to a despotism. The reason that
the same result did not occur in the case of the Ottomans is to be
found in the historic facts: first, that the later Sultans were, in
the eyes of Mahometans, the successors of the Prophet, as well as the
descendants of Othman; and, secondly, that the Janissaries, like the
Praetorian guards at Rome, jealously prevented their rulers from being
made subject to any power but their own.
Besides the wonderful efficacy of their military organization and the
talents of their Sultans, there is one point of their history which is
worthy of remark as having tended indirectly towards their success.
The whole tenor of their legislation was much in advance of that of
the European powers in general. English history has often been said
to be a century before that of France, but the history of the early
Turkish Emperors was much more strikingly advanced beyond that of the
other sovereigns of Europe. At the end of the fifteenth century, when,
although the times were not yet ready for the development of popular
right, the oppressions of European feudalism had become intolerable,
the strong hand of despotic sovereigns supplied the only safe guard
against lawless outrage. The aggrandizement of their power at that time
saved the states which they governed. In this respect, however, the
Ottomans were before their age--for whilst the states of Europe were
for the most part impotent through the overbearing spirit of the feudal
nobility, the Ottoman government was vigorously swayed by an Absolute
Monarch[20]. Thus, when England was distracted by the wars of the
Roses, Mahomet the Conqueror was leading his nation on to victory. In
fact, the aggrandizement of the Ottoman Sultans was anterior to that of
the European sovereigns.
In other points we may notice the same advancement in their history.
Their whole military system was beyond their age. They possessed
disciplined infantry, when a standing army was unknown, and cavalry
had not yet been supplanted by foot-soldiers in the rest of Europe.
They had a regular commissariat department to supply their armies with
the necessaries of war, and a special corps to do the work of Sappers
and Miners, long before such a division of labour was adopted by
Christendom. On the departments of artillery and engineering Mahomet
II. bestowed his special attention. The Ottomans first made regular
approaches in besieging a fortress, and became masters of the Italians
in the art of fortification[21].
It is curious also that a nation popularly considered to have
consisted of unenlightened barbarians should have been far in advance
of us in some of the points which we consider as the distinguishing
features of modern European civilization. Every advantage of Free
Trade was allowed to the foreign merchant who traded to the Turkish
sea-ports[22]. A system of municipal government was established
throughout their dominions. A religious toleration beyond the spirit
of the age was carried out towards the Christian population of their
kingdom. In this particular the difference in the spirit of the
Christian and Turkish governments is well illustrated by a traditionary
account of the answers of Amurath and Hunyades, when questioned by the
Servians on the subject of the maintenance of their religion. While
Hunyades is said to have declared that, if victorious, he would compel
them to join the Latin Communion, Amurath’s famous answer was: “I will
build a church near every mosque, and the people shall worship in
whichever they may prefer[23].”
But it was not to a purer moral principle that the system owed its
origin. The clear sight of their rulers perceived that some toleration
was necessary for the well-being of their composite empire. But the
ruling genius of their creed was not tolerant then, any more than it
is now. The institution of the Janissaries was in accordance with
the tenets of their religion. But the protection of their Christian
subjects was the conciliatory measure of a wise legislator, not of a
devout Mahometan. Oh the one hand the compulsory conversion of a large
portion of their hardier slave-population furnished them with a rich
harvest of soldiers, while their toleration in other respects procured
for them the contentment of their less warlike subjects.
The truth of the remark of Mach | 1,099.281303 |
2023-11-16 18:35:23.2622680 | 5,461 | 9 |
Produced by Internet Archive; University of Florida, Children, Sjaani
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE
APRICOT TREE.
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[Illustration]
THE APRICOT-TREE.
It was a fine evening in the beginning of autumn. The last rays of the
sun, as it sunk behind the golden clouds, gleamed in at the window of a
cottage, which stood in a pleasant lane, about a quarter of a mile from
the village of Ryefield. On each side of the narrow gravel walk that led
from the lane to the cottage-door, was a little plot of cultivated
ground. That on the right hand was planted with cabbages, onions, and
other useful vegetables; that on the left, with gooseberry and
currant-bushes, excepting one small strip, where stocks, sweet-peas, and
rose-trees were growing; whose flowers, for they were now in full bloom,
peeping over the neatly trimmed quick-hedge that fenced the garden from
the road, had a gay and pretty appearance. Not a weed was to be found in
any of the beds; the gooseberry and currant-bushes had evidently been
pruned with much care and attention, and were loaded with fine ripe
fruit. But the most remarkable thing in the garden was an apricot-tree,
which grew against the wall of the cottage, and which was covered with
apricots of a large size and beautiful colour.
The cottage itself, though small and thatched with straw, was clean and
cheerful, the brick floor was strewed with sand, and a white though
coarse cloth was spread on the little deal table. On this table were
placed tea-things, a loaf of bread, and some watercresses. A cat was
purring on the hearth, and a kettle was boiling on the fire.
Near the window, in a large arm-chair, sat an old woman, with a Bible on
her knees. She appeared happy and contented, and her countenance
expressed cheerfulness and good temper. After reading for some time with
great attention, she paused to look from the window into the lane, as if
expecting to see some one. She listened as if for a footstep; but all
was silent. She read again for about ten minutes longer, and then
closing the Sacred Volume, rose, and, having laid the Book carefully on
a shelf, opened the door, and went out into the garden, whence she could
see farther into the lane, and remained for a considerable time leaning
over the little wicket gate, in anxious expectation.
"What can be the reason that Ned is so late?" she said, half aloud, to
herself. "He always hastens home to his poor old grandmother as soon as
he has done work. What can make him an hour later than usual? I hope
nothing has happened to him. But, hush!" she continued, after a few
minutes' pause, "surely I hear him coming now."
She was not mistaken, for in a minute or two Ned appeared, running quite
fast up the lane, and in a few moments more he was standing by her side,
panting and breathless.
"Dear grandmother," he exclaimed, as soon as he had recovered breath
enough to speak, "I have a great deal of good news to tell you. Farmer
Tomkyns says he will employ me all through the winter, and pay me the
same wages that he does now. This is one piece of good news. And the
other is, that Mr. Stockwell, the greengrocer, will buy all my apricots,
and give me a good price for them. I am to take them to him next
market-day. I had to wait more than half-an-hour before I could speak to
him, and that made me so late. O how beautiful they are!" continued he,
gazing with admiration at the tree. "O grandmother, how happy I am!"
His grandmother smiled, and said she was glad to hear this good news.
"And now come in and have your tea, child," she added; "for I am sure
you must be hungry."
"O grandmother," said Ned, as they sat at tea, "now that Mr. Stockwell
will buy the fruit, you will be able to have a cloak to keep you warm
this winter. It often used to grieve me, last year, to see you obliged
to go to church such bitter cold weather, with only that thin old shawl
on. I know you said you could not spare money to get a cloak for
yourself, because you had spent all you could save in buying me a
jacket. My tree has never borne fruit till this year; and you always
said that when it did, I should do what I pleased with the money its
fruit would fetch. Now, there is nothing I should like to spend it on
better than in getting a cloak for you."
"Thank you, Ned," replied his grandmother; "it would indeed be a very
great comfort. I do not think I should have suffered so much from
rheumatism last winter, if I had had warmer clothing. If it was not for
your apricot-tree, I must have gone without a cloak this winter also;
for, what with our pig dying, and your having no work to do in the
spring, this has been but a bad year for us."
"The money Mr. Stockwell is going to give me," resumed Ned, "will be
enough all but sixpence; and I have a new sixpence, you know, in a
little box upstairs, that my aunt gave me last June, when I went to
spend the day with her; so when I carry him the fruit, I shall take that
in my pocket, and then when I come home in the evening I can bring the
cloak with me. O that will be a happy day!" continued Ned, getting up to
jump and clap his hands for joy.
"There is another thing I am very glad of," said he, sitting down again.
"Master is going to turn Tom Andrews away next week."
"You ought not to be glad of that, Ned. Tom is one of a large family;
and his father being very poor, it must be a great help to have one of
his children earning something."
"But he is ill-natured to me, and often plagues me very much. It was
only yesterday he broke the best hoe, by knocking stones about with it,
and then told master it was my doing. Besides, he is idle, and does not
mind what is said to him, and often gets into mischief."
"And do you think being turned away from Farmer Tomkyns's will help to
cure these faults?"
"No," answered Ned; "I do not suppose it will."
"On the contrary, is it not likely that he will grow more idle, and get
oftener into mischief, when he has no master to look after him, and
nothing to do all day long but play about the streets?"
"Why, yes, that is true. Still, it will serve him right to be turned
away. I have heard Mr. Harris, our rector, say that those who do wrong
ought to be punished."
"Pray, Ned," asked his grandmother, "can you tell me what is the use of
punishment?"
"The use of punishment!--" repeated Ned, thoughtfully. "Let me think.
The use of punishment, I believe, is to make people better."
"Right. Now, Ned, you have allowed that Tom's being turned away is not
likely to make him better, but worse; so that I am afraid the true
reason why you rejoice at his disgrace is because you bear resentment
against him, for having been ill-natured to yourself. Think a minute,
and tell me if this is not the case."
Ned owned that his grandmother was right; and then observed, "It is very
difficult not to bear ill-will against any one who has done us wrong."
"Yet," rejoined his grandmother, "it is our duty to pardon those who
have injured us. St. Paul says, in his Epistle to the Ephesians, 'Be ye
kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God
for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.' And our blessed Saviour has
commanded us to 'love our enemies,' to 'do good to them that hate us,
and to pray for those that despitefully use us, and persecute us.' If
you will look at the fourteenth and fifteenth verses of the sixth
chapter of St. Matthew, you will see what else our Lord says on the
subject."
Ned took the Bible, and having found the place, read, "For if ye forgive
men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: but if
ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father
forgive your trespasses."
"Before you go to bed," said his grandmother, when he had finished
reading, "I wish you to get by heart these three texts, and repeat them
to me."
Ned did as he was desired, and then his grandmother kissed him, and bid
him good-night.
Ned loved his grandmother very much, for she had always been kind to
him. His parents had both died when he was very young; and she then
brought him home to live with her, and had taken care of him ever since.
She taught him to read and write, and cast up sums; to be steady and
industrious; and, above all, it was her great care to instil into his
mind religious principles. She had often told him that the way to profit
by what we read, as well as by the good advice that may be given us, is
to think upon it afterwards; and she frequently desired him to make a
practice of saying over to himself every night whatever verses from the
Bible he had learnt by heart during the day.
This evening, when Ned repeated his texts, he felt that he had been
wrong to rejoice at Tom Andrews's disgrace, because he had behaved ill
to himself; and he prayed God to make Tom see his faults, and leave off
his bad ways.
The next day Ned, as usual, went early to his work. Tom Andrews was
very teasing, but Ned tried not to be provoked; and when Tom said
ill-natured things to him, he checked the angry replies he was tempted
to make. Two days afterwards, when Ned came home to tea, he thought with
pleasure that to-morrow was market-day at the town where Mr. Stockwell
lived; and he ran in and out twenty times, to look at, and admire, his
beautiful apricot-tree. "I must get up very early indeed to-morrow
morning," he said to his grandmother, "that I may gather the apricots,
and take them to Mr. Stockwell before I go to my work." Accordingly the
next morning he rose as soon as it was light, and, taking a basket the
greengrocer had lent him in his hand, went into the little garden to
line it with fresh green leaves, before putting the fruit into it.
What was his surprise and sorrow when he saw that every one of his
apricots was gone, and the tree itself sawn nearly in two, close to the
root!
Throwing down his basket, Ned ran to his grandmother, who was just come
down stairs, and had begun to light the fire.
He could only exclaim, "O my apricots, my apricots, they are all gone!
And my beautiful tree--" then covering his face with his hands, he burst
into tears.
"What is the matter, my dear?" inquired his grandmother.
Ned replied by taking her by the hand, and leading her into the garden.
"Who can have done this?" he exclaimed, sobbing. "If they had only
stolen the apricots, I could have borne it better! But to see my dear
tree spoiled--It must die--it must be quite killed--only look how it is
cut!"
"I am very sorry for you, my poor boy," said his grandmother, kindly.
"It is a most vexatious thing."
"Oh!" cried Ned, "if I did but know who it was that had done it--"
"I would be revenged on them, some how or other," he was going to have
added; but the texts which he had learned a few days before concerning
the forgiveness of injuries, and which he had frequently repeated to
himself since, came into his mind, and he stopped short.
On looking round the garden, to see if they could discover any traces of
the thief, Ned and his grandmother saw the prints of a boy's shoe,
rather bigger than Ned's, in several of the beds, and hanging on the
quick-hedge were some tattered fragments of a red cotton handkerchief
checked with white. "I know this handkerchief," said Ned; "it is Tom
Andrews's; I have often seen him with it tied round his neck. It must be
he who stole my apricots."
"You cannot be sure that it is Tom who stole your apricots," rejoined
his grandmother. "Many other people besides him have red handkerchiefs."
"But I am sure it can be no one but Tom; for only yesterday, when I told
him about my apricots, and the money I expected to get for them, he said
he wished he knew how to get some, that he might have money too. Oh! if
I could but get hold of him--"
Again he stopped, and thought of our Saviour's words; then, turning to
his grandmother, he said, "Whoever it is that has robbed us of the
fruit, I forgive him, even if it is Tom Andrews."
Ned went to work that day with a heavy heart. Tom Andrews was in high
glee; for his master had said he would give him another week's trial.
Ned told him of the misfortune that had happened to him, and thought
that Tom looked rather confused. He also remarked that his companion had
not got the red handkerchief on that he usually wore about his neck; and
he asked him the reason.
"I tore it last night, scrambling through a hedge," replied Tom
carelessly.
"How came you to be scrambling through a hedge last night?" inquired
Ned.
"What makes you ask me that question?" returned the other, sharply.
"Because," answered Ned, fixing his eyes upon him, "because the person
who stole my apricots left part of a red handkerchief hanging on our
hedge."
"Do you mean to say, then, that _I_ stole them?" exclaimed his
companion, in an angry tone. "I'll teach you to tell this of me."
So saying, he struck Ned a blow on the face with his fist, before Ned
was aware what he was going to do.
Ned was very much tempted to strike in return; but just as he raised his
arm, something seemed to whisper that he ought not to do so; and,
drawing back a few steps, he called after Tom, who was beginning to run
away, saying,
"You need not be afraid of me. I am not going to strike you, though you
did strike me; because it is wrong to return evil for evil."
"Fine talking, indeed!" rejoined Tom, tauntingly. "I know very well the
reason why you will not strike me again. You dare not, because I am the
biggest and strongest. You are afraid of me."
Now Ned was no coward. He would have fought in a good cause with a boy
twice his size; and he was very much provoked at the words and manner of
his companion.
He had a hard struggle with himself not to return the blow; but he kept
firm to the good resolution he had made, and went away.
As he was returning home very sorrowful, he could not help thinking how
happy he had expected to be that evening; and he regretted extremely
that his grandmother would have no cloak to keep her warm in the cold
weather. Still, the recollection that he had patiently borne the blow
and insulting speeches of Tom, and thus endeavoured to put in practice
the good precepts he had been taught, consoled him, and made him feel
less sad than he would otherwise have been.
"How did you get that black eye, Ned?" asked his grandmother, as soon as
she saw him. "I hope you have not been fighting."
"No, grandmother, indeed I have not," replied Ned; and he told her how
it had happened.
His grandmother said that he was a good boy to have acted as he did, and
added, "It makes me happier to find that you behave well, than twenty
new cloaks would."
The next day, at dinner time, when Ned went into the little outhouse
where he and Tom usually ate this meal, he found Tom sitting there
crying.
"What makes you cry, Tom?" inquired Ned.
"Because I have no dinner," was the reply.
"How happens that?" asked Ned.
"Because, now father's out of work, mother says she can only give us two
meals a-day. I only had a little bit of bread this morning; and I shall
have nothing else till I go home in the evening, and then she will give
me a cold potato or two."
Ned's grandmother had given him that day for his dinner a large slice of
bread, and a piece of cold bacon. Ned had been working hard, and was
very hungry. He could have eaten all the bread and bacon with pleasure,
and felt certain that if he had got no dinner and Tom had, Tom would not
have given him any of his. He recollected that Tom had never in his life
shown him any kindness; that, a fortnight ago, when Tom had had four
apples given him, he had eaten them all himself, without even offering
him part of one; and, above all, he called to mind that Tom was in all
probability the person who had robbed him of his apricots, and killed
his favourite apricot-tree.
But he remembered our Saviour's command, "Do good to them that hate
you;" and though Tom was a bad boy, yet it grieved Ned to see him crying
with hunger, whilst he himself had food to eat. So he divided both the
bread and the bacon into two equal shares, with his knife, and then,
going up to Tom, gave him one portion, and desired him to eat it. Tom
looked at Ned in some surprise, and then, taking the food that was
offered him, ate it in a ravenous manner, without saying a word.
"He might just have thanked me," thought Ned to himself; but he forbore
to tell Tom so.
Ned always read a chapter in the Bible to his grandmother every night
when he came home from work. It happened that this evening the chapter
fixed on was the twelfth of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. He was
much struck by one of the verses in it: "Therefore if thine enemy
hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou
shalt heap coals of fire upon his head."
"Grandmother," said Ned, when he had concluded the chapter, "I
understand the first part of this verse very well, it is plain enough;
but what is meant by the words, 'for in so doing thou shalt heap coals
of fire upon his head?'"
His grandmother replied, that this passage had once puzzled her; but
that an old lady with whom she had lived when she was a girl, and who
kindly took great pains in explaining different parts of the Bible that
were hard to be understood, had made this quite clear to her.
"She told me," continued his grandmother, "that the Apostle alludes to
the custom of melting gold and other metals by fire; and his meaning is,
that as coals of fire melt and soften the metals on which they are
heaped, so by kindness and gentleness we may melt and soften our enemy,
and make him love, instead of hating us."
Ned thanked his grandmother for this explanation, and then was silent
for some little time.
"Perhaps," he said to himself, "if I go on being kind to Tom Andrews, I
shall at last make him love me, and leave off teasing me and saying
ill-natured things."
He would not tell his grandmother that he had given Tom part of his
dinner, for fear she should another day give him more; and he knew she
could not do this without robbing herself.
Tom's father remained out of work for several weeks; and Tom would have
been obliged to go without a dinner most days, if Ned had not regularly
given him half his.
For some time Tom received his companion's kindness sulkily, and without
appearing at all grateful; but at last Ned's good-natured conduct
appeared to touch him, and he said--
"How kind you are to me, Ned! though I am sure I have done nothing to
deserve kindness from you. Father often says he wishes I was more like
you; and I do think I should be happier if I was, for you always seem
cheerful and contented, though you work harder than I do."
"I like working," answered Ned; "nothing makes me so dull as being idle.
Besides, as grandmother says, people are far more likely to do wrong
when they are not employed. You know the lines in the hymn,--
'For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do,'"
Tom looked down and.
Ned, who had not meant to give him pain by what he said, added, on
observing Tom's confusion--
"I have so many things I like to do when I go home after work, that I
don't deserve praise for not being idle."
"I wish I had anything I liked to do when work is over," returned Tom;
"but I have nothing to do but play, and I soon get tired of that."
"So do I," rejoined Ned. "I like a game of ball or cricket every now and
then as well as anybody; but it is a great waste of time, to say the
least of it, to spend all one's spare hours in play; besides, as you
say, we get tired, and do not enjoy play if we have too much of it."
"What do you do of an evening, that is so pleasant?" inquired Tom.
"Why I keep our little garden in order;--that takes up a good deal of
time; and I write a copy, and do a sum or two, and read the Bible to
grandmother."
"I should like that very well," observed Tom, "all except reading the
Bible."
"Oh, do not say so!" exclaimed Ned; "surely you do not mean it."
"I dare say," rejoined Tom, "that I should like the Bible well enough if
I could understand it; but it's so hard! _You_ understand it all, I
suppose?"
"Oh, dear no! that I do not; but grandmother sometimes explains what is
hard, and tells me a great many pleasing things about the manners of the
country where our Saviour and his Apostles lived. I never am happier
than when I read to her, and she talks to me about what I have read."
"Well," said Tom, "mother hears me read a chapter now and then, but she
always seems to think it a trouble; and so I read as fast as I can, to
get it the sooner over. Father commonly says, he's too tired to listen."
Ned said no more on the subject then; but when they had both done work,
he asked Tom if he would like to walk home with him, and look at his
garden.
Tom hesitated at first; there seemed to be something in the idea that
made him uncomfortable. But he had been gradually growing fond of Ned,
and Ned's account of the pleasures and comfort of his home had made him
wish to go there; so he told his companion that he would go with him.
Ned's grandmother received the two boys very kindly, and gave them some
tea and bread and butter. Having learned from Tom that his parents would
not be uneasy at his absence, she asked him to stay with them all the
evening.
The next day Tom looked wistfully at Ned, as if he wished to go home
with him, but did not like to say anything about it. Ned observed this,
and told him that his grandmother had said he might come whenever he
liked.
"Then I'll go to-night," said Tom.
And accordingly he went home with Ned that evening, and almost every
evening afterwards for some | 1,099.282308 |
2023-11-16 18:35:23.3602370 | 305 | 10 | 2) ***
Produced by Al Haines.
JOHN INGLESANT
A Romance
by
John Henry Shorthouse
[Greek: Agapetoi, nun tekna Theou esmen, kai
oupo ephanerothe ti esometha.]
VOL. II.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1881
_Printed by_ R & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.
*JOHN INGLESANT.*
*CHAPTER I.*
Inglesant travelled to Marseilles, and by packet boat to Genoa. The
beauty of the approach by sea to this city, and the lovely gardens and
the country around gave him the greatest delight. The magnificent
streets of palaces, mostly of marble, and the thronged public places,
the galleries of paintings, and the museums, filled his mind with
astonishment; and the entrance into Italy, wonderful as he had expected
it to be, surpassed his anticipation. He stayed some time in Genoa, to
one or more of the Jesuit fathers in which city he had letters. Under
the guidance of these cultivated men he commenced an education in art,
such as in these days can be scarcely understood. From his coming into
Italy a new life had dawned upon him in the music of that country.
Fascinated as | 1,099.380277 |
2023-11-16 18:35:23.3852900 | 89 | 14 |
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)
The Joy of Captain Ribot
[Illustration: image of the book's cover]
THE JOY OF CAPTAIN RIBOT
AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE
ORIGINAL OF
A. PALACIO VALDES
BY | 1,099.40533 |
2023-11-16 18:35:23.5533220 | 76 | 26 |
E-text prepared by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 41665-h.htm or 41665-h.zip:
( | 1,099.573362 |
2023-11-16 18:35:23.6387280 | 3,193 | 6 | 3)***
E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has the other two volumes of this
novel.
Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35428
Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35429
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/charmingfellow03trol
A CHARMING FELLOW.
by
FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPE,
Author of "Aunt Margaret's Trouble," "Mabel's Progress," etc. etc.
In Three Volumes.
VOL. III.
London:
Chapman and Hall, 193, Piccadilly.
1876.
Charles Dickens and Evans,
Crystal Palace Press.
A CHARMING FELLOW.
CHAPTER I.
There was a "scene" that evening at Ivy Lodge--not the less a "scene" in
that it was conducted on genteel methods. Mrs. Algernon Errington
inflicted on her husband during dinner a recapitulation of all her
wrongs and injuries which could be covertly hinted at. She would not
broadly speak out her meaning before "the servants." The phrase shaped
itself thus in her mind from old habit. But in truth "the servants" were
represented by one plump-faced damsel in a yellow print gown, into which
her person seemed to have been inserted in the same way that bran is
inserted into the cover of a pincushion. She seemed to have been stuffed
into it by means of considerable force, and with less reference to the
natural shape of her body than to the arbitrary outlines of the case
made for it by a Whitford dressmaker.
This girl ministered to her master and mistress during dinner, pouring
water and wine, changing knives and plates, handing vegetables, and not
unfrequently dropping a spoon or a sprinkling of hot gravy into the laps
of her employers. She had succeeded to Slater, who resigned her post
after a trial of some six weeks' duration. Castalia, in despair at this
desertion, had written to Lady Seely to send her a maid from London
forthwith. But to this application she received a reply to the effect
that my lady could not undertake to find any one who would suit her
niece, and that her ladyship thought Castalia had much better make up
her mind to do without a regular lady's-maid, and take some humbler
attendant, who would make herself generally useful.
"I always knew Slater wouldn't stay with you," wrote Lady Seely; "and
you won't get any woman of that kind to stay. You can't afford to keep
one. Your uncle is fairly well; but poor Fido gives me a great deal of
unhappiness. He eats nothing."
Not by any means from conviction or submission to the imperious advice
of Lady Seely, but under the yoke of stern necessity, Castalia had
consented to try a young woman of the neighbourhood, "highly
recommended." And this abigail, in her tight yellow gown, was the cause
of Mrs. Algernon's reticence during dinner. The poor lady might,
however, have spared herself this restraint, if its object were to keep
her servants in the dark as to domestic disagreements; for no sooner had
Lydia (that was the abigail's name) reached the kitchen, than she and
Polly, the cook, began a discussion of Mr. and Mrs. Algernon Errington's
private affairs, which displayed a surprising knowledge of very minute
details, and an almost equally surprising power of piecing evidence
together.
When Lydia was gone, Algernon lit a cigar and drew up his chair to the
fireside, where he sat silent, staring at his elegantly-slippered feet
on the fender. Castalia rose, fidgeted about the room, walked to the
door, stopped, turned back, and, standing directly opposite to Algernon,
said querulously, "Do you mean to remain here?"
"For the present, yes; out of consideration for you. You dislike me to
smoke in the drawing-room, do you not?"
"Why should you smoke at all?"
Algernon raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, crossed one leg
over the other, and made no answer. His wife went away, and sitting down
alone on a corner of the sofa in her little drawing-room, cried bitterly
for a long time.
She was made to raise her tear-stained face by feeling a hand passed
gently over her hair. She looked up, and found her husband standing
beside her. "What's the matter, little woman?" he asked, in a
half-coaxing, half-bantering tone, like one speaking to a naughty
child, too young to be seriously reproved or argued with.
Now, although Castalia was haughty by education and insolent by temper,
she had very little real pride and no dignity in her character. To be
noticed and caressed by Algernon was to her a sufficient compensation
for almost any indignity. There was but one passion of her nature which
had any chance of resisting his personal influence, and that passion had
never yet been fully aroused, although frequently irritated. Her
jealousy was like a young tiger that had never yet tasted blood.
"What's the matter, little woman?" repeated Algernon, seating himself
beside her, and putting his arm round her waist. She shrugged her
shoulders fretfully, but at the same time nestled herself nearer to his
side. She loved him, and it put her at an immense disadvantage with him.
"Don't you mean to vouchsafe me an answer, Mrs. Algernon Ancram
Errington?"
"Oh, I daresay you're very sorry that I am Mrs. Errington. I have no
doubt you repent."
"Really! And is that what you were crying for?"
No reply.
"It looks rather as if you repented, madam!"
"Oh, you know I don't; unless you like other people better than you like
me!"
"'Other people' don't cry in my company."
"No; because they don't care for you. And because they're----they're
nasty, artful minxes!"
"Hear, hear! A charming definition! Castalia, you are really _impayable_
sometimes. How my lord would enjoy that speech of yours!"
"No, he wouldn't. Uncle Val would never enjoy what vexed me. My lady
might; nasty, disagreeable old thing!"
"There, I can agree with you. A vulgar kind of woman--though she is my
blood-relation--thoroughly coarse in the grain. But now that we have
relieved our feelings, and spoken our minds on that score, suppose we
converse rationally?"
"I don't want to converse rationally."
"Why not?"
"Because that means that you are going to scold me."
"Well--that might be highly rational, certainly; only I never do it."
"Well, but you'll manage to make out that I'm in the wrong and you're in
the right, somehow or other."
"Cassy, I want you to write a letter."
"A letter? Whom do you want me to write to?"
Her tears were completely dried, and she looked up at him with a faint
smile on her countenance, which, however, looked rueful enough, with red
nose and swollen eyes.
"You must write to my lord, and get him to help us with a little money."
Her face fell.
"Ask Uncle Val for money again, Ancram? It is such a short time since he
sent me some!"
"And to-morrow, at this hour, it will be'such a short time' since you
had your dinner! Nevertheless, I suppose you will want another dinner."
"I--I don't think Uncle Val can afford it, Ancram."
"Leave that to him. Afford it? Pshaw!"
Algernon made the little sharp ejaculation in a tone expressive of the
most impatient contempt.
"But do we really--is it absolutely necessary for us to beg of my uncle
again?"
"Not at all. Do just as you please," answered her husband, rising and
walking away from the sofa to a distant chair.
Castalia's eyes followed him piteously.
"But what can I say?" she asked. "What excuse can I make? I hate to
worry Uncle Val. It isn't as if he had more money than he knew what to
do with. And if Lady Seely knew about his helping us, she would lead him
such a life!"
"Do as you please. It would be a thousand pities to worry your uncle.
Let all the worry fall on me."
He took up a book and threw himself back in his chair as if he had
dismissed the subject.
"I don't know what to do!" exclaimed Castalia, with fretful
helplessness. At length, after sitting silent for some time twisting her
handkerchief backwards and forwards in her fingers, she got up and
crossed the room to her husband's chair.
"Ancram!" she said softly.
"Eh? I beg your pardon!" looking up with an appearance of great
abstraction, as if the perusal of his book had absorbed all his
attention.
"I wish to do what will please you. I only care to please you in the
world. But--can't you explain to me a little better why I must write to
Uncle Val?"
Explain! Of course he would! He desired nothing better. He had brought
her to a point at which encouragement was needed, not coldness. And with
the singular flexibility that belonged to him, he was able immediately
to plunge into an animated statement of his present situation, which
sufficed to persuade his hearer that no course of conduct could be so
desirable, so prudent--nay, so praiseworthy, as the course he had
suggested.
To be sure the details were vague, but the general impression was vivid
enough. If Algernon's pictures were a little inaccurate in drawing, they
were at least always admirably. And the general impression was
this: that there never had been a person of such brilliant abilities and
charming qualities as Algernon Ancram Errington so unjustly consigned
to obscurity and poverty. And no contributions to his comfort, luxury,
or well-being were too much to expect and claim from the world in
general, and his wife's relations in particular. Common honesty--common
decency almost--would compel Lord Seely to make all the amends in his
power for having placed Algernon in the Whitford Post-office. And there
was an insinuation very skilfully and delicately mixed with all the
seemingly unstudied and spontaneous outpourings of Algy's conjugal
confidence--an insinuation which affected the flavour of the whole, as
an accomplished cook will contrive to mingle garlic in a ragout, never
coarsely obtrusive, and yet distinctly perceptible--to the effect that
the hand of Miss Castalia Kilfinane had been somewhat officiously thrust
upon her charming husband; and that the family owed him no little
gratitude for having been kind enough to accept it.
Poor Castalia had an uneasy feeling, at the end of his fluent discourse,
that Algernon had been a victim to her great relations, and, in some dim
way, to herself. But the garlic was so admirably blended with the whole
mass, that it was impossible for her to pick it out, or resent it, or do
anything but declare her willingness to help her husband by any means in
her power.
"Why, my dear girl, it is as much for your sake as for mine! And as to
the necessity for it, I must tell you what Minnie Bodkin said to me
to-day. Minnie is an excellent creature, full of friendly feeling--a
little too conceited and fond of lecturing" (Castalia's face
brightened); "but much must be excused to an afflicted invalid, who
never meets her fellow-creatures on equal terms."
Castalia looked almost happy. But she said, "As to her affliction, it
seems to me that she has been growing much stronger lately."
"Yes; I am glad to think so too. But let the best happen that can be
hoped--let the disease, that has kept her helpless on her couch all
these years, be overcome--still she must always be so lame as to make
her an object of pity."
"Poor thing! I daresay it does warp her mind a good deal. What did she
say to you?"
Algernon recapitulated a part of Minnie's warnings, but gave them such a
turn as to make it appear that the greatest wrath and impatience of the
Whitford tradesmen were directed against his wife. "They have a narrow
kind of provincial prejudice against you, Cassy, on account of your
being a 'London fine lady.' Me they know; and, in their great
condescension, are pleased to approve of."
"Oh, everybody likes you better than me, of course," answered Castalia,
simply. "But I don't care for that, if you will only like me better
than anybody."
The genuine devotion with which this was said would have touched most
men. It might have touched Algernon, had he not been too much engrossed
in mentally composing the rough draft of Castalia's letter to her uncle,
and putting his not inconsiderable powers of plausible persuasion to the
task of making it appear that his wife's personal extravagance was the
chief cause of their need for ready money.
"Don't tell him that I even know of your writing. My lord will be more
willing to come down handsomely if he thinks it's for you only, Cassy,"
said Algernon, as he drew up his wife's writing-table for her, placed a
chair, opened her inkstand, and performed several little acts of
attention with a really charming grace and gallantry.
So Castalia, writing almost literally what her husband
dictated--(although he kept saying at every sentence, "My dear child,
you ought to know best how to address your uncle;" "Well, I really don't
know, but I think you might put it thus;" and so forth)--completed an
appeal to Lord Seely to anticipate by nearly a quarter the allowance he
continued to make her for her dress out of his private purse, and, if
possible, to increase its amount.
One such appeal had already been made and | 1,099.658768 |
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Produced by MWS, Adrian Mastronardi, Christopher Wright
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
"THROUGH THE EYE"
SERIES
EVOLUTION
"THROUGH THE EYE" SERIES
_THE FIRST TWO VOLUMES_
EVOLUTION. By J. A. S. WATSON, B.Sc.
THE CIVILIZATION OF THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS.
By A. BOTHWELL GOSSE.
_Other Volumes in Preparation_
[Illustration: FIG. 1.--Tree illustrating the probable course of animal
evolution.]
EVOLUTION
BY J. A. S. WATSON, B.Sc.
[Illustration: THROUGH THE · EYE]
_Published by_ T. C. & E. C. JACK, LTD. 35 & 36 PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON, E.C. AND AT EDINBURGH
_Printed in Great Britain_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
THE EVIDENCE FOR EVOLUTION 1
CHAPTER II
UNICELLULAR AND MULTICELLULAR ANIMALS 23
CHAPTER III
THE WORMS AND SOME OF THEIR POSTERITY 58
CHAPTER IV
THE EARLY VERTEBRATES AND THE FISHES 79
CHAPTER V
THE CONQUEST OF THE LAND 104
CHAPTER VI
THE MAMMALS AND MAN 123
For many of the illustrations the Publishers are indebted to the
Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt (from Günther's _Vom Urtier zum Menschen_)
and Herr Wilhelm Engelmann (from Haeckel's _Anthropogenie_).
Acknowledgment is also made to Messrs. Watts & Co., London, the
Publishers of the English Edition of Haeckel's _Anthropogenie_,
entitled _The Evolution of Man_.
EVOLUTION
CHAPTER I
THE EVIDENCE FOR EVOLUTION
The idea of Evolution is an old one. It is older than the Darwinian
hypothesis; it is older than Lamarck, who published his particular
theory in 1809, the year that Darwin was born; it is older than Buffon
or Kant. In a fairly definite form it is as old as Aristotle. The
Evolution idea has thus itself evolved, and is the product of many
centuries of thought. Yet it was only the last generation that began to
give the idea serious consideration, and it is perhaps only the present
that has granted it any general measure of acceptance; and it was
Darwin who wrought this change, who raised the conception of Evolution
from the status of a vague speculative idea to that of a well-grounded
theory, which appeals to the majority of educated minds as satisfactory
and reasonable.
We do not here propose to sketch the development of the idea, either
before or after Darwin; but only, in the first place, to state the
grounds on which the belief in Evolution is based, and, in the second,
to trace roughly the lines along which animal Evolution has proceeded.
In the first few pages of this book, then, we shall endeavour to bring
forward some of the evidence on which the modern Evolution theory rests.
+--------------+------------------+---------------+------------------+
| | First Appearance |Dominant Types.| |
| | of Types. | | |
+--------------+------------------+---------------+------------------+
| Modern | ... | MAN | } Post-tertiary, |
| Diluvium | Man | ... | } 1/2 per cent. |
+--------------+------------------+---------------+------------------+
| Pliocene | ... | } | } Tertiary or |
| Miocene | Monkeys | } MAMMALS | } Cænozoic, |
| Oligocene | ... | } | } 2-1/2 per cent.|
| Eocene | Lemurs | } | } |
+--------------+------------------+---------------+------------------+
| Cretaceous | _Higher mammals_ | } | } Secondary or |
| Jurassic | { _Birds_ | } REPTILES | } Mesozoic, |
| | { Marsupials | } | } 11 per cent. |
| Triassic | _Monotremes_ | } | } |
+--------------+------------------+---------------+------------------+
| Permian | _Reptiles_ | AMPHIBIANS | } Primary or |
| Carboniferous| _Amphibians_ | } FISHES | } Palæozoic, |
| Devonian | _Lung fishes_ | } | } 32 per cent. |
| Silurian | _Lower fishes_ | ... | } |
+--------------+------------------+---------------+------------------+
| Cambrian | ... | ... | } Archäen, 54 |
| Laurentian | ... | ... | } per cent. |
+--------------+------------------+---------------+------------------+
FIG. 2.--Table showing the chronological succession of the stratified
rocks, the subdivision of geological time, the approximate position of
the earliest fossils of each of the main types of vertebrates, and the
period of domination of each group.
As our first witness, we may call the rocks which constitute the outer
portion of the earth, and ask them to tell us what they remember of the
history of life upon the planet. We cannot hope for the whole truth
from them, for their memory is imperfect; and yet they can tell us a
great number of important facts.
[Illustration: THE EVOLUTION OF THE HORSE
FIG. 3. From _The Guide to the American Museum of Natural History_.]
From the time when the world was sufficiently cooled for water to
condense on its surface, a continual process of unbuilding and
rebuilding of rocks has gone on. Wind and water, heat and cold have
laid their hands to the work, making sand and dust and gravel out of
solid stone, and these products of their labours have been carried
off to other places, laid down, and cemented together into new rocks.
We do not know the exact age of any particular rock that has been
made in this way, nor how | 1,099.856557 |
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PERSONAL MEMOIRES OF P. H. SHERIDAN, VOLUME 1.
By Philip Henry Sheridan
PREFACE
When, yielding to the solicitations of my friends, I finally decided
to write these Memoirs, the greatest difficulty which confronted me
was that of recounting my share in the many notable events of the
last three decades, in which I played a part, without entering too
fully into the history of these years, and at the same time without
giving to my own acts an unmerited prominence. To what extent I have
overcome this difficulty I must leave the reader to judge.
In offering this record, penned by my own hand, of the events of my
life, and of my participation in our great struggle for national
existence, human liberty, and political equality, I make no
pretension to literary merit; the importance of the subject-matter of
my narrative is my only claim on the reader's attention.
Respectfully dedicating this work to my comrades in arms during the
War of the Rebellion, I leave it as a heritage to my children, and as
a source of information for the future historian.
P. H. SHERIDAN.
Nonguitt, Mass., August 2, 1888
PERSONAL MEMOIRS
P. H. SHERIDAN.
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I.
ANCESTRY--BIRTH--EARLY EDUCATION--A CLERK IN A GROCERY
STORE--APPOINTMENT--MONROE SHOES--JOURNEY TO WEST POINT--HAZING
--A FISTICUFF BATTLE--SUSPENDED--RETURNS TO CLERKSHIP--GRADUATION.
My parents, John and Mary Sheridan, came to America in 1830, having
been induced by the representations of my father's uncle, Thomas
Gainor, then living in Albany, N. Y., to try their fortunes in the
New World: They were born and reared in the County Cavan, Ireland,
where from early manhood my father had tilled a leasehold on the
estate of Cherrymoult; and the sale of this leasehold provided him
with means to seek a new home across the sea. My parents were
blood relations--cousins in the second degree--my mother, whose
maiden name was Minor, having descended from a collateral branch of
my father's family. Before leaving Ireland they had two children,
and on the 6th of March, 1831, the year after their arrival in this
country, I was born, in Albany, N. Y., the third child in a family
which eventually increased to six--four boys and two girls.
The prospects for gaining a livelihood in Albany did not meet the
expectations which my parents had been led to entertain, so in 1832
they removed to the West, to establish themselves in the village of
Somerset, in Perry County, Ohio, which section, in the earliest days
of the State; had been colonized from Pennsylvania and Maryland. At
this period the great public works of the Northwest--the canals and
macadamized roads, a result of clamor for internal improvements--were
in course of construction, and my father turned his attention to
them, believing that they offered opportunities for a successful
occupation. Encouraged by a civil engineer named Bassett, who had
taken a fancy to him, he put in bids for a small contract on the
Cumberland Road, known as the "National Road," which was then being
extended west from the Ohio River. A little success in this first
enterprise led him to take up contracting as a business, which he
followed on various canals and macadamized roads then building in
different parts of the State of Ohio, with some good fortune for
awhile, but in 1853 what little means he had saved were swallowed up
--in bankruptcy, caused by the failure of the Sciota and Hocking
Valley Railroad Company, for which he was fulfilling a contract at
the time, and this disaster left him finally only a small farm, just
outside the village of Somerset, where he dwelt until his death in
1875.
My father's occupation kept him away from home much of the time
during my boyhood, and as a consequence I grew up under the sole
guidance and training of my mother, whose excellent common sense and
clear discernment in every way fitted her for such maternal duties.
When old enough I was sent to the village school, which was taught by
an old-time Irish "master"--one of those itinerant dominies of the
early frontier--who, holding that to spare the rod was to spoil the
child, if unable to detect the real culprit when any offense had been
committed, would consistently apply | 1,099.95767 |
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THE YOKE OF THE THORAH
By Sidney Luska
Author Of “As It Was Written” “Mrs. Peixada,” Etc.
The Cassell Publishing Co.
1896
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0007]
TO
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN,
EXCEPT FOR WHOSE COUNSEL AND ENCOURAGEMENT THIS BOOK WOULD NEVER HAVE
BEEN WRITTEN, IT IS NOW GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
THE YOKE OF THE THORAH.
I
IT was the last day of November, 1882. The sun had not shone at all
that day. The wind, sharp-edged, had blown steadily from the northeast.
The clouds, leaden of hue and woolly of texture, had hung very close to
the earth. Weather-wise people had predicted snow--the first snow of
the season; but none had fallen. Rheumatic people had had their tempers
whetted. Impressionable people, among them Elias Bacharach, had been
beset by the blues.
Elias had tried hard to absorb himself in his work; but without success.
His colors would not blend. His brushes had lost their cunning. His
touch was uncertain. His eye was false. At two o'clock he had given up
in despair, and sent his model home. Then he sat down at the big window
of his studio, and looked off across the tree-tops into the lowering
north. A foolish thing to do. It was a cheerless prospect. In the clouds
he could trace a hundred sullen faces. The tree-tops shivered. The
whistling wind, the noises of the street, the drone of a distant
hand-organ, mingled in dreary, enervating counterpoint. His own mood
darkened. Though he had every reason to be contented--though he had
youth, art, independence, excellent health, sufficient wealth, and not
a care in the world--he was nervous and restless and depressed. The
elements were to blame. Under gray skies, which of us has not had pretty
much the same experience?
By and by Elias got up.
“I'll go out,” he said, “and walk it off.”
He went out. For a while he walked aimlessly hither and thither. But
walking did not bring the hoped-for relief. He and the world were out
of tune. The men and women whom he passed were one and all either
commonplace or ugly. The sounds that smote his ears were inharmonious.
The wind sent a chill to his bones; besides, it bore a disagreeable odor
of petroleum from the refineries across the river. “I might as
well--I might better--have remained within-doors,” was his reflection.
Presently, however, he found himself in Union Square. This reminded
him that there was a little matter about which he wanted to see Matthew
Redwood, the costumer. Elias had lately read Mistral's “Mirèio.” The
poem had fired his enthusiasm. He was bent upon making Mirèio the
subject of a picture. But, he had asked himself, what style of costume
do the Provençal peasant women wear? He had determined to consult
Redwood. Now, being in Redwood's neighborhood, he would call upon the
old man, and state the question.
Redwood's place was just below Fourteenth Street, on Fourth Avenue.
The house had formerly been a dwelling-house. In the process of its
degeneracy, it had most likely passed through the boarding-house stage.
At present it was given over without reserve to commerce. A German
drinking-shop occupied the basement, impregnating the air round about
with a smell of stale lager beer. Redwood used the parlors--large, lofty
apartments, with paneled walls and frescoed ceilings--and the floors
above. The frescoes, of course, dated from the dwelling-house epoch.
Their hues were sadly faded. Here and there, in patches, the paint had
peeled off. Three pallid cupids, wretchedly out of drawing, floated
around the plaster medallion from which the gas fixture depended. Elias
never entered here without thinking of the curious secrets those cupids
might have whispered, if they had been empowered to open their painted
lips. What scenes of joy and sorrow had they not looked down upon in the
past? Merry-makers had danced beneath them; women had wept beneath them;
lovers had wooed their mistresses beneath them; what else? The intimate
inner life of a family, of a home, had gone on beneath them. How
many domestic quarrels had they watched? How many weddings? How many
funerals? What strange stories had they not overheard? Of what strange
doings had they not been mute witnesses? Between the windows stood a
tall pier-glass. Its gilt frame was chipped and tarnished. A milky film,
like that which obscures the eyes of an aged man, had gathered over its
surface. The quicksilver was veined, like a leaf. It had a very knowing
look, this ancient mirror, as though, if it had chosen, it could have
startled you with ghostly effigies of the forms and faces that it had
reflected in by-gone years. Elias Bacharach, who enjoyed having his
fancy stirred, was always glad of an excuse to drop in at Redwood's.
Elias climbed Redwood's stoop, and opened the door. It had been dark
enough outside. Inside it was darker still. It took a little while for
Elias's eyesight to accommodate itself to the change. Then the first
object of which it became conscious was the sere and yellow pier-glass
between the windows. Far in its mottled depths--down, that is to say,
at the remotest and darkest end of the room--he saw Matthew Redwood, the
costumer, in conversation with a young girl. The young girl's face, a
spot of light amid the surrounding shadows, had an instantaneous and
magnetic effect upon Elias Bacharach's gaze. He quite forgot his old
friends, the cupids. Turning about, and drawing as near to the couple as
discretion would warrant, he made the young girl the victim of a fixed,
eager stare.
She was worth staring at. From under the brim of her bonnet escaped an
abundance of golden hair--true golden hair, that gleamed like a mesh
of sunbeams. In rare and beautiful contrast to this, she had a pair of
luminous brown eyes, set like living jewels beneath dark eyebrows and
a snowy forehead. Add a rose-red, full-lipped mouth, white teeth, and
faintly blushing cheeks; and you have the elements from which to form a
conception of her. She was chatting vivaciously with the master of the
premises. In response to some remark of his, she laughed. Her laugh was
as crisp, as merry, as melodious, as a chime of musical glasses. Who
could she be, and what, Elias wondered. Probably an actress. Few ladies,
unless actresses, had dealings with the costumer, Redwood. Yet, at the
utmost, she was not more than seventeen years old; and her natural and
unsophisticated bearing seemed in no wise suggestive of the green-room.
Ah! now she was going. “Good-by,” Elias heard her say, in a voice that
started a quick vibration in his heart; and next moment she swept past,
within a yard of him, and crossed the threshold, and was gone. For an
instant, never so delicate and impalpable a perfume, shaken from her
apparel, lingered upon the air. Elias stood still, facing the door
through which she had disappeared.
“Ah, good-day, Mr. Bacharach; what can I do for you?” old Redwood asked,
coming up and offering his hand.
“You can tell me who that wonderful young lady is,” it was on the tip of
Elias's tongue to reply: but he stopped himself. Without clearly knowing
why, he was loth to reveal to another the interest and the admiration
that she had aroused in him. He was afraid that his motive might be
misconstrued, afraid of compromising his dignity, of appearing too
easily susceptible in the old man's eyes. So he put down his curiosity,
and began about Mirèio, demanding enlightenment on the score of
Provençal costumes.
“Provençal costumes,” the old man repeated, with a twang that savored of
New Hampshire; “South-French, we say in the trade. Why, certainly. I've
got a whole lot of lithographs, that show all the varieties. But they're
up to my house. You couldn't make it convenient to come and look at them
there, could ye? Then I'd lend you those that struck your fancy.”
“That's very kind of you,” said Elias. “Where do you live? And when
would it suit you to have me call?”
“I live up in West Sixty-third Street, No.----; and you might drop in
most any evening after dinner--to-night, if you've got nothing better to
do.”
“Very well; to-night, then,” agreed Elias, and bade the old man good
afternoon.
He went back to his studio. He had got rid of his blues; but he could
not get rid of his vision of the golden-haired young lady. That | 1,099.957758 |
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Produced by Joel Erickson, Michael Ciesielski, Amy Petri and PG
Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: "Quite a little party of friends to see him off." (p.
155)]
HIS BIG OPPORTUNITY
BY AMY LE FEUVRE
Author of "Probable Sons," "The Odd One,"
"Teddy's Button," etc, etc.
1898
Contents
Chapters
I. On the Garden Wall
II. A Song
III. Making An Opportunity
IV. An Awkward Visit
V. A Lost Donkey
VI. Rob
VII. A Walnut Story
VIII. The Bertrams' Leap
IX. Making His Leap
X. A <DW36>
XI. A Gift to the Queen
XII. Letters
XIII. Old Principle
XIV. Heroes
XV. An Unwelcome Proposal
XVI. David and Jonathan
XVII. Boy's Big Opportunity
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Quite a Little Party of Friends to See Him Off
Old Principle Laughed at Dudley's Notion
"Now Then, You Rascals, What Are You Doing to My Donkey?"
"He's Dead, Ben--He's Dead!"
I
ON THE GARDEN WALL
They were sitting astride on the top of the old garden wall. Below them
on the one side stretched a sweet old-fashioned English garden lying in
the blaze of an August sun. In the distance, peeping from behind a
wealth of creepers and ivy was the old stone house. It was at an hour in
the afternoon when everything seemed to be at a standstill: two or three
dogs lay on the soft green lawn fast asleep, an old gardener smoking his
pipe and sitting on the edge of a wheelbarrow seemed following their
example; and birds and insects only kept up a monotonous and drowsy
dirge.
But the two little figures clad in white cricketting flannels, were full
of life and motion as they kept up an eager and animated conversation on
their lofty seat.
"You see, Dudley, if nothing happens, we will make it happen!"
"Then it isn't an opportunity."
"Yes it is. Why if those old fellows in olden times hadn't ridden off to
look for adventures they would never have found them at home."
"But an opportunity isn't an adventure."
"Yes, it is, you stupid! An adventure is something that happens, and so
is an opportunity."
The little speaker who announced this logic so dogmatically, was a slim
delicate boy with white face, and large brown eyes, and a crop of dark
unruly curls that had a trick of defying the hair cutter's skill, and of
growing so erratically that "Master Roy's head," was pronounced quite
unmanageable.
He was not a pretty boy, and was in delicate health, constantly subject
to attacks of bronchitis and asthma, yet his spirit was undaunted, and
as his old nurse often said, "his soul was too strong for his body."
Dudley, his little cousin, who sat facing him, on the contrary, was a
true specimen of a handsome English boy. Chestnut hair and bright blue
eyes, rosy cheeks, and an upright sturdy carriage, did much to commend
him to every one's favor: yet for force of character and intellect he
came far behind Roy.
He sat now pondering Roy's words, and kicking his heels against the
wall, whilst his eyes roved over the road on the outside of the garden
and away to a dark pine wood opposite.
"Here's one coming then," he said, suddenly; "now you'll have to use
it."
"Who? What? Where?"
"It's a man; a tramp, a traveller or a highwayman, and he may be all the
lot together! It's an opportunity, isn't it?"
Roy looked down the narrow lane outside the wall, and saw the figure of
a man approaching. His face lit up with eager resolve.
"He's a stranger, Dudley; he doesn't belong to the village; we'll ask
him who he is."
"Hulloo, you fellow," shouted Dudley in his shrill boyish treble; "where
do you come from? You don't belong to this part."
The man looked up at the boys curiously.
"And who may ye be, a-wall climbin' and a breakin' over in folks'
gardens to steal their fruit?"
"Don't you cheek us," said Roy, throwing his head up, and putting on his
most autocratic air; "this is our garden and our wall, and the road
you're walking on is our private road!"
"Then don't you take to insulting passers-by, or it will be the worse
for ye!" retorted the man.
The boys were silent.
"I'm sure he isn't an opportunity," whispered Dudley.
But Roy would not be disconcerted.
"Look here," he said, adopting a conciliatory tone; "we're looking out
for an opportunity to do some one some good, and then you came along,
that's why we spoke to you. Now just tell us if we can do it to you."
"Yes," Dudley struck in: "you seem rather down, do you want anything
that we can give you?"
The man glanced up at them to see if this was boyish impudence, but the
faces bending down were earnest and grave enough, and he said with a
short laugh,--
"Oh, I reckon there be just a few things I'm in want of; but as to your
givin' of them to me that be quite a different matter. Don't suppose ye
carry about jobs ready to hand in yer pockets, nor yet my set of tools
in pawn, nor yet a pint o' beer and a good hunk of bread and meat for a
starvin' feller! May be ye could tell me the way to the nearest pub, and
stand me a drink there!"
Roy thrust his hand immediately into his pocket, and pulled out amongst
a confused mass of boys' treasures a sixpence.
"I'll give you this if it will do you good," he said, holding it up
proudly. "I've kept it a whole two days without spending it. It will
give you some beer and bread and cheese, I expect. Is there anything
else we can do for you?"
"If you go to Mr. Selby, the rector, he'll put you in the way of work,"
shouted out Dudley, as the man catching the sixpence flung down to him
slouched off with muttered thanks.
"No parsons for me," was the rejoinder.
The boys watched his figure disappear down the road, and then Roy said
reflectively,--
"Too many opportunities like that would empty our pockets."
"And I wonder if it will really do him good," said Dudley; then glancing
over into the garden, he added: "Here comes Aunt Judy, she's calling
us."
Down the winding gravel path came their aunt; a strikingly handsome
woman. She looked up at her little nephews and laughed when she came to
the wall.
"Oh, you imps, do you know I've been hunting for you everywhere! You
will have a fall like Humpty Dumpty if you choose such high perches. Now
what comfort can you find, may I ask, in such a blazing breakneck seat?
Do you find broken bottles a soft cushion?"
"We've cleared those rotten things away here," said Dudley, preparing to
clamber down; "it's our watch tower, and we've a first-rate view, you
just come up and see!"
"Thank you, I would rather not attempt the climb. What have you been
talking about? Jonathan looks as grave as a judge."
Roy looked down at his aunt without moving.
"If you won't laugh or tell granny, we'll tell you, because you never
split if you say you won't."
"All right, I promise."
"Well, you see, this morning Mr. Selby gave us this for our copy: 'As ye
have opportunity do good unto all men,' and he told us of a King
somebody--I forget who--who used to write down at the end of each day on
a slate,--if he hadn't done any good to any one,--'I've lost a day.' We
thought it would be a good plan to start this afternoon and see what we
could do. We tried on old Hal first, but he didn't seem to like it. He
was uncovering some of the frames, and so we went and uncovered all of
them, and then he said we had spoilt some of his seedlings, and nearly
went into a fit with rage. I turned the hose on him to cool him down. He
is asleep in the wheelbarrow now; we can see him from here. We really
came up here to get out of his way, his language was awful!"
"Come down, you monkey. I can't carry on a conversation with you so far
above me. Softly now. Bless the boys, how they can stick their toes into
such a wall is past my comprehension! Granny wants to see you before
your tea, so come along. And who else has been benefited by your good
deeds?"
They were walking toward the house by this time, each boy hanging on to
one of her arms. It was easy to see the affection between them.
Dudley eagerly poured out the story of the tramp, and Miss Bertram
listened sympathetically.
"Never send a man to a public house, boys--and never give him money for
beer. Perhaps he may have come down in the world through love of it. You
know I am always ready to give any one a relief ticket. That's the best
way to help such cases."
"Yes, but that would be your doing not ours."
"Money is a difficult way of helping," said Miss Bertram; "don't get
into the habit of thinking money is the only thing that will do people
good. It too often does them harm."
"Oh, I say! that's hard lines on me, when my last sixpence has gone, and
I was going to get a stunning ball old Principle has in his shop!"
Miss Bertram laughed at Roy's woe-begone little face.
"Never mind," she said, consolingly; "your intentions were good, and you
must buy your experience by mistakes as you go through life. Now go into
granny softly, both of you, and talk nicely to her. She will be one
person you can do good to, by brightening her up a little."
Dudley made a grimace at Roy; but both boys entered the house, and
crept into a cool half-darkened drawing-room on tiptoe, with hushed
voices and sober demeanor. A stern looking old lady sat upright in her
easy chair, knitting busily. She greeted the boys rather coldly.
"What have you been doing with yourselves? I sent for you some time ago.
Do you not remember that I like you to come to me every afternoon about
this hour?"
"Yes, granny," said Roy, climbing into an easy chair opposite her; "we
were coming only we didn't know it was so late: we were busy talking."
"Boys' chatter ought not to come before a grandmother's wishes."
There was silence; then Dudley struck in boldly:
"We were talking about good things, granny. It wasn't chatter. Roy and I
are going to look out for opportunities every day of our lives. Do you
think an opportunity is the same as an adventure? I don't think you have
adventures of doing good, do you?"
"Yes," asserted Roy, bobbing up and down in his chair excitedly; "King
Arthur and his knights did always. They never rode through a wood
without having an adventure, and it was always doing good, wasn't it,
granny?"
Conversation never slackened when the boys were present, and Mrs.
Bertram, though shrinking at all times from their high spirits and love
of fun, yet looked forward every day to their short visit. She was a
confirmed invalid, and rarely left the house, and her daughter Julia in
consequence took her place as mistress over the household.
Three years before, Roy and Dudley arrived within a month of each other,
to find a home with their grandmother. Roy, whose proper name was
Fitzroy, came from Canada, both his parents having died out there.
Dudley's father had died when he was a baby, but his mother had married
again in India; and upon her death which occurred not long after, his
stepfather had sent him home to his grandmother. From the first day that
they met, the boys were sworn friends; and their aunt dubbed them
"David" and "Jonathan" after having been an unseen witness of a very
solemn vow transacted between them under the shadow of the pines, only a
week after their meeting.
Roy's delicate health was a cause of great anxiety to his grandmother,
and if it had not been for Miss Bertram's wise tact and judgment, he
would have been imprisoned in one room and swathed in cotton wool most
of the year round. He had the advantage of having an old nurse who had
brought him up from his birth, and had come from Canada with him; and
she was as vigilant and experienced in managing his ailments as could be
desired. Poor little Roy, with his uncertain health, was heir to a very
large property of his father's not far away; and the responsibilities
awaiting him, and the knowledge that he would have so much power in his
hands, perhaps had the effect of making him weigh life more seriously
than would most boys of his age.
Later on after their visit to their grandmother was over, and tea had
been finished in the nursery, he wandered into his own little room, and
leaning out of his window, looked up into the clear sky above.
"I feel so small," was his wistful thought, "and heaven is so big; but
I'll do something big enough to get, 'Well done good and faithful
servant,' said to me when I die, I hope. And I'll try every day till I
do it!"
II
A SONG
"Come here, boys. I have had some new music from town, and here is a
song that you will like to listen to, I expect."
It was Miss Bertram who spoke, and her appearance in the nursery just
saved a free fight. Wet afternoons were always a sore trial to the boys:
their mornings were generally spent at the Rectory under Mr. Selby's
tuition, but their afternoons were their own, and it was hard to be kept
within four walls, and expected to make no sound to disturb their
grandmother's afternoon nap.
The old nurse was nodding in her chair, and her charges with jackets off
and rolled up shirt sleeves were advancing toward each other on tiptoe,
and muttering their threats in wrathful whispers.
"I'll show you I'm no coddle!"
"And I'll show you I'm no lazy lubber!"
At the sound of their aunt's voice they stopped; and each picked up his
jacket with some confusion, Dudley saying contentedly, "All right, old
fellow, pax now, and we'll finish it up to-morrow."
"Aunt Judy, do let us come into the drawing-room then, and hear you
sing; we're sick of this old nursery, we're too big to be kept here."
Roy spoke scornfully, but his aunt shook her head at him:
"Do you know this is the room I love best in the house? Your father and
I used it till we were double your age, and no place ever came up to it
in our estimation. Don't be little prigs and think yourselves men before
you're boys!"
"Why, Aunt Judy, we've been boys ever since we were born!"
"I look upon you as infants now," retorted Miss Bertram, laughing. "Come
along--tiptoe past granny's room, please, and no racing downstairs."
"We'll slide down the rails instead, we always do when granny is
asleep."
"Not when I am with you, thank you."
A few minutes afterward, and the boys were standing on either side of
the piano listening with delight to the song that has stirred so many
boyish hearts:
"'Tis a story, what a story, tho' it never made a noise
Of cherub-headed Jake and Jim, two little drummer boys
Of all the wildest scamps that e'er provoked a sergeant's eye,
They were first in every wickedness, but one thing could not lie,
And they longed to face the music, when the tidings from afar
Brought the news of wild disaster in a wild and savage war.
Said the Colonel, 'How can babies of battle bear the brunt?'
Said the little orphan rascals, 'please Sir, take us to the front!
And we'll play to the men in the far-off land,
When their eyes for home are dim;
If the Indians come, they shall hear our drum
In the van where the fight is grim.
Our lads we know, to the death will go,
If they're led by Jake and Jim.'
"In the battle,'mid the rattle, and the deadly hail of lead,
The two were in their glory--What did they know of dread?
And fierce the heathen cry arose across the Indian plain,
And 'twas Home, for the bravest there would never be again,
The raw recruits were restless, and they counted not the cost,
And the Colonel shouted, 'Steady lads, stand fast, or else we're lost.'
A rush! 'twas like an avalanche! a clash of steel and red!
A shock like mountain thunder, then the reg'ment turned and fled.
'Give me the drum, take the fife,' said Jake,
'And with all your might and main,
Play the old step now, for the reg'ment's sake
As they scatter along the plain.
We'll play them up to the front once more,
Tho' we never come back again.'
"Then might the world have seen two little dots in red,
Facing the foe, when the rest had turned and fled!
So young, so brave and gay, while others held their breath,
They played ev'ry inch of the way to meet their death;
And _then_ at last the reg'ment turned, for vengeance ev'ry man
To save the lads they turned and fought as only demons can;
They swept the foe before them across the mountain rim,
But victory that day could never bring back Jake or Jim.
And they silently stood where the children fell,
Not a word of triumph said,
For they knew who had led as they bowed each head,
And looked at the quiet dead;
That the fight was won, and the reg'ment saved,
By those two little dots in red."
Miss Bertram stole a glance at the boys' faces as she finished singing.
With a wriggle and a twist Dudley turned his back upon her; but not
before she had seen the blue eyes swimming with tears, and heard a
choking sob being hastily swallowed. Roy stood erect, his little face
quivering with emotion, and his usually pale cheek flushed a deep
crimson, whilst his small determined mouth and chin looked more resolute
and daring than ever. His hands thrust deep in the pockets of his
knickerbockers he looked straight before him and repeated with emphasis,
"They played every inch of the way to meet their death!"
"Regular little heroes, weren't they?" said Miss Bertram.
"Rather," came from Roy's lips, and then without another word he ran out
of the room.
"Do you like it, David?" Miss Bertram asked, touching Dudley lightly on
the shoulder.
"No--I--don't--it makes a fellow in a blue funk." And two fists were
hastily brushed across the eyes.
"Shall I sing you something more cheerful?"
"No, thanks, not to-night, I think I'll go to Roy."
And Dudley, too, made his exit, leaving his aunt touched and amused at
the effect of the song.
An hour after the rain had ceased, and the sun was shining out. Down the
village street walked the two boys enjoying their freedom more soberly
than was their wont.
"We must, we must, we _must_ be heroes, Dudley!"
"Yes, if we get a chance."
"But why shouldn't we have it as well as those two boys. I wonder
sometimes what God meant us to do when He made us! And I'm not going to
be in the dumps because I'm not very strong. For look at Nelson: old
Selby told us he was always very seedy and shaky, always ill; and not
being big in body doesn't matter, for Nelson was a little man and so was
Napoleon, and lots of the great men have been short and stumpy and
hideous! I mean to do something before I die, if only an opportunity
will come! Do you remember the story of the little chap in Holland, who
put his hand in the hole in the sand bank, and kept the whole ocean from
coming in and washing away hundreds of towns and villages? If I could
only do a thing like that, something that would do good to millions of
people; something that would be worth living for! If I could save
somebody's life from fire, or drowning, or some kind of danger! Don't
you long for something of that sort, eh?"
"I don't know that I do," was the slow response; "but I should like you
to get a chance of it if you want it so much."
"Oh, wasn't it splendid of those two little chaps--a whole regiment! And
only those two who didn't run away! I think I could stand fire like
that, couldn't you?"
"I would with you."
"But I don't expect I'll ever go into the army." This in sorrowful
tones.
"Why not?"
"Oh, they'd never have me. I'm too thin round the chest; nurse says I'm
like a bag of bones, and I wouldn't make a smart soldier. Now you'd be a
splendid one, no one could be ashamed of you."
"Well, I won't go without you."
"But I'll do something worth living for," repeated Roy, tossing up his
head and giving a stamp as he spoke; "and I'll seize the first
opportunity that comes."
Dudley was silent. They had now reached the low stone bridge over the
river, a favorite resort amongst all the village boys for fishing; and
quite a little group of them were collected there. Roy and Dudley were
welcomed eagerly as though perhaps at times they were inclined to assume
patronizing and masterful airs; yet their extreme generosity and love
for all country sport made them general favorites with the villagers.
Roy was soon in the midst of an eager discussion about the best bait for
trout; and was presently startled by a heavy splash over the bridge.
Looking up, to his amazement, he saw Dudley struggling in the water.
"Help, Roy, I'm drowning!"
Both boys were capital swimmers, but Roy saw that Dudley seemed
incapable of keeping himself up, and in one second he threw off his
jacket, and dived head foremost off the bridge to the rescue. The
current of the river was strong here, for a mill wheel was only a short
distance off; and it was hard work to swim safely ashore. Roy
accomplished it successfully amidst the cheers of the admiring group on
the bridge; and when once on dry ground again, neither of the boys
seemed the worse for the wetting. In the hubbub that ensued Dubley was
not questioned as to the cause of the accident; but it appeared that his
feet had got entangled in some string and netting that one of the boys
had brought with him to the bridge, and it was this that had prevented
him from swimming.
"It's awfully nice that I had the chance of helping you," said Roy, as
the two boys were running home as fast as they could to change their
wet clothes; "I didn't hurt you in the water, did I? I believe I gave a
pretty good tug to your hair, I was awfully glad you hadn't had your
hair cut lately."
"You've saved my life," said Dudley, staring at Roy with a peculiar
gravity; "if you hadn't dashed over to me, I should have been sucked
down by that old wheel, and should have been a dead man by this time.
You've done to-day what you were longing to do."
"Yes, but I tell you I felt awfully squeamish when I saw you in the
water and thought I might be too late."
As they neared the house, Roy's pace slackened.
"Go on, Dudley, and leave me, I can't get on, I believe that horrid old
asthma is coming on, I'll follow slowly."
"I'm not quite such a cad," was Dudley's retort, and then hoisting Roy
up on his back, as if that mode of proceeding was quite a usual
occurrence, he made his way into the house.
They crept up to their bedrooms and changed their wet clothes before
they showed themselves to any one. Then Dudley waxed eloquent for the
occasion, and the story was told in drawing-room and servants' hall,
till every one was loud in their praises of the little rescuer.
"He looks too small to have done it," said Miss Bertram, smiling; for
though Roy was Dudley's senior by two months, he was a good head
shorter.
Roy got rather impatient under this adulation.
"Oh, shut up, Dudley, don't be such an ass, as if I could have done
anything else!"
An hour after, and Roy was sitting up in bed speechless and panting,
with the bronchitis kettle in full play, and nurse trying vainly to
battle with one of his worst bronchial attacks.
"I say "--he gasped at last; "do you think--I'm going to die--this
time?"
"Surely no, my pet. It's more asthma than bronchitis; I'll pull you
round, please God."
Midnight came, and when nurse left the room for a minute she found a
small figure crouched down outside the door.
It was Dudley.
"Oh, nurse, he's very bad, isn't he? Is he going to die? What shall I
do! I shall be his murderer, I've killed him!"
Dudley's eyes were wild with terror, and nurse tried to soothe him.
"Don't talk nonsense, but go to bed; he'll be better in the morning, I
hope. It's just the wet, and the strain of it that's done it. There's
none to blame. You couldn't help it, and he's been as bad as this
before and pulled through. Go to bed, laddie, and ask God to make him
better."
Dudley crept back to bed, and flung himself down on his pillows with a
fit of bitter weeping.
"She says I couldn't help it; oh, God, make him better, make him better,
do forgive me! I never thought of this!"
III
MAKING AN OPPORTUNITY
It was two days before Dudley was allowed to see the little invalid. The
doctor had been in constant attendance; but all danger was over now, and
Roy as usual was rapidly picking up his strength again.
"His constitution has wonderful rallying powers," the old doctor said;
"he is like a bit of india rubber!"
It seemed to Dudley that Roy's face had got wonderfully white and small;
and there was a weary worn look in his eyes, as he turned round to greet
him.
"Now sit down and talk to him, but don't let him do the talking," was
nurse's advice as she left the boys together.
Dudley sat down by the bed, and squeezed hold of the little hand held
out to him.
"I'm so sorry, old chap," he said, nervously; "do you feel really
better? I've been so miserable."
"I'm first-rate now," was the cheerful response; "it's awfully nice
getting your breath back again; it's only made me feel a little tired,
that's all!"
"It was all me!"
"Why that has been my comfort," said Roy, with shining eyes; "I felt
when I was very bad, that if I died, I might have lived for something.
It would have been lovely to die for you, Dudley--at least you know to
have got myself ill from that reason; it's so very tame when I get bad
from nothing at all; but I'm well again now, so I know God is letting me
live to do something else!"
"I was the one that ought to have been made ill to punish me," blurted
out Dudley, and then | 1,099.957771 |
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Iohn the yongest sonne of Henrie the second.
[Sidenote: An. Reg. 1.]
[Sidenote: _Rog. Houed._]
[Sidenote: _Matth. Paris._ Chinon. Robert de Turneham. Sawmer.]
[Sidenote: _Rog. Houed._ Thomas de Furnes.]
Iohn the yoongest son of Henrie the second was proclaimed king of
England, beginning his reigne the sixt daie of Aprill, in the yeare
of our Lord 1199, the first of Philip emperour of Rome, and the 20 of
Philip king of France, K. William as yet liuing in gouernement ouer
the Scots. This man so soone as his brother Richard was deceased,
sent Hubert archbishop of Canturburie, and William Marshall earle of
Striguill (otherwise called Chepstow) into England, both to proclaime
him king, and also to see his peace kept, togither with Geffrey Fitz
Peter lord cheefe justice, and diuerse other barons of the realme,
whilest he himselfe went to Chinon where his brothers treasure laie,
which was foorthwith deliuered vnto him by Robert de Turneham: and
therewith all the castel of Chinon and Sawmer and diuerse other
places, which were in the custodie of the foresaid Robert. But Thomas
de Furnes nephue to the said Robert de Turneham deliuered the citie
and castell of Angiers vnto Arthur duke of Britaine. For by generall
consent of the nobles and peeres of the countries of Aniou, Maine, and
Touraine, Arthur was receiued as the liege and souereigne lord of the
same countries.
[Sidenote: Strife amongst the English subiects on the other side of the
sea.]
For euen at this present, and so soone as it was knowne that king
Richard was deceased, diuerse cities and townes on that side of the
sea belonging to the said Richard whilest he liued, fell at ods among
themselues, some of them indeuouring to preferre king John, other
labouring rather to be vnder the gouernance of Arthur duke of Britaine,
considering that he seemed by most right to be their cheefe lord,
forsomuch as he was sonne to Geffrey elder brother to John. And thus
began the broile in those quarters, whereof in processe of time insued
great inconuenience, and finallie the death of the said Arthur, as
shall be shewed hereafter.
[Sidenote: _Matth. Paris._ The states assembled at Northampton.]
Now whilest king John was thus occupied in recouering his brothers
treasure, and traueling with his subiects to reduce them to his
obedience, queene Elianor his mother by the helpe of Hubert archbishop
of Canturburie and other of the noble men and barons of the land,
trauelled as diligentlie to procure the English people to receiue their
oth of allegiance to be true to king John. For the said archbishop and
William Marshall earle of Striguill, being sent ouer into England (as
before you haue heard) to proclaime him king, and to keepe the land
in quiet, assembled the estates of the realme at Northampton, where
Geffrey Fitz Peter lord cheefe iustice was present with other of the
Nobles, afore whom those lords whose fidelities were earst suspected,
willinglie tooke their oths of obedience to the new king, and were
assured by the same lords on his behalfe, that they should find him
a liberall, a noble and a righteous prince, and such a one as would
see that euerie man should inioy his owne, and such as were knowne to
be notorious transgressors, should be sure to receiue their condigne
punishment.
[Sidenote: Eustace Vescie sent into Scotland.]
They sent Eustace de Vescie also vnto William king of Scotland, to
signifie to him, that king John vpon his arriuall in England, would
satisfie him of all such right as he pretended to haue within the
English dominions. And thus was king John accompted and proclaimed
king of England by the generall consent of all the lords and barons of
the same. The names of the cheefe of those peeres that were sworne (as
you haue heard) are as followeth. Dauid earle of Huntington brother
vnto William king of Scots, Richard earle of Clare, Ranulfe earle of
Chester, William earle of Tutberie or rather Darbie, Walran earle of
Warwike, Roger Lacie constable of Chester, and William de Mowbraie,
with diuerse other, whose names I here omit, bicause I would not be
tedious and irksome to the readers.
Now the king of Scotland being informed by the lord Eustace Vescie (who
had maried his daughter) that there was some hope to be had on his
part, for the recouerie of such seigniories as he and his predecessours
somtime held in England, did further dispatch sundrie ambassadours with
full purpose to send them ouer into Normandie vnto king John, there to
require restitution of the countries of Northumberland and Cumberland,
with their appurtenances, and he promised also by his letters, that
if the same might be granted vnto him, in as ample manner as they had
beene in times past to his ancestors, he would gladlie doo his homage
to king John, as to the true & lawfull king of England for the same,
and furthermore yeeld to him his faithfull seruice against all men, so
often as he should be required thervnto. Howbeit when the archbishop
of Canturburie and the rest of the councell, vnderstood that these
ambassadors should passe through England, they would not suffer them
so to doo, but speedilie sent Dauid earle of Huntington into Scotland
vnto the king his brother, requiring him earnestlie that he would not
send any ambassadours ouer as yet, but rather tarie, and take patience
a while, till the king should come ouer into England: which (as they
said) he purposed to doo verie shortlie.
King John also hauing vnderstanding of his purpose, sent ouer the said
lord Eustace againe vnto him with the like request, who in such wise
persuaded him, that he was contented to abide a time, in hope of the
better successe in his late attempted suit. And all this was doone
cheeflie by the working of the kings mother, whom the nobilitie much
honoured and loued. For she being bent to prefer hir sonne John, left
no stone vnturned to establish him in the throne, comparing oftentimes
the difference of gouernement betweene a king that is a man, and a king
that is but a child. For as John was 32 yeares old, so Arthur duke
of Britaine was but a babe to speake of. In the end, winning all the
nobilitie wholie vnto hir will, and seeing the coast to be cleare on
euerie side, without any doubt of tempestuous weather likelie to arise,
she signified the whole matter vnto K. John, who foorthwith framed all
his indeuours to the accomplishment of his businesse.
[Sidenote: Queene Elianors enuie against Arthur.]
[Sidenote: Constance dutchesse of Britaine.]
Surelie queene Elianor the kings mother was sore against hir nephue
Arthur, rather mooued thereto by enuie conceiued against his mother,
than vpon any iust occasion giuen in the behalfe of the child, for that
she saw if he were king, how his mother Constance would looke to beare
most rule within the realme of England, till hir sonne should come to
lawfull age, to gouerne of himselfe. ¶ So hard it is to bring women to
agree in one mind, their | 1,100.154149 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 44. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 31, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
CLAUDINE'S DOVES.
BY MRS. E. W. LATIMER.
A few days since, as I was driving in the Bois de Boulogne with a
friend, a slender, sweet young girl was pointed out to me. She was
walking beside her mother, and there was a loving, tender look in her
blue eyes, a shrinking modesty in her deportment, which interested me
at the first glance. She was apparently about fifteen. I observed to the
friend who pointed her out to me that she was fair, modest, and pretty.
"Yes," he replied, "and she is the heroine of a very pretty story."
Eight years ago her father and mother occupied an _appartement_, or
flat, in the Rue de Rivoli. Part of the Rue de Rivoli has houses only on
one side; the other is bordered by a high iron railing with gilt
spear-heads, inclosing the Garden of the Tuileries. At one point (which
was nearly opposite the house where Claudine lived) one tall pavilion of
the palace abutted on the sidewalk. The Rue de Rivoli is the most
beautiful street in Paris. The windows of the sitting-room of Claudine's
mother looked over the palace and its gardens, its chestnut-trees and
its fountains, the Seine and its quays, with a more distant view of the
Place de la Concorde and its obelisk, the Chambers of the Legislature,
and the gilded dome of the Tuileries. Every procession passed under
Claudine's windows. No little girl, I think, who lives in rooms
overlooking the Rue de Rivoli would wish to exchange them for any other
home.
Claudine's parents, though of good birth and education, were not rich;
they lived on the third story. They had only one old servant. Claudine's
mother was her daughter's nurse and governess. Till the German army
marched on Paris they had a peaceful, refined, and happy home.
At the moment of which I am about to write, the siege had ceased, and
the terrible days of the Commune were almost over. The little family
began to breathe more freely--only in a certain sense, however, for they
were all gathered together in a little close room, which would have
looked into the court-yard of their house had not its windows been
blocked up by pillows, mattresses, and furniture. They dared not look
into the street, they dared not go into their own sitting-room, for the
Versailles troops were entering Paris, bomb-shells were bursting in all
directions, and volleys of musketry were being fired round every street
corner. Paris was like a city expecting to be sacked, with the
additional horror that each man's foes might be those of his own
household.
Of a sudden they began to feel a stifling heat. Thick smoke rose all
around them. There was the sickening and suggestive smell of coal-oil in
the air. Claudine's father felt that he must know what was going on. To
look out of the windows might be death to all of them; still he ran into
the sitting-room, tore down the beds and pillows from a window, and
looked out on the Rue de Rivoli.
The palace before him was in flames. As he looked, the fire swept over
the venerable gray pile. Forked tongues of flame darted higher than the
Mansard roofs of its tall towers, and threatened the stores and
dwelling-houses across the way. Claudine's father looked below into the
street: there was no safety there. The men and women of the
neighborhood, driven from their rooms by falling fiery flakes from the
high roofs of the old palace, clustered together under shelter of the
great _porte cocheres_--by which carriages drive into the court-yards of
French houses under the rooms of the first story. Muskets, rifles, and
mitrailleuses swept the street. To venture into it seemed sure
destruction. To stay beneath their blazing roof would expose them all to
perish in the flames. Bomb-shells were falling constantly to right and
left, knocking off pieces of the cornices of lofty, stately houses,
tearing off their iron balconies, and scattering shattered fragments of
wood, window-glass, iron, and plaster on the pavement.
The father of Claudine, aghast with fear and horror, stepped back into
the sitting-room. "I see no escape for us," he cried.
At that moment hoarse shouts below them in the court-yard announced that
a party of insurgents, accompanied by a band of the fiendish women they
called _petroleuses_, had burst into the house that they inhabited.
Already the dangerous fluid from which these women took their name was
being poured over the wood-work of the staircase and the two lower
_appartements_.
A cry ran through the house of "Save yourselves!" Claudine's father
gathered together some important papers, some money, and a few jewels.
The mother and her old servant spread a blanket on the floor, and flung
into it such objects as they could gather up in haste, tying it by the
four corners. As to Claudine, frantic with terror, she ran into her
bedroom and brought out what she valued most--a cage containing two
young turtle-doves. They were her only pets. She loved them better than
anything else in the world, except old Clemence and her father and
mother.
The torches of the Communards had already set fire to the wood-work
saturated with coal-oil. Flames were breaking out in every direction.
The inhabitants of the doomed houses were forced to make their way into
the street, or stay to be burned alive. The first to rush down the
staircase was Claudine, cage in hand. She ran into the street. A
bomb-shell burst as she reached it, and her terrified parents saw her
drop upon the sidewalk, while the cage fell at some distance, rolling
away out of her hand.
When her father saw her dead, as he supposed, he rushed into the street,
undaunted by the bursting of the shell, and picking up her body,
retreated with it under shelter of the _porte cochere_.
But Claudine was not dead, nor even wounded. She had fainted with
fright, and as her parents hung over her with tender words, she opened
her blue eyes and smiled at them. A moment after, she remembered her
dear doves. Before any one could stop her or forbid her she ran back
into the street through bullets thick as hail, caught up her cage, and
ran back with her recovered treasures. A _petroleuse_ who had seen her
stopped as she was setting fire to some furniture, and cried out, with a
mocking laugh,
"What was the use of running out to pick up those? They will be roast
birds anyhow in the next half-hour."
On hearing these cruel words little Claudine began to comprehend for the
first time the greatness of the danger. She drew back, darted a look of
reproach at the vile woman who stood laughing at her trouble, and then,
with the big tears rolling down her cheeks, "God will know how to keep
them safe," she said, and opened the cage door. The doves flew out. They
poised themselves a moment; then they rose into the air, and flew away
to seek a purer sky above the clouds of smoke and sulphur. In spite of
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Produced by Mark C. Orton, Paul Clark and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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[Illustration]
THE SCIENCE OF
ANIMAL LOCOMOTION
(ZOOPRAXOGRAPHY)
AN ELECTRO-PHOTOGRAPHIC INVESTIGATION OF
CONSECUTIVE | 1,100.255106 |
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[Illustration: Fannie Hurst]
EVERY SOUL HATH ITS SONG
BY
FANNIE HURST
AUTHOR OF
_Just Around the Corner_
"_Oh, the melody in the simplest heart_"
BOOKS BY FANNIE HURST
EVERY SOUL HATH ITS SONG
JUST AROUND THE CORNER
Every Soul Hath Its Song
1912, 1916
TO
J.S.D.
CONTENTS
SEA GULLIBLES
ROLLING STOCK
HOCHENHEIMER OF CINCINNATI
IN MEMORIAM
THE NTH COMMANDMENT
T.B.
SUMMER RESOURCES
SOB SISTER
THE NAME AND THE GAME
EVERY SOUL HATH ITS SONG
SEA GULLIBLES
In this age of prose, when men's hearts turn point-blank from blank
verse to the business of chaining two worlds by cable and of daring to
fly with birds; when scholars, ever busy with the dead, are suffering
crick in the neck from looking backward to the good old days when
Romance wore a tin helmet on his head or lace in his sleeves--in such
an age Simon Binswanger first beheld the high-flung torch of Goddess
Liberty from the fore of the steerage deck of a wooden ship, his small
body huddled in the sag of calico skirt between his mother's knees, and
the sky-line and clothes-lines of the lower East Side dawning upon his
uncomprehending eyes.
Some decades later, and with an endurance stroke that far outclassed
classic Leander's, Simon Binswanger had swum the great Hellespont
that surged between the Lower East Side and the Upper West Side, and,
trolling his family after, landed them in one of those stucco-fronted,
elevator-service apartment-houses where home life is lived on the layer,
and the sins of the extension sole and the self-playing piano are
visited upon the neighbor below. Landed them four stories high and dry
in a strictly modern apartment of three dark, square bedrooms, a square
dining-room ventilated by an airshaft, and a square pocket of a kitchen
that looked out upon a zigzag of fire-escape. And last a square
front-room-de-resistance, with a bay of four windows overlooking a
distant segment of Hudson River, an imitation stucco mantelpiece, a
crystal chandelier, and an air of complete detachment from its curtailed
rear.
But even among the false creations of exterior architects and interior
decorators, home can find a way. Despite the square dining-room with
the stag-and-tree wall-paper design above the plate-rack and a gilded
radiator that hissed loudest at mealtime, when Simon Binswanger and his
family relaxed round their after-dinner table, the invisible cricket on
the visible hearth fell to whirring.
With the oldest gesture of the shod age Mrs. Binswanger dived into her
work-basket, withdrew with a sock, inserted her five fingers into the
foot, and fell to scanning it this way and that with a furrow between
her eyes.
"Ray, go in and tell your sister she should come out of her room and
stop that crying nonsense. I tell you it's easier we should all go to
Europe, even if we have to swim across, than every evening we should
have spoilt for us."
Ray Binswanger rose out of her shoulders, her eyes dazed with print,
then collapsed again to the pages of her book.
"Let her cry, mamma."
"It's not so nice, Ray, you should treat your sister like that."
"Can I help it, mamma, that all of a sudden she gets Europe on the
brain? You never heard me even holler for Arverne, much less Europe, as
long as the boats were running for Brighton, did you, mom?"
"She thinks, Ray, in Europe it's a finer education for you both. She
ain't all wrong the way she hates you should run to Brighton with them
little snips."
"Just the same you never heard me nag for trips. The going's too good at
home. Did you, pop, ever hear me nag?"
"Ja, it's a lot your papa worries about what's what! Look at him there
behind his paper, like it was a law he had to read every word! Ray, go
get me my glasses under the clock and call in your sister. Them novels
will keep. Mind me when I talk, Ray!"
Miss Ray Binswanger rose reluctantly, placing the book face downward on
the blue-and-white table coverlet. It was as if seventeen Indian summers
had laid their golden blush upon her. Imperceptibly, too, the lanky,
prankish years were folding back like petals, revealing the first bloom
of her, a suddenly cleared complexion and eyes that had newly learned to
drop upon occasion.
"Honest, mamma, do you think it would hurt Izzy to make a move once in a
while? He was the one made her cry, anyway, guying her about spaghetti
on the brain."
"Sure I did. Wasn't she running down my profesh? She's got to go to
Europe for the summer, because the traveling salesmen she meets at home
ain't good enough for her. Well, of all the nerve!"
"Just look at him, mamma, stretched out on the sofa there like he was a
king!"
Full flung and from a tufted leather couch Isadore Binswanger turned on
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FOUR WEEKS IN THE TRENCHES
by Fritz Kreisler
To My Dear Wife Harriet
The Best Friend Add Stanchest Comrade In All Circumstances Of
Life I Dedicate This Little Book
In Humble Token Of Everlasting Gratitude And Devotion
Preface
This brief record of the fighting on the Eastern front in the great war
is the outcome of a fortunate meeting.
The writer chanced to be dining with Mr. Kreisler soon after his
arrival in this country, after his dismissal from the hospital where he
recovered from his wound. For nearly two hours he listened, thrilled
and moved, to the great violinist's modest, vivid narrative of his
experiences and adventures. It seemed in the highest degree
desirable that the American public should have an opportunity of
reading this narrative from the pen of one in whose art so many of
us take a profound interest. It also was apparent that since so little
of an authentic nature had been heard from the Russo-Austrian field
of warfare, this story would prove an important contribution to the
contemporary history of the war.
After much persuasion, Mr. Kreisler reluctantly acceded to the
suggestion that he write out his personal memories of the war for
publication. He has completed his narrative in the midst of grave
difficulties, writing it piecemeal in hotels and railway trains in the
course of a concert tour through the country. It is offered by the
publishers to the public with confidence that it will be found one of
the most absorbing and informing narratives of the war that has yet
appeared.
F. G.
Four Weeks In The Trenches
I
In trying to recall my impressions during my short war duty as an
officer in the Austrian Army, I find that my recollections of this period
are very uneven and confused. Some of the experiences stand out
with absolute clearness; others, however, are blurred. Two or three
events which took place in different localities seem merged into one,
while in other instances recollection of the chronological order of
things is missing. This curious indifference of the memory to values
of time and space may be due to the extraordinary physical and
mental stress under which the impressions I am trying to chronicle
were received. The same state of mind I find is rather characteristic
of most people I have met who were in the war. It should not be
forgotten, too, that the gigantic upheaval which changed the
fundamental condition of life overnight and threatened the very
existence of nations naturally dwarfed the individual into
nothingness, and the existing interest in the common welfare left
practically no room for personal considerations. Then again, at the
front, the extreme uncertainty of the morrow tended to lessen the
interest in the details of to-day; consequently I may have missed a
great many interesting happenings alongside of me which I would
have wanted to note under other circumstances. One gets into a
strange psychological, almost hypnotic, state of mind while on the
firing line which probably prevents the mind's eye from observing
and noticing things in a normal way. This accounts, perhaps, for
some blank spaces in my memory. Besides, I went out completely
resigned to my fate, without much thought for the future. It never
occurred to me that I might ever want to write my experiences, and
consequently I failed to take notes or to establish certain
mnemo-technical landmarks by the aid of which I might now be able to
reconstruct all details. I am, therefore, reduced to present an
incoherent and rather piecemeal narrative of such episodes as
forcibly impressed themselves upon my mind and left an
ineradicable mark upon my memory.
The outbreak of the war found my wife and me in Switzerland,
where we were taking a cure. On the 31st of July, on opening the
paper, I read that the Third Army Corps, to which my regiment
(which is stationed in Graz) belonged, had received an order for
mobilization.
Although I had resigned my commission as an officer two years
before, I immediately left Switzerland, accompanied by my wife, in
order to report for duty. As it happened, a wire reached me a day
later calling me to the colors.
We went by way of Munich. It was the first day of the declaration of
the state of war in Germany. Intense excitement prevailed. In
Munich all traffic was stopped; no trains were running except for
military purposes. It was only due to the fact that I revealed my
intention of rejoining my regiment in Austria that I was able to pass
through at all, but by both the civil and military authorities in Bavaria
I was shown the greatest possible consideration and passed
through as soon as possible.
We reached Vienna on August first. A startling change had come
over the city since I had left it only a few weeks before. Feverish
activity everywhere prevailed. Reservists streamed in by thousands
from all parts of the country to report at headquarters. Autos filled
with officers whizzed past. Dense crowds surged up and down the
streets. Bulletins and extra editions of newspapers passed from
hand to hand. Immediately it was evident what a great leveler war
is. Differences in rank and social distinctions had practically
ceased. All barriers seemed to have fallen; everybody addressed
everybody else.
I saw the crowds stop officers of high rank and well-known members
of the aristocracy and clergy, also state officials and court
functionaries of high rank, in quest of information, which was
imparted cheerfully and patiently. The imperial princes could
frequently be seen on the Ring Strasse surrounded by cheering
crowds or mingling with the public unceremoniously at the cafes,
talking to everybody. Of course, the army was idolized. Wherever
the troops marched the public broke into cheers and every uniform
was the center of an ovation.
While coming from the station I saw two young reservists, to all
appearances brothers, as they hurried to the barracks, carrying their
small belongings in a valise. Along with them walked a little old lady
crying, presumably their mother. They passed a general in full
uniform. Up went their hands to their caps in military salute,
whereupon the old general threw his arms wide open and embraced
them both, saying: "Go on, my boys, do your duty bravely and stand
firm for your emperor and your country. God willing, you will come
back to your old mother." The old lady smiled through her tears. A
shout went up, and the crowds surrounding the general cheered
him. Long after I | 1,100.255595 |
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LEGAL STATUS
OF
WOMEN IN IOWA.
COMPILED BY
JENNIE L. WILSON, LL. B.
Member of the Polk County Bar.
DES MOINES:
IOWA PRINTING COMPANY.
1894.
Preface.
This book has been prepared for the purpose of presenting to the women
of Iowa, in a brief and concise form, those laws which pertain to
subjects in which they are most deeply interested, and about which there
is a strong and growing demand for certain and accurate information.
In this age of general intelligence, when learning in some degree is so
readily attainable, the maxim, that "Ignorance of the law excuses no
one," has a measure of justice in it, which could not be claimed for it
in former times, and it is most certainly true that, "As the subjects of
law, if not as its makers, all ought to know enough to avoid its
penalties and reap its benefits."
Every woman should understand the law of her own state concerning
marriage, divorce, the care and custody of children, and the mutual
rights and duties of husband and wife incident to the marriage relation.
She should know something of the law of minors and guardianship, of
administration, and descent of property, and her knowledge should
certainly embrace that class of crimes which necessarily includes her
own sex, either as the injured party, or as _particeps criminis_.
In the arrangement of this work, a very brief synopsis of the common law
upon these subjects is given, as the principles of the common law
underlie our entire statute law, and a knowledge of the former is
absolutely essential to render much of the latter intelligible. The
statute law of the state has been given in the exact words of the
statutes, with but few exceptions, and the explanations or notes
following these have been gathered from decisions of our supreme court.
The references are to sections of McClain's Annotated Code and
Supplement.
The design of the work is not broad enough to give to the most careful
reader that knowledge of the _minutiae_ of the law necessary in the
application of its principles to particular cases and under a special
state of facts. It is in nowise adequate, even though its contents
should be thoroughly mastered, to make every woman her own lawyer, in
matters where she would otherwise require legal advice, but it is hoped
that its statements are sufficiently plain and free from technical
phraseology and legal terms, that even the casual reader may readily
comprehend them, and be able to gain a general understanding of the law
of our state upon these subjects.
J.L.W.
Des Moines, Iowa, May 1894.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
SYNOPSIS OF COMMON LAW.
Common law in force--Changes--Marriage--Dissolution of marriage--Power
of husband--Disabilities of wife--Custody of children--Property
rights--Descent of property--Discrimination in criminal matters--Right
of appeal--Reason for subjection of women
CHAPTER II.
MARRIAGE.
Contract of marriage--Legal age--No express form necessary--Who may
solemnize--When void
CHAPTER III.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
Property rights of married women--Remedy by husband or wife against the
other--Wife's torts--Conveyances to each other--Conveyances to third
parties--Wages of wife--Contracts of wife--Family expenses--Removal from
homestead--Conveyance of property when husband or wife is insane
CHAPTER IV.
DIVORCE, ANNULLING MARRIAGES AND ALIMONY.
Jurisdiction of court--Evidence--Causes for divorce--Husband from
wife--Maintenance during litigation--Alimony--Custody of
children--Annulling illegal marriages--Causes--Legitimacy of children
CHAPTER V.
MINORS AND GUARDIANSHIP.
Majority--Contracts of minors--Natural guardians--Guardians of
property--Powers and duties of guardian--Guardians of drunk | 1,100.265286 |
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CATHERINE BOOTH
A SKETCH
_Reprinted from The Warriors' Library_
BY
COLONEL MILDRED DUFF
WITH A PREFACE BY
GENERAL BRAMWELL BOOTH
PREFACE
Colonel Duff has, at my request, written the following very interesting
and touching account of my dear Mother; and she has done so in the hope
that those who read it will be helped to follow in the footsteps of that
wonderful servant of God.
But how can they do so? Was not Mrs. Booth, you ask, an exceptional
woman? Had she not great gifts and very remarkable powers, and was she
not trained in a very special way to do the work to which God called her?
How, then, can ordinary people follow in her steps? Let me tell you.
Mrs. Booth walked with God. When she was only a timid girl, helping her
mother in the household, she continually sought after Him; and when, in
later years, she became known by multitudes, and was written of in the
newspapers, and greatly beloved by the good in many lands, there was no
difference in her life in that matter. She was not content with being
Mrs. General Booth of The Salvation Army, and with being looked upon as a
great and good woman, giving her life to bless others. No! she listened
daily for God's voice in her own heart, sought after His will, and leaned
continually for strength and grace upon her Saviour. You can be like her
in that.
Mrs. Booth was a soul-winner. A little while before her spirit passed
into the presence of God, and when she knew that death was quite near to
her, she said: 'Tell the Soldiers that the great consolation for a
Salvationist on his dying bed is to feel that he has been a soul-winner.'
Wherever she went--in the houses of strangers as well as of friends, in
the Meetings, great and small, when she was welcomed and when she was
not, whether alone or with others--she laboured to lead souls to Christ.
I have known her at one time spend as much trouble to win one as at
another time to win fifty. You can follow her example in that.
Mrs. Booth always declared herself and took sides with right. Whatever
was happening around her, people always knew which side she was on. She
spoke out for the right, the good, and the true, even when doing so
involved very disagreeable experiences and the bearing of much
unkindness. She hated the spirit which can look on at what is wicked and
false or cruel, and say, 'Oh, that is not my affair!' You can follow her
example in this also.
Mrs. Booth laboured all her life to improve her gifts. She thought; she
prayed; she worked; she read--above all, she read her Bible. It was her
companion as a child, as a young follower of Christ, and then as a Leader
in The Army. Those miserable words which some of us hear so often about
some bad or unfinished work--'Oh, that will do'--were seldom heard from
her lips. She was always striving, striving, striving to do better, and
yet better, and again better still. All this also you can do.
Mrs. Booth was full of sympathy. No one who was in need or in sorrow, or
who was suffering, could meet her without finding out that, she was in
sympathy with them. Her heart was tender with the love of Christ, and so
she was deeply touched by the sin and sorrow around her just as He was.
Even the miseries of the dumb animals moved her to efforts on their
behalf. This sympathy made Mrs. Booth quick to see and appreciate the
toil and self-denial of others, and ever grateful for any kindness shown
to her or to The Army or to those in need of any kind. The very humblest
and youngest of those who read this little book can be like her in all
this.
Mrs. Booth endured to the end. She never turned back. She was faithful.
Her life and work would have been spoilt if she had given up the fight.
She was often sorely tempted. She was slandered and misrepresented by
enemies, betrayed by false friends, and often deeply wounded by those who
professed to love her, though they deserted the Flag. But she held fast.
You can be like her in that. You may make many mistakes, suffer many
defeats, but you can still keep going on, and it is to those who go on to
the very end, whether in weakness or in strength, that Jesus will give
the crown of life.
Mrs. Booth trusted with all her heart in the love and sacrifice of her
Saviour. These were her hope and her strength. When at the height of her
influence and popularity she delighted in that wonderful song which we
still so often sing:--
I love Thee because Thou hast first loved me,
And purchased my pardon when nailed to the tree;
and when, amid much suffering, she lay dying, we often sang together
with her:--
Victory for me!
Through the Blood of Christ my Saviour;
Victory for me!
Through the precious Blood.
This was her victory. You can follow her in the faith that won it. Will
you?
BRAMWELL BOOTH.
_International Headquarters._
CONTENTS
PREFACE
I. CHILDHOOD
II. CONVERSION AND SOUL STRUGGLES
III. A THREE-YEARS ENGAGEMENT
IV. A LIFE OF SACRIFICE
V. THE SPEAKER
VI. THE MOTHER
VII. THE WORKER
VIII. GOODNESS
IX. LOVE
X. THE WARRIOR
XI. LAST DAYS
XII. DATES IN MRS. BOOTH'S LIFE
CATHERINE BOOTH:
A SKETCH
I
CHILDHOOD
'Parents who love God best will not allow their children to learn
anything which could not be pressed into His service.'--MRS. BOOTH.
The Mother of The Salvation Army was born at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, on
January 17, 1829, and God gave to her the very best gift He can give to
any child--a good and holy mother.
Katie Mumford, as she was then called, had no sister to play with, and of
her four brothers only one lived to be a man. But her dear mother more
than made up for every lack, and from her lips the little girl learned
those blessed lessons which, in her turn, she has taught to us.
One lesson which Mrs. Mumford early taught her daughter was that our
bodies will not live for ever. She took Katie to see the body of her
infant brother who had just died; and, though she was not more than two
years old at the time, Katie never forgot that first lesson. Spiritual
things were even then real to her, just because they were so real to her
mother. Heaven was home to her, and Jesus her best Friend, ever near to
help and guide her.
Truthfulness was a second of those early lessons which remained with our
Army Mother all her life. She was but four years old when Mrs. Mumford
found her one evening sobbing bitterly in her little cot long after she
should have been asleep. She had told a falsehood, and conscience would
not let her rest. When she had sobbed out her confession, her mother
talked and prayed with her, and at last left her, happy in the assurance
that she was forgiven by her Heavenly Father.
After this you will not be surprised to hear that another lesson early
taught to Katie by her mother was to love her Bible. She could read
nicely when she was but five years old, and she loved to stand by her
mother's side, and read the Bible stories aloud, with just a little help
over the very long words. And this love for God's Word grew deeper every
year, so that by the time she was twelve years old she had read it
through eight times. In later years people often wondered how it was that
Mrs. Booth knew her Bible so well, and could so quickly answer their
difficulties and objections in Bible words. Much of the secret lay in
this early training, and in the hours she spent in Bible study later on,
when she had reached the age of some of our younger Corps Cadets.
I wish we could have seen her in those days. She had very dark hair,
which curled naturally; black, flashing eyes, and such a warm heart, and
strong, impetuous nature that she could do nothing by halves. Whatever it
was, work or play, her whole soul had to be in it.
Since she was not at all strong, and had few girl friends, Katie did not
play rough or noisy games, but her love for her dolls made her quite a
little mother to them. She treated them almost like real children, and
would sew and toil, and never rest till she felt she had in every way
done her duty to them. She loved animals, too, especially dogs and
horses, and could not bear to see any one ill-treat them. Oh, how she
suffered one day, watching some poor sheep driven down the road! She
watched the man beat them--she could not stop him; and at last she tore
home, and flung herself down almost choking and speechless with
indignation and distress.
Her mother did not check Katie for feeling so keenly. She encouraged her;
for she knew that a hard, indifferent child, who can see suffering and
not care or be distressed over it, would make a hard woman; and she
wanted her Katie to be full of love and tenderness for all, and
especially for those needing help.
When Catherine was twelve years old she became very interested in the
drink question. She wrote letters about it, and sent them to different
newspapers, for there was no 'War Cry' nor 'Young Soldier' in those days;
and she also became the secretary of what was then called a Juvenile
Temperance Society, and did all she could to get boys and girls to
promise never to touch the drink.
Katie was also, like many of you, much interested in the heathen. She
would go round to all her friends collecting money to pay for preachers
to be sent to them; and in order to get more money she would deny herself
sugar and other small luxuries. No one told Katie to do this; but you see
our Army Mother herself taught us, by her example when only a child, to
keep our great Self-Denial Week.
Of course, most of Katie's time was taken up with her lessons, and, as
she loved to learn and study, they were no hardship to her. For two years
she went to a boarding-school, and here her companions soon found out how
straight and truthful she was. 'You'll never get _her_ to tell a
lie,' the girls said, 'nor even to exaggerate, so it's no use trying.'
Every one knew also that Katie felt for the backward girls and those who
were slow and dull. She wanted them to succeed, and would help them
between school hours. That was her joy, you see--to help and care for
others; whether at school or at home she was the same.
But you must not think that Catherine was perfect. Oh, no, indeed!
Sometimes her schoolmates would tease her because she was so quiet, and
liked to read better than to play; and at such times, instead of being
patient, she would flare up into a passion, and say harsh, angry words.
When the storm was over she would be, however, Oh! so sorry, and would
beg her schoolfellows to forgive her.
When Katie had been at school two years, God sent her a very great trial.
Instead of being able to go on learning and keeping up with the other
girls, she had to return home, and for three long years to lie nearly all
the time on her back, often suffering very much. She had a serious spinal
complaint, and her friends sometimes doubted whether she would ever walk
again.
You wonder what she did in those three years? I will tell you. When the
pain would permit it, she would knit and sew. She could not, of course,
hold heavy needlework; but little things, like babies' socks and hoods,
pin-cushions, and so forth, she would make most beautifully, and then
they would be sold to help on the work of God.
Besides her sewing, Katie read a great deal. First, as I have already
told you, she read her Bible, and learnt to know God's thoughts about the
world and sin, and His wishes for His people. For seven months at one
time Catherine had to lie on her face on a special sort of couch made on
purpose for her; but she invented a contrivance by which, even then, she
could read her Bible, though still remaining in the position that the
doctors wished. Then, too, she would read good books--explanations of the
Bible, about Holiness, soul-saving, lives of those who have lived and
worked for God, and so on. When she had read a chapter she would shut the
book, and write down as much as she could remember of it. This helped her
to think clearly and to remember what she read, and also to put her
thoughts into words.
But she never wasted her time reading stories and novels. Later on in her
life she said she was so thankful for this, for she thought that novels
and silly story books made people discontented with their own homes and
duties, and put wrong, hurtful ideas into their minds. Let us recollect
and follow our Army Mother's example here, and not waste time on stories
which are not true.
We, if we had known Katie Mumford in those three years of pain and
weariness, should have pitied her very much. We might have been tempted
to feel that God was hard in not letting her be strong like other girls;
but we now see that all the time He was fitting her for the wonderful
future before her; and when she became Mrs. Booth, the great preacher,
she herself understood this.
'Being so much alone in my youth,' she said, 'and so thrown on my own
thoughts and on those expressed in books, has been very helpful to me.
Had I been given to gossip, and had there been people for me to gossip
with, I should certainly never have accomplished what I did.'
So, you see, God was all the time giving her the very best training He
could, and teaching her, as she lay there alone on her bed, what she
never could have learned in the ordinary way. And He will train you, too,
in the very best way for your future, if you will but determine to trust
and serve Him as did Catherine Mumford.
II
CONVERSION AND SOUL STRUGGLES
'No soul was ever yet saved who was too idle to seek.'--MRS. BOOTH.
Perhaps you, the Corps Cadet, for whom I am especially writing this
little book, have been tempted to break your vows by becoming engaged to
some one who does not want to be an Officer. And you think, perhaps, that
no one understands your feelings.
You will be surprised, then, to know that our Army Mother had just such a
battle to fight when she was a girl.
She had a cousin, a little older than herself, who was tall and very
clever. He came with his parents to stay in her home, and Katie had not
seen him since they were young children. He quickly grew very fond of his
cousin, and Catherine found how nice it was to have some one to give her
presents and to love her as he did. At last he begged her to promise that
by and by she would be engaged to him. Now Katie was very perplexed. On
the one hand she loved her cousin, and did not want to grieve him, and
yet in her heart she knew he was not truly given up to God, and would not
help her in her soul.
'Go to the Meeting with you, Katie?' he used to say. 'Of course, I'll go
anywhere to please you.' But then, while she was trying to get a
blessing, he would be scratching little pictures on the back of the seat
to make her laugh. Perhaps you can guess the struggle it was for Katie to
decide what her answer should be. 'If you will only say "yes," and be
engaged to him, I am sure you will be able to help him, and very likely
get him properly saved,' the Devil would whisper. 'Break it off now,
Katie; do not go another step; you know God cannot smile on it.' That was
how her conscience spoke.
At last, one day as she was truly praying and seeking for light, she read
the verse in 2 Corinthians vi. 14: 'Be ye not unequally yoked together
with unbelievers.' It came to her as the voice of God.
'I will do it, Lord,' she said, after a long struggle; and she sat down,
and wrote her cousin a letter, telling him just why she could never be
engaged to him, and breaking it all off for ever. Then she turned back to
her home duties, and did not re-open the question.
And did our Army Mother in after years regret that she had acted like
this? No, indeed; she has told us that she saw plainly later on that, if
just then she had chosen to follow her own feelings and wishes, instead
of obeying God's command, all her life would have been altered, and she
would never have done the glorious work He had planned for her. It was a
hard battle at the time, and cost her many tears; but it was worth it,
ten thousand times over, as we can all see to-day.
Very soon after this victory Catherine became really converted.
'What!' you say. 'Was she not converted before this?'
No. All her life she had, like many children trained to-day in
Salvationist homes, felt God's Holy Spirit striving with her. Sometimes,
when quite a little girl, her mother would find her crying because she
felt how she had sinned against God.
But when she was about fifteen she longed to know that she was really
saved.
'Don't be silly,' said the Devil in her heart. 'You have been as good as
saved all your life. You have always wanted to do right. How can you
expect such a sudden change as if you were a great big drunkard? It's
absurd.'
'But my _heart_ is as bad as the heart of a big sinner,' cried poor
Katie in an agony of fear. 'I have been as bad inside, if not in my
outward actions and words.'
And then she took hold of God in faith. 'Lord, I must be converted. I
cannot rest till Thou hast changed my whole nature; do for me what Thou
dost do, for the thieves and drunkards.'
But for six weeks it seemed as if God did not hear her cry. She grew more
and more unhappy. All her past sins rose before her: those bursts of
temper when she was at school, those wrong thoughts and feelings. Yes,
the Bible was true when it said: 'The heart is deceitful above all things
and desperately wicked.'
Katie argued, too, like this: 'I cannot recollect any time or place where
I claimed Salvation and the forgiveness of my sins; if God _has_
saved me, He would surely have made me certain of it. Anyway, I must and
will know it. I must have the assurance that I am God's child.'
Unable to rest, she would pace her room till two o'clock in the morning,
and would lie down at last, with her Bible and hymn-book under her
pillow, praying that God would Himself tell her that her sins were
forgiven. At last, one morning, as she woke, she opened her hymn-book,
and read these words:--
My God, I am Thine,
What a comfort divine,
What a blessing to know that my Jesus is mine.
Now she had read and sung these lines scores of times before, but they
came this morning with a new power to her soul.
'I am Thine!' 'My Jesus is mine!' she exclaimed. 'Lord, it is true!--I do
believe it! My sins are forgiven. I belong to Thee!' and her whole soul
was filled with light and joy. She now possessed what she had been
seeking all these weeks--the assurance of Salvation! And then what do you
think she did? She threw on a wrapper, and, without waiting to dress,
hurried across to her mother's room, and tapped at the door.
'Come in,' said her mother's voice; and Katie, her face shining with joy,
burst into the room. 'Mamma, mamma, I am a child of God! My sins are
forgiven--Jesus is my Saviour!' she cried, flinging herself into her
mother's arms. And this was the same Katie, who had been so shy and
backward that she had never before dared to speak about her spiritual
anxieties, even to her mother! Ah! what a change real conversion, or
change of heart, had made.
For the next six months Katie was so happy that she felt as if she were
walking on air. 'I used to tremble,' she tells us, 'and even long to die,
lest I should back-slide or lose the sense of God's favour.'
But as time went on she learned, as we all have to do, to walk by faith,
not by sight, and to serve and follow the Saviour whether she had happy
feelings or not.
But you must not suppose, because Katie had the assurance of Salvation,
that therefore she had no more fighting. No--indeed, her fighting days
had only just begun.
One of her great difficulties, which many Corps Cadets will understand,
was that she felt so nervous about doing anything in public. No one, of
course, asked her to speak--such a thing was never dreamed of; but the
lady who took the Bible Class which she attended regularly would now and
then ask her to pray. 'Miss Mumford will pray,' the lady would say, when
they were all kneeling together.
But Katie was too shy to begin, and sometimes they would wait for several
minutes before she had courage to say a few words. 'Don't ask me to pray
again,' she said one day to her leader; 'the excitement and agitation
make me quite ill.'
'I can't help that,' was the very wise answer; 'you must break through
your timidity; for otherwise you will be of no use to God.'
And did Katie persevere? Yes, indeed, she did. Here is an entry made some
time later in the diary that she kept, which shows you how very much her
experience was like yours:--
'I have not been blessed so much for weeks as I was to-night. I prayed
aloud. The cross was great, but so was the reward.
My heart beat violently, but I felt some liberty.'
Though Catherine's spine difficulty was better, she was still very
delicate, and at the age of eighteen every one felt sure she was going
into a decline. But, sick or well, her soul grew stronger, and her desire
to please and serve God better increased every day.
'I do love Thee,' she wrote in the same little diary, 'but I want to love
Thee more.'
It was not till many years later that Catherine received the blessing of
a clean heart; but even now she had begun to desire and long for it. She
also writes at this time: 'I see that this Full Salvation is very
necessary if I am to glorify God below, and find my way to Heaven. I want
a _clean_ heart. Lord, take me and seal me.'
Some people, even after they are converted, are too proud to own
themselves wrong, or to confess when they have sinned. Catherine was not
of that sort. In one of her letters to her mother she ends with these
words:--
'Pray for me, dear mother, and believe me, with all my faults and
besetments, your loving child.'
Her hunger after a holy life was real and practical. She knew she must
learn to live by method--that is, doing right, whether she liked it or
not--and not by feelings, if she was to be of use in the world.
So at the end of the year she wrote some new resolutions; and as they may
be of help to you, I will copy them for you just as she put them down:--
'I have been writing a few daily rules for the coming year, which I hope
will prove a blessing to me, by the grace of God. I have got a paper of
printed rules also, which I intend to read once a week. May the Lord help
me to keep to them! But, above all, I am determined to search the
Scriptures more attentively, for in them I have eternal life. I have read
my Bible through twice during the past sixteen months, but I must read it
with more prayer for light and understanding. Oh, may it be my meat and
drink! May I meditate on it day and night! And then I shall bring forth
fruit in season; my leaf also shall not wither, and whatsoever I do shall
prosper.'
She had also her own private ways of denying herself, not for the sake of
earning money or praise by it, but simply because she felt it was right.
One of these rules was to do without dinner, and butter at breakfast,
once in the week, because she felt it helped her in her soul.
I cannot end this chapter without telling you of the one great sorrow
which darkened all her early years. Some of you, I know, will enter into
her feelings so well.
Her father, at one time saved and earnest about the souls of others, had
grown cold and backslidden, and now never even went near a Meeting. You
can fancy what agony this was to both Mrs. Mumford and her daughter. They
prayed and wept in vain--he only seemed to get more indifferent.
Catherine would sometimes write her | 1,100.354335 |
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THE WORLD BEFORE THEM.
A Novel.
BY
MRS. MOODIE,
AUTHOR OF "ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1868.
LONDON:
Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street
THE WORLD BEFORE THEM.
CHAPTER I.
MRS. GILBERT RUSHMERE.
The dinner was so well cooked, and so nicely served, that in spite of
the unusual hour, Mrs. Rowly and her daughter made a very hearty meal.
Mrs. Rushmere's easy chair had been drawn to the head of the table, and
Dorothy sat beside her and carved, Gilbert being unable at present to
cut his own food. Dorothy longed to do it for him, when she observed how
unwillingly his wife performed this necessary service.
"I am a great trouble to you, Sophy," he said; "but directly my arm is
healed, I shall soon learn to help myself, as I have seen others do, who
had met with the same misfortune."
"It is a good thing to have a wife to help you," suggested Mrs. Rowly.
"Yes, but it makes a fellow feel so dependent. He has to submit through
sheer necessity to petticoat government."
"A' don't think that even one arm would make me do that," said Rushmere,
"tho' I believe a' had the best wife in Christendom."
Mrs. Rushmere laughed good-naturedly.
"Oh, Lawrence, men be often under their wives' government, an' as
ignorant of the fact as babies."
"You speak, I suppose, from experience," said Mrs. Gilbert, in her
gentle low voice. "I should have thought the old gentleman a very
difficult person for any wife to manage. I find Gilbert a hard case, in
spite of his one arm."
"There's only one way to rule me, and that's by kindness," returned
Gilbert.
Without meaning it, perhaps, his voice assumed a serious tone, almost
amounting to sadness. He looked up, and his eyes and Dorothy's met;
forcing an appearance of gaiety, he said, "What have you to say on the
subject, Dorothy?"
"I never give an opinion on subjects I know nothing about. I am the only
person in the room who cannot speak from experience. I should think your
plan, however, must be the best."
"It is a pity you have not an opportunity of trying it, Miss, What's
your name," said Mrs. Gilbert, "in which case you might perhaps find out
that kindness can be thrown away."
"I expected to find Dorothy married when I came home," said Gilbert. "I
thought it impossible that the young fellows in the neighbourhood could
suffer her to remain single."
"She waited for you, Gilly, till she found it o' no use," cried Rushmere
passing the bottle to his son.
"Oh that I had waited for her," was the thought that flashed through
Gilbert's mind, charged with a deep regret.
"Father will have his joke," said Dorothy, colouring like a rose,
"without thinking that it may be at the expense of another."
Mrs. Gilbert left off eating, and listened keenly to what was passing.
"Believe me, Gilbert, that there is no one present who congratulates you
more sincerely on your marriage than I do."
"My dear child, will you help me up stairs?" said Mrs. Rushmere,
apprehensive of mischief from her husband's blunt indiscretion and want
of delicacy.
Gilbert rose, and with his left arm supported her to the foot of the
stairs. "Oh, Dorothy," he said, "no wonder that you despise me. God only
knows how I despise myself."
"It is too late to repent now, Gilbert. You must try like me to forget.
You owe it to your wife, as much as to me."
She passed her arm round Mrs. Rushmere's waist, and left Gilbert at the
foot of the stairs. He put the cuff of his empty sleeve to his eyes. Was
it to wipe away a tear?
His wife looked daggers at him, when he returned to the table. His
father proposed a walk round the farm after dinner, an invitation that
Gilbert eagerly accepted, and the mother and daughter were left alone
together.
"We shall have a nice time of it here," said Mrs Gilbert. "Let us go
out, mother, and take a look round the premises. One might as well be in
a prison as confined to this dark, dingy room."
"I can see no garden attached to the place," said Mrs. Rowly, looking
out of the deep bay window which only opened upon the stone-paved court.
"That girl who helped at dinner could tell us all about it."
"Don't call her, mamma, I have a perfect horror of that woman. I am
certain that Gilbert and she have been very intimate. He never took his
eyes off her during dinner."
"You need not be jealous of her, Sophy; I am certain that she cares
nothing for him. You are foolish to trouble your head with any love
affairs he had previous to his marriage."
"But I am sure he cares for her, and I don't mean to play second fiddle
in his father's house to any one but Mrs. Rushmere. If this girl remains
in the house I must quit it."
"And would you like to nurse the sick mother?"
"I hate sick people. Let her hire a nurse."
"She may not be able to do that. I see no indications of wealth here. A
carpetless sanded floor, and furniture old enough to have come out of
the ark. One room which serves for drawing-room, dining-room and
parlour. I dare say these poor people have enough to do to keep
themselves."
"But Gilbert said that his father was rich."
"Pshaw! You see now Gilbert has exaggerated matters."
"But what are we to do? I can't and won't live here."
"Till your debts are paid, you must."
"Oh, dear, I wish I were single again," and Mrs. Gilbert began to cry.
"Sophy, when you were single you were never contented, always lamenting
that you were not married. No one ever asked you to marry until I gave
out that you would have a fortune."
"And what have I gained by that lie?"
"A handsome, honest fellow, if you would only think so. He would not
have been so badly off either, if he had not been forced to sell his
commission to pay your debts. He had a fair chance too, of rising in the
army, if he had not met with that misfortune. I think you very
unreasonable to throw all the blame on him. What now remains for you to
do, is to make yourself agreeable to his parents, and secure a home,
such as it is, for us."
"I can't pretend to like that old man," and Sophy shrugged her
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WOMEN AND THE ALPHABET
A Series of Essays
by
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON
1881
PREFATORY NOTE
The first essay in this volume, "Ought Women to learn the Alphabet?"
appeared originally in the "Atlantic Monthly" of February, 1859, and has
since been reprinted in various forms, bearing its share, I trust, in the
great development of more liberal views in respect to the training and
duties of women which has made itself manifest within forty years. There
was, for instance, a report that it was the perusal of this essay which led
the late Miss Sophia Smith to the founding of the women's college bearing
her name at Northampton, Massachusetts.
The remaining papers in the volume formed originally a part of a book
entitled "Common Sense About Women" which was made up largely of papers
from the "Woman's Journal." This book was first published in 1881 and was
reprinted in somewhat abridged form some years later in London
(Sonnenschein). It must have attained a considerable circulation there, as
the fourth (stereotyped) edition appeared in 1897. From this London reprint
a German translation was made by Fraeulein Eugenie Jacobi, under the title
"Die Frauenfrage und der ges | 1,100.454505 |
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THAT GIRL MONTANA
BY
MARAH ELLIS RYAN
AUTHOR OF
TOLD IN THE HILLS, THE BONDWOMAN,
A FLOWER OF FRANCE, Etc.
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1901, by Rand. McNally & Company.
THAT GIRL MONTANA.
PROLOGUE.
"That girl the murderer of a man--of Lee Holly! That pretty little girl?
Bosh! I don't believe it."
"I did not say she killed him; I said she was suspected. And even though
she was cleared, the death of that renegade adds one more to the mysteries
of our new West. But I think the mere suspicion that she did it entitles
her to a medal, or an ovation of some sort."
The speakers were two men in complete hunting costume. That they were
strangers in the Northwest was evidenced by the very lively interest they
took in each bit of local color in landscape or native humanity. Of the
latter, there was a most picturesque variety. There were the Northern red
men in their bright blankets, and women, too, with their beadwork and
tanned skins for sale. A good market-place for these was this spot where
the Kootenai River is touched by the iron road that drives from the lakes
to the Pacific. The road runs along our Northern boundary so close that it
is called the "Great Northern," and verily the land it touches is great in
its wildness and its beauty.
The two men, with their trophies of elk-horn and beaver paws, with their
scarred outfit and a general air of elation gained from a successful
"outing," tramped down to the little station after a last lingering view
toward far hunting grounds. While waiting for the train bound eastward,
they employed their time in dickering with the Indian moccasin-makers, of
whom they bought arrows and gaily painted bows of ash, with which to deck
the wall of some far-away city home.
While thus engaged, a little fleet of canoes was sighted skimming down the
river from that greater wilderness of the North, penetrated at that time
only by the prospector, or a chance hunter; for the wealth of gold in
those high valleys had not yet been more than hinted at, and the hint had
not reached the ears of the world.
Even the Indians were aroused from their lethargy, and watched with keen
curiosity the approaching canoes. When from the largest there stepped
forth a young girl--a rather remarkable-looking young girl--there was a
name spoken by a tall Indian boatman, who stood near the two strangers.
The Indians nodded their heads, and the name was passed from one to the
other--the name 'Tana--a soft, musical name as they pronounced it. One of
the strangers, hearing it, turned quickly to a white ranchman, who had a
ferry at that turn of the river, and asked if that was the young girl who
had helped locate the new gold find at the Twin Springs.
"Likely," agreed the ranchman. "Word came that she was to cut the diggings
and go to school a spell. A Mr. Haydon, who represents a company that's to
work the mine, sent down word that a special party was to go East over the
road from here to-day; so I guess she's one of the specials. She came near
going on a special to the New Jerusalem, she did, not many days ago. I
reckon you folks heard how Lee Holly--toughest man in the length of the
Columbia--was wiped off the living earth by her last week."
"We heard she was cleared of it," assented the stranger.
"Yes, so she was, so she was--cleared by an alibi, sworn to by Dan
Overton. You don't know Dan, I suppose? Squarest man you ever met! And he
don't have to scratch gravel any more, either, for he has a third interest
in that Twin Spring find, and it pans out big. They say the girl sold her
share for two hundred thousand. She doesn't look top-heavy over it,
either."
And she did not. She walked between two men--one a short, rather pompous
elderly man, who bore a slight resemblance to her, and whom she treated
rather coolly.
"Of course I am not tired," she said, in a strong, musical voice. "I have
been brought all the way on cushions, so how could I be? Why, I have gone
alone in a canoe on a longer trail than we floated over, and I think I
will again some day. Max, there is one thing I want in this world, and
want bad; that is, to get Mr. Haydon out on a trip where we can't eat
until we kill and cook our dinner. He doesn't know anything about real
comfort; he wants too many cushions."
The man she called Max bent his head and whispered something to her, at
which her face flushed just a little and a tiny wrinkle crept between her
straight, beautiful brows.
"I told you not to say pretty things that way, just because you think
girls like to hear them. I don't. Maybe I will when I get civilized; but
Mr. Haydon thinks that is a long ways ahead, doesn't he?" The wrinkle was
gone--vanished in a quizzical smile, as she looked up into the very
handsome face of the young fellow.
"So do I," he acknowledged. "I have a strong desire, especially when you
snub me, to be the man to take you on a lone trail like that. I will, too,
some day."
"Maybe you will," she agreed. "But I feel sorry for you beforehand."
She seemed a tantalizing specimen of girlhood, as she stood there, a
slight, brown slip of a thing, dressed in a plain flannel suit, the color
of her golden-brown short curls. In her brown cloth hat the wings of a
redbird gleamed--the feathers and her lips having all there was of bright
color about her; for her face was singularly colorless for so young a
girl. The creamy skin suggested a pale-tinted blossom, but not a fragile
one; and the eyes--full eyes of wine-brown--looked out with frank daring
on the world.
But for all the daring brightness of her glances, it was not a joyous
face, such as one would wish a girl of seventeen to possess. A little
cynical curve of the red mouth, a little contemptuous glance from those
brown eyes, showed one that she took her measurements of individuals by a
gauge of her own, and that she had not that guileless trust in human
nature that is supposed to belong to young womanhood. The full expression
indicated an independence that seemed a breath caught from the wild beauty
of those Northern hills.
Her gaze rested lightly on the two strangers and their trophies of the
chase, on the careless ferryman, and the few stragglers from the ranch and
the cabins. These last had gathered there to view the train and its people
as they passed, for the ties on which the iron rails rested were still of
green wood, and the iron engines of transportation were recent additions
to those lands of the far North, and were yet a novelty.
Over the faces of the white men her eyes passed carelessly. She did not
seem much interested in civilized men, even though decked in finer raiment
than was usual in that locality; and, after a cool glance at them all, she
walked directly past them and spoke to the tall Indian who had first
uttered her name to the others.
His face brightened when she addressed him; but their words were low, as
are ever the words of an Indian in converse, low and softly modulated; and
the girl did not laugh in the face of the native as she had when the
handsome young white man had spoken to her in softened tones.
The two sportsmen gave quickened attention to her as they perceived she
was addressing the Indian in his own language. Many gestures of her slim
brown hands aided her speech, and as he watched her face, one of the
sportsmen uttered the impulsive exclamation at the beginning of this
story. It seemed past belief that she could have committed the deed with
which her name had been connected, and of which the Kootenai valley had
heard a great deal during the week just passed. That it had become the one
topic of general interest in the community was due partly to the
personality of the girl, and partly to the fact that the murdered man had
been one of the most notorious in all that wild land extending north and
west into British Columbia.
Looking at the frank face of the girl and hearing her musical, decided
tones, the man had a reasonable warrant for deciding that she was not
guilty.
"She is one of the most strongly interesting girls of her age I have ever
seen," he decided. "Girls of that age generally lack character. She does
not; it impresses itself on a man though she never speak a word to him.
Wish she'd favor me with as much of her attention as she gives that
hulking redskin."
"It's a 'case,' isn't it?" asked his friend. "You'll be wanting to use her
as a centerpiece for your next novel; but you can't make an orthodox
heroine of her, for there must have been some reason for the suspicion
that she helped him 'over the range,' as they say out here. There must
have been something socially and morally wrong about the fact that he was
found dead in her cabin. No, Harvey; you'd better write up the inert,
inoffensive red man on his native heath, and let this remarkable young
lady enjoy her thousands in modest content--if the ghosts let her."
"Nonsense!" said the other man, with a sort of impatience. "You jump too
quickly to the conclusion that there must be wrong where there is
suspicion. But you have put an idea into my mind as to the story. If I can
ever learn the whole history of this affair, I will make use of it, and
I'm not afraid of finding my pretty girl in the wrong, either."
"I knew from the moment we heard who she was that your impressionable
nature would fall a victim, but you can't write a story of her alone; you
will want your hero and one or two other people. I suppose, now, that very
handsome young fellow with the fastidious get-up will about suit you for
the hero. He does look rather lover-like when he addresses your girl with
the history. Will you pair them off?"
"I will let you know a year from now," returned the man called Harvey.
"But just now I am going to pay my respects to the very well-fed looking
elderly gentleman. He seems to be the chaperon of the party. I have
acquired a taste for trailing things during our thirty days hunt in
these hills, and I'm going to trail this trio, with the expectation of
bagging a romance."
His friend watched him approach the elder gentleman, and was obviously
doubtful of the reception he would get, for the portly, prosperous-looking
individual did not seem to have been educated in that generous Western
atmosphere, where a man is a brother if he acts square and speaks fair.
Conservatism was stamped in the deep corners of his small mouth, on the
clean-shaven lips, and the correctly cut side-whiskers that added width to
his fat face.
But the journalist proper, the world over, is ever a bit of a diplomat. He
has won victories over so many conservative things, and is daunted by few.
When Harvey found himself confronted by a monocle through which he was
coolly surveyed, it did not disturb him in the least (beyond making it
difficult to retain a grave demeanor at the lively interest shown by the
Indians in that fashionable toy).
"Yes, sir--yes, sir; I am T. J. Haydon, of Philadelphia," acknowledged he
of the glass disc, "but I don't know you, sir."
"I shall be pleased to remedy that if you will allow me," returned the
other, suavely, producing a card which he offered for examination. "You
are, no doubt, acquainted with the syndicate I represent, even if my name
tells you nothing. I have been hunting here with a friend for a month, and
intend writing up the resources of this district. I have a letter of
introduction to your partner, Mr. Seldon, but did not follow the river so
far as to reach your works, though I've heard a good deal about them, and
imagine them interesting."
"Yes, indeed; very interesting--very interesting from a sportsman's or
mineralogist's point of view," agreed the older man, as he twirled the
card in a disturbed, uncertain way. "Do you travel East, Mr.--Mr. Harvey?
Yes? Well, let me introduce Mr. Seldon's nephew--he's a New Yorker--Max
Lyster. Wait a minute and I'll get him away from those beastly Indians. I
never can understand the attraction they have for the average tourist."
But when he reached Lyster he said not a word of the despised reds; he had
other matters more important.
"Here, Max! A most annoying thing has happened," he said, hurriedly.
"Those two men are newspaper fellows, and one is going East on our train.
Worse still--the one knows people I know. Gad! I'd rather lose a thousand
dollars than meet them now! And you must come over and get acquainted.
They've been here a month, and are to write accounts of the life and
country. That means they have been here long enough to hear all about
'Tana and that Holly. Do you understand? You'll have to treat them
well,--the best possible--pull wires even if it costs money, and fix it so
that a record of this does not get into the Eastern papers. And, above and
beyond everything else, so long as we are in this depraved corner of the
country, you must keep them from noticing that girl Montana."
The young man looked across at the girl, and smiled doubtfully.
"I'm willing to undertake any possible thing for you," he said; "but, my
dear sir, to keep people from noticing 'Tana is one of the things beyond
my power. And if she gives notice to all the men who will notice her, I've
an idea jealousy will turn my hair gray early. But come on and introduce
your man, and don't get in a fever over the meeting. I am so fortunate
as to know more of the journalistic fraternity than you, and I happen to
be aware that they are generally gentlemen. Therefore, you'd better not
drop any hints to them of monetary advantages in exchange for silence
unless you want to be beautifully roasted by a process only possible in
printer's ink."
The older man uttered an exclamation of impatience, as he led his young
companion over to the sportsmen, who had joined each other again; and as
he effected the introduction, his mind was sorely upset by dread of the
two gentlemanly strangers and 'Tana.
'Tana was most shamelessly continuing her confidences with the tall
Indian, despite the fact that she knew it was a decided annoyance to her
principal escort. Altogether the evening was a trying one to Mr. T. J.
Haydon.
The sun had passed far to the west, and the shadows were growing longer
under the hills there by the river. Clear, red glints fell across the cool
ripples of the water, and slight chill breaths drifted down the ravines
and told that the death of summer was approaching.
Some sense of the beauty of the dying October day seemed to touch the
girl, for she walked a little apart and picked a spray of scarlet maple
leaves and looked from them to the hills and the beautiful valley, where
the red and the yellow were beginning to crowd out the greens. Yes, the
summer was dying--dying! Other summers would come in their turn, but none
quite the same. The girl showed all the feeling of its loss in her face.
In her eyes the quick tears came, as she looked at the | 1,100.79428 |
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...THE...
MAN FROM MARS
HIS MORALS, POLITICS
AND RELIGION
BY
WILLIAM SIMPSON
THIRD EDITION
Revised and Enlarged by an Extended Preface and a
Chapter on Woman Suffrage
Press of
E. D. Beattie, 207 Sacramento St.
San Francisco
Copyright, 1900, by the Author.
TO THE MEMORY
OF
JAMES LICK
who, by his munificent bequests to
SCIENCE, INDUSTRY, CHARITY AND EDUCATION
has indicated in the manner of their disposal, that humanity, wisdom,
and enlightenment, arising out of the convictions of modern thought,
which holds these, his beneficiaries to be the noblest and divinest
pursuits of mankind, and the only possible agencies in the betterment
of society.
This Book is reverently inscribed
BY THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.
Any one advanced in life who has enjoyed opportunities of knowledge
derived from association with men and books, and who has an inclination
to reach the bottom of things by his own independent thought, is apt to
arrive at conclusions regarding the world and society very different
from those which had been early impressed upon him by his superiors
and teachers. From a suspicion, at first reluctantly accepted, but
finally confirmed beyond a doubt, he finds that he has been deceived
in many things. The discovery arouses no indignation because he
knows that his early instructors were in most cases the victims of
misdirection themselves, and are therefore not to be held accountable
for the promulgation of errors which they had mistaken for truths. His
self-emancipation has so filled his mind with a better hope for the
future of the world, and a higher opinion of his fellow men, that the
delight and satisfaction of the discovery overcomes every sentiment
except pity for those who had been leading him astray, and if the
feeling of condemnation or censure comes to his mind at all, it is only
for those few who live and thrive upon those delusions having their
origin in the past, and whose chief purpose in life is to keep them
alive and to bolster them up among the multitude.
In the new light that has come to him, the world and society have
been transformed to his view and understanding. He discovers goodness
in many places where his teachers had denied its existence, and its
definition has become so changed, under his broader vision, that
humanity seems teeming with it everywhere, and is ruled by it, and
those departments of it most affecting society he observes to be
increasing, and that instead of like an exotic in uncongenial soil,
hard to be retained by mankind, it is perpetuated and cherished by
natural human impulses. He finds, also, that the sum of badness in
the world has been greatly exaggerated by his teachers, and that
those branches of it most interfering with the welfare of society are
gradually being lessened, and are likely to work out their extinction
by the penalties of public disapproval. These convictions make the
world seem a brighter and better dwelling place. They reveal to him
the possibilities of its future, and tend to divert his higher aims
from the obscure paths where tradition had been leading them, into more
fruitful channels. The truth will have at last dawned upon him, bearing
evidences in this age that none but the unenlightened can doubt, that
superstition, during many of the centuries past, has belittled the
world, and has discouraged humanity in improving it, under the mistaken
assumption of the world’s small comparative importance in the great
outcome; the circumstantial particulars, of which, it pretends to hold
by divine revelation. Having rid himself of these beliefs by a process
of reasoning, and the assistance of the available knowledge of his
time, he arrives at the conclusion that the best work of humanity is
not, altogether that taught by the creeds, and that its most divinely
inspired motives are those which tend to increase the knowledge of
worldly things, those which add to the sum of goodness in society by
exhibiting its practical effect toward happiness, and those also which
assist in the great end of equalizing the burdens and enjoyments of
life among all.
Having these conclusions firmly established in his mind, and the
undeserved reverence from early training removed, he becomes
especially fitted to examine these old beliefs, and to pass judgment
upon them, without that taint of blind devotional fervor which the
unremitted teaching of many centuries has rendered current in the
world. He observes of these old beliefs, that during their supremacy,
when their control of society was complete and unquestioned, the
material progress of mankind was least, without any compensating
condition to make up for the darkness, and dead mental activity that
had fallen upon it; except that apparent hypnotic influence from the
doctrines taught, which made men careless of their miseries, and
indifferent to the things of the earth. He observes, further, of
these old beliefs, that as modern knowledge reduces their hold of
authority among men, the world improves as it never did before. Even
charity, kindness, and good will to men, adopted, and long taught as an
inseparable part of them, multiply more rapidly as their weight in the
management | 1,100.95613 |
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and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
IN AND OUT OF THREE NORMANDY INNS
BY
ANNA BOWMAN DODD
[Illustration: GUILLAUME-LE-CONQUERANT-DIVES]
TO EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
_My Dear Mr. Stedman:
To this little company of Norman men and women, you will, I know,
extend a kindly greeting, if only because of their nationality. To your
courtesy, possibly, you will add the leaven of interest, when you
perceive--as you must--that their qualities are all their own, their
defects being due solely to my own imperfect presentment.
With sincere esteem_,
ANNA BOWMAN DODD.
_New York_.
CONTENTS.
VILLERVILLE.
I. A LANDING ON THE COAST OF FRANCE II. A SPRING DRIVE III.
FROM AN INN WINDOW IV. OUT ON A MUSSEL-BED V. THE VILLAGE VI.
A PAGAN COBBLER VII. SOME NORMAN LANDLADIES VIII. THE QUARTIER
LATIN ON THE BEACH IX. A NORMAN HOUSEHOLD X. ERNESTINE
ALONG AN OLD POST-ROAD.
XI. TO AN OLD MANOIR XII. A NORMAN CURE XIII. HONFLEUR--NEW
AND OLD
DIVES.
XIV. A COAST DRIVE XV. GUILLAUME-LE-CONQUERANT XVI. THE GREEN
BENCH XVII. THE WORLD THAT CAME TO DIVES XVIII. THE CONVERSATION OF
PATRIOTS XIX. IN LA CHAMBRE DES MARMOUSETS
TWO BANQUETS AT DIVES.
XX. A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY REVIVAL XXI. THE AFTER-DINNER TALK OF
THREE GREAT LADIES XXII. A NINETEENTH CENTURY BREAKFAST
A LITTLE JOURNEY ALONG THE COAST.
XXIII. A NIGHT IN A CAEN ATTIC XXIV. A DAY AT BAYEUX AND ST. LO XXV.
A DINNER AT COUTANCES XXVI. A SCENE IN A NORMAN COURT XXVII. THE
FETE-DIEU--A JUNE CHRISTMAS XXVIII. BY LAND TO MONT ST. MICHEL
MONT ST. MICHEL.
XXIX. BY SEA TO THE POULARD INN XXX. THE PILGRIMS AND THE
SHRINE--AN HISTORICAL OMELETTE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
GUILLAUME-LE-CONQUERANT--DIVES A VILLAGE STREET--VILLERVILLE ON THE
BEACH--VILLERVILLE A SALE OF MUSSELS--VILLERVILLE A VILLERVILLE
FISH-WIFE A DEPARTURE--VILLERVILLE THE INN AT
DIVES--GUILLAUME-LE-CONQUERANT CHAMBRE DE LA PUCELLE--DIVES CHAMBRE DES
MARMOUSETS--DIVES MADAME DE SEVIGNE CHAMBRE DE LA PUCELLE--DIVES
CHATEAU FONTAINE LE HENRI, NEAR CAEN AN EXCITING MOMENT--A COUTANCES
INTERIOR A STREET IN COUTANCES--EGLISE SAINT-PIERRE MONT SAINT MICHEL
MONT SAINT MICHEL SNAIL-GATHERERS
VILLERVILLE.
AN INN BY THE SEA.
CHAPTER I.
A LANDING ON THE COAST OF FRANCE.
Narrow streets with sinuous curves; dwarfed houses with minute shops
protruding on inch-wide sidewalks; a tiny casino perched like a
bird-cage on a tiny scaffolding; bath-houses dumped on the beach;
fishing-smacks drawn up along the shore like so many Greek galleys;
and, fringing the cliffs--the encroachment of the nineteenth century--a
row of fantastic sea-side villas.
This was Villerville.
Over an arch of roses; across a broad line of olives, hawthorns,
laburnums, and syringas, straight out to sea--
This was the view from our windows.
Our inn was bounded by the sea on one side, and on the other by a
narrow village street. The distance between good and evil has been
known to be quite as short as that which lay between these two
thoroughfares. It was only a matter of a strip of land, an edge of
cliff, and a shed of a house bearing the proud title of Hotel-sur-Mer.
Two nights before, our arrival had made quite a stir in the village
streets. The inn had given us a characteristic French welcome; its eye
had measured us before it had extended its hand. Before reaching the
inn and the village, however, we had already tasted of the flavor of a
genuine Norman welcome. Our experience in adventure had begun on the
Havre quays.
Our expedition could hardly be looked upon as perilous; yet it was one
that, from the first, evidently appealed to the French imagination;
half Havre was hanging over the stone wharves to see us start.
"_Dame_, only English women are up to that!"--for all the world is
English, in French eyes, when an adventurous folly is to be committed.
This was one view of our temerity; it was the comment of age and
experience of the world, of the cap with the short pipe in her mouth,
over which curved, downward, a bulbous, fiery-hued nose that met the
pipe.
"_C'est beau, tout de meme_, when one is young--and rich." This was a
generous partisan, a girl with a miniature copy of her own round
face--a copy that was tied up in a shawl, very snug; it was a bundle
that could not possibly be in any one's way, even on a somewhat
prolonged tour of observation of Havre's shipping interests.
"And the blonde one--what do you think of her, _hein_?"
This was the blouse's query. The tassel of the cotton night-cap nodded,
interrogatively, toward the object on which the twinkling ex-mariner's
eye had fixed itself--on Charm's slender figure, and on the yellow
half-moon of hair framing her face. There was but one verdict
concerning the blonde beauty; she was a creature made to be stared at.
The staring was suspended only when the bargaining went on; for Havre,
clearly, was a sailor and merchant first; its knowledge of a woman's
good points was rated merely as its second-best talent.
Meanwhile, our bargaining for the sailboat was being conducted on the
principles peculiar to French traffic; it had all at once assumed the
aspect of dramatic complication. It had only been necessary for us to
stop on our lounging stroll along the stone wharves, diverting our gaze
for a moment from the grotesque assortment of old houses that, before
now, had looked down on so many naval engagements, and innocently to
ask a brief question of a nautical gentleman, picturesquely attired in
a blue shirt and a scarlet beret, for the quays immediately to swarm
with jerseys and red caps. Each beret was the owner of a boat; and each
jersey had a voice louder than his brother's. Presently the battle of
tongues was drowning all other sounds.
In point of fact, there were no other sounds to drown. All other
business along the quays was being temporarily suspended; the most
thrilling event of the day was centring in us and our treaty. Until
this bargain was closed, other matters could wait. For a Frenchman has
the true instinct of the dramatist; business he rightly considers as
only an _entr'acte_ in life; the serious thing is the _scene de
theatre_, wherever it takes place. Therefore it was that the black,
shaky-looking houses, leaning over the quays, were now populous with
frowsy heads and cotton nightcaps. The captains from the adjacent
sloops and tug-boats formed an outer circle about the closer ring made
by the competitors for our favors, while the loungers along the
parapets, and the owners of top seats on the shining quay steps, may be
said to have been in possession of orchestra stalls from the first
rising of the curtain.
A baker's boy and two fish-wives, trundling their carts, stopped to
witness the last act of the play. Even the dogs beneath the carts, as
they sank, panting, to the ground, followed, | 1,101.057196 |
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[Illustration: Sir Henry Morgan--Buccaneer.]
_Sir Henry Morgan, BUCCANEER_
_A Romance of the Spanish Main_
_BY_
_CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY_
_Author of "For Love of Country," "For the Freedom of the Sea," "The
Southerners," "Hohenzollern," "The Quiberon Touch," "Woven with the
Ship," "In the Wasp's Nest," Etc._
[Illustration]
_Illustrations by J.N. MARCHAND and WILL CRAWFORD_
G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
THE PEARSON PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1903, IN
GREAT BRITAIN
[_All rights reserved_]
_Sir Henry Morgan, Buccaneer_ _Issued October, 1903_
_TO MY ONLY BROTHER_
COLONEL JASPER EWING BRADY
_LATE U.S. ARMY_
"Woe to the realms which he coasted! for there
Was shedding of blood and rending of hair,
Rape of maiden and slaughter of priest,
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast;
When he hoisted his standard black,
Before him was battle, behind him wrack,
And he burned the churches, that heathen Dane,
To light his band to their barks again."
SCOTT: "Harold the Dauntless."
_PREFACE_
In literature there have been romantic pirates, gentlemanly pirates,
kind-hearted pirates, even humorous pirates--in fact, all sorts and
conditions of pirates. In life there was only one kind. In this book
that kind appears. Several presentations--in the guise of novels--of
pirates, the like of which never existed on land or sea, have recently
appeared. A perusal of these interesting romances awoke in me a desire
to write a story of a real pirate, a pirate of the genuine species.
Much research for historical essays, amid ancient records and moldy
chronicles, put me in possession of a vast amount of information
concerning the doings of the greatest of all pirates; a man unique among
his nefarious brethren, in that he played the piratical game so
successfully that he received the honor of knighthood from King Charles
II. A belted knight of England, who was also a brutal, rapacious,
lustful, murderous villain and robber--and undoubtedly a pirate,
although he disguised his piracy under the name of buccaneering--is
certainly a striking and unusual figure.
Therefore, when I imagined my pirate story I pitched upon Sir Henry
Morgan as _the_ character of the romance. It will spare the critic to
admit that the tale hereinafter related is a work of the imagination,
and is not an historical romance. According to the latest accounts, Sir
Henry Morgan, by a singular oversight of Fate, who must have been
nodding at the time, died in his bed--not peacefully I trust--and was
buried in consecrated ground. But I do him no injustice, I hasten to
assure the reader, in the acts that I have attributed to him, for they
are more than paralleled by the well authenticated deeds of this human
monster. I did not even invent the blowing up of the English frigate in
the action with the Spanish ships.
If I have assumed for the nonce the attributes of that unaccountably
somnolent Fate, and brought him to a terrible end, I am sure abundant
justification will be found in the recital of his mythical misdeeds,
which, I repeat, were not a circumstance to his real transgressions.
Indeed, one has to go back to the most cruel and degenerate of the Roman
emperors to parallel the wickednesses of Morgan and his men. It is not
possible to put upon printed pages explicit statements of what they did.
The curious reader may find some account of these "Gentlemen of the
Black Flag," so far as it can be translated into present-day books
intended for popular reading, in my volume of "COLONIAL FIGHTS AND
FIGHTERS."
The writing of this novel has been by no means an easy task. How to
convey clearly the doings of the buccaneer so there could be no
misapprehension on the part of the reader, and yet to write with due
delicacy and restraint a book for the general public, has been a problem
with which I have wrestled long and arduously. The whole book has been
completely revised some six times. Each time I have deleted something,
which, while it has refined, I trust has not impaired the strength of
the tale. If the critic still find things to censure, let him pass over
charitably in view of what might have been!
As to the other characters, I have done violence to the name and fame of
no man, for all of those who played any prominent part among the
buccaneers in the story were themselves men scarcely less criminal than
Morgan. Be it known that I have simply appropriated names, not careers.
They all had adventures of their own and were not associated with Morgan
in life. Teach--I have a weakness for that bad young man--is known to
history as "Blackbeard"--a much worse man than the roaring singer of
these pages. The delectable Hornigold, the One-Eyed, with the "wild
justice" of his revenge, was another real pirate. So was the faithful
Black Dog, the maroon. So were Raveneau de Lussan, Rock Braziliano,
L'Ollonois, Velsers, Sawkins, and the rest.
In addition to my desire to write a real story of a real pirate I was
actuated by another intent. There are numberless tales of the brave days
of the Spanish Main, from "Westward Ho!" down. In every one of them,
without exception, the hero is a noble, gallant, high-souled,
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LOVE AND LIFE
An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
By Charlotte M. Yonge
Transcriber's note: There are numerous examples throughout this text
of words appearing in alternate spellings: madame/madam, practise/
practice, Ladyship/ladyship, &c. We can only wonder what the publisher
had in mind. I have left them unchanged.--D.L.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
The first edition of this tale was put forth without explaining the
old fable on which it was founded--a fable recurring again and again in
fairy myths, though not traceable in the classic world till a very late
period, when it appeared among the tales of Apuleius, of the province
of Africa, sometimes called the earliest novelist. There are, however,
fragments of the same story in the popular tales of all countries, so
that it is probable that Apuleius availed himself of an early form of
one of these. They are to be found from India to Scandinavia, adapted to
the manners and fancy of every country in turn, _Beauty and the Beast_
and the _Black Bull of Norroway_ are the most familiar forms of the
tale, and it seemed to me one of those legends of such universal
property that it was quite fair to put it into 18th century English
costume.
Some have seen in it a remnant of the custom of some barbarous tribes,
that the wife should not behold her husband for a year after marriage,
and to this the Indian versions lend themselves; but Apuleius himself
either found it, or adapted it to the idea of the Soul (the Life)
awakened by Love, grasping too soon and impatiently, then losing it,
and, unable to rest, struggling on through severe toils and labours till
her hopes are crowned even at the gates of death. Psyche, the soul or
life, whose emblem is the butterfly, thus even in heathen philosophy
strained towards the higher Love, just glimpsed at for a while.
Christians gave a higher meaning to the fable, and saw in it the Soul,
or the Church, to whom her Bridegroom has been for a while made known,
striving after Him through many trials, to be made one with Him after
passing through Death. The Spanish poet Calderon made it the theme of
two sacred dramas, in which the lesson of Faith, not Sight, was taught,
with special reference to the Holy Eucharist.
English poetry has, however, only taken up its simple classical aspect.
In the early part of the century, Mrs. Tighe wrote a poem in Spenserian
stanza, called _Psyche_, which was much admired at the time; and Mr.
Morris has more lately sung the story in his _Earthly Paradise_. This
must be my excuse for supposing the outline of the tale to be familiar
to most readers.
The fable is briefly thus:--
Venus was jealous of the beauty of a maiden named Psyche, the youngest
of three daughters of a king. She sent misery on the land and family,
and caused an oracle to declare that the only remedy was to deck his
youngest daughter as a bride, and leave her in a lonely place to become
the prey of a monster. Cupid was commissioned by his mother to destroy
her. He is here represented not as a child, but as a youth, who on
seeing Psyche's charms, became enamoured of her, and resolved to save
her from his mother and make her his own. He therefore caused Zephyr to
transport her to a palace where everything delightful and valuable was
at her service, feasts spread, music playing, all her wishes fulfilled,
but all by invisible hands. At night in the dark, she was conscious of
a presence who called himself her husband, showed the fondest affection
for her, and promised her all sorts of glory and bliss, if she would be
patient and obedient for a time.
This lasted till yearnings awoke to see her family. She obtained consent
with much difficulty and many warnings. Then the splendour in which she
lived excited the jealousy of her sisters, and they persuaded her that
her visitor was really the monster who would deceive her and devour her.
They thus induced her to accept a lamp with which to gaze on him when
asleep. She obeyed them, then beholding the exquisite beauty of the
sleeping god of love, she hung over him in rapture till a drop of the
hot oil fell on his shoulder and awoke him. He sprang up, sorrowfully
reproached her with having ruined herself and him, and flew away,
letting her fall as she clung to him.
The palace was broken up, the wrath of Venus pursued her; Ceres and all
the other deities chased her from their temples; even when she would
have drowned herself, the river god took her in his arms, and laid her
on the bank. Only Pan had pity on her, and counselled her to submit to
Venus, and do her bidding implicitly as the only hope of regaining her
lost husband.
Venus spurned her at first, and then made her a slave, setting her first
to sort a huge heap of every kind of grain in a single day. The ants,
secretly commanded by Cupid, did this for her. Next, she was to get
a lock of golden wool from a ram feeding in a valley closed in by
inaccessible rocks; but this was procured for her by an eagle; and
lastly, Venus, declaring that her own beauty had been impaired by
attendance on her injured son, commanded Psyche to visit the Infernal
Regions and obtain from Proserpine a closed box of cosmetic which was on
no account to be opened. Psyche thought death alone could bring her to
these realms, and was about to throw herself from a tower, when a voice
instructed her how to enter a cavern, and propitiate Cerberus with cakes
after the approved fashion.
She thus reached Proserpine's throne, and obtained the casket, but when
she had again reached the earth, she reflected that if Venus's beauty
were impaired by anxiety, her own must have suffered far more; and
the prohibition having of course been only intended to stimulate her
curiosity, she opened the casket, out of which came the baneful fumes of
Death! Just, however, as she fell down overpowered, her husband, who had
been shut up by Venus, came to the rescue, and finding himself unable
to restore her, cried aloud to Jupiter, who heard his prayer, reanimated
Psyche, and gave her a place among the gods.
CHAPTERS.
I. A SYLLABUB PARTY.
II. THE HOUSE OF DELAVIE.
III. AMONG THE COWSLIPS.
IV. MY LADY'S MISSIVE.
V. THE SUMMONS.
VI. DISAPPOINTED LOVE.
VII. ALL ALONE.
VIII. THE ENCHANTED CASTLE.
IX. THE TRIAD.
X. THE DARK CHAMBER.
XI. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.
XII. THE SHAFTS OF PHOEBE.
XIII. THE FLUTTER OF HIS WINGS.
XIV. THE CANON OF WINDSOR.
XV. THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY.
XVI. AUGURIES.
XVII. THE VICTIM DEMANDED.
XVIII. THE PROPOSAL.
XIX. WOOING IN THE DARK.
XX. THE MUFFLED BRIDEGROOM.
XXI. THE SISTER'S MEETING
XXII. A FATAL SPARK.
XXIII. WRATH AND DESOLATION.
XXIV. THE WANDERER.
XXV. VANISHED.
XXVI. THE TRACES.
XXVII. CYTHEREA'S BOWER.
XXV | 1,101.682576 |
2023-11-16 18:35:25.7357020 | 5,461 | 43 |
E-text prepared by Al Haines
Transcriber's Note:
The Greek words in this e-book have been transliterated according
to Project Gutenberg's Greek How-To. Such words are indicated
with surrounding underscores. There are a couple of instances
of author-transliterated Greek words. Those words are bracketed
and not italicized. Underscores are also used to indicate
italicization of words, but in this e-book such words are always
English words.
THE GOSPEL OF THE HEREAFTER
by
J. PATERSON-SMYTH, B.D., LL.D., LITT. D., D.C.L,
_Rector of St. Georges, Montreal, Late Professor
of Pastoral Theology, University of Dublin_
_Author of "How We Got Our Bible," "The
Old Documents and the New Bible," etc., etc., etc._
New York ---- Chicago ---- Toronto
Fleming H. Revell Company
London And Edinburgh
Copyright, 1910, by
Fleming H. Revell Company
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street
_To My Wife_
Contents
PART I
THE NEAR HEREAFTER
I. "I"
II. THE THREE STAGES OF EXISTENCE
III. WHAT THE BIBLE SAYS ABOUT THE NEAR HEREAFTER
IV. WHAT THE BIBLE AND THE CHURCH SAY ABOUT THE NEAR HEREAFTER
V. THE CRISIS OF DEATH
VI. "I" "MYSELF" AFTER DEATH
VII. RECOGNITION
VIII. THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS
IX. GROWTH AND PURIFICATION
X. PROBATION IN THIS LIFE
XI. MINISTRY IN THE UNSEEN LIFE
XII. CONCLUSION
PART II
THE FAR HEREAFTER
I. THE JUDGMENT
II. HELL
III. HEAVEN
Publishers' Note
This tenth American (and sixteenth British) edition has been carefully
revised and where necessary rewritten by the author. We call special
attention to an interesting note on page 108.
This year a Norwegian edition has been published, translated by Judge
Hambro of the Supreme Court of Norway assisted by the Bishops of
Christiania and Trondheim. Also request has been received for
permission to translate the book for readers in Holland. But more
interesting is a letter from a Brahmin gentleman in India asking
permission to produce at his own cost an edition for his people and
dedicated on the front page, "TO MY SON, SEREM ALI, WHO IS NOW IN THE
NEAR HEREAFTER."
Foreword
The Lord is risen, but the people do not know it. There is no death,
but the people do not believe it. Human life is the most exciting
romantic adventure in the Universe, going on stage after stage till we
are older than Methuselah and then on again through the infinite
eternities--and yet men pass into the Unseen as stupidly as the
caterpillar on the cabbage-leaf, without curiosity or joy or wonder or
excitement at the boundless career ahead.
Instead of the thrill of coming adventure we have the dull grey
monotony of aged lives drawing near the close, and the horror of this
war is doubled and the torture of wife or mother as the beloved one
crosses the barrier.
What is the matter with us, Christian people? Do we not know? Or have
we lost our beliefs? or has imagination grown dulled by too frequent
repetition of God's good news?
* * * * *
It was so different in early days when the world was younger, when
Christ's revelation was fresh. Look at St. John, four-score years and
ten, like an eager boy looking into the Great Adventure: "Beloved, now
are we the sons of God, and IT DOTH NOT YET APPEAR WHAT WE SHALL BE."[1]
What we shall be! What we shall be! Is not that the chief delight of
being young? Guessing and hoping and wondering what we shall be.
The dreariest thing in life is dulness--monotony. The brightest thing
in life is outlook--vision. And God has given us that. Like St. John
we too can stand on the rim of the world and look out over the wall.
* * * * *
Life is full of latent possibilities--of outlook, of romance, of
exciting futures. God has made it so, if we would only see it. God's
world of nature has its continuous progress, its ever new and
fascinating stages. God's caterpillars in their next stage are going
to be soaring butterflies--God's acorns are to become mighty
oaks--God's dry little seeds in the granary to-day will in autumn be
alive in the waving harvests. God's world of nature is full of
romantic possibilities.
And God's world of men is infinitely more so, and one of life's
delights is to know it and look forward to it guessing what we shall
be. Outlook. Vision. That is what gives zest to life. That is what
we need to make life bright and beautiful.
* * * * *
I see a group of small boys sitting at their play, and their eyes are
bright looking into the future. They are going to be soldiers, and
sailors, and circus riders, and travelers, and all sorts of things.
Because they are boys with the enthusiasms of boyhood, they may be
anything. All the possibilities of boyhood belong to them. It doth
not yet appear what they shall be, but it is delightful to look forward
and speculate about it.
* * * * *
I see them again a dozen years later. They are starting in life, just
left college, young soldiers and lawyers and curates and business
men--still with their visions and dreams of the future. It doth not
yet appear what they shall be, but because they are young men, all that
belongs to young manhood lies before them, as they look forward in
their day-dreams. What countries they shall live in and what girl they
shall marry, and what positions and what work, and what excitements,
and what pleasure lie before them. Ah, it is delightful to be young,
realizing the possibilities in front--dreaming of what we shall be.
* * * * *
I see a crowd of older people, men and women dull, uninterested. "We
are no longer young," they say, "we are middle-aged or elderly. And we
have ceased looking forward. We have lost the vision. We have not
become as great as we expected, or as good as we expected. We are
fairly comfortable. We have not much to complain of. But life is a
bit dull. The path is a bit monotonous now. We have traversed most of
it. We can see to the end. There are no more romantic possibilities
to make life exciting, no more visions of 'what we shall be.'"
* * * * *
Don't believe it! Not a word of it. The visions are there all right.
Look out over the wall. This life of yours is only one of the stages
in your career, and not the first stage, either. The first came to
you, silent, unconscious, "where the bones do grow in the womb of her
that is with child." There you grew and developed for the next move
forward. One day came the crisis of birth and you passed into the
second stage, the training stage for life and for God. Then through a
new crisis you pass on again to new adventures. For God has revealed
that what you call death, the end of this career, is but birth into a
new and more wondrous career which again passes you forward into still
nobler adventures, and that again, perhaps--who knows? Who shall fix
the limit?
* * * * *
Nay, you are not elderly. You are not middle-aged. These are but
comparative terms. A house-fly is elderly in twenty-four hours. An
oak-tree is young after a hundred years. And you, children of eternity
with ages and millenniums before you--you are not even one year old
babies in the light of your great future.
Now do you see why the old apostle of Ephesus did not feel aged or
elderly--why he looked out like an eager boy into the adventure before
him? "Beloved, now are we the sons of God but we don't know yet what
we shall be." Aye, we don't know yet. No more than did the small boys
laughing in their play and going to be soldiers and sailors and
wonderful people. We don't know yet. But it is all before us. And it
is all going to be good because it is in the Father's presence.
So I bid you do what I sometimes do myself, look out into the void and
guess like the children what you shall be when you are older than
Methuselah.
Shake off the dulness and monotony from your life. Don't talk as if
old or middle-aged any more. Be children again in the presence of the
Father, and with happy child hearts keep guessing what you shall be.
* * * * *
I see a woman with the deep pain in her eyes, one of the many mothers
whom I have met in these terrible four years.... They were afraid to
tell her when the War Office telegram came.... He had crept out in the
night to bring in a wounded chum, and the German sniper got him. At
first she could not believe it. It must be some mistake,--some one of
similar name. But the days passed on. And the light died in her eyes
and she became suddenly old. Her prayers ceased. God had disappointed
her. There was nothing left to pray for now. Nothing to be ambitious
for any more. Her boy was dead--buried in a shallow grave in France
with a little wooden cross at his head. And he was only twenty-two!
* * * * *
The awful waste of it! All her loving thought over his childhood--all
her care, her anxiety, her efforts, her prayers that God would make him
a good and noble man. All her hope and pride in the high promise of
his boyhood. He was dead. All that he might have been and done in the
world was lost. Her life was forever desolate. And God had let it
happen!
Kindly friends came to comfort and sympathise. But it was of little
use. They had not lost their boy. They could not understand. They
bade her be proud that he had died in a noble cause--that he had died
to save another. They told her that time would bring a blessed easing
to her pain. They told her she must bow to God's mysterious will.
Ah! what is the use of it? How can any outsider intermeddle in the
pain of a mother whose boy has just been killed?
Not all the talking since Adam
Can make death to be other than death.
* * * * *
God help us all if there were no better comfort for a tortured world in
this hour of its bitterest need--to "make death to be other than death."
* * * * *
She was a brave woman. She faced the issue clearly. She talked with
wise friends. She came back to her prayers. She recalled and
relearned the teaching of her Bible and her church which had lain
hazily in memory till her need arose. And gradually God's blessed
comfort came to her "as to one whom his mother comforteth." Slowly
peace came to her heart, and in spite of her pain life became worth
living again.... He was a good boy. He loved his God. He loved his
mother. He had his faults, but she could trust Christ with them. She
had had high ambitions for him. Her ambitions came back.
She learned to think of him in the wondrous new adventure, living a
full conscious life, thinking and remembering, growing and becoming
fitted for the eternal Heaven that is still in front. She believed
that the high promise of his boyhood might be fulfilled after all, and
that she might one day see it.
Life is still very desolate without him; but she believes that he lives
and knows, that he is growing and going on--that he remembers her and
loves her as never before, that he is waiting for her, perhaps watching
over her as in his days on earth, even though he cannot write home.
And trustfully, gratefully she remembers him in her prayers. She
thinks that the Heavenly Father is not likely to forget what a mother
says to Him about her son.
* * * * *
This book is a poor, imperfect attempt to put together some of the
teachings of our holy religion, to help a troubled world, in this day
of its necessity, "to look out over the wall."
[1] John iii. 2.
PART I
The Near Hereafter
CHAPTER I
"I"
The title of this chapter is a very short one. It consists of but a
single word, and that the shortest word in the whole English language.
And though it is the shortest word, yet it is the most wonderful and
mysterious word. Though it is a word that every one of us has on his
lips every moment of the day, yet no one who reads this book--no one in
the whole world--has ever been able to understand what it means.
Just the letter "I."--All day long, from morning till night, we are
using it:--I did this. I mean to do that. I ought. I shall. I will.
I think. I wish. I love. I hate. I remember. I forget. And so on
and on--ever ringing the changes on this little word in all its cases
"I" and "my" and "mine" and "me." I want to set you thinking. Who or
what is this "I," this "me"?
Perhaps you will say, "Oh, there is nothing mysterious about it--I know
very well what I mean by it. 'I' means myself."
But what do I mean by Myself? Of course there is a rough work-day
meaning in which it means my whole being as I stand--clothes, body,
brains, thoughts, feelings, general appearance, everything. But every
thinking man knows that this is not the real "I," that when he says I
can, I do, I will, I ought, I remember, the "I" means to him something
much deeper and more mysterious than that. Ask yourself, each one,
what do you mean by "I"?
Section 1
IS IT MY BODY? Nay, surely not. I know that my body is only my
outward garment woven by "me" out of certain chemical substances. In a
scientific museum I can stand before a glass case and see neatly
labelled the exact portions of lime and silica and iron and water and
other elements which compose my body. I know that this body is
continually changing its substance like the rainbow in the sky, like
the eddy round a stone in the river. The body I have to-day is no more
the body of last year than the fire on my hearth to-night is the fire
that was there this morning. I have had a dozen different bodies since
I was born, but I am the same still. Every thinking man knows that the
"I," the real self, stands behind the body looking out through the
windows of the eyes, receiving messages through the portals of the
ears. It rules the body, it possesses the body. It says, "I have a
body." "This body is a thing belonging to me."
As you watch the changing expression in the face of your friend, as you
see his eyes flashing in anger, or softening in affectionate sympathy,
do you not feel that all you see is but the outward casing, that the
real self of your friend is a something dwelling within?
I hope I am not puzzling you. What I want to do is to introduce you to
your own self, to make you really acquainted with that mysterious being
in his first stage of existence here and then to follow him out into
the great adventure of the Hereafter.
Section 2
Let us go on. What is this I, this self? IS IT MY BRAIN?
Physiologists tell us wonderful things of that brain; how its size and
shape, and the amount of gray matter modify my character; how it
excites itself when I am thinking; how it has different departments for
different functions; how it rules and directs everything I do. And men
impressed by these wonders have sometimes asserted that there is
nothing more to be found. It is the brain which originates all,
thought is only certain activities of the brain--memory is only
impressions on the substance of the brain--when the brain decays there
is no self remaining. What I call "I" is merely a function of my brain.
But immediately the question arises, Which brain? The particles of my
brain are always changing. I have had a dozen different brains in my
lifetime, with not a particle remaining the same. Which of these
brains is it that "I" am only a function of? And how does it happen
that I remember what I thought and did and said with the old vanished
brains of twenty and thirty years ago? Memory insists that I am still
the same "I" in spite of all those changes of brain. If memory be but
a series of impressions registered on the brain these could no more
survive the dissolution of the brain than impressions on wax could
survive the melting of the wax. Surely my memory, my irresistible
conviction of personal identity with my past makes it abundantly clear
that "I" am a mysterious unchanging spiritual being behind this ever
changing brain.
And that is what the best modern science asserts--that the brain is but
my instrument. If we compare it to a violin then "I" am the unseen
violin player behind it. The musician cannot produce violin music
without a violin, but also the violin cannot produce a musical note,
much less take part in a complex symphony without the musician behind
it. If the strings of the violin be injured, or if they be smeared
with grease, the result is discords and crazy sounds. If the brain be
physically injured or disordered the result is what we call mental
derangement.
To say, then, that the brain is the _seat_ of thought is not at all to
say that it is the _source_ of thought. Everything involved in my
conscious personality is _related_ to the brain, but it is not
_originated_ by the brain. The mysterious spiritual "I" is behind the
brain, using the brain--nay further--actually educating and fitting the
brain for its work. The brain of a little child with its plastic gray
matter is smooth and unformed. It is the "I" behind that is steadily
creasing and moulding and training it for its purpose. I don't know of
anything more impressive than the study of the human brain in its
activities, and how "I" am continually changing and modifying and
educating my brain. You feel sometimes as if you could almost lay
hands on that mysterious spiritual being that is behind it, like a
spider in his web--feeling and interpreting every quiver of it, sending
messages out into the world by means of it. But he always eludes you.
You have no instrument that can touch him. You only know that he is
there, enshrouded in mystery, a supernatural being not only using the
brain but educating it for use. The brain itself has no knowledge or
thought, and no power of itself to originate knowledge or thought. The
brain of a baboon differs very little from the brain of a man. The
difference is in the being who is behind it. I read lately the
statement of a great scientist: "As far as I can see, if the soul of a
man could get behind the brain of an ape he could probably use it
almost as well as his own."
I have never known a really thoughtful student of science satisfied
with the foolish notion that the brain is what thinks and remembers and
wills. He looks upon a human brain, on the dissecting table, a mere
mass of cells and nerve centres suffused with blood, and he thinks of
the glorious poems and the mighty intellectual efforts and the noble
thoughts of God and Righteousness, and perforce he laughs at the
thought that that poor bleeding thing originated them. Something
within him indignantly replies: "Nay, 'I' am not the brain. I possess
it. I use it. It is mine, but it is not me!"
Section 3
We have not yet gone deep enough to discover this "I." It is hardly
necessary to ask the next question which some foolish people are
speculating about to-day. Am I merely the TRAIN OF THOUGHTS AND
FEELINGS AND EMOTIONS? Am "I" but like an Eolian harp, played on by
the wind of sensations from without?
Surely not. This mysterious "I" is constantly and persistently
claiming to be a real conscious person behind all these--greater than
all these--possessing all these. Listen to the voice down deep in your
consciousness--COGITO, ERGO SUM. "I" think--therefore "I" exist. I am
not the thoughts and feelings and emotions--I am greater than them all.
I am the possessor of them all. They are mine. They are not Me. They
are only passing phases of my being. They are always changing.
Everything around is changing. I remain the same being always.
Nothing else in the universe remains the same being--except God. God
and I. God and these selves that are in every one of us.
I cannot escape that conviction that "I" am the permanent being behind
all the changes. No human vision can see me. No surgeon's knife can
detect me. But I am there, behind everything.
The particles of my body, of brain and nerves and heart are constantly
being changed--every few years they are completely renewed. I have had
a dozen new bodies, a dozen new sets of brains and heart since I was
born--I am always wearing them out. I change them when they are worn
out and throw them aside like old clothes. My thoughts and feelings
are ever changing, like the ripples on the sea.
But I am absolutely certain that "I" am still there--that I am the
same--just as God is the same. The same "I" that played as a little
child--the same "I" that lived and desired and thought and felt and
worked and sinned years and years ago.
Not a particle remains of the brain, or nerves, or tongue, or eyes, or
hands, or feet, with which I did a good or evil deed twenty years
since--but it is impossible for me to doubt that it was "I" who did it,
that I to-day deserve the praise or blame which is due to it.
Every man on earth, when he thinks about it, has this conviction of
himself as an "I"--as a person separate from all other persons, as a
self separate from all other selves, as remaining always the same
being, whatever changes may take place around him. That is what
constitutes man--a self conscious of itself. As far as we can
discover, the lower animals have no such idea. Children, at first,
have not. Did you ever notice how a little child never says "I" till
he is about three years old? He always speaks in the third person. It
is always "Baby does this," | 1,101.755742 |
2023-11-16 18:35:25.8342650 | 308 | 9 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: LIEUT.-COL. J. R. WILKINSON.
_Late Commanding 21st Fusiliers._]
CANADIAN BATTLEFIELDS
And Other Poems
BY
LIEUT.-COL. J. R. WILKINSON
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY
WILLIAM BRIGGS
TORONTO
1899
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, by JOHN RICHARDSON
WILKINSON, at the Department of Agriculture.
PREFACE.
In submitting “Canadian Battlefields and Other Poems” to a discerning
public, I realize it may be marred by many errors; the harp may not
always be in tune--some chords may jar upon the fastidious ear. Rhythm
and harmony may not always present that mysterious appeal to the soul
that approves, and proves the worth of all. Yet, withal, I feel that
some thoughts and emotions of patriotism, love of home, the song of
nature, the mystery of creation, and the impenetrable depths of
infinitude | 1,101.854305 |
2023-11-16 18:35:25.8343430 | 68 | 8 |
Produced by Ted Garvin, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: "BRING THE CAMPHOR! BRING THE SMELLING SALTS!"]
SNUBBY NOSE
AND
TIPPY TOES
BY
LAURA ROUNTREE SMITH
1917 | 1,101.854383 |
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